Moon Called (10 page)

Thora had found the drums and there were indeed two of them. One towered so high that he who played it must stand and lift his hands well above waist level to bring the polished bones which were his sticks down upon its painted surface. The second drummer squatted on his heels, because his instrument was a wide bowl, and the ragged edges of the skin drawn tightly across it were ringed with gleaming teeth.

Both drummers were entirely naked, their skin bleached as white as if they were growing things which had fought for life in a place where no sun ever shone. The hair on their painfully lean bodies was straggly and also near-white, caked with filth, which also smeared and stained their skins. Their eyes were turned a little upward and had no pupils,
but were yellowish balls—they must be blind. While their heads and bodies swayed as they kept at the broken rhythm which made their drums seem to talk to one another—or to something which was not of human kind.

Before the drums lay a prisoner. There Thora saw the flash of light which had guided her. She dropped her probe, realizing that such could reveal her presence to her own peril. Stretched on the pavement lay a man also bare of body. His chest arched with every breath, as if he fought for air, while around him were filaments of black cords which had their birth in the drums—curling up, weaving about his flesh. These grew ever darker and thicker, though sometimes they slipped when on that laboring breast the flare would brighten—fighting their power.

This captive was not pale of skin like the drummers. Sun had touched him to a deeper brown, and his hair was a shining cap. Thora knew him for one of the valley men.

Yes, he was still fighting with all the strength he could summon, against what they would do with him. As if a finger touched Thora’s mind, opening thus a door she had not known existed, she understood what they would do and what he fought against. The talking drums—if they wove well their spell—would encase him wholly, even as certain insects wove coccoons about their own bodies—then issue forth in time quite changed
in form for the rest of their lives. So he would come out of the drum weaving different—different and utterly vile!

The drummers were tireless, the prisoner had been drawn nearly to the end of his supply of strength, using to the full every defense he knew. There would come a time very soon when the last flicker of that power would die and he would lie full within the net—to become a thing which could be turned against those of his own blood.

Thora had been summoned to this battle—but not as a spectator. About her the field of protective force she held so desperately quivered. How long she might keep that intact the girl dared not even guess. What was demanded of her? She strove to free herself of the compulsion which held her. This was no war of hers—

Only, even as that denial crossed her consciousness, she knew shame. Different powers might they own, this helpless man and she, but there was a single goal—when evil roved abroad both of them held to the path of Light.

Slowly, because she was so aware of the danger of what she did, Thora fumbled to fashion a weapon which was the only one she could use here. She held to the force of her mind the image of her throwing spear—its point blazing with silver fire—that of the Lady—cold flame—the more deadly.

There was no throwing stick to hurl it, she
could put no force of arm in what she would do—only her own will and determination. Thora poised her thought—hurled it with all her strength, though her web of protection withered and was like a tattered cloak, no good against what gathered here.

She forced herself to think of nothing but the spear—the silver point. Down she sent that, straight at the taut skin of the taller drum. She could not see any weapon, she could only believe it existed. There was a flash of light before the blind drummer. The tight skin burst, became shriveled rags. He was thrown back as the drum overturned, rolling to one side, to strike full upon the shoulder of the seated drummer, knocking him in turn face down upon his own instrument.

The spear was gone—Thora could not summon that again. Yes—there was the knife! That knife which had been so long in the possession of believers that it must have gathered to it greater power. Thora readied her picture of that, forced what remained of her energy into it, sent its point at the smaller drum where the player struggled to hold the bowl straight. Again came a flash—a breaking.

Thora was whirled about, driven as a leaf, powerless to combat the second surge of released power—unseeable but deadly. She fought to pull about her the remnants of her earlier protection. Only she was swept along by the force, borne away from the drummers,
not knowing whether her aid had helped the prisoner or not.

Deaf, blind, helpless-borne—even her thoughts churned and broken— The dark held her—it was seeping into her—cutting her off from the living world. She held onto life by the smallest thread, felt herself twisted this way and that, as if a greater force strove so to break that frail hold. She would not be bested! Not yet—not here! She would hold!

