Web of the Witch World - Andre Norton

Water gave the stuff support and life. Her fingers moved in a studied pattern on the rail before her. Jaelithe found herself reciting one of the first and earliest of the spells she had ever learned: one to impress upon a child’s mind the base for all “changing.”

“Air and earth, water and fire—”

Fire—the eternal opposition to water. Fire could dry water, water could quench fire. Fire—the word lingered with a small beat in her mind. And Jaelithe knew that beat of old, the sign every witch waited for, the sign-post of a spell ready to work. Fire! But how could fire be the answer on the ocean—a weapon against drifting weed which was poison to what it touched?

“Captain!” She turned to Stymir. He scowled at her as if she was only a distraction in his battle to save his ship.

“Sea oil—you have sea oil?”

His expression changed to one of a man facing a hysterical woman, but she was already continuing.

“The weed, will it burn?”

“Burn—on the water?” His protest was halted as if a thought struck home. “Sea oil—fire!” He connected those with the rapidity of a man who had improvised before in the face of danger. “No, lady, I do not know whether it will burn—but one can try!” He shouted an order.

“Alavin, Jokul, get up three skins of oil!”

The skins of thick oil, skimmed from the boil off langmar stems, kept for use in storms, were brought to the deck and Stymir himself made the small cuts on their upper surfaces before they were lowered on lines to drag behind the Wave Cleaver. The oil began to ooze forth some distance from the ship.

It showed as a distinct stain on the waves, spreading as the leaking bags were rolled and mauled by the force of the waves. When that dark shadow made a goodly streak, one of the marines went aloft. His dart gun had been checked by Stymir and a round dozen in the clip load were the burst-fire type, used to set aflame an enemy’s rigging and sails.

They watched the patch eagerly. The strings of weed had reached it, had pushed on so that weed was discolored. There was a burst of eye-searing white fire on one of those soggy tendrils. Soaring flames licked along the oil slick—from more than one place now as the marksman placed his darts.

Smoke rose in a haze and the wind drove to them a stench to set them coughing. Flames roared higher and higher. Stymir laughed.

“More than oil feeds that! The weed burns.”

But would more than just the oil-soaked tendrils burn? That was the important question now. Unless those branches of weed ignited and the fire spread to the other patches, they had not gained more than a small measure of time, a very small measure.

If she only had the jewel! Jaelithe tensed, strained against the bond of impotence. Her lips moved, her hands cupped as if she did hold that weapon. She began to sing. No one had ever understood why the gems worked to focus the magic wrought by will and mind.

If their secret had once been known to her people, it lay so far back in the dim corridor of their too-long history as to be buried in the dust of ages. The making of the jewel itself, the tuning of it to the personality of she who was to wear it, probably for the rest of her life, that they could do. And the training of how to use it properly, that was also a matter of lessoning. But why it worked so and who first discovered this means . . .

The archaic words of her chant meant nothing now either. Jaelithe only knew that they had to be used to raise the power within her, make it flood her body, and then flow outward. And, though she had no jewel, she was doing now what she would have done had it lain on her palm, pulsating with her song.

She was no longer aware of the captain, of the crew, even visual and tactile contact with the ship was gone. Although no mist born of magical herbs and gums wreathed her in as it must for the difficult raisings, Jaelithe was as blind as if she was so enfolded. And all the will which seethed within her body, had been bottled in her since she laid aside the witch gem, was thrust at the fire, as if she held a spear within her two hands and aimed it at the centermost point of the flames.

Those were reaching higher and higher into the sky; then their red tips bent—not towards the ship, but away—back at the center mass of the weed on the borders of which they fed: away and down. Jaelithe’s chant was a murmur of storm afar. They might have loosed a whole shipload of oil rather than three skins. Stymir and his crew stood agape at the holocaust spouting behind them. A forest in full blaze could hardly have produced more cloud-reaching tongues of flame.

There was a clap of noise and a second before they were hardly more than conscious of the first.

Jaelithe stiffened, for a moment her voice wavered. Kolder—Kolder devices within the weed! She aimed her will—the fire against Kolder blankness. Were there underwater ships slinking out to do battle? But the fire continued to bend to her will.

Those sharp explosions were coming faster. Half the horizon was aflame and the heat of it struck at the ship, the stench of the burning made a gas to set them choking. Still Jaelithe sang and willed, fought for the death of the weed. And the weed died, shriveled, cooked, became ash awash on the waves. Jaelithe knew a swell of triumph, a wild joy which, in its way, could be as defeating as the fire. She fought against that sense of triumph, beat it down with all her might.

No more red trails across the water, the flames had eaten those into nothingness. Now the fire fed on the larger mass behind them. The Wave Cleaver’s crew watched as the day went and night drew in, but still there was a distant glow along the horizon. And then Jaelithe slumped against the rail, her voice naught but a husky croak. Stymir steadied her while one of the men went running for a cup of ship’s wine, thin and sour, but wet to ease somewhat the dried agony of her mouth. She drank and drank again, and then smiled at the captain.

