Four: Beyond the Fringe
Wiz woke from a dream of home to rain on his face.
Judging from the sodden state of the campfire, it had been raining for some time, but the water had only now filtered through the leaves of the tree they had slept under.
He spluttered, rolled over and wiped the water out of his eyes.
“Awake at last,” Moira said. She was already up and had her pack on her back with her cloak on over everything. “Come on. We need to get going.”
“I don’t suppose there is any sense in suggesting we hole up someplace warm and dry?”
Moira cocked an eyebrow. “In the Wild Wood? Besides, we have a distance to travel.”
Wiz pulled his cloak free of his pack. “How long is this likely to last?”
Moira studied the sky. “Not more than one day,” she pronounced. “Summer storms are seldom longer than that.”
“Great,” Wiz grumbled.
“It will be uncomfortable,” she agreed, “but it is a blessing too. The rain will deaden our trail to those things which track by scent.” She looked up at the leaden, lowering sky.
“Also, dragons do not like flying through rain.”
Thank heaven for small favors.”
Their breakfast was a handful of dried fruit, devoured as they walked. They picked their way through a gap in the ruined wall and struck off into the forest.
It rained all day. Sometimes it was just a fine soft mist wafting from the lowering gray skies. Sometimes it pelted down in huge face-stinging drops. When it was at its worst they sought shelter under a tree or overhanging rock. Mostly it just rained and they just walked.
At first it wasn’t too bad. The rain was depressing but their wool cloaks kept out the water and the footing was. However as the downpour continued, water seeped through the tightly woven cloaks and gradually soaked them to the skin. The ground squished beneath their feet. The carpet of wet leaves turned as slippery and treacherous as ice. Where there were no leaves there was mud, or wet grass nearly as slippery as the leaves.
At every low spot they splashed through puddles or forded little streamlets. Wiz’s running shoes became soaked and squelched at every step. Moira’s boots weren’t much better.
Wiz lost all sense of time and direction. His entire world narrowed down to Moira’s feet in front of him, the rasp of his breath and the chill trickle down his back. He plodded doggedly along, locked in his own little sphere of misery. Unbalanced by the weight of his pack, he slipped and fell repeatedly on the uneven ground.
Moira wasn’t immune. She was also thoroughly soaked and she slipped and slid almost as much as he did. By the time they stopped for a mid-afternoon rest they were drenched and muddy from falling.
Unmindful of the soggy ground, they threw themselves down under a huge pine tree and sprawled back against the dripping trunk. For once Moira seemed as out of breath as Wiz.
Under other circumstances—say as a picture on someone’s wall—the forest might have been beautiful. The big old trees towered around them, their leaves washed clean and brilliant green. The rain and mist added a soft gray backdrop and the landscape reminded Wiz of a Japanese garden. There was no sound but the gentle drip of water from the branches and, off in the distance, the rushing chuckle of a stream running over rocks.
Abstractly, Wiz could appreciate the beauty. But only very abstractly. Concretely, he was wet, chilled, miserable, exhausted and hungry.
“Fortuna!” Moira exclaimed. Wiz looked up and saw she had thrown back her cloak and pulled up her skirt, exposing her left leg and a considerable expanse of creamy thigh lightly dusted with freckles.
“Close your mouth and stop gaping,” she said crossly. “I hurt my knee when I slipped crossing that last stream.”
“How bad is it?” he asked as he scrambled over next to her.
Moira prodded the joint. “Bad enough. It is starting to swell.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Of course it hurts!” she said in disgust. “But more importantly I will not be able to walk on it much longer.”
“Maybe you should put some ice on it.”
Moira glared at him.
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“What I need is a healing poultice. I have the materials in my pouch, but they must be boiled and steeped.” She looked around and sighed. “We are unlikely to find dry wood anywhere in the Wild Wood this day.”
There are ways of finding dry wood even in a rain.”
Moira looked interested. “Do you know how?”
Wiz realized he hadn’t the faintest idea. His apartment didn’t even have a fireplace and his method of starting a barbeque involved liberal lashings of lighter fluid followed by the application of a propane torch.
“Well, no,” he admitted. “But I know you can do it.”
“That I know also,” Moira snorted. “Were I a ranger or a woodsman I would doubtless know how it is done. But I am neither, nor are you.”
“Can’t you use magic?”
