Andre Norton - WW - Estcarp Cycle 01 - Witch World

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PART I: VENTURE OUT

OF SULCARKEEP

I

SIEGE PERILOUS

a The rain was a slantwise curfain across the dingy

street, washing soot from city walls, the taste of it

| metallic on the lips of the tall, thin man who walked

with a loping stride close to the buildings, watching the

| mouths of doorways, the gaps of alleys with a narrow-

\ eyed intentness.

"I Simon Tregarth had left the railroad station two—or

was it three hours ago? He had no reason to mark the

passing of time any longer. It had ceased to have any

^ meaning, and he had no destination. As the hunted, the

runner, the hider—no, he was not in hiding. He walked

in the open, alert, ready, his shoulders as straight, his

head as erect as ever.

In those first frantic days when he had retained a wisp

of hope, when he had used every scrap of animal

cunning, every trick and dodge he had learned, when he

had twisted and back-trailed, and befogged his tracks,

then he had been governed by hours and minutes, he

had run. Now he walked, and he would continue to

walk until the death lurking in one of those doorways,

in ambush in some alley would confront him. And even

then he would go down using his fangs. His right hand,

thrust deep into the soggy pocket of his top coat, ca-

ressed those fangs—smooth, sleek, deadly, a weapon

4 ANDRE NORTON

which fitted as neatly into his palm as if it were a part of

his finely trained body.

Tawdry red-and-yellow neon lights made wavering

patterns across the water-slick pavement; his acquain-

tance with this town was centered about a hotel or two

located at its center section, a handful of restaurants,

some stores, all a casual traveler learned in two visits

half a dozen years apart. And he was driven by the urge

to remain in the open, for he was convinced that the end

to the chase would come that night or early tomorrow.

Simon realized that he was tiring. No sleep, the need

for constant sentry—go. He slackened pace before a

lighted doorway, read the legend on the rain-limp awn-

ing above it. A doorman swung open the inner portal

and the man in the rain accepted the tacit invitation,

stepping into warmth and the fragrance of food.

The bad weather must have discouraged patrons.

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Maybe that was why the headwaiter welcomed him so

quickly. Or perhaps the cut of the still presentable suit

protected from the damp by the coat he shed, his faint

but unmistakable natural arrogance—the mark left

upon a man who has commanded his kind and been

readily obeyed—insured for him the well-placed table

and the speedily attentive waiter.

Simon grinned wryly as his eye sped down the lines

of the menu, and there was a ghost of true humor in that

grin. The condemned man would eat a hearty meal

anyway. His reflection, distorted by the curving side of

the polished sugarbowl, smiled back at him. A long

face, fine-drawn, with lines at the corners of the eyes,

and deeper set brackets at the lips, a brown face, well-

weathered, but in its way an ageless face. It had looked

much the same at twenty-five, it would continue to look

so at sixty.

WITCH WORLD 5

Tregarth ate slowly, savoring each bite, letting the

comforting warmth of the room, of the carefully chosen

wine, relax his body if not mind and nerves. But that

relaxation nurtured no false courage. This was the end,

he knew it—had come to accept it.

"Pardon . . ."

The fork he had raised with its thick bite of steak

impaled did not pause before his lips. But in spite of

Simon's iron control a muscle twitched in his lower

eyelid. He chewed, and then he answered, his voice

even.

"Yes?"

The man standing politely at his table might be a

broker, a corporation lawyer, a doctor. He had a pro-

fessional air designed to inspire confidence in his fel-

lows. But he was not what Simon had expected at all,

he was too respectable, too polite and correct to be—

death! Though the organization had many servants in

widely separated fields.

"Colonel Simon Tregarth, I believe?"

Simon broke a muffin apart and buttered it. "Simon

Tregarth, but not 'Colonel'," he corrected, and then

added with a counterthrust on his own, "As you well

know."

The other seemed a little surprised, and then he

smiled, that smooth, soothing, professional smile.

"How maladroit of me, Tregarth. But let me say at

once—I am not a member of the organization. I am,

instead—if you wish it, of course—a friend of yours.

