The Magic Sequence Volume One: Steel Magic, Octagon Magic, and Fur Magic

The Magic Sequence Volume One

Steel Magic, Octagon Magic, and Fur Magic

Andre Norton

CONTENTS

STEEL MAGIC

The Lake and the Castle

Beyond the Wall

Cold Iron

Merlin’s Mirror

Mountain Road

Sea Road

Woods Road

The Sword

The Horn

The Ring

The Fox Gate

OCTAGON MAGIC

Witch’s House

The Bad Week and Old Miss Ashemeade

Ride a White Horse

Phineas and Phebe

A Collar for Sabina

Octagon House Keeps Christmas

Chole and Nackie

Storm Clouds

Charles

One Golden Needle

FUR MAGIC

Wild Country

Strong Medicine

War Party Captive

Broken Claw

Bearers of the Pipe

Eagles’ Bargain

Raven’s Sing

A Forest of Stone

A Shaping of Shapes

The Changer Challenged

Preview: Dragon Magic

About the Author

Steel Magic

For Stephen, Greg, Eric, Peter,

Donald, Alexander, and Jeffrey.

And for Kristen and Deborah,

who love stories of fairy worlds.

Contents

THE LAKE AND THE CASTLE

BEYOND THE WALL

COLD IRON

MERLIN’S MIRROR

MOUNTAIN ROAD

SEA ROAD

WOODS ROAD

THE SWORD

THE HORN

THE RING

THE FOX GATE

The Lake and the Castle

The adventure began with the picnic basket that Sara Lowry won at the Firemen’s Strawberry Festival at Ternsport Village. Because it was the first time any of the junior Lowrys had ever won anything, they could hardly believe it when Chief Loomis called out the number of the ticket Sara had knotted into one corner of her handkerchief. Both Greg and Eric had to hustle her up to the platform where Chief Loomis waited beside the loud-speaker.

The basket was super, the boys agreed as soon as they had a chance to examine it. Inside the lid, fastened in a piece of webbing, were forks, spoons, and knives of stainless steel, and there was a set of four cups—blue, yellow, green, and fire-engine red—with matching plastic plates. Sara was still so surprised at her luck that she would not have been astonished if the basket had vanished completely before she carried it back to Uncle Mac’s station wagon.

When Uncle Mac slowed down for the sharp turn into the Tern Manor private road, Sara clutched the basket handles tighter. Greg’s sharp elbow dug into her ribs, but she did not try to wriggle away. This place was spooky at night, and she did not wonder that Greg moved back from the window when ragged branches reached out as if they were trying to drag the car off the narrow road into all those shadows. At night you had to keep thinking about how this was still New York State, with the Hudson River only two hills and three fields away—and not a scary country out of a fairy tale.

Now they were passing the dark place where the big house had once stood. Twenty years ago it had burned down, long before Uncle Mac had bought the old carriage house and the ground with the gardens for what he called his hideaway. Uncle Mac wrote books and wanted peace and quiet when he was working—lots of it. But the old cellar holes still marked where the house had stood, and the Lowrys had been strictly warned not to explore there. Since Uncle Mac was perfectly reasonable about letting them go everywhere else through the overgrown gardens and the little piece of woodland, the Lowrys were content.

They drove into the old stable yard. When the big house had been built fifty years ago, there had been horses here, and people had actually ridden in the funny carriage the children had found crowded into part of an old barn. But now the station wagon occupied the main part of the barn and there were no horses.

Mrs. Steiner, the housekeeper, was waiting on the doorstep of the carriage house and she waved an air mail—special delivery letter at Uncle Mac the minute he got out of the car. She was also wearing one of her own special past-your-bedtime-and-hurry-in-before-I-miss-my-favorite-TV-program, looks for the Lowrys. Mrs. Steiner spoke with authority, whereas Uncle Mac, especially while writing, would sometimes absentmindedly agree to interesting changes of rules and regulations. Uncle Mac was not used to children. Mrs. Steiner was, and an opponent to be respected in any tug of wills.

On the whole the Lowry children had been looking forward to a good summer. In spite of Mrs. Steiner there were advantages to staying at Tern Manor. Since Dad had been ordered to Japan on special service and had taken Mother with him for two months, Uncle Mac’s was far better than just second best.