She shook her head. “I dare not. A spell to light wet wood is obvious and could well betray us. Besides, I threw away my fire lighter.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I can walk for a while longer. As we came over the last rise I saw a clearing that looked man-made. We shall have to go in that direction and hope we can find someone who will grant us the use of his fire.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Less dangerous than using magic, if we are careful. We will approach cautiously and if aught seems amiss we will depart quietly. Now, give me your hand.”
Wiz pulled the hedge witch to her feet and for a brief tingling instant their bodies touched down the whole length. Then Moira turned away and started off.
Mercifully, the going was easier in the new direction. There were no hills to climb and the rain gradually slacked off. Moira started to limp, but she refused Wiz’s offer of assistance.
As afternoon faded to evening, they threaded their way through the dripping trees until at last Moira motioned Wiz to stop and eased forward carefully.
There, in a rude clearing hacked into the forest, stood a cottage. Some of the felled trees had gone to build the dwelling and some into the split-rail fences around the field. Knee-high stumps still stood among the crops. The cottage was roofed with shingles and the chimney was stone. A thin curl of smoke hung low over the field. It was crude and Spartan, but to Wiz it looked beautiful.
“Hallo the house!” Moira called without entering the clearing.
“Who calls?” came a man’s voice from the cabin.
“Two travelers seeking a fire.”
“Show yourselves then.”
Moira limped into the clearing with Wiz following. Ostentatiously she reached up and threw back the hood of her cloak. She nudged Wiz and he did the same.
The householder stepped into the door of the cabin. He was a stocky middle-aged man with a full black beard shot with streaks of gray. Wiz noticed that one hand was out of sight, possibly holding a weapon.
“Advance then, the two of you,” he called. Wiz and Moira picked their way across the field to the cabin door.
The man stood in the door, just inside the threshold. “I will not invite you in,” he said stolidly. Moira nodded and stepped forward. He backed away to let her enter.
She turned and they both looked at Wiz, but neither Moira nor the householder bade him enter nor made any motion to him. They looked and Wiz looked. Finally he got tired of it and stepped inside.
“Welcome,” said the peasant, smiling. “Welcome, Lady.” He nodded to Wiz. “Sir.”
The cottage was a single large room with a fireplace at one end. There was a ladder leading to the loft and at the loft trap Wiz saw three wide-eyed children peeking down.
The furniture was plain and obviously home-made, built to last rather than for comfort. A spinning wheel stood in the corner next to a bag of wool. The smell of smoke and wool oil filled the house.
“Seat yourselves, please.” Their host gestured to a high-backed bench to one side of the fireplace.
“What was that all about?” Wiz asked as they sat down.
“What?”
“The business at the door.”
“There are things which can take human form and deceive all save the most clever. But few of those can enter a house unbidden. In the Wild Wood only the foolish or very powerful invite a guest within.”
“Umm,” said Wiz.
The cottager settled himself on a similar bench across from them. “I am called Lothar,” he said.
“I am called Moira, a hedge witch. He,” she jerked a nod at Wiz, “is called Sparrow. We thank you for the use of your fire. I have injured my leg and wish to brew a healing poultice, if you will allow it. If you or any of yours have ills that I may treat I will be happy to do so.”
“You’re welcome to the fire, Lady, but none of us are in need of healing.”
Moira looked skeptical but said nothing.
“You are also welcome to spend the night within if you so wish,” Lothar said grandly.
“Thank you, Goodman. We would be most grateful.”
Moira produced the small bronze kettle from her pack and Lothar called the children down from the loft. He sent the oldest, a boy of about ten, to fetch water. While Moira laid out her kit on the rough plank table the other two children, a boy and a girl about eight and six respectively, watched in awe.
When the water was fetched, Moira selected several leaves and roots from the packets in her pouch and put them to simmer over the fire. Meanwhile Lothar bustled about fixing a meal.
They dined on venison, tubers and vegetables and Lothar served up a pitcher of beer to wash it down. It was a delicious change from trail food and Wiz wolfed down his portion.
As they ate the twilight deepened to night. The only light came from the fire crackling on the hearth. The smell of pine smoke filled the room. Outside the crickets began to sing.
After dinner they retired to the fireside. Although Lothar had said little while they were eating, he began to pump them for news as soon as they were seated. Since he was mostly concerned with the happenings around his old village of Oakstorm Crossing, and since that village was fairly far from Moira’s there was little she could tell him. She answered as best she could and Wiz and the children listened.