Power, a crushing force lashed out, wrapped around her, drew her from the maelstrom which had caught her. Once more she was in motion. Yet she also knew that what drew her was not the same force which had guided her to the drummers, though it was darkly malific.

Sight returned. She flew along between high pointed arches. Beneath her on square pillars torches burned with an oily smoke from where they were thrust into rings of rusty metal. These gave but limited light. Nothing moved here. Only for a moment did she see that chamber or hall. Then what held her gave a sharp upward jerk.

Thora arose—passing through stone as if that were but illusion. Illusion? Illusions were known to all. There were ways to break the hold of such. Her thought fastened desperately on that hope. This was an illusion—it had to be!

But were
they
also illusions—the three whom the compelling force brought her to
confront? In a circle of dark they stood plainly forth because their cloaks gave a shimmering burst of color—red cloaks on which crawled and spun, as they flung their arms wide to show the inner, symboled lining, the vilest of signs. They knew she was there—they had found her.

Somehow that very belief steadied Thora. These Dark ones had expected something—someone—else she sensed. They were not prepared for her. Therefore, perhaps just perhaps—she had some small advantage.

The two outer of the trio wore their hoods well pulled down over their heads so she could see little of their faces, only a slice of chin—with skin as pallid as that of the drummers. As the drummers they were also nude of body, but across their skins were marks which enforced those symbols on their cloaks—on the breast above the heart—encircling their loins. And those marks glistened—blood might be oozing out to keep them brilliant.

He who stood between the two was not masked, the hood of his cloak was folded back upon his shoulders. His face was that of a young man, save that across the skin wove a thousand small wrinkles. The youth might be a mask, cracking with time’s passing to show the age beneath. His hair was pale yellow and he wore it short, though not cropped into a cap as did the valley men. Rather it grew in tight, sculptured curls.

His eyes were dark—so dark and sunk beneath the arch of his brows that they might not be there at all—only pits in his face. Between them his nose was a sharply defined beak, save that it possessed thick nostrils turned upward. While his mouth stretched too wide to be wholly that of any man—thick lipped—showing the points of two fangs on the drooping lower stretch of red.

It was the face of a monster—it was also the face of one who had for long, very long, commanded power. That power appeared now to stream forth, creating a cloud about him. He turned his head a fraction from one side to the other, and there was something in the gesture which made Thora guess that, while he sensed her presence here, he could not see her as she saw him.

10

Though his two companions kept their arms outstretched, baring the symbols on the interior of their cloaks and those painted on their own bodies, the hoodless man now tossed the edges of his single garment over his shoulders, brought his hands into the air to begin, with swift, sure strokes, drawing the invisible upon the invisible. Only what he produced was becoming visible in thin, scarlet lines—

Thora experienced a tightening about her body. (But did she possess a body here?) At least there was some container for her spirit which acted in that fashion and was now growing heavier, dragging her, she believed, into a form with which this Dark One could easier deal.

Against the Dark stood the Light. She could not easily call upon the Lady in the very heart of enemy domain (of that she was also certain), or use the same tactics which had defeated the drums. No—she must fasten on something greater—more powerful than any vision of spear or knife. Fasten upon that which only the Lady might lay hand on—

The girl strove to shut out sight of the Dark One, thrust aside the fear that he was about to entomb her in a form he could deal with. A disc of silver white—the Moon at its full when it hung above a sacred grove at that time when the Mother’s powers waxed the strongest, could that be summoned—to fight?

One of the priest’s white hands twisted sharply at the wrist, bent back in a way which certainly he had not willed. Across his knuckles flashed a white spark, even such as had flickered on the breast of the prisoner before the drums.

The man’s thick lips pulled back in such a snarl as Kort’s. His other hand slapped at that spark as if he strove to banish an insect.

Moon—the full moon!

