Marion Zimmer Bradley - Forbidden Circle 01 - The Spell Sword

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THE SPELL SWORD

Marion Zimmer Bradley

FORBIDDEN CIRCLE 01

A DARKOVER NOVEL

Contents

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Author’s Note On Chronology

Spell-swords… The history of Darkover was full of such weapons. There

was the legendary Sword of Aldones in the chapel at Mali, a weapon so

ancient—and so fearful—that no one alive knew how to wield it. There was

the Sword of Hastur, in Castle Hastur, of which it was said that if any man

drew it save in defense of the honor of the Hasturs it would blast his hand as

if with fire.

And there was the sword of Dom Esteban…a mighty swordsman now laid low,

unable to use it. But the sword’s hilt bore a matrix stone by means of which the

skill of Esteban could reach across to the holder of the sword .

It was that sword that was to play the key role in the quest of the Earthman

Andrew Carr to restore light to the ever-darkening skies of a hostile world.

DAW BOOKS, INC.

DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, PUBLISHER

1301 Avenue of the Americas New York, N. Y. 10019

Cover art by Richard Hescox.

This one is for CARADOC

Chapter ONE

He had followed a dream, and it had brought him here to die.

Half conscious, he lay on the rocks and thin moss of the mountain crevasse, and in his dazed state it

seemed to him that the girl he had seen in that earlier dream stood before him.You ought to be laughing

, Andrew Carr said to her imagined face.If it weren’t for you I’d be halfway across the galaxy by

now .

Not lying here half dead on a frozen lump of dust at the edge of nowhere.

But she was not laughing. It seemed that she was standing at the very edge of the lip of rock, the

bitter mountain wind blowing her thin blue draperies about her slender body, her hair bright red and

gleaming, long about her delicate features. Just as he had seen her before, in the dream, but she was not

laughing. Her delicate face looked pale and stern.

And it seemed that she spoke, although the dying man knew—knew—that her voice could not be

anything but the echo of the wind in his fevered brain.

“Stranger, stranger, I did not mean you harm; it was none of my calling or my doing that brought you

to this pass! True, I called you—or rather I called to anyone who could hear me, and it was you. But

those above us both know that I meant you no ill! The winds, the storms, these are not under my

command. I will do what I may to save you, but I have no power in these mountains.”

It seemed to Andrew Carr that he flung angry words back at her.I’m mad , he thought,or maybe

already dead, lying here exchanging insults with a ghost-girl .

“You say you called me? But what of the others in my ship? You called them too, perhaps? And

brought them here to die in the crosswinds of the Hellers? Does death by wholesale give you any

pleasure, you ghoul-girl?”

“That isn’t fair!” Her imagined words were like a cry of anguish and her ghost-face on the wind

twisted as if she were about to weep. “I did not call them; they came in the path where their work and

their destiny led. Only you had the choice to come, or not to come, because of my call; you chose to

come, and to share whatever fate their destiny held for them. I will save you if I can; for them, their time

is ended and their destiny was never at my disposal. You I can save, if you will hear me, but you must

rouse yourself. Rouse yourself!” It was like a wild cry of despair. “You will die if you lie here longer!

Rouse yourself and take shelter, for the winds and the storms are not mine to command…”

Andrew Carr opened his eyes and blinked. As he had known all along, he was alone, lying battered

on the mountain ledges in the wreckage of the mapping plane. The girl—if she had ever been there at all

—was gone.

Rouse yourself and take shelter, for the -winds and the storms are not mine to command. That

was, of course, a damn good idea, if he could manage it. Shelter. Where he lay, under a fragment of the

smashed cabin of the mapping plane, was no place to meet the bitter night of this strange planet. He’d

been warned about the weather here when he first came to Cottman IV—only a lunatic would stay out

in the nights during the storm season.

He fought again, with a last desperate effort, to free the ankle which was caught, like the leg of a

trapped animal, in twisted metal. This time he felt the metal crumple and give a little, and, although the

ripping pain grew greater, tearing skin and flesh, he wrenched grimly at the caught foot in the darkness.