“The fire will eat it to the end, I think,” she said in the whisper which was the only voice left her.

“This was great magic, lady.” And the respect in his voice was that a Sulcarman kept for some great feat of seamanship or notable stroke in battle.

“How great you do not know, Captain. The oil and the fire darts gave it birth, but the shaping by will set it deep. And—” She raised her empty hands and stared at them now with wonder, “And I had no gem! I had no gem!” She strove to stand away from Stymir and staggered, as weak as one risen from a sick bed of long enduring.

The captain half led, half carried her below, helped her to stretch out on the bunk, where she now lay, trembling with a terrible fatigue. She had felt nothing such as this since her earliest days of training. But before she lapsed into the unconsciousness which lapped about her as the sea lapped the ship, Jaelithe caught at Stymir’s hand.

“Do you now sail on?”

He studied her. “This may be only the first of their defenses and the least. But after what I have seen—aye—for now we sail on.”

“If there is trouble—call—”

Now there was a smile about his lips. “Be very sure of that, lady. A man does not hesitate to use a good weapon when it lies to hand. And we still have several skins of oil below.”

He left and she pillowed her head with a sigh of half content, too tired now to examine this new knowledge, to taste it, feel it warm about her like a cloak against the chill of a winter storm. She thought that her tie with Simon had been her new skill, but it would seem there was another—and there could be more to discover. Jaelithe stretched her aching body and fell asleep, smiling.

15 MAGIC AND—MAGIC

SIMON STOOD at the seaward window of his prison cell. Along the horizon now there was no night such as hung over the rock perch of the Kolder fortress, but a curtain of living fire reaching from the sea to heaven, as if the very substance of the ocean unnaturally fed that flame. Every nerve and muscle in him wanted action. Behind that wall of fire somewhere—Jaelithe! But there was no tie between them. He had only her last message, which was in part a cry for help. This was some Kolder trick. No wooden-walled Sulcar ship could dare push through that barrier.

Yet, there was a stir along the cliffs below, a buzz of activity at the seashore where those who served Kolder stood to watch the distant flames. And once Simon was sure that he had seen a true Kolder there, gray smock, capped head, as if what was happening out at sea had so much import that one of the masters must see for himself and not depend upon reports from inferiors.

There had been activity on the land side, too. More of the caterpillar vehicles crawled out into the wilderness of the tortured rock, now with broad beams of light fanning out before them to mark the safest path across the rough terrain. And Simon was sure that he could make out a haze of more light beyond, rising from behind the mesa some miles away.

The Kolder were in haste. But there could be no armada of Estcarp yet at sea. At least no fleet near enough to threaten this keep. And the fire would hold any off a while. So, why all this set up? No one had approached him since he had been sent here. He could only watch and guess. But only one answer fitted for Simon. The Kolder were under pressure—and time supplied that pressure. Whatever they did which was so important lay in the interior. And that could be their gate! Did they contemplate a return to their own world? No—the Kolder wanted power in this one, and they proposed to gain that by the aid of superior arms, though their numbers must be very few. So, did they wish to recruit from beyond that gate—or bring out new weapons?

But they had been driven out of their own world. Would they dare venture back? More likely they strove to bring out more of their own kind.

He bent his head to rest his forehead against the cool wall and tried again, vainly, to reach Jaelithe. The need for knowing how she fared was as great as his desire for action. But—Kolder blankness there . . .

Loyse! Where in this pile was Loyse? As he had not had any touch with the girl since he had been here he did not know. Now Simon fixed his mind on Loyse, called her.

“Here—“

Very faint, wavering, but still an answer. Simon concentrated until that effort became pain. Their contact had never been clear, it was like trying to clasp in his hands an elusive fog which weaved and ebbed, slipped between his fingers.

“What chances with you?”

“. . . room . . . rocks . . .” Contact faded, renewed, faded again.

“Jaelithe?” He asked without much hope.

“She comes!” Much stronger, carrying conviction.

Simon was startled. How did Loyse know that? Tentatively he tried again to reach Jaelithe; the barrier held. But Loyse had seemed so sure.

“How do you know?” He made a sharp demand of that.

“Aldis knows—”

Aldis! What part did the Kolder agent play in this? And how? A trap being set? Simon asked that.

“Yes!” Clear again, and forceful.

“The bait?”

“You, me . . .” Again an ebb and when Simon tried to pursue that farther, no answer at all.

Simon turned away from the window to look about the room. He had investigated its possibilities when he had been sent here. There was no change. But still he must do something—or go mad! Somewhere there had to be a way out of this room, a way to stop the Kolder trap.

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