“How fare you, Goodman?” Moira asked when she had run out of information.
Lothar smiled and Wiz saw two of his front teeth were missing. “Well enough, Lady. Well enough.”
“You are far from neighbors here.”
“Aye, but I’ve good land. And more for the clearing.”
“Did you not have a farm where you were before?”
“Well, you know how it is on the Fringe. Farms are small and the soil is worn thin. It’s hard to make a living in the best of times, and when the crops aren’t good, well . . .” He shrugged his massive shoulders.
“My grandsire talked of this land,” Lothar told them. “His father’s father lived near here. So when things got bad in our village, we came here.”
“It is dangerous to lie this deep in the Wild Wood,” Moira said noncommittally.
Lothar smiled. “Not if you keep your wits about you. Oh, it was hard enough at first. Our first two crops failed in a row and the cattle were stolen. Then my wife died and my daughter had to look after the little ones. But we stuck it out and here we are.” His smile widened. “Secure on a farm the lutes of which. I could never have had back on the Fringe.”
Moira smiled back tightly and the tension grew thick.
“It looks like a nice place,” Wiz said.
“Wait another few years,” Lothar told him. “Next year I will clear more land and erect a proper barn. Then we will expand the house and add storerooms. Oh, my grandsire did not lie when he called this land rich!”
“I wish you good fortune,” Moira said neutrally.
“Thank you, Lady. But you make good fortune. It takes hard work and planning, but if you give it that, you will have all the good fortune you could desire.”
Moira looked uncomfortable, but she nodded as if Lothar had said something wise.
“Well, it looks like you’ve done all right for yourself,” Wiz said, trying to break the tension.
“Thank you sir. We have. It’s not easy, running a farm and raising four children without help, but it’s a good life none the less.”
“Four children?” Wiz asked and then shut up when he caught Moira’s glare.
“There’s my oldest daughter, Lya,” Lothar said hesitantly.
“She’s gone to nurse an elf child,” the youngest child piped up. Her older brother poked her sharply in the ribs and Moira and Lothar both looked embarrassed.
“They offered us their protection,” the man said simply. “Since then things have been better.”
###
Kar-Sher, late a brown robe of the League and now the Master of the Sea of Scrying, hurried down the corridor, his sandals padding softly on the uneven floor of black basalt. At every turning and each intersection he paused to listen and peer around corners.
It had all been so easy when Xind had done it, he thought as he strained to catch a sign that he might be followed. Now the North was stirred and the Watchers of the Council were blocking him at every turn. Clear sight of the North was hard to come by these days and the Dread Master grew ever more impatient. He wondered if he had been so wise to undermine Xind when he did.
Well, that is a deed done. It raised me high in the League and with a bit of fortune I may rise higher yet.
Satisfied there was no one behind him, he continued down the corridor. I have power of my own now. I am no longer a brown robe, I am an ally to be courted. A rough hand reached out of the darkness and clasped his shoulder in an iron grip. Kar-Sher jumped and squeaked.
“Quietly, you fool!” Atros whispered, dragging him back into a shadowed alcove.
“You, you startled me,” he said looking up at the hulking form of the League’s second most powerful wizard.
Atros grinned mirthlessly. “You should be more alert. Now, what have you?”
“Only this: The Dread Master—”
“The old crow,” Atros interrupted.
“Eh?”
“He is an old crow. Soon to be no one’s master, dread or otherwise. You should learn to call him so.”
“Yes Master,” said Kar-Sher. “Ah, as I said, the—old crow—stays close to the City. There is no sign of new magic further south.”
“Cloaking spells?”
“They would show.”
“Like the cloaking spell this new northern wizard shows?”
Kar-Sher made an annoyed gesture. “That is different. It would take a truly mighty wizard to cast a spell that effective.”
“Toth-Set-Ra has that reputation.”
“You don’t think . . . ?”
“I think you should be very careful what you assume about the old crow. Now. Are you sure there is no sign of secret magic being made to the South?”
Kar-Sher considered and then shook his head. “Nothing at all.”
“Well, then. Keep your watch.” He turned to go, but Kar-Sher plucked at his cloak.
“Master, will we strike soon? The old crow grows impatient. I do not know how much longer I will hold my position.”