Now he could move enough to bend over and move the leg with his hands. Torn clothing and torn flesh

were slippery with blood which was already beginning to stiffen in the icy cold. When he touched the

jagged metal his bare hands burned like fire, but now he could guide the wounded leg upward, avoiding

the worst jagged edges of metal. Now, with a gasp of mingled agony and relief, his foot was free;

blood-covered, boot and clothing torn, cut to the bone, but free; he was trapped no longer. He struggled

to his feet, to be beaten again to his knees by a gust of the icy, sleet-laden wind that whipped around a

corner of the rock-ledge.

Crawling, to present less body surface to the wind, he crept inside the cabin of the mapping plane. It

was swaying dangerously in the battering wind, and he immediately abandoned any thought of taking

shelter in here. If the wind got any worse, the whole damn thing would catapult down at least a thousand

feet into the invisible valley below. Part of it, he thought, had already gone with the first crash. But finding

himself still alive, beyond all expectations, he had to be sure there was no other survivor.

Stanforth was dead, of course. He must have been killed in the very first shock; nothing could survive

with that gaping hole in its forehead. Andrew shut his eyes against the ghastly sight of the man’s brains

frozen and spilled all over his face. The two mappers—one was called Mattingly; he had never known

the other’s name—were twisted limp on the floor, and when he cautiously crawled across the jiggling

balance of the cabin to find if any spark of life remained in either, it was only to feel the bodies already

cold and stiffened in rigor. There was no sign of the pilot. He must have gone down with the nose of the

plane, into that awful chasm below them.

So he was alone. Cautiously, Andrew backed out of the cabin; then, steeling himself, reentered it

again. There was food in the plane—not much, a day’s rations, lunches, Mattingly’s hoard of sweets and

candies, which he had so generously passed around and which they had all laughingly refused;

emergency supplies in a marked panel behind the door. He dragged them all out, and, shaking with

terror, set himself to wrench Mattingly’s huge topcoat off the stiffening corpse. It made his stomach turn

—robbing the dead!—but Mattingly’s topcoat, a great expensive fur thing, was of no use to its owner

and it might mean the difference between life and death in the terrible oncoming night.

When he edged out of the hideously shaking cabin for the last time, he was trembling and sick, and

his torn, cut leg, no longer mercifully numb, was beginning to tear at him with claws of pain. He carefully

backed away against the inner edge of the cliff, piling his hard-won provisions close to the rock-face.

It occurred to him that he should make one final essay inside the plane. Stanforth, Mattingly, and the

nameless other man had carried identification, their disks from the Terran Empire Service. If he lived, if

he came again to the Port, this would serve as proof of their death and mean something to their kinfolk.

Wearily, he dragged himself forward.

And she was there again, the girl, the ghost, the ghoul who had brought him here, white with terror,

standing directly in his way. Her mouth seemed drawn with screaming.

“No! No!”

Involuntarily he stepped back. He knew she was not there, he knew she was only air, but he stepped

back and his lamed foot crumpled under him; he fell against the rock-cliff as a gust of wind struck it,

howling like a damned thing. The girl was gone, was nowhere, but before he could drag himself to his

feet again, there was a great howling blast of wind and icy sleet, a sound like a thunderclap. With a final

rattling, rocking clash the cabin of the wrecked plane slid free from its resting place and overbalanced,

tipped, slid down the rocks, and crashed into the chasm below. There was a great roar like an

avalanche, like the end of the world. Andrew clung, gasping, to the face of the cliff, his fingers trying to

freeze to the rocks.

Then it quieted and there was only the soft roaring of the storm and the snow-spray, and Andrew

huddled in Mattingly’s fur topcoat, waiting for his heart to quiet to normal.

The girl had saved him again. She had kept him from going into the cabin, that last time.

Nonsense, he thought.Unconsciously I must have known it was ready to go .

He shelved the thought for later pondering. Just now he had escaped, by the second in a series of

miracles, but he was still very far from safe.

If that wind could blow a plane right off a cliff, it could blow him, too, he reasoned. He had to find

some safer place to rest, shelter.

Cautiously, clinging to the inner part of the ledge, he crept along the wall. Ten feet beyond where he

lay, in one direction, it narrowed to nothing and ended in a dark rock-fall, slippery with the falling sleet.