When one was used to towns and not the country, though, what was left of the old estate could be frightening at times. Greg had gone to scout camp, and Eric had taken overnight hikes in the state park when Dad was stationed at the big air base in Colorado. But this was Sara’s first visit to a piece of the outdoors that had been allowed to run wild, just as it pleased. She was still afraid of so many big, shaggy bushes and tall trees, and managed to have one of the boys with her whenever she went too far from the stable yard or the road.

Mrs. Steiner spoke darkly of snakes, but they did not frighten Sara. Pictures of snakes in library books were interesting, and to watch one going about its business might be fun. But poison ivy and those nasty bugs, which Mrs. Steiner also mentioned at length, were another matter. Sara did not like to think about bugs, especially the kind that had a large number of legs and might investigate humans. Spiders were far more unpleasant than snakes, she had long ago decided. She was really afraid of them, though she knew that was silly. But to see one scurrying along on all those legs—ugh! As they climbed the stairs to the small bedrooms in the top story of the carriage house, Eric joggled the basket Sara still carried.

Let’s fill this up tomorrow and really go exploring—for the whole day!

Might be a good time to hunt for the lake, Greg agreed. We’ll ask Uncle Mac at breakfast—after he’s had his third cup of coffee.

Mrs. Steiner say there’s liable to be snakes there, Sara offered. Please, she added to herself, just no big spiders, little ones were bad enough. Greg snorted and Eric stamped hard on the next step. Mrs. Steiner sees snakes everywhere, when she isn’t seeing something else as bad. Water snakes, maybe, and I’d like to get me one of those for a pet. Anyway, we’ve wanted to find the lake ever since Uncle Mac told us there was one.

This was perfectly true. The legend of the lost lake as Uncle Mac had told it was enough to excite all three Lowrys. The gardens were now a matted jungle, but they had been planned to encircle an ornamental lake. Mr. Brosius had bought the land more than fifty years ago, throwing three riverside farms together and spending a great deal of time and money developing the estate. He was a legend, too, was Mr. Brosius, a stranger with a long beard, who had paid for all the costs of the manor’s building in gold coins. Then he had gone and the house had burned.

Nobody had been quite sure who really owned the manor, and finally it had been sold for taxes. Farmers had bought the fields, and the part with the gardens had gone to a real-estate man who finally sold it to Uncle Mac. And Uncle Mac had never cared enough to plow through all the brambles and brush to see if there was a lake any more. In fact he said he was sure it must have dried up a long time ago.

Sara wondered if that was true. She paused in her undressing to open the picnic basket and gloat over its contents just once more. What if Uncle Mac had not taken them to the festival tonight, or if she had not had her allowance in her purse and could not have bought that dime ticket? Maybe if she had not won the basket the boys would not have included her in the lake hunt. This was going to be a fine summer!

After she had turned off the light, she sat up in bed. This was the first night she had not stood by the window listening to all the queer little sounds which were a part of the night outside. It was so easy to believe that there were things out there which were never to be sighted by day, things as lost as the lake and maybe even stranger.…

But tonight she thought instead of packing the picnic basket. And with plans of peanut-butter sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, cookies and Cokes, Sara lay back at last to pull up sheet and quilt.

Their plan went well the next morning. Uncle Mac’s letter had summoned him to New York City, and Mrs. Steiner drowned out the crackles and pops of rapidly disappearing breakfast food with the statement that she would give the house a really good cleaning.

When Sara produced the basket and asked for the raw materials of picnicking she met no opposition at all. Mrs. Steiner even made up a Thermos of frozen lemonade. Luck was on their side and it was the perfect day to go lake hunting.

Greg used a compass and led the way in what he claimed was the proper direction to reach the center of the wild gardens, but as they went the basket began to prove a nuisance. When it was necessary for the explorers to wriggle on all fours through thickets, it had to be bumped and pushed along in a way which Sara was sure mixed its contents more than was desirable. And she stoutly protested the frequent suggestions that she alone carry it, since it belonged to her anyway.

They were wrangling loudly on this point when they came, quite unexpectedly, to the top of a flight of crumbling, moss-greened stairs and saw the lake below—but not only the lake!

It’s Camelot! Eric cried first. Remember the picture in the Prince Valiant book? It’s Camelot—King Arthur’s castle!

Sara, who had different reading tastes, dropped down on the top step and rubbed a brier-scratched hand back and forth across her knee. Her eyes were round with happy wonder as she half whispered, Oz!