Permit me to introduce myself. I am Dr. Jorge Pet-

ronius. Very much at your service, may I add."

Simon blinked. He had thought the scrap of future

remaining to him well accounted for, but he had not

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reckoned on this meeting. For the first time in bitter

6 ANDRE NORTON

days he felt, far inside him, the stir of something

remotely akin to hope.

It did not occur to him to doubt the identification

offered by this small man watching him narrowly now

through the curiously thick lenses, supported by such

heavy and broad black plastic frames that Petronius

appeared to wear the half-mask of eighteenth century

disguise. Dr. Jorge Petronius was very well known

throughout that half-world where Tregarth had lived for

several violent years. If you were "hot" and you were

also lucky enough to be in funds you went to Petronius.

Those who did were never found thereafter, either by

the law, or the vengeance of their fellows.

"Sammy is in town," that precise, slightly accented

voice continued.

Simon sipped appreciatively at his wine. "Sam-

my?" he matched the other's detachment. "I am flat-

tered."

"Oh, you have something of a reputation, Tregarth.

For you the organization unleashed their best hounds.

But after the efficient way you dealt with Kotchev and

Lampson, there remained only Sammy. However, he is

slightly different metal from the others. And you have,

if you will forgive my prying into your personal affairs,

been on the run for some time. A situation which does

not exactly strengthen the sword arm."

Simon laughed. He was enjoying this, the good food

and drink, even the sly needling of Dr. Jorge Pet-

ronius. But he did not lower his guard.

"So, my sword arm needs strengthening? Well, doc-

tor, what do you suggest as the remedy?"

"There is—my own."

Simon put down his wine glass. A red drop trickled

down its side to be absorbed by the cloth.

WITCH WORLD 7

"I have been told your services come high, Pet-

ronius .''

The small man shrugged. "Naturally. But in return I

can promise complete escape. Those who trust me

receive the worth of their dollars. I have had no com-

plaints."

"Unfortunately I am not one who can afford your

services."

"Your recent activities having so eaten into your

cash reserve? But, of course. However, you left San

Pedro with twenty thousand. You could not have com-

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pletely exhausted such a sum in this short interval. And

if you meet Sammy what remains shall only be returned

toHanson."

Simon's lips tightened. For an instant he looked as

dangerous as he was, as Sammy would see him if they

had a fair, face-to-face meeting.

"Why hunt me up—and how?" he asked.

"Why?" Again Petronius shrugged. "That you

shall understand later. I am, in my way, a scientist, an

explorer, an experimenter. As for how I knew you were

in town and in need of my service—Tregarth, you

should be aware by now how rumor spreads. You are a

marked man and a dangerous one. Your coming and

going is noted. It is a pity for your sake that you are

honest."

Simon's right hand balled into a fist. "After my

activities of the past seven years you apply that label to

me?"

It was Petronius who laughed now, a small chuckle,

inviting the other to enjoy the humor of the situation.

"But honesty sometimes has very little to do with the

pronouncements of the law, Tregarth. If you had not

been an essentially honest man—as well as one with

8 ANDRE NORTON

ideals—you would never have stood up toHanson. It is

because you are what you are that I know you are ripe

for me. Shall we go?"

Somehow Simon found himself paying his check,

following Dr. JorgePetronius. A car waited at the curb,

but the doctor did not address its driver as the machine

carried them into the night and the rain.

"Simon Tregarth," Petronius' voice was as imper-

sonal now as if he recited data important only to him-

self. "Of Cornish descent. Enlisted in the U.S. Army

on March tenth, 1939. Promoted on the field from

sergeant to lieutenant, and climbed to rank of

Lieutenant-Colonel. Served in the occupation forces

until stripped of his commission and imprisoned for—

For what. Colonel? Ah, yes, for flagrant black market

dealing. Only, most unfortunately the brave colonel did

not know he had been drawn into a criminal deal until

too late. That was the point, was it not, Tregarth, which

put you on the other side of the law? Since you had been

given the name you thought you might as well play the

game.

"Since Berlin you have been busy in quite a few

dubious exploits, until you were unwise enough to

cross Hanson. Another affair into which you were

pushed unknowingly? You seem to be an unlucky man,

Tregarth. Let us hope that your fortunes change to-

night."

