Daron walked his horse ahead. It stepped gingerly off the riverbank into the water. Solid earth lay just beneath the surface of the opaque swampwater. Daron urged it across, keeping his eye on the oak at the opposite side.

  Sonja watched him, then nudged Urrim. “Go ahead,” she told him.

  “I’m frightened.”

  “Go ahead. I’m with you, Urrim.”

  He looked at her, and there was such a sudden upwelling of trust in his eyes that Sonja again felt a protective compassion for him. She swallowed. “Come, Urrim. We can’t lose sight of Daron in the mist.”

  Sonja prodded her horse ahead, and Urrim followed. Carefully they made their way across the water, their mounts seeming to walk on the very surface of the lake.

  At the opposite bank, Daron’s horse scrambled up a steep, muddy incline, and he called back to Sonja, “There is a hut—a building of some kind. In a clearing.” He hurried ahead. Sonja watched him, then prodded her own mount, proceeding slowly enough to allow Urrim to keep up.

  “You all right, Urrim?”

  “I…don* like water.”

  “It’s strange, all right.” She sensed that anything could be lurking in the murky depths to either side.

  “I like you,” Urrim told Sonja simply.

  She smiled at him. “That’s good, because I like you, too, Urrim.”

  “That…a house up there?”

  “I think so.”

  Urrim kept his horse close on the heels of Sonja’s. “What…who live there?”

  “Osylla. Remember?”

  “A witch,” Urrim said.

  They had left the river and climbed the muddy bank. The hut, of timber and stone, sat in the center of the clearing. Urrim lifted his chin and seemed to sense something in the air.

  “Witch is here.”

  “How can you tell?” Sonja wondered out loud. “She’s here…”

  “You don’t seem very afraid.”

  His horse began to toss its head and fidget; Urrim was jostled in his saddle. Sonja reached over quickly to grab the reins. The boy leaned forward and cupped a hand over his mouth, whispering into the horse’s ear. Within a moment the mare was plodding along peacefully again.

  Daron was standing beside his horse, looking back at Sonja and Urrim as they came on. Behind him, the door of the hut opened. Sonja nodded to Daron, her eyes warning him. He pivoted and, for the first time in his life, looked upon Osylla.

  She was beautiful, which threw Daron off his guard. And she appeared to be quite young—no older than in her early twenties. She had flowing golden hair and brilliant green eyes. Her slim body was dressed in a vest of soft leather, loosely laced at the front to reveal cleavage, and a short skirt of rough wool slit at the sides. She wore deerhide slippers, but no ornaments of any sort. All this surprised Daron. He had fully expected to find some haggard crone, hideous and dressed like a savage, living in this wild swamp.

  Sonja hated Osylla on sight—not because the woman was beautiful, or even because Daron had claimed she was a witch, but simply on instinct. She immediately sensed an ancientness about the woman, despite her apparent youth, and a willful energy that was power, restricted yet elemental, defensive yet menacing. Near Osylla the atmosphere seemed charged with some kind of invisible energy. And as Sonja sensed it, so did Urrim.

  The boy remained on his horse for a moment after Sonja dismounted. Then, slowly, as if fearing that the earth below him might suddenly be transformed into a bed of serpents, he got down from his saddle, keeping a close eye on the witch.

  Osylla did not move from her doorway. Daron advanced a step or two, paused and studied her, then spoke. “I am looking for my father. My name is Daron.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Osylla said to him, and smiled. Her voice was rich and husky.

  “My father is Odurac, the sorcerer…”

  “Of course. Yes, I sensed your coming.”

  “I must find him, Osylla. I need your help.”

  “Of course you do. But Odurac is dead.”

  Daron froze. Sonja, beside him, saw him sway for a moment in shock. Then he blurted out in a hurt, tense voice, “Dead? No, he can’t be…You’re lying! You must be lying!”

  Osylla’s crystalline laughter echoed across the swamp, light and lilting, and then her taunting smile settled on Daron and she said, “Yes, perhaps I’m lying. Perhaps Odurac still lives.”

  Sonja sneered; the woman obviously enjoyed tormenting her victims. Beside her, Urrim began grunting and coughing. Sonja placed a hand on his arm, cautioning and calming him.