Greg said nothing at all. It was real, it must be. And it was the most wonderful find the Lowrys had ever made. But what was it doing here and why hadn’t Uncle Mac ever told them about it when he spoke of the lost lake? Who had built it and why—because real castles, even if very small ones, didn’t just grow on islands in the middle of lakes these days!

Part of Uncle Mac’s prophecy that the lake might be dried or drying was true. Shore marks showed it had shrunk a lot, and a stretch of sand and gravel made a bridge between the island and the shore. As he studied the building, Greg could see the castle was a ruin. Part of one tower had fallen to choke the small courtyard. But maybe they could put the stones back and rebuild it.

Excited as they all were, they descended the steps slowly. Eric looked at the murky water—it might be deeper than it looked. He hoped no one would suggest swimming, because then he might just have to try and he didn’t want to, not in this lake—or, to be honest, not anywhere. He pointed into the water as he caught sight of something else. There’s a boat sunk there. Maybe they had to use that once to get to the island.

Who built it? Sara wondered. There never were any knights in America. People had stopped living in castles before the Pilgrims came.

Greg teetered from heels to toes and back again. Must have been Mr. Brosius. Maybe he came from a place where they still had castles, and wanted a little one to make him feel at home. But it’s funny Uncle Mac didn’t say anything about a castle here. You’d think people would remember that if they remembered the lake.

Sara picked up the basket. Anyway we can walk right out to it now. It seemed almost as if this really were Oz and she were Dorothy approaching the Emerald City!

We sure can! Eric jumped a short space of green-scummed water, giving himself a good margin for landing on the shelf of gravel. He kicked a stone into the lake, watched the ripples lap back. Water could never be trusted, there was nothing safe or solid about it. He was very glad they had that sand-and-gravel path. This lake was unpleasantly full of shadows—shadows which might hide almost anything.

Although the castle was a miniature, it had not been built for a garrison of toy soldiers. Even Uncle Mac, tall as he was, could have passed through the front gateway without having to stoop. But when they got beyond the pile of stones fallen from the tower, they faced a blank wall. Greg was surprised—from his survey taken from the stairs he had thought it much larger.

What a fake! Eric exploded. I thought it was a real castle. It sure looked bigger from the shore.

We can pretend it is. Sara refused to be disappointed. Even half a castle was much better than none. If we pull all these blocks out of the way it will seem larger.

Eric kicked, sand and gravel spurting from the toe of his shoe. Maybe.

Clearing out all those stones seemed to him a job about equal to running the lawn mower completely around the piece of garden Uncle Mac was trying to retame.

Greg moved slowly along the walls, studying the way the stones had been put together. Had the castle just been built to look pretty—something like the summer-house, which was not too far from the stable yard but which they could not play in because of the rotted floor?

The part of the wall directly facing the entrance was largely concealed by a creeper that had forced its way through a crack to stretch a curtain over the stone. But when he parted those leaves in one place, he made a new discovery which suggested that his first impression of the castle’s size might not have been wrong after all.

Hey! Here’s another doorway, but somebody filled it up!

Sara’s hands gripped the handles of the picnic basket so tightly that the wood cut into her palms. Maybe— she wet her lips —maybe that’s where he went—

Who went? Eric demanded.

Mr. Brosius—when he disappeared and they never found him at all—

Greg laughed. That’s silly! You know what Uncle Mac said, Mr. Brosius was drowned in the river, they found his boat floating.

But they didn’t find him, Sara said stubbornly.

No, but it was his boat and he went out in it a lot. And the river’s bad along there. Greg piled up the evidence. Remember how Mrs. Steiner harped about its being dangerous, even on the first night we came, and Uncle Mac made us promise not to go there at all?

Eric came to Greg’s support. Sure, that was the story and Mrs. Steiner had been quick to tell it to them, one of her awful warnings. Uncle Mac had even driven them down to the water and pointed out where the current was so strong and tricky. Eric shook his head to spill the picture of that rolling water out of his mind.

Last summer, and the summer before, he had had swimming lessons. And, well, it had been easy to go in with Dad, or with Slim, the instructor at the beach. But even so he didn’t like or really trust a lot of water. He never had.

Maybe Greg felt the same way when he sometimes got all stiff and quiet in the dark. There was that time when they broke the flashlight going downstairs to fix a burned-out fuse and Dad had finally come down to see what was keeping them. Greg hadn’t moved from the last step of the stairs at all. Well, now it wasn’t dark, and they didn’t have to get into the dirty old lake, so why think about things like that?