Painfully, his foot clawing anguish, he retraced his steps. The darkness seemed to be thickening and the

sleet turning to white, soft thick snow. Aching and tired, Andrew wished he could lie down, wrap himself

in the fur coat, and sleep there. But to sleep was death, his bones knew it, and he resisted the

temptation, dragging himself along the cliff-ledge in the opposite direction. He had to avoid the fragments

of torn metal which had held him trapped. Once he gave his good leg a painful shin-blow on a concealed

rock which bent him over, moaning in pain.

But at last he had traversed the full length of the ledge, and at the far end, he found that it widened,

sloping gently upward to a flat space on which thick underbrush clung, root-fast to the mountainside.

Looking up in the thickening darkness, Andrew nodded. The clustered, thick foliage would resist the

wind—it had evidently been rooted there for years. Anything which could grow here would have to be

able to hang on hard against wind and storm, tempest and blizzard. Now, if his lamed foot would let him

haul himself up there…

It wasn’t easy, burdened with coat and food supplies, his foot torn and bleeding, but before the

darkness closed in entirely, he had dragged himself and his small stock of provision—crawling, at last,

on both hands and one knee—up beneath the trees, and collapsed in their shelter. At least here the

maddening wind blew a little less violently, its strength broken by the boughs. In the emergency supplies

there was a small battery-operated light, and by its pale glimmer he found concentrated food, a thin

blanket of the “space” kind, which would insulate his body heat inside its shelter, and tablets of fuel.

He rigged the blanket and his own coat into a rough lean-to, using the thickest crossed branches to

support them, so that he lay in a tiny dugout scooped beneath the tree-roots and boughs, where only

occasional snow-spray reached him. Now he wanted nothing more than to collapse and lie motionless,

but before his last strength left him, he grimly cut away the frozen trouser-leg and the remnants of his

boot from his damaged leg. It hurt more than he had ever dreamed anything could hurt, to smear it with

the antiseptic in the emergency kit and bandage it tightly up again, but somehow he managed it, although

he heard himself moaning like a wild animal. He dropped at last, exhausted beyond weariness, in his

burrow, reaching out finally for one of Mattingly’s candies. He forced himself to chew it, knowing that

the sugar would warm his shivering body, but in the very act of swallowing, he fell into an exhausted,

deathlike sleep.

For a long time, his sleep was like that of the dead, dark and without dreams, a total blotting-out of

mind and will. And then for a long time he was dimly aware of fever and pain, of the raging of the storm

outside. After it diminished, still in the darkening fever-drowse, he woke raging with thirst, and crawled

outside, breaking icicles from the edge of his shelter to suck them, staggering away from the shelter to

answer the needs of his body. Then he dropped exhausted inside his hollowed-out shelter to swallow a

little food and fell again into deep pain-racked sleep.

When he woke again it was morning, and he was clearheaded, seeing clear light and hearing only a

faint murmur of wind on the heights. The storm was over; his foot and leg still pained him, but endurably.

When he sat up to change the bandages, he saw the wound was clean and un-festered. Above him the

great blood-red sun of Cottman IV lay low in the sky, slowly climbing the heights. He crept to the edge

and looked down into the valley, which lay wrapped in mist below. It was wild, lonesome country and

seemed untouched by any human hands.

Yet this was an inhabited world, a world peopled by humans who were, as far as he knew,

indistinguishable from Earthmen. He had somehow survived the crash which had wrecked the Mapping

and Exploring plane; it should not be wholly impossible, somehow, to make his way back to the

spaceport again. Perhaps the natives would be friendly and help him, although he had to admit it didn’t

seem too likely.

Still, while there was life there was hope… and he still had his life. Men had been lost, before this, in

the wild and unexplored areas of strange worlds, and had come out of it alive, living to tell about it at

Empire Central back on Earth. So that his first task was to get his leg back in walking shape, and his

second, to get out of these mountains.Hellers . Good name for them. They were hellish all right.

Crosswinds, updrafts, downdrafts, storms blowing up out of nowhere—the plane wasn’t made that

could fly through them unscathed in bad weather. He wondered how the natives got across them.