  “Why do you lie?” Daron demanded, his fingers clenching at his sides. He moved forward, furious but uncertain, nervous yet menacing.

  Osylla shook her head and pouted briefly, then smiled again. Her green eyes sparkled as if with bright good humor. “Come inside, Daron. Your father is not dead. I lied—or, perhaps I lie now! Forgive my whims, and come inside.” She glanced at Sonja and Urrim. “These are friends of yours?”

  “Aye, good friends, witch.” His voice was firm and level now. “Can I trust you with them?”

  Again the laughter. “Oh, enter, enter!” she urged them, as if rebuking Daron’s doubt. “All of you—come in. I know your journey. Forget my little joke. Odurac lives, Daron. You are his son. There’s no denying it—those eyes and the chin…”

  The hut was as rude inside as out. A wooden table, a few chairs, candles here and there, a straw bed, some rough clothes—that was all, save for the cooking utensils at the fireplace in one wall. A few books and scrolls lay about, and in one corner loomed a large, iron-bound chest. It was a simple hermit’s abode.

  Or appeared to be. Sonja felt on edge, standing there with Daron and Urrim. Her eyes roamed about even while she listened to the witch’s talk, alert for any hint of sound or movement that might betray a trap.

  Urrim, too, was obviously uncomfortable; but whereas Sonja began walking slowly around the hut, glancing here and there and inspecting such mundane things as wooden spoons and writing brushes, the boy sat on the floor beside the table, drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them and watched keenly as Daron and Osylla conversed.

  “Your father is evil,” Osylla was saying to Daron. “Yes, he still lives, but he might as well be dead for all the worldly contact he has. So you see, I did not entirely lie. Odurac has set a formidable task for himself. The last I heard, he was trying to contact the Outer Things. From time to time I have opened my mirrors and tried to search out his spirit, but its energy is so well protected that even my devices cannot find him out—which is no doubt as he wishes it to be.”

  “Nevertheless, I must find him.”

  “You have some of his talent, I’m sure,” Osylla purred, smiling at the young man. “Don’t you, Daron?”

  “I must find him for reasons of my own,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.

  “Hmmm, yes,” Osylla continued, on her own track of thought. “That talent would come in handy for you, wouldn’t it?”

  “You must help me find him,” Daron said firmly. “Must I?”

  “You can be bought, I know. Or convinced. Or forced.”

  “By you?” Osylla asked him, no trace of humor in her now. “By this idiot-lad, and by a woman in man’s armor?”

  Sonja, standing behind the witch, looked up from a piece of symbol-covered fabric she had been inspecting. Osylla turned abruptly, feeling the intensity of the Hyrkanian’s gaze.

  “Red Sonja, was it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “An…interesting name.”

  “I’m an interesting person.”

  Osylla’s grin slowly faded. “So am I. So am I.”

  An image played through Sonja’s mind—the instantaneous flash of herself ripping free her sword, beheading Osylla and having done with this masquerade…But Osylla turned from her, returned her attention to Daron and Sonja was left tightly clenching the woolen fabric she held in her hand.

  “You must tell me, Daron, why it is so important that you find your father.” Osylla indicated her table. “Please, sit down. Will you have wine?”

  “None, thanks.”

  “Red Sonja?”

  Sonja dropped the cloth, eyeing Osylla evenly. “No.” But she came forward, crossing the hut and seating herself beside Daron, opposite Osylla. Urrim, perched beside the fireplace, watched intently, and seemed to listen with exceeding interest to the conversation.

  Osylla spread her hands upon the table, inspected her tapering fingers and long nails for a moment, then looked Daron directly in the eyes. “Tell me, then, why must you find your father?”

  Daron somehow knew that even though he might not be able to trust this woman entirely, he was forced to do so partially—trust her with his mission, with parts of his knowledge and wisdom. His sword seemed a very weak weapon at this moment, as did his pride and his sense of himself.