Greg was tearing away a big handful of creeper, leaving the wall bare but speckled with little patches of suckers from the vine. Whoever had sealed up that doorway long ago had been in a big hurry or careless. Because at the very top one of the filling stones was missing, leaving a dark hole.

Greg scrambled up a tottery ladder of fallen rubble and thrust his hand into the hole, which was still well above eye level.

There’s a lot of space beyond, he reported eagerly. Maybe another room.

Do you suppose we could pull out the rest of the stones? Sara asked. But she was not too happy. She had not liked seeing Greg’s hand disappear that way, it made her feel shivery—but excited too.

Greg was already at work, ripping free more of the creeper. Now he picked at some more of the blocks.

Got to have something to pry this mortar loose.

None of them wanted to make the long trip back to the house for a tool. It was Eric who demanded that Sara hand over one of the forks from the picnic basket.

They’re made of stainless steel, aren’t they? Well, steel’s awfully tough. And anyway there’re only three of us and four of them. Won’t matter if we break one.

Sara protested hotly, but she did want to see what lay behind the wall and finally she handed over a fork. The boys took turns picking out crumbling mortar and, as the fork did the job very easily, they were able to pass the loose stones to their sister to stack to one side. Midges buzzed about, and some very hungry mosquitoes decided it was lunch time. Spiders, large, hairy, and completely horrible, ran from disturbed homes in the creeper and made Sara a little sick as they scuttled madly by.

At last Greg pulled up to look through the irregular window they had cleared.

What’s inside? Sara jerked at Greg’s dangling shirt tail and Eric clamored to be allowed to take his place.

There was an odd expression on Greg’s tanned face.

Answer a person, can’t you? What’s there?

I don’t know—

Let me see! Eric applied an elbow to good purpose and took his brother’s place.

Why, it’s all gray! he cried out a moment later. Maybe just a sealed-up room without any windows—the kind to keep treasure in. Maybe this is where Mr. Brosius kept all his gold.

The thought of possible treasure banished some of Sara’s doubts. It also spurred the boys on to harder efforts and they soon had a larger space cleared so Sara could see in too.

It was gray in there, as if the space on the other side of the wall were full of fog. She did not like it, but if it was a treasure place … Mr. Brosius had always spent gold in the village. That story was true; people still talked about it a lot.

I’m the oldest. Greg broke the silence with an assertion that had led them into—and sometimes out of—trouble many times in the past. I’ll go first.

He climbed over the few remaining stones and was gone. It seemed to Sara that the gray stuff inside had wrapped right around him.

Greg! she cried, but Eric was already pushing past her.

Here goes! As usual he refused to admit that a year’s difference in age meant any difference in daring, strength, or the ability to take care of oneself under difficulties. He also vanished.

Sara gulped, and backed away a step or two from that grayness. Her foot stuck against the picnic basket and she caught at the double handles, lifted it over the barrier, and scrambled after, determined not to lose the boys.

Beyond the Wall

It was like walking into the heart of a cloud, though the gray stuff about Sara was neither cold nor wet. But to be unable to see her feet or her hands, or anything but the whirling mist, made her dizzy. She shut her eyes as she stumbled forward.

Greg! Eric! She had meant to shout at the top of her voice, but the names sounded like weak whispers. She choked, shivered, and began to run, the basket bumping awkwardly against her legs.

There was a bird singing somewhere and the ground underfoot felt different. Sara slowed down, then stood still and opened her eyes.

The fog was gone. But where was she? Surely not inside a room of the small castle. Timidly she reached out to touch a tree trunk and found it to be real. Then she looked back for the wall and the door. Trees, just more trees, all huge and old with thick mats of dead leaves brown and soft under them. And sunshine coming through in ragged patches.

Eric! Greg! Sara was screaming and she did not care. Now her voice sounded properly loud once more.

Something stepped into the open from behind a tree trunk. Sara’s mouth was open for another shout. A red-brown, black, and white animal with a plumed tail and a thin, pointed nose sat down to look at her with interest. Sara stared back. Her fright was fading fast, and she was sure that the animal was laughing at her. Now she knew it was a fox. Only, she was puzzled. Were foxes always so big? The ones she had seen in the zoo were much, much smaller. This one was as large as the Great Dane that had lived two houses away on the post in Colorado. He was very like, she decided, the picture of Rollicum-Bitem in Midnight Folk, a favorite fictional person of hers.