Pack-mules or some local equivalent, he thought. Anyway, there would be passes, roads, trails.

As the sun rose higher, the mists cleared and he could look down into the valleys below. Most of the

slopes were tree-clad, but far below in the valley a river ran, and across it there was some darkening

which could only be a bridge. So he wasn’t in entirely uninhabited country, after all. There were blotches

which might well be plowed lands, squared fields, gardens, a pleasant and peaceful countryside, with

smoke rising from chimneys and houses—but very far away; and between the cultivated lands and the

cliffside where Andrew clung were seemingly endless leagues of chasms and foothills and crags.

Somehow, though, he’d get down there, and then back to the spaceport. And then, damn it, off this

ghastly inhospitable planet where he never should have come in the first place, and having come, should

have left again within forty-eight hours. Well, he’d go now.

And what about the girl?

Damn the girl. She never existed. She was a fever-dream, a ghost, a symbol of his own

loneliness…

Lonely. I’ve always been alone, on a dozen worlds.

Probably every lonely man dreams that someday he will arrive at a world where someone is waiting,

someone who will stretch out a hand to him, and speak to something inside, saying “I am here. We are

together…”

There had been women, of course. Women in every port—what was the old saying, starting with

sailors and transferred to spacemen, always a new one in every port? And there were men who thought

that state of affairs was enviable, he knew.

But none of them had been the right woman, and at heart he knew all the things the Psych Division

had told him. They ought to know. You look for perfection in a woman to protect yourself against a real

relationship. You take refuge in fantasies to avoid looking at the hard realities of life. And so forth and so

on. Some of them even told him that he was unconsciously homosexual and found ordinary sexual affairs

unsatisfactory because it wasn’t really women he wanted at all, he just couldn’t admit it to himself. He’d

heard it all, a hundred times, yet the dream remained.

Not just a woman for his bed, but one for his heart and his heart-hungry loneliness…

Maybe that was what the old fortune-teller in the Old Town had been playing on. Maybe so many

men shared that romantic dream that she handed it out to everybody, as psi-quacks back on Earth told

romantic teen-age girls about a tall dark stranger they would surely meet someday.

No. It was a real girl. I saw her and she—she called me.

All right. Think about it now. Get it all straight…

He had come to Cottman IV en route to a new assignment, and it was simply a port of call, one of a

series of crossroads worlds where routings were changed in the great network of the Terran Empire.

The spaceport was large, as was the Trade City around it, to cater to the spaceport personnel, but it

was not an Empire world with established trade, travel, tours. It was, he knew, an inhabited world, but

most of it was off limits to Earthmen. He didn’t even know what the natives called it. The name on the

Empire maps was enough for him, Cottman IV. He hadn’t intended to stay there more than forty-eight

hours, only long enough to arrange transit to his final destination.

And then, with three others from the Space Service, he had gone into the Old Town. Ship fare got

tiresome; it always tasted of machines, with a strong acrid taste of spices to cover the pervasive tang of

recycled water and hydrocarbons. The food in the Old Town was at least natural, good grilled meat

such as he had not had since his last planetside billeting, and fresh fragrant fruits, and he had enjoyed it

more than any meal he had tasted in months, with the sweet clear gold-colored wine. And then, out of

curiosity, he and his companions had strolled through the marketplace, buying souvenirs, fingering

strange rough-textured fabrics and soft furs, and then he had come to the booth of the fortune-teller, and

out of amused curiosity he had paused at her words.

“Someone is waiting for you. I can show you the face of your destiny, stranger. Would you see the

face of the one who waits for you?”

He had never dreamed that it was more than a standard pitch for a few coins; amused, laughing, he

had given the wrinkled old woman the coins she asked for, and followed her inside her small

awning-covered canvas booth. Inside she had looked into her crystal—strange how on every world he

had ever known the crystal ball was the chosen instrument of pretended far-seeing—and then, without a

word, shoved the ball toward him. Still half in laughter, half in disgust, ready to walk away, Andrew had

bent to see the pretty face, the shining red hair.A pitch for a high-class call-girl , he thought cynically,

and was prepared to ask what the old madam was charging for the girl that day, and if she made a

special price for Earthmen. Then the girl in the crystal raised her eyes and met Andrew’s, and…

And it happened. There were no words for it. He stood there, half-crouched and unmoving over the

crystal, so long that his neck, unheeded, was stabbed with cramp in the muscles.

