“She’s up there?” Rod stared up at an almost sheer wall of rock towering into the sky above him, so close that it seemed to snare laggard clouds.
“So said the peasant we asked, Rod. And I think he was too terrified by our speed to have prevaricated.”
Rod shrugged. “No reason for him to lie, anyway. How do we get up there, Fess?”
“That will not be so difficult.” The robot eyed the uneven surfaces of the cliff face. “Remember, Rod—lean into the climb.” He set hoof on the beginning of a path Rod hadn’t even noticed before.
“If that peasant is watching, he’s going to go under for good now,” Rod sighed. “Who ever saw a horse climbing a mountain before?”
“Everything considered,” Fess said thoughtfully as he picked his way along a ledge a little narrower than his body, “I believe it would have been faster to have replaced my brain-case into the spaceship and flown here.”
“Maybe, but it would’ve been a lot harder to explain to the peasantry—and the lords, for that matter.” Rod eyed the sheer drop below, and felt his stomach sink. “Fess, I don’t suppose this body was built with a few antigravity plates in it?”
“Of course it was, Rod. Maxima designers consider all eventualities.” Fess was a little conceited about the planetoid where he’d been manufactured.
“Well, it’s a relief to know that, if we fall, we won’t hit too hard. But why don’t we just float up to the cave?”
“I thought you were concerned about our passage’s effect on observers.”
“A point,” Rod sighed. “Onward and upward, Rust Rider. Excelsior!”
Ahead and to their left, a cave-mouth yawned—but it was only six feet high. Rod eyed it and pronounced, “Not quite high enough for both of us.”
“I agree. Please dismount with caution, Rod—and be careful to stay against the rock wall.”
“Oh, don’t worry—I won’t stray.” Rod slid down between Fess and the cliff-face, trying to turn himself into a pancake. Then he eased past the great black horse and sidled along the ledge toward the black emptiness of the cave-mouth. He edged up to it, telling himself that a real witch couldn’t possibly look like the ones in the fairy tales; but all the cradle epics came flooding back into his mind as he oozed toward the dank darkness of the witch’s lair. The fact that Angry Aggie was mentioned by name in the Gramarye versions of most of those stories, in a featured, popular, but not entirely sympathetic role, did not exactly help to calm him. A comparison of the relative weights of logic and childhood conditioning in determining the mature human’s emotional reactions makes a fascinating study in theory; but firsthand observation of the practical aspects can be a trifle uncomfortable.
A wild cackle split the air. Rod froze; the cackle faded, slackened, and turned into sobbing. Rod frowned and edged closer to the cave… Gwen’s voice! He could hear her murmuring, soothing. Rod felt his body relax; in fact, he almost went limp. He hadn’t realized he’d been that worried. But if Gwen was doing the comforting, well… she couldn’t be in too much danger. Could she?
Not at the moment, at least. He straightened and took a firm step forward to stride into the cave—but the testy crackle of the old woman’s voice froze him in his tracks.
“Aye, I know, they are not all villains. They could not be, could they? Yet I would never guess it from my own life!”
Gwen, Rod decided, was amazing. She couldn’t have been here more than half an hour ahead of him, and already she had the old witch opened up and talking.
Gwen murmured an answer, but Rod couldn’t make it out. He frowned, edging closer to the cave—just in time to hear old Agatha say, “Rejoice, lass, that thou dost live in the new day which has dawned upon us—when the Queen protects those with witch-power, and a witch may find a warlock to wed her.”
“In that, I know I am fortunate, reverend dame,” Gwen answered.
Rod blushed. He actually blushed. This was going too far. He was eavesdropping for certain now. He straightened his shoulders and stepped into the cave. “Ahem!” It was very dim. He could scarcely make out anything—except two female figures seated in front of a fire. The older one’s head snapped up as she heard him. Her face was lit by the firelight below, which made it look unearthly enough; but even by itself, it was a hideous, bony face.
For a second, she stared at him. Then the face split into a gargoyle grin, with a huge cackle. “Eh, what have we here? Can we not even speak of men without their intruding upon us?”
Gwen looked up, startled. Then her face lit with delighted surprise. “My lord!” She leaped to her feet and came toward him.
The old woman’s face twisted into a sneer. She jerked her head toward Rod. “Is it thine?”
“It is.” Gwen caught Rod’s hands; her body swayed toward him for a moment, then away. Rod understood; public display of affection can be offensive, especially to those who don’t have any. But her eyes said she was flattered and very glad of his support.
Her lips, however, said only, “Why dost thou come, husband?”
“Just a little worried, dear. Though I see it was foolish of me.”
“Not so foolish as thou might have thought,” the witch grated. “Yet thou art lately come, to be of aid.” She frowned in thought. “Nay, but mayhap thou’rt timely come also; for, an thou hadst been with her when first she had appeared in my cave-mouth, I doubt not I would have sent thee both packing.”
Rod started to add, “If you could,” then thought better of it. “Uh. Yeah. Sorry to intrude.”
“Think naught of it,” Agatha said acidly, “no other man has.” She transferred her gaze to Gwen. “Thou’rt most excellent fortunate, to be sure.”
Gwen lowered her eyes, blushing.
“Yet, I doubt thou knowest the true extent of thy fortune.” The witch turned back to the fireplace, jammed a paddle into a huge cauldron, and stirred. “There was no tall young wizard for me, but a horde of plowboys from mountain villages, who came by ones and by fives to me for a moment’s pleasure, then come threescore all together, with their mothers and sisters and wives and their stern village clergy, to flog me and rack me and pierce me with hot needles, crying, ‘Vile witch, confess!’ till I could contain it no longer, till my hatred broke loose upon them, smiting them low and hurling them from out my cave!”
She broke off, gasping and shuddering. Alarmed, Gwen clasped Agatha’s hands in her own, and paled as their chill crept up to her spine. She had heard the tale of how, long years ago, the witch Agatha had flung the folk of five villages out of her cave, how many had broken their heads or their backs on the slopes below. No witch in Gramarye, in all the history of that eldritch island, had been possessed of such power. Most witches could lift only two, or perhaps three, at a time. And as for hurling them about with enough force to send them clear of a cave—why, that was flatly impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Therefore, if a witch had indeed performed such a feat, why, obviously she must have had a familiar, a helping spirit. These usually took the form of animals; but Agatha had kept no pets. Therefore—why, there still had to be a familiar, but it must have been invisible.
“ ‘Twas then,” panted the witch, “that I came to this cavern, where the ledge without was so narrow that only one man could enter at once, and so that in my wrath I might never injure more than a few. But those few…”
The scrawny shoulders slackened, the back bowed; the old witch slumped against the rough table. “Those few, aie! Those few…”
“They sought to burn thee,” Gwen whispered, tears in her eyes, “and ‘twas done in anger, anger withheld overlong, longer than any man might have contained it! They debased thee, they tortured thee!”
“Will that bring back dead men?” Agatha darted a whetted glance at Gwen.
Gwen stared at the ravaged face, fascinated. “Agatha…” She bit her lip, then rushed on. “Dost thou wish to make amends for the lives thou hast taken?”