Hello, she ventured.

The fox’s mouth opened and his pointy tongue showed a little. Then he snapped at an impudent fly. Sara put down the basket. Would he like a peanut butter sandwich? There were the cold ham ones, but only three of them. Before she could move, the fox stood up and with a flick of his plumed tail was gone.

Sara! Where are you, Sara?

Greg dodged in and out among the trees. When he caught sight of her he waved impatiently. Come on. We’ve found a river!

Sara sighed as she picked up the basket again. She was sure that the fox wouldn’t come back, not with Greg yelling that way. Then she began to wonder about the river. What was a river doing on a small island? When they had seen that dab of land from the top of the stairs, there had not been any big trees or river.

As she caught up with Greg she asked, Where are we, Greg? How did all these trees and a river get on a small island?

He looked puzzled too. I don’t know. I don’t think we’re on the island any more, Sara. He took the basket from her and clasped her arm above the elbow with his other hand. Come on. You’ll see what I mean when you get there.

They trotted in and out among the trees, which then grew farther and farther apart, and there was a lot of green-gold sunlight in the open spaces with grass and little plants.

Butterflies! I’ve never seen so many butterflies! Sara dragged back against her brother’s pull. What she had first thought were flowers rose on brilliant wings to fly away.

Yes. Greg walked more slowly. A lot of birds here, too. You ought to see them down by the river. There was a heron fishing and we watched him catch a frog. He made a stabbing motion with two fingers held tightly together. He used his bill just like that. This is a grand place.

They walked down a gentle slope to where a bar of gravel ran out into a shallow stream. Eric sprawled there, grabbing beneath the surface of the water. He sat up, his face red with his efforts, as they joined him.

Fish, he explained. All over the place. Just look at them!

Shoals of minnows were thick along the edges of the bar, while water bugs skated on the surface and a dragonfly spun back and forth.

I saw a fox in the woods, Sara reported. He sat and looked at me and wasn’t afraid at all. But where are we?

Eric rolled over on his back, looking up into the blue of the cloudless sky, still dabbing one hand in the river.

I don’t care. This is a keen place, better than any old park—or any old scout camp either, he added for Greg’s benefit. And now I’m hungry. Let’s see what’s in that basket we’ve been hauling around all morning.

They moved into the shade of a stand of willows where the slightest breeze set the narrow leaves to fluttering. Sara unpacked the basket. It was Greg who pointed out that she was counting wrong.

Hey—there’s only three of us. Why put out everything for four?

Yes, she had put out all four of the plastic plates, set a cup beside each, and had been dividing up the sandwiches. Greg had the red plate, Eric the yellow, the blue was for her. Why had she set out the green one also? Yet for some reason she was sure that it would be needed. We may have a guest, she said.

What do you mean? There’s no one here but us. Eric laughed at her.

Sara sat back on her heels. All right, Mr. Smarty, she snapped. Suppose you tell me where we really are, if you know so much! This is no little island in the lake, you can’t make me believe that! How do you know there’s no one else here?

Eric stopped laughing. He looked uncertainly from his sister to Greg. Then all three of them glanced back at the shadowy wood through which they had come. Greg drew a deep breath and Sara spoke again:

And how are we going to get back? Has either of you big smart boys thought of that? She reached for the basket as if touching that would link her with the real world again.

Greg frowned at the river. We can get back to where we came from, he said. I blazed trees between here and there with my scout knife. Sara was surprised and then proud of him. Greg had been clever to think of that. And, knowing that they had that tie with the castle wall and its door, she felt more at ease. But now she gathered up a sandwich from each plate and returned them to the basket. If Greg could think ahead, so could she.

Hey! Eric’s protest was quick and sharp. Why are you putting those away? I’m hungry!

You might be hungrier, she countered, if we don’t get back in time for supper.

Greg was unscrewing the top of the Thermos when he suddenly got to his feet, looking at a point behind Sara. The expression on his face made Sara turn and stopped Eric in mid-chew.

As silently as the fox had appeared back in the forest, so now did another being come into view. And, while Sara had accepted the fox as a proper native of the woods, none of the Lowrys had ever seen a man quite like this one.