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"Where are we going—to the docks?"

Again he heard that rich chuckle. "We head

downtown, but not to the harbor. My clients travel, but

not by sea, air, or land. How much do you know of the

traditions of your fatherland. Colonel?"

"Matacham, Pennsylvania has no traditions I ever

heard of—"

WITCH WORLD 9

"I am not concerned with a crude mining town on

this continent. I am speaking of Cornwall, which is

older than time—our time."

"My grandparents were Cornish. But I don't know

any more than that."

' 'Your family was of the pure blood, and Cornwall is

old, so very old. It is associated with Wales in legends.

Arthur was known there, and the Romans of Britain

huddled within its borders when the axes of the Saxons

swept them to limbo. Before the Romans there were

others, many, many others, some of them bearing with

them scraps of strange knowledge. You are going to

make me very happy, Tregarth." There was a pause as

if inviting comment; when Simon did not answer, the

other continued.

"I am about to introduce you to one of your native

traditions, Colonel. A most interesting experiment.

Ah, here we are!"

The car had stopped before the mouth of a dark alley.

Petronius opened the door.

"You now behold the single drawback of my estab-

lishment, Tregarth. This lane is too narrow to accom-

modate the car; we must walk."

For a moment Simon stared up the black mouth,

wondering if the doctor had brought him to some ap-

pointed slaughterhouse. Did Sammy wait here? But

Petronius had snapped on a torch and was waving its

beam ahead in invitation.

"Only a yard or two, I assure you. Just follow me."

The alley was indeed a short one and they came out

into an empty space between towering buildings.

Squatting in a hollow ringed about by these giants was a

small house.

' 'You see here an anachronism, Tregarth.'' The doc-

10 ANDRE NORTON

tor set a key in the door lock.' This is a late seventeenth

century farmhouse in the heart of a twentieth century

city. Because its title is in doubt, it exists, a very

substantial ghost of the past to haunt the present. Enter

please."

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Later, as he steamed in front of an open fire, a

mixture his host had pressed upon him in his hand,

Simon thought that Petronius' description of a ghost

house was very apt. It needed only a steeple crowned

hat for the doctor's head, a sword at his side, to com-

plete the illusion that he had stepped from one era into

another.

"Where do I go from here?" he asked.

Petronius prodded the fire with a poker. "You shall

go at dawn, Colonel, free and clear, as I promise. As to

where," he smiled, "that we shall see."

"Why wait until dawn?"

As if being forced into telling more than he wished,

Petronius put down the poker and wiped his hands on a

handkerchief before he faced his client squarely.

"Because only at dawn does your door open—the

proper one for you. This is a story at which you may

scoff, Tregarth, until you see the proof before your

eyes. What do you know of menhirs?"

Simon felt absurdly pleased that he could supply an

answer the other obviously did not expect.

"They were stones—set in circles by prehistoric

men—Stonehenge.''

"Set up in circles, sometimes. But they had other

uses also." Petronius was all unsuppressed eagerness

now, begging for serious attention from his listener.

"There were certain stones of great power mentioned

in the old legends. The Lia Fail of the Tuatha De

Danann of Ireland. When the rightful king trod upon it,

it shouted aloud in his honor. It was the coronation

WITCH WORLD 11

stone of that race, one of their three great treasures.

And do not the kings of England to this day still cherish

the Stone of Scone beneath their throne?

"But in Cornwall there was another stone of

power—the Siege Perilous. It was one rumored to be

able to judge a man, determine his worth, and then

deliver him to his fate. Arthur was supposed to have

discovered its power through the Seer Merlin and in-

corporated it among the seats of the Round Table. Six

of his knights tried it—and disappeared. Then came

two who knew its secret and stayed: Percival and

Galahad."

"Look here." Simon was bitterly disappointed, the

more so because he had almost dared to hope again.

Petronius was cracked, there was no escape after all.