Atros regarded him coldly. “The old crow is impatient for one thing only; this strange wizard. Events are already in motion to snare him. In a day or two that will be accomplished. Meanwhile it keeps our master occupied.”
“What if he finds out about us?”
“He does not even suspect. Keep your wits about you a few days longer and you are safe. Now wait here until I am out of sight.” Atros stepped out into the corridor and strode on.
Kar-Sher waited until he had his nerve back and started up the corridor in the opposite direction.
Neither of them had noticed the fat black spider hanging motionless in her web above their heads.
###
“So,” hissed Toth-Set-Ra as he broke contact with his spy. “So indeed.” He leaned back and rubbed his forehead. Peering through a spiders eyes was disorienting. His brain kept trying to merge eight images with apparatus designed for two.
A spider’s eyesight might be poor, but there was nothing wrong with a spiders hearing. He had heard exactly what he expected to hear.
You run too fast, Atros. It is time you were taught another lesson. He extended his hand and an amethyst goblet flew to his grasp.
He expected Atros to connive against him, just as he had connived against the Council of the League to win his present power. It was his good fortune that Atros was nearly as clumsy a plotter as he was as a wizard. Powerful enough, perhaps, but lacking the finesse, the last measure of ability that raised a plotter or wizard to true greatness.
He sipped the wine and reflected on the best way to check his subordinate. Someday soon, Atros, I will send Bale-Zur to you. But not yet. One does not discard a tool merely because it is flawed. One uses it, preferably to destruction, while a new tool is forged.
Still, this tool was showing signs of blunting. In spite of all the power he had been given, Atros had still not brought him the alien wizard. Toth-Set-Ra rotated the goblet in his hand and frowned at the purple sparks that glinted off its facets. That wizard was the immediate problem, the unknown. Once he had been found and neutralized there would be time to deal with Atros.
A pity I cannot send Bale-Zur to that wizard. He could, of course. Bale-Zur could find and destroy any mortal whose true name had ever been spoken. Unlike other demons he did not need to know the true name of his quarry. It was sufficient that the true name had been spoken just once somewhere in the World.
It was that special power which had raised Toth-Set-Ra from a minor wizard to the leadership of the Dark League in a single blood-red night of slaughter. But Bale-Zur could only destroy. Toth-Set-Ra wanted to take alive this wizard whom Patrius had died for. He wanted to squeeze him, to wring the secrets of his foreign magic from him. Killing him was an option, but only a last resort.
Bale-Zur was almost as crude a tool as Atros, but both were useful. This other one now, this Kar-Sher, was much less useful. Under his mastership the Sea of Scrying had been useless in the search and all he could do was whine about Northern interference with his magic.
Yes, the wizard thought. This one is eminently dispensable. He paused to admire the play of fire in the goblet again. But not yet. Not quite yet.
In his own way Toth-Set-Ra was a frugal man. He always wanted the maximum return from his actions.
###
They slept on straw ticks on the floor that night. Lothar offered them his bed in the loft, but Moira declined politely. Before retiring, she took the poultice, which had been simmering in the pot, wrapped it in a clean cloth, and tied it about her knee. She turned her back while she did so and Wiz tried not to look.
By the next morning the swelling had vanished. She did several deep knee bends and pronounced herself healed.
“Lady, if we could get you back to my world, you could make a fortune as a team doctor for the NFL,” Wiz told her. She cocked an eyebrow but did not ask for an explanation.
Lothar insisted on feeding them a breakfast of flat-bread, sausage and beer before they left. Both he and Moira were obviously uncomfortable, but Moira thanked him kindly and Lothar gave them some dried fruit and parched grain to add to the supplies.
It had stopped raining and the sun was shining brightly. As they left the clearing, Wiz noticed a detail he had missed the night before. Four mounds of earth, one large and three much smaller, neatly laid out next to the cabin and enclosed by rude rail fence.
Moira saw him looking at the three small graves. “They only count the children who live,” she said.
Once out of the clearing, they angled away from the path they had taken the day before. The woods were still sodden, but there were no rivulets to cross and, except in the shadiest places, things seemed to be drying rapidly.
Whether because the footing was still somewhat uncertain or to spare her knee, Moira did not walk as fast.
“What happened back there anyway?” Wiz asked when the clearing was lost from sight.
“What do you mean?”