He was young, Sara thought, but a lot older than Greg. And he had a nice face, even a handsome one, though it wore a tired, sad look. His brown hair, which had red lights in it under the sun’s touch, was long, the side locks almost touching his shoulders, the front part cut off in thick straight bangs above his black eyebrows.

Then his clothes! He had on tight-fitting boots of soft brown leather with pointed toes, and he wore what looked like long stockings—tights, maybe—also brown. Over his shirt he had a sleeveless garment of the same green as the tree leaves, with a design embroidered in gold on the breast; it was drawn in tightly at the waist by a wide belt from which hung a sheathed dagger and a purse. In his hand was a long bow with which he was holding back the willow branches while he looked at the Lowrys in an astonishment that matched their own.

Sara got to her feet, brushing twigs and dust from her jeans.

Please, sir— she added the sir because somehow it seemed right and proper, just as if the stranger were the colonel back at the post —will you have some lunch?

The young man still looked bewildered. But the faint frown he had first worn was gone.

Lunch? He echoed the word inquiringly, giving the word a different accent.

Eric gulped down what was in his mouth and waved at the plates. Food!

Yes, Sara stooped for the green plate and held it out in invitation. Do open the lemonade, Greg, before Eric chokes to death. For that last bite appeared to have taken the wrong way down Eric’s throat and he was coughing.

Suddenly the young man laughed and came forward. He leaned down to strike Eric between his shaking shoulders. The boy whooped and then swallowed, his eyes watering. Greg splashed lemonade into a cup and thrust it toward his brother.

Greedy! he accused. Next time don’t try to get half a sandwich in one bite. He squatted down to fill the other three cups and pushed the green one toward the stranger.

Their guest took the cup, turning it around in his fingers as though he found the plastic substance strange. Then he sipped at the contents.

A strange wine, he commented. It cools the throat well, but it seems to be squeezed of grapes grown in snow.

It isn’t wine, sir, Sara hastened to explain. Just lemonade—the frozen kind. These are peanut butter, she pointed to the sandwiches. And that one is ham. Then there’re hardboiled eggs and pickles and some cookies—Mrs. Steiner does make good cookies.

The young man regarded all the food on his plate in a puzzled manner and finally picked up the egg.

Salt— Greg pushed the shaker across.

Eric had stopped coughing, though he was still red in the face. Somehow he found breath enough to ask a question.

Do you live around here, sir?

Live here? No, not this nigh to the boundary. You are not of this land?

We came through a gate in a wall, Greg explained. There was a castle—

A little castle on an island, Sara broke in. And in the wall was this gate, all filled up with stones. The boys pulled those out so we could get through.

He was giving her the same searching attention he had given the food. The boys? he repeated wonderingly, but are you not all three boys?

Sara looked from her brothers to herself. Their jeans did all look alike, so did their shirts. But her hair—no, her hair wasn’t even as long as the young man’s.

I’m Sara Lowry, and I’m a girl, she stated a bit primly, for the first time in her life annoyed at being considered one with Greg and Eric, a mistake she had hitherto always rather enjoyed. That’s my older brother, Greg. She pointed with a total lack of good manners. And this is Eric.

The young man put his hand to his breast and bowed. It was a graceful gesture and did not in the least make Sara feel queer or foolish, but rather as if she were important and grown-up.

And I am Huon, Warden of the West. His forefinger traced the design pictured in gold thread on his green surcoat. Sara saw the scales of a coiled dragon with menacing foreclaws and wide-open jaws. The Green Dragon—as Arthur is the Red Dragon of the East.

Greg laid down the sandwich he had been about to unwrap. He stared very hard at Huon and there was a stubborn line to his lips—the way he looked when he thought someone was trying to make fun of him.

"You mean Arthur Pendragon. But that’s a story—a fairy tale!

Arthur Pendragon, the young man nodded encouragingly. So you have heard of the Red Dragon, then? But not the green one?

Huon—there was Huon of the Horn. To Sara’s vast surprise Eric said that. And I suppose Roland’s back in there? He pointed to the wood.

But now the young man shook his head and his smile vanished.

"No. Roland fell at Roncesvalles long before my ward-ship here began. I wish we did have his like to back us now. But you have named me rightly, young sir. Once I was Huon of the Horn. Now I am Huon without the Horn, which is a bad thing. But still I am Warden of the West and so must inquire of you your business here. This gate through which you came—I do not understand, he added as if to himself. There has been no summoning on our part. That portal was made and then sealed when Ambrosius returned to us with the knowledge that our worlds had moved too far away in space and time for men to answer our calling. Yet you have come— Now he was frowning again. Can it be that here also the enemy meddles?"