She was very young, and she seemed to be both frightened and in pain. It seemed that she cried out

to him for help that only he could give, and that she touched, deliberately, some secret thing known only

to both of them. But he could not, later, understand what it had been, only that she called to him, that she

needed him desperately…

And then her face was gone and his head was aching. He gripped at the edge of the table, shaking,

desperate to call her back. “Where is she? Who is she?” he demanded, and the old woman turned up a

blank, frowning face. “No, now, how do I know what you saw, off-worlder? I saw nothing and no one,

and others are waiting. You must go now.”

He had stumbled out, blank with despair.

She called to me. She needs me. She is here....

And I am leaving in six hours.

It hadn’t been exactly easy to break his contract and stay, but it hadn’t been all that hard either.

Places on the world to which he was going were in high demand, and there wouldn’t be more than three

days’ delay in filling his position. He’d have to accept two downgrades in seniority, but he didn’t care.

On the other hand, as Personnel told him, volunteers for Cottman IV weren’t easy to find. The climate

was bad, there was almost no trade, and although the pay was good, no career man really wanted to

exile himself way out here on the fringes of the Empire on a planet which stubbornly refused to have any

dealings with them except for leasing the spaceport itself. They offered him a choice of work in the

computer center, or in Mapping and Exploring, which was high-risk, high-pay work. For some reason,

the natives of this world had never mapped it, and the Terran Empire felt that presenting them with

finished maps which their native technology could not, or would not, encompass might be a very good

thing for public relations between Cottman IV and the Empire.

He chose Mapping and Exploring. He already knew—in the first week he had seen every girl and

woman in the spaceport—that she was none of the workers in Medic or Personnel or Dispatch.

Mapping and Exploring enjoyed certain concessions which allowed them to go outside the severely

limited preserve of the Empire.Somewhere, somehow, she was out there waiting …

It was an obsession and he knew it, but somehow he could not break the spell, and didn’t want to.

And then, the third time he’d gone out with the mapping plane, the crash… and here he was, no

closer than ever to his dream girl. If she had ever existed, which he doubted.

Exhausted by the long effect of memory, he crawled back into his shelter to rest. Time enough

tomorrow to work out a plan for getting down off the ledge. He ate emergency rations, sucked ice, fell

into an uneasy sleep…

She was there again, standing before him, both in and not quite in the little dark shelter, a ghost, a

dream, a dark flower, a flame in his heart…

I do not know why it is you I have touched, stranger. I sought for my kinfolk, those who love

me and could help me…

Damsel in distress, Andrew thought,I just bet. What do you want with me ?

Only a look of pain, and a sorrowful twisting of the face.

Who are you? I can’t keep calling you ghost-girl.

Callista.

Now I know I’m freaked out, Andrew said to himself.That’s an Earth name .

I am no Earth sorceress, my powers are of air and fire…

That made no sense.What do you want with me ?

Just now, only to save the life I unwittingly endangered. And I say to you: avoid the darkened

land.

She faded abruptly from sight and hearing, and he was alone, blinking.

“Callista” means simply “beautiful,” as I remember, he thought.Maybe she is simply a symbol

of beauty in my mind. But what is the darkened land? And how can she help to save me? Oh,

rubbish, I’m treating her as if she were real again .

Face it. There’s no such woman, and if you’re going to get out of here, you’ll have to go it

alone.

And yet, as he lay back to rest and make plans, he found himself trying, again, to call up her face

before his eyes…

Chapter TWO

The storm still raged on the heights, but here in the valley daylight shone through, and lowering sunlight;

only the thick anvil-shaped clouds to the west showed where the peaks of the mountains were wrapped

in storm.

Damon Ridenow rode with head down, braced against the wind that ripped his riding-cloak, and it

felt like flight As if he fled before a gathering storm. He tried to tell himself,The weather’s getting into

my bones, maybe I’m just not as young as I was , but he knew it was more than that. It was an

unease, something stirring, nagging at his mind, something wrong. Something rotten.