"Arthur and the Round Table—that's a fairy tale for

kids. You're talking as if—"

"As if it were true history?" Petronius caught him

up. "Ah, but who is to say what is history and what is

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not? Every word of the past which comes to us is

colored and influenced by the learning, the prejudices,

even the physical condition of the historian who has

recorded it for later generations. Tradition fathers his-

tory and what is tradition but word of mouth? How

distorted may such accounts become in a single genera-

tion? You, yourself, had your entire life changed by

perjured testimony. Yet that testimony had been in-

serted in records, has now become history, untrue as it

is. How can anyone say that this story is legend but that

one a fact, and know that he is correct? History is made,

is recorded by human beings, and it is larded with all

the errors our species is subject to. There are scraps of

truth in legend and many lies in accepted history. I

know—for the Siege Perilous does exist!

"There are also theories of history alien to the con-

12 ANDRE NORTON

ventional ones we learn as children. Have you ever

heard of the alternate worlds which may stem from

momentous decisions? In one of those worlds, Colonel

Tregarth, perhaps you did not turn aside your eyes on

that night in Berlin. In another you did not meet with

me an hour ago, but went on to keep your rendezvous

with Sammy!"

The doctor rocked back and forth on his heels, as if

set teetering by the force of his words and belief. And in

spite of himself Simon caught a bit of that fiery en-

thusiasm.

"Which of these theories do you intend to apply to

my problem?"

Petronius laughed, once again at ease.' 'Just have the

patience to hear me out without believing that you are

listening to a madman, and I shall explain." He

glanced from the watch on his wrist to the wall clock

behind him. "We have some hours yet. So, it is like

this—"

As the little man began mouthing what sounded like

wild nonsense, Simon obediently listened. The

warmth, the drink, the chance to rest were payment

enough. He might have to leave to face Sammy later,

but that chance he pushed to the back of his mind as he

concentrated on what Petronius was saying.

The mellow chime of the ancient clock struck the

hour three times before the doctor was done. Tregarth

sighed, perhaps he had only been battered into submis-

sion by that flood of words, but if it were true—And

there was Petronius' reputation. Simon unbuttoned his

shirt and drew out his money belt.

"I know that Sacarsi and Wolverstein haven't been

heard of since they contacted you," he conceded.

"No, for they went through their doors; they found

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WITCH WORLD

the worlds they had always unconsciously sought. It is

as I have told you. One takes his seat upon the Siege and

before him opens that existence in which his spirit, his

mind—his soul if you wish to call it that—is at home.

And he goes forth to seek his fortune there."

"Why haven't you tried it yourself?" That was to

Simon the weak point in the other's story. If Petronius

possessed the key to such a door, why had he not used it

himself?

"Why?" The doctor stared down at the two plump

hands resting on his knees. "Because there is no

return—and only a desperate man chooses an irrevoca-

ble future. In this world we always cling to the belief

that we can control our lives, make our own decisions.

But through there, we have made a choice which cannot

be cancelled. I use words, many words, but at this

moment I cannot seem to choose them rightly to ex-

press what I feel. There have been many Guardians of

the Siege—only a few of them have used it for them-

selves. Perhaps . . . some day . . .but as yet I have

not the courage."

"So you sell your services to the hunted? Well, that

is one way of making a living. A list of your clients

might make interesting reading."

"Correct! I have had some very famous men apply

for assistance. Especially at the close of the war. You

might not believe the identity of some who sought me

out then, after fortune's wheel spun against them."

Simon nodded. "There were'some. notable gaps in

the war criminal captures," he remarked. "And some

odd worlds your stone must have opened if your tale is

true." He arose and stretched. Then went to the table

and counted out the money he took from his belt. Old

bills, most of them, dirty, with a greasy film as if the

14

ANDRE NORTON

business they had been used for had translated some of

its slime to their creased surfaces. There remained in

his hand a single coin. Simon spun it in the air and let it

ring down on the polished wood. The engraved eagle

lay up. He looked at it for a moment and then picked it

up again.

"This I take."

"A luck piece?" The doctor was busy with the bills,

stacking them into a tidy pile. "By all means retain it

then; a man can never have too much luck. And now, I

dislike speeding the parting guest, but the power of the

Siege is limited. And the proper moment is all impor-

tant. This way, please."