Thora did not have her gem to pull its rays, to hold its power. Yet she had indeed counterattacked this Dark Lord. In the very heart of his own citadel (for Thora was sure that was where she now was) the force of his Enemy had struck—if only for an instant.

Thus heartened Thora threw at him a vision
of the Lady’s Lamp—the full orb of silver.

His snarl held just as
she
held with desperation to that mind vision. Surprise had won the girl an earlier fraction of easement. Now he would bring to bear the full force of his power. Against that Thora would be but a leaf in a storm. She could only, as that other captive had done, fight as long as there was any energy left in her.

Hopelessly, she faced the Dark One, tried to build to aim—to summon—only to have it slip away—

Until—

Thora flinched as if a knife had entered her body, aimed by a foeman she had not known was there. Save she realized in a second that this new force had not come to harm, to drain. Instead there fed into her such a welling spring of power that she did not know if she could contain or master it. Mentally she envisioned herself now standing in a sacred grove, her hands up and out, her fingers pointing at the Dark Lord heart-high. She could not see such hands in truth, she dared not even break the gaze of her eyes upon his face for fear she might weaken that which was feeding through her.

Sparks danced in the air, to become larger, fuller. These were those same creatures of light she had run along the beam cast by the sword in her earlier vision. They hurled themselves at the Dark Lord.

Even if he might be blind to the nature of the attack, he felt the force of it. He staggered, half-fell against the body of his companion on the right, so that that man, plainly astounded, had to steady his master.

Out of Thora continued to leap those things born of light. There were fewer of them now, she could Feel the ebb of strength which fed them. The Dark Lord straightened, threw off the support of his follower.

Only his short loss of control brought about Thora’s release. She was out of that chamber as if awakening from a dread dream. Here was thick dark again. Still, in this crawled no evil. Once more began the beating of that great heart which moved the world, and she rested, feeling its comfort, slipping away from what had been great danger into—

She opened her eyes wide. Here was no dark. Tall gleaming stones stood sentinel. Kort pushed against her whining. His tongue swept across her cheek. Above was not the clouded night sky but the grayness of dawn. However what she saw was not Kort’s anxious eyes, not the stones, nor anything else but the hilt of a sword held over her—the single great gem in it flaming high. From that radiated warmth, life, a strong barrier against all evil.

“You had no right to send her so!”

Did she hear those words with the ears of her body, or had they flowed into her mind, meaning without sound?

“She was not sent. There was that in her which awoke to Karn’s need and she answered.”

“And was near taken for it!”

“She professes to be one who follows the true path—”

“Which you cannot deny!” The first voice interrupted hotly. “Therefore, having brought her to a source of the Force, you left her in its influence. What would have chanced at the end, do you think, had she not been drawn forth by the Weapon of Lur? Are those with power to be used as tools, to have no purpose nor meaning otherwise? Have we not fought the Dark for that very reason—among others—that no will is to be enslaved, as is true where the Shadow spreads? If we use the methods of the Enemy are we any better then than they?”

Yes, these were spoken words and not just thoughts in her mind. The glory of the sword’s gem was dimming as if the fire within it died. So Thora could see beyond to him who held it protectingly over her.

How could it be Makil? When she viewed him last he had seemed an invalid, unable to leave his chair without help. Yet here he stood as vigorous as any armsman she had seen march in protection with a trader’s convoy—such a man as prided himself on strength of arm, the readiness of his body to give and receive blows.

To one side, still facing him, was Borkin, a frown on his face, a twist to his lips, as if he did not readily accept any rebuke. In him she felt a coldness which was not to be easily melted by the inner fire of the younger man.

The sword swung up and back, and Makil allowed the blade to slip through his fingers until his flesh covered the fading color of the gem. With practiced ease he slid the weapon then into a sheath he wore behind his shoulder. Once that was done he stooped, his fingers closed about the girl’s right wrist, held firmly, as if he would make sure that the life-blood still pulsed steadily through her veins.

“I am here,” Thora gathered voice. She tried to throw off his hold, but he would not loose it. “I think,” purposefully she ignored Borkin, spoke directly to the younger man. “that I have now much to owe you.”