He realized that he had been keeping his eyes turned from the low tree-clad hills which lay to the

east, and deliberately, trying to break the strange unease, made himself twist in his saddle and look up

and down the slopes.

The darkened lands.

Rubbish, he said to himself angrily. There was war there, last year, with the cat-people. Some of his

folk were killed and others were driven away, forced to resettle in the Alton country, around the lakes.

The cat-people were fierce and cruel, yes, they slaughtered and burned and tormented and left for dead

what they could not kill outright. Maybe what he felt was simply the memory of all the suffering there

during the war.My mind is open to the minds of those who suffered —

No, it was worse than that. The things he’d heard about what the cat-people did.

He glanced behind him. His escort—four swordsmen of the Guard—were beginning to draw

together and murmur, and he knew he should call a halt to breathe the horses. One of them spurred and

came to his side, and he reined his mount in to look at the man.

“Lord Damon,” the Guardsman said, with proper deference—but he looked angry. “Why do we ride

as if foemen rode hard at our heels? I have heard no word of war or ambush.”

Damon Ridenow forced his pace to slacken slightly, but it was an effort. He wanted to spur his

mount hard, to race away for the safety of Armida beyond them…

He said somberly, “I think weare pursued, Reidel.”

The Guardsman warily swept his eyes from horizon to horizon—it was his trained duty to be wary—

but with open skepticism. “Which bush, think you, hides ambush, Lord Damon?”

“That you know no more than I,” said Damon, sighing.

The man looked stubborn. He said, “Well, you are a Comyn Lord, and it is your business, and mine

to carry out your orders. But there is a limit to what man and horseflesh can do, Lord, and if we are

attacked with wearied horses and saddle sores, we will fight the less.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Damon said, sighing. “Call halt if you will, then. Here at least there is little

danger of attack in open country.”

He was cramped and weary, and glad to dismount, even though the nightmare urgency still beat at

him. When the Guard Reidel brought him food, he took it without smiling, and his thanks were

absentminded. The Guardsman lingered with the privilege of an old acquaintance.

“Do you still smell danger behind every tree, Lord Damon?”

“Yes, but I can’t say why,” Damon said, sighing. Afoot he was little more than medium height, a thin

pale man with the fire-red hair of a Comyn Lord of the Seven Domains; like most of his kindred he went

unarmed except for a dagger, and under his riding-cloak he wore the light tunic of an indoor man, a

scholar. The Guardsman was looking at him solicitously.

“You are unused to so much riding, Lord, and in such haste. Was there so much need for it, so

swiftly?”

“I do not know,” the Comyn Lord said quietly. “But my kinswoman at Armida sent me a message—a

guarded one—begging me to come to her with all speed, and she is not of that fearful kind who start at

shadows and lie awake nights fearing bandits in the courtyard when her menfolk are away. An urgent

summons from the Lady Ellemir is nothing to treat lightly, so I came at once, as I must. It may well be

some family trouble, some sickness in her household; but whatever it is, the matter is grave or she could

deal with it on her own.”

The Guardsman nodded slowly. “I have heard the lady is brave and resourceful,” he said, “I have a

brother who is a part of her household staff. May I tell my fellows this much, Lord? They may grumble

less, if they know it is grave trouble and no whim of your own.”

“Tell them and welcome, it is no secret,” Damon said, “I would have done so myself, if I had thought

to do so.”

Reidel grinned. “I know you are no man-driver,” he said, “but none of us had heard rumors, and this

is not a country any man cares to ride in without need.” He was turning away, but Damon kept him, a

hand on his sleeve.

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摘要：

THESPELLSWORDMarionZimmerBradleyFORBIDDENCIRCLE01ADARKOVERNOVELContentsChapterONEChapterTWOChapterTHREEChapterFOURChapterFIVEChapterSIXChapterSEVENChapterEIGHTChapterNINEChapterTENChapterELEVENChapterTWELVEAuthor’sNoteOnChronologySpell-swords…ThehistoryofDarkoverwasfullofsuchweapons.Therewasthelegen...

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