He might have been ushering one into a dentist's

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office, or to a board meeting, Simon thought. And

perhaps he was a fool to follow.

The rain had stopped, but it was still dark in the

square box of yard behind the old house. Petronius

pushed a switch and a light fanned out from the back

door. Three gray stones formed an arch which topped

Simon's head by a few scant inches. And before that

lay a fourth stone, as unpolished, unshaped and angular

as the others. Beyond that arch was a wooden fence,

high, unpainted, rotted with age, grimed with city dirt,

and a foot or two of sour slum soil, nothing else.

Simon stood for a long moment, inwardly sneering at

his half-belief of a few moments earlier. Now was the

time for Sammy to appear and Petronius to earn his real

fee.

But the doctor had taken his stand to one side of the

clock on the ground. He indicated it with a forefinger.

"The Siege Perilous. If you will just take your seat

there, Colonel—it is almost time."

A grin, without humor, to underline his own folly,

WITCH WORLD

twisted Simon's thin-lipped mouth, as he straddled the

stone and then stood for an instant partly under that arch

before he sat down. There was a rounded depression to

fit his hips. Curiously, with a sense of foreboding, he

put out his hands. Yes, there were two other, smaller

hollows to hold his palms, as Petronius had promised.

Nothing happened. The wooden fence, the strip of

musty earth remained. He was about to stand up

when—

"Now!" Petronius' voice fluted in a word which

was half call.

There was a swirling within the stone arch, a melt-

ing.

Simon looked out across a stretch of moorland which

lay under a gray dawn sky. A fresh wind laden with a

strange, invigorating scent fingered his hair. Some-

thing within him straightened like a leashed hound to

trace that wind to its source, run across that moorland.

"Your world, Colonel, and I wish you the be'st of

it!"

He nodded absently, no longer interested in the little

man who called to him. This might be an illusion, but it

drew him as nothing else ever had in his life. Without a

word of farewell Simon arose and strode beneath the

arch.

There was an instant of extreme panic—such fear as

he had never imagined could exist, worse than any

physical pain—as if the universe had been wrenched

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brutally apart and he had been spilled out into an awful

nothingness. Then he sprawled face down on thick wiry

turf.

II

MOOR HUNT

The dawn light did not mean sun to come, for there was

a thick mist filling the air. Simon got to his feet and

glanced back over his shoulder/Two rough pillars of

reddish rock stood there, between them no city yard but

a stretch of the same gray-green moor running on and

on into a wall offog.Petronius had been right: this was

no world he knew.

He was shivering. Though he had brought his top

coat with him, he did not have his hat, and the moisture

plastered his hair to his skull, trickled from scalp to

neck and cheek. He needed shelter—some goal.

Slowly Simon made a complete turn. No building

showed within the rim of the horizon. With a shrug he

chose to walk straight away from the rock pillars; one

direction was as good as another.

As he plodded across the soggy turf the sky grew

lighter, the mist lifted, and the character of the land

changed slowly. There were more outcrops of the red

stone, the rolling ground held more sharp rises and

descents. Before him, how many miles away he could

not judge, a broken line cut the sky, suggesting heights

to come. And the meal he had treated himself to was

many hours in the past He twisted a leaf from a bush,

chewed it absently, finding the flavor pungent but not

unpleasant. Then he heard the noise of the hunt.

16

WITCH WORLD

A hom called in a series of ascending notes, to be

answered by a yapping and a single muffled shout.

Simon began to trot. When he came out on the lip of a

ravine he was certain that the clamor came from the

other side of that cut, and was heading in his direction.

With the caution of past commando training, he went to

earth between two boulders.

The woman was the first to break from the cover of

the scrub brush on the opposite bank. She sprinted, her

long legs holding to the steady, dogged pace of one who

has had a long chase behind, an even more distant goal

ahead. At the edge of the narrow valley she hesitated to

look back.

Against the grayish-green of the vegetation her slim

ivory body, hardly concealed by the tatters which were

her only covering, seemed to be spotlighted by the wan

light of the dawn. With an impatient gesture she pushed

back strands of her long black hair, ran her hands across

her face. Then she began to work her way along the

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