I wish somebody would explain, Sara said in a small voice. More than ever she wanted to know where they were. It seemed that the young man understood, for now he spoke directly to her:

This land—his hand made a wide sweep—once had four gates. That of the Bear in the north has long been lost to us, for the enemy has occupied the land where it exists for a wealth of years. That of the Lion in the south we have closed with a powerful spell so that it is safe. That of the Boar, which lay in the east, has been forgotten so long that even Merlin Ambrosius cannot tell us where it was—or may still be. And that of the Fox here in the west. Some years ago Merlin reopened that, only to discover that there was no longer any way he could touch men’s minds. Then did our fears grow— Huon paused and sat looking down into his cup, not as if he saw the lemonade there, but other things, and unpleasant ones. And the door was sealed—until you opened it. He fell silent.

I saw a fox there, Sara did not quite know why she said that.

Huon smiled at her. Yes, Rufus is a good sentinel. He marked your coming and summoned me. The creatures of the wood aid us gladly, since our lives move along the same paths.

But what is this country and who are the enemy? Greg asked impatiently.

The country has many names in your world—Avalon, Awanan, Atlantis—almost as many names as there were men to name it. Have you never heard of it before? Surely you must if you know also the tale of Arthur Pendragon! He inclined his head courteously to Greg. And of me, Huon, once of the Horn. For this is the land to which both Arthur and I were summoned. Or is that now forgot in the world of men? He ended a little sadly.

Arthur Pendragon—that was King Arthur of the Round Table, Sara now remembered. But Huon—she did not know his story and wished she could ask Eric about him.

Greg was scowling not at Huon but at the ground between his feet where he was digging holes with one of the spoons from the basket.

It’s completely cockeyed, he muttered. King Arthur is just a legend. The real Arthur, he was a British Roman who fought the Saxons. He never had a Round Table or any knights! Mr. Legard told us all about him in history last term. The rest of it—the Round Table and the knights—that was all made up in the Middle Ages, stories they told at feasts—like TV.

Huon shook his head. Story or not in your world, young sir, you are now truly in Avalon this day. Just as I am eating your food and drinking this strange but refreshing wine of yours. And Rufus passed you through the Gate of the Fox without challenge. Thus it is meant that you should come here.

Cold Iron

That you have come through our gate without hurt or challenge, Huon continued, means that you have not been sent or called by them. He held up his hand in a swift sign the children did not understand.

Them? Sara asked before biting into her sandwich. This talk about a gate was reassuring because they could go back the same way they had come through.

The enemy, Huon replied, "are those powers of darkness who war against all that is good and fair and right. Wizards of the Black, witches, warlocks, werewolves ghouls, ogres—the enemy has as many names as faces as Avalon itself—many bodies and disguises, some fair but mainly foul. They are shadows of the darkness who have long sought to overwhelm Avalon and then win to victory in other worlds, yours among them. Think of what you fear and hate the most, and that will be a part of the enemy and the Dark Powers.

We lie in danger here, for by spells and treachery three talismans have been lost to us: Excalibur, Merlin’s ring, and the horn—all within three days’ time. And if we go into battle without them—ah, ah— Huon shook his head —we shall be as men fighting with weighty chains loaded upon arms and limbs. Then abruptly he asked a question: Do you have the privilege of cold iron?

As they stared at him in bewilderment, he pointed to one of the basket knives. Of what metal is this wrought?

Stainless steel, Greg replied. But what has that got to do with—?

Stainless steel, Huon interrupted. But you have no iron—cold iron—forged by a mortal in the world of mortals? Or do you have the need for silver also?

We do have some silver, Sara volunteered. She brought out from the breast pocket of her shirt the knotted handkerchief which held the rest of the week’s allowance, a dime and a quarter.

What’s all this about iron and silver? Eric wanted to know.

This. Huon drew the dagger from his belt sheath. In the shade of the willows the blade shone as brightly as if he held it in the direct sunlight. And when he turned it the metal gave off flashes of fire, as a burning log might spit sparks. This is dwarf-forged silver—not cold iron. For one who is of Avalon may not hold an iron blade within his hand lest he be burnt flesh and bone.