  So he told her briefly of the battle some days to the east beyond the swamp—of the villagers who for ten years had been warring with sorcerers housed in a ziggurat close against a mountainside. He told her of Thotas, the mysterious elder who was Master of the Order of the Crimson Sun, and his connection with the star fallen from the sky, and how the coming of that star had led to the entrenched battle between the villagers and sorcerers, causing hatred and death and ruination to spread upon the land. He mentioned his own wandering years and how, by chance, he and Red Sonja had become companions of the road—how, for want of food and coin, they had decided to join up with these warring villagers for a time—and how the villagers’ desperation had been the catalyst which had finally caused Daron to act on something about which he had vacillated for years: the ultimate search for his wizard-father.

  Sonja kept a keen eye on Osylla all during Daron’s narration, never once speaking or otherwise interrupting. She noted that Osylla’s features changed subtly as Daron spoke. The witch seemed to have dropped her irritating facade of malicious frivolity; she listened to Daron with complete attention and, it almost seemed, understanding. When Daron had finished and the last echo of his voice had died in the room, Osylla spoke in a low, whispering tone with a touch of dread and even fatalism in it.

  “Yes, of course! Of course you are tied in with the star! Why else should you feel compelled to find your father, were it not for this star which is driving all the land mad?”

  Sonja leaned forward. “What do you mean, witch?”

  Despite the Hyrkanian’s tone, Osylla took no offense but merely elaborated to Daron, “When the star fell a decade ago, many of us involved in the transmundane arts knew it for a sign. We sent forth spirits and attempted communications with it, to discover its reason for being here and its message. Yes, we knew that it had fallen into Thotas’s hands. One reason why Thotas and his Order have bothered little with these men who do them battle is that they have been fighting much sterner battles with others—sorcerers, wizards, witches—who by many means have sought to steal power from Thotas or learn the secret of his star. But more, the main energies of this star are being diverted by Thotas to some vast enterprise the nature of which we cannot determine. This thing from the heavens, whatever it is, whatever its purposes, has sent shock waves through all of us who are—sensitive—and is slowly draining life and sanity from all life in the region. Moreover, we adepts can feel when we dip into our probing forces what it is gradually doing to Thotas himself. He was a powerful and learned man, long dedicated to the dark path of power and knowledge, but possession of this thing is driving him utterly mad.”

  “We must destroy him,” Daron said earnestly, “and the star!”

  “Destroy Thotas?” Osylla laughed darkly. “Yes…certainly. Somehow. But the star? We know not even what it is, or whether humans can understand its nature.”

  Sonja interjected. “Must it have a nature we can understand?”

  Osylla’s eyes opened wide. She stared at Sonja and smiled grimly, then reflected?loud, “Ah, and I thought you only a she-cat with a sword. You have no gifts in you, heh? Do you know that for certain?”

  “What are you talking about?” Sonja asked irritably.

  Osylla’s grin vanished slowly. “Perhaps,” she said, “it’s just the she-cat in you, after all—putting its paw to the right place by chance.”

  Daron, however, was anxious and impatient. “I’ve told you why we’re here,” he reminded Osylla, “and I’ve deliberately sought you out because I felt you could help me find my father.”

  “Perhaps I can, Daron.”

  “Begin, then! Please, Osylla, set me upon a path, give me some clue, or—”

  The witch held up a hand. “It can be done. I have searched your father out before, though never have I dared to interfere with him. I am not one to idly search out means of supernatural suicide. To find him will take powerful magic.”

  “You’re powerful,” Daron reminded her. “And I am powerful.”

  “I believe that. Still, we must have a tool.”

  She said that, and the room fell quiet.

  After a hushed moment, Daron replied: “A tool.”

  “Aye…”

  Sonja began to feel edgy; they were losing her somewhere. Then she caught Osylla’s eyes moving, darting from Daron’s to Urrim’s, then back.

  “I…thought as much,” Daron said quietly.

  Sonja jumped to her feet. “Wait a minute,” she growled, her hand falling lightly to her sword. “What kind of tool?”

  Osylla and Daron both looked up at her, but neither spoke.

  Sonja noisily kicked back her chair, walked to Urrim and told him to stand up. Daron turned in his seat. “Sonja!”

  Ignoring him, she said to the boy, “Go outside and see about our horses, will you, Urrim?”

  He grunted, looking her in the eyes. “They hungry?”