“Between you and Lothar. Everything started out all right, then—boom—it was like you’d bumped into your ex at a cocktail party.”
“My ex at a . . . ?”
“I mean you both got real cold and distant,” he amended.
“Was it that obvious? Moira sighed. “I tried to conceal it. He gave us shelter and aid when we needed it and that is no small thing in the Wild Wood. I should have tried harder to be gracious.”
“Yeah, but why?”
“Because he is a fool!” Moira snapped. “There is no place in the Wild Wood for mortals, Sparrow. Only fools try to live here and they fail.”
“I guess it was rough at first, but he seems to be doing all right now.”
“Yes. Because he bartered away his daughter.”
“What?”
“You heard the child. His daughter has been given to the elves in trade for the safety of his miserable farm!”
“He traded his daughter to the elves?”
“Life in the Wild Wood is hard for those who have little magic.” She smiled a little bitterly. “Call it a ‘fostering.’ That puts a better face upon it.”
“What did they want with her?”
“As the little one said. She is a nursemaid to an elven infant.” Moira’s face softened. “Elves seldom have young. That must have been an event beneath the Elf Hill.”
“Wait a minute,” Wiz protested. “She wasn’t . . . ah, I mean she wasn’t married when she went, was she?”
“You mean was she unspoiled? Probably. Elves prefer virgin’s milk when they can get it.”
“But how . . . ? Oh, magic. Never mind.”
They walked on a bit in silence. “What a fate. Locked under a hill forever.”
“It has its compensations. The elves are kind enough in their unhuman fashion. They do not mistreat their servants.”
“But to spend your whole life like that!”
“No,” Moira said. “Time passes oddly under the hill. Someday, when the elf child needs her no longer, she will emerge as young as when she went in.” She sobered. “Of course that stead will likely long be dust by then and there will be none who know her. That is the crudest fate.”
“Yeah,” Wiz said, thinking of the graves. “I’m not sure living in safety is worth what it cost Lothar.”
“The price has only been partly paid.” Moira made a face. “Wait. As the children grow up they will go one by one to drudge for the elves. Plague, murrain, raids by trolls or others. There will always be another need and Lothar will always return to the elf hill to seek aid.”
Wiz was shocked. “Doesn’t Lothar realize that?”
“Not he,” she said contemptuously. “I have seen his kind before. He hopes long and hard that something will happen. Like most mortals he lives for today and puts off the reckoning as long as he may.” She increased her pace.
“It is an old, old story, Sparrow. As farms get smaller and the soil wears out within the Fringe there have always been those who sought to go beyond it to carve out new homes. But the Wild Wood is not for mortals. It is a place full of Magic, given to others, and mortals violate it at their peril.”
“Well, why not? My whole country was a howling wilderness once and we settled it.”
“Because the magic in the Wild Wood is too strong, Sparrow. Within the Fringe the hedge witches and other orders can stand between the Worlds magic and people. Beyond the Fringe there is too much powerful magic. If we were to make the attempt we would only be swept away and our people with us. Believe me Sparrow, it has been tried and it has never worked. The Fringe is this limit of lands where mortals can live.”
“Umm,” said Wiz again and shifted his pack. “What did Lothar mean when he said his grandfather knew this place?” he said after they had walked a bit more.
Moira snorted. “He was probably making it up. I doubt his grandfather ever came within a week’s journey of that stead.”
“But men did live in the Wild Wood once, didn’t they?*
“Parts of it, yes.”
“Why did they leave?”
“Because they were fools like that man,” Moira snapped. “Because they went where they should not and paid the penalty for it! Now save your breath for walking.” She lengthened her stride and left him staring at her back.
They’re being pushed back, Wiz thought as he struggled to keep up with the hedge witch. This whole area was inhabited once and the people have been forced out. The Wild Wood was creeping into the Fringe like the African desert creeps south in drought. And the results were the same. The people either moved or died.
Would the rains ever come to turn back the Wild Wood? Wiz wondered. Moira’s reaction hinted she didn’t think so. When magic became too strong people could no longer co-exist with it and they had to leave. The part of the world where humans could live was shrinking under the pressure of magic.
Wiz shook his head. All his life he had been taught that wilderness needed protection from encroaching humans. Here the humans were the ones who needed protecting.
Wiz wondered if the trolls, elves and other magical creatures would establish preserves for humans. Somehow he didn’t think so.