Greg held up the spoon with which he had been digging. "Steel is iron, but I’m not burned."

Ah, Huon smiled, but you are not truly of Avalon. As I am not, as Arthur is not. Once I swung a sword of iron, went battle clad in iron mail. But here in Avalon I laid aside such gear lest it do sad hurt to those who follow me. So I bear a dwarf-made silver blade and wear silver armor, as does Arthur. To the elf kind, cold iron is a breaker of good spells, a poison giving deep, unhealing hurts. In all of Avalon, there were once only two pieces of true iron. And now those have been taken from us—perhaps to our undoing. He twirled the flickering dagger between his fingers so that sparks dazzled their eyes.

What are the two pieces of iron you lost? Sara wanted to know.

You have heard of the sword Excalibur?

Arthur’s sword—the one he pulled from the rock, supplied Greg and then saw that Huon was gently laughing at him.

But Arthur is only a story, have you not said so? Yet it seems to me that you know much of that story.

Sure, Eric said impatiently, everybody knows about King Arthur and his sword. Gee, I read about that when I was just a little kid. But that doesn’t make it true, he ended a little belligerently.

And Excalibur was one of the things you lost?

Sara persisted.

Not lost. As I said, it was stolen through a spell and hidden by another which Merlin cannot break. Excalibur has vanished, and Merlin’s ring—that was also a thing of iron and of great power—for its wearer may command beast and bird, tree and earth. The sword, the ring, and the horn—

Was that iron, too?

No. But it is a thing of sorcery, given to me by the elf king Oberon, once high lord in this land. It can both aid and destroy. Once it nearly destroyed me, many times it came to my aid. But now I am without the Horn, and much of my power has departed—which may be an ill, ill thing for Avalon!

Who stole them? Eric asked.

"The enemy, who else? They gather all their strength now to come down upon us and with their witchery nibble away at all our safeguards. It was laid upon Avalon at the Dawn of All that this land was to stand as a wall between the dark and your own mortal world. When we drive back the dark and hold it firmly in check, then peace reigns in your world. But let the dark surge forward here, winning victories, then in turn you know troubles, wars, evil.

Avalon and your world are mirrors for each other in some fashion even beyond the understanding of Merlin Ambrosius, who knows the heart of Avalon and is the greatest one ever to be born of mortal woman and elf king. What chances with us must follow with you. And now the dark rises high. First it seeped in silently, an almost unmarked flood, now they dare to challenge us to open combat. But with our talisman gone what man—or wizard—can foresee what will chance with Avalon and her sister world?

And why did you want to know if we could handle iron? asked Greg.

For a moment Huon hesitated, while his gaze went from the boys to Sara. Then he drew a deep breath as if he were about to dive into a pool.

When one comes through the gates, it is because he has been summoned and some destiny awaits him here. Only a very great magic can reopen the way for him to go forth from Avalon again. And cold iron is your magic, just as we have other sorcery for ours.

Eric jumped to his feet. I don’t believe it. It’s all a made-up story and we’re going right back where we came from. Come on, Greg—Sara—let’s go!

Greg rose slowly, Sara did not move at all. Eric pulled at his brother’s arm. You blazed the trail from the gate, didn’t you? he shouted. Show me where. Come on, Sara!

She was repacking the basket. All right. You go on.

Eric turned and ran. Sara looked straight into Huon’s brown eyes. The gate is really closed, isn’t it? she asked. We can’t go away again until your magic lets us, can we? She did not know how she knew that, but Sara was sure she spoke the truth.

I have naught to do with it. Huon sounded sad. "Though I have powers of a sort, none of them controls the gates. I believe that not even Merlin can open them for you—if you have been summoned—only when you make your choice—"

Greg moved closer. What choice? You mean we have to stay here until we do something? What? Maybe get back Excalibur, or that ring, or the horn?

Huon shrugged. It is not for me to say. Only in Caer Siddi, the Castle Foursquare, may we learn the truth.

Is that a long way from here? Sara wanted to know.

If one goes afoot, perhaps. For the Horse of the Hills it is no journey at all.

Huon stepped from the shade of the willows into the open sun of the river bank. He put his fingers to his mouth and blew a shrill whistle.

He was answered from the sky overhead. Sara watched with round eyes and Greg cried out. There was a splash, as water washed about hoofs, and the flapping of huge wings. Two black horses stood in the shallow river, the