  “They might be, Urrim.” She touched his hair. “Just check on them. I don’t quite trust our—horses—around here. All right?”

  He lowered his head, and murmured something. He shuffled towards the door, opened it, went out and pulled it closed behind him.

  Sonja turned in the dimly lit room and faced Osylla and Daron. “Now, once again,” she growled. “What ’tool’?”

  Daron looked away from her, wiping his hands. “Don’t be foolish, Sonja. The lad is no good to anyone, not even himself. This way—”

  “He’s alive!” Sonja spat out. “Were it you, Daron, smacked in the head by a bolt, would you want your soul damned by some witch’s magic for—?”

  “His soul will be safe, Red Sonja!” Osylla cried, rising, her face defiant.

  Sonja’s blue eyes narrowed, and she sneered. “Oh? And that army of damned souls out there in the swamp—is that your idea of safe souls, witch?”

  Osylla whitened. “Those are different. You don’t understand the order of things.”

  “Spare me, please! I understand enough. Daron, you—disgust me, bringing this innocent boy along for the purpose of damning his soul.”

  “His soul won’t be damned!” Daron insisted vehemently, pushing back his chair and standing up, his fists shaking at his sides. “He won’t be! He’ll be freed! He should have died in that battle, but he didn’t, and now I have no choice but to—”

  “You make me sick!”

  “An army can’t get at my father!” Daron yelled out. “Yet, one small life—and a deformed one at that, given up to the Greater Powers—”

  “I’ve slain men in battle,” Sonja reminded him coldly, “aye, and women too. And I’ve seen brutes of soldiers maim and slay children and babes in the slaughter of war, and that sickened me. And few who’ve drawn blade against me have lived to speak of it. I’ve seen a lot of death and sorcery, Daron, but I won’t stand by while you yoke this idiot-boy to some demon’s hell, just because Bo-ugan’s people are unable to scale a fortress.”

  “Bo-ugan has very little to do with this, Sonja.”

  “Aye. And now all else appears to mean little to the bastard son of a sorcerer claiming his birthright from some hell-damned spawn!”

  Daron kicked away his chair with a howl of anger. His hand flew to his sword, a heartbeat away from pulling it free.

  “Draw it, Daron!” Sonja screamed at him. “Draw it, son of a wizard, and no sorcery on earth will spare you from my blade!”

  But then he moved no more—found he could not. He looked into the Hyrkanian’s fiery blue eyes, and he remembered…remembered…and two parts of him were in utter warfare…He remembered, and he yet hoped—for two things…

  “I…I cannot,” he whispered bitterly, and tears came to his eyes. “I cannot draw sword against you, Sonja.”

  She looked at him and flushed. “Sorcerer’s son!”

  “Gods of Acheron!” Daron swore in anguish. “Look at it from where I stand, can’t you, Sonja? What if there were one last hope that your father was still alive—somewhere, out there—one hope? Would the price matter?”

  She stared at him, saw the tears in his eyes and swallowed thickly, feeling her own heart beating in her breast. His words had stung her to the quick. “Damn you,” she muttered sadly, almost to herself. “Damn you for a sorcerer’s son.”

  She glanced at Osylla, who had watched them in silence, then turned quickly on her heel, pulled open the door, went out and slammed it behind her.

  Daron smashed his fists down on the table, then gripped the edge and stood rigidly with feet planted on the floor. He trembled as he stood there, gritting his teeth and fighting back tears.

  “Webs of hell!” Osylla said quietly, wonderingly. “You love her, Daron. You love her, don’t you?”

  “Aye,” he grunted, holding back a sob. “Aye…I do.”.

  “Aye…And she loves you.”

  He stared at her, his eyes wet. Osylla met his gaze. “Does she? Ah, does she?” he whispered.

  Outside, Urrim was nowhere near the horses. Sonja spied him sitting at the edge of the clearing, beside a tree. It was twilight. All around them the dense swamp-forest was filling up with mist, and with the orange glow of sunset.

  Sonja walked slowly to Urrim, knowing what she felt but uncertain how to convey it—or whether she should. If Daron was trapped between vipers and flames, so was Sonja, and just as intensely.

 

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