That it was Makil, and what power he could summon, which had drawn her away from that confrontation with the three Dark Ones she had no doubt. What strength he had! With such men as these why did the valley have any fear that the Dark would prevail.

He loosed her wrist. She had a feeling that during those few moments he had been made as uncomfortable by that contact as she. Now he moved a little back and set his shoulders against one of the stones guarding this place as though he needed such support.

A smaller figure came running down the spiral
opening to this shrine, flung itself at Makil, catching at one of his dangling hands and planting that firmly upon its own shoulder. Malkin was here, and it was plain she was alarmed concerning her blood-brother.

Thora felt drained, emptied as she never had before. But her stubborn pride made her sit up, lock her hands one upon the other, hold her head high, and she hoped, unwaveringly.

“I do not know where I traveled—” now she spoke to Borkin, “but there I saw your Karn. They tried to weave about him some netting born of their drums. Later there were three others in red cloaks—and one of those—” she strove to keep her voice level, to conquer any sign of fear, “is a man of very great power.”

“Some such as doubtless counts a number of skulls in his walls,” Borkin returned.

His meaning was strange, until Thora recalled an old tale—that those of the Dark were reputed to so set the remains of the enemies, believing that they so imprisoned, even controlled in part, the essence of those who had fallen to their attack.

“Such a one,” she agreed. The girl was glad that she had so far not betrayed to either of these two her great weariness, and—worse—her fear. She had not lost that, even when drawn away from the dark source. At that moment Thora was not sure whether she could rise and walk. Her limbs seemed as weak as if she had lain days in a bed of fever. She longed
for a rest or a full cup of herb-brewed honey mead such as was given always to those who served the Lady by vision calling.

Kort nudged against her, offering the comfort he sensed she needed, which neither of these valley men might give. She threw an arm about the hound’s wide shoulders and again his tongue wiped lovingly across her cheek.

“Do you know where lies this place of the Dark Ones?” she asked. “I left your Karn free of the binding they would set on him. However they may have other spellings, and he still lies within their hands.”

Borkin nodded. “That is so. Still he lives, and you found him. What is seen by the eye of the spirit can be followed by the eye of the body. We now have a guide to Karn—”

She was startled into speechlessness. Having used her once out of body, did they now expect to employ her again? March her across country into the very heart of the Dark to free a man who meant nothing to her? Expect her to once more front a Dark One of great power? Truly this Borkin
did
consider her a tool! But she was not, as he would speedily discover.

Deep in his throat Kort growled. He swung about his heavy head so his yellow eyes watched the older valley man. Perhaps from the tensing of Thora’s muscles where her arm rested upon him he had read her anger. That the hound was not to be mastered easily either was now plain.

A chittering cry from Malkin cut through the mounting tension. Both girl and man looked to where Makil had stood. He had slid down the pillar supporting him, only his head and upper shoulders still resting against the stone. With an exclamation Borkin pushed past Thora to kneel beside the young man.

Just for a moment did the girl hesitate. Then she arose stiffly and with her hand upon Kort’s head, her hide boots making no sound, she wavered to the opening of the spiral, passing on through the light of early morning, to turn her back upon those of the valley and their concerns.

As she went Thora argued within herself. Certainly she owed Makil for her escape, but just as certainly she was sure his own people, in the person of Borkin, had somehow arranged that night journey using her. Therefore, having freed Karn—if she had—the scales were balanced. She owed them nothing, and Makil had his own kind to nurse him. She would find her way out of this valley, forget it existed. There was too much here which threatened her in ways she did not understand and could not defend herself against. This was no clear-cut battle of the Light against the Dark—rather it was a struggle between two ways of life. And to withdraw from such was no act of cowardice, instead one of prudence for a Chosen.

Free of the shrine Thora adapted for her
journey across the valley the same tactics she would have used in any strange countryside, letting Kort scout, being as sure as she could that she herself passed unseen.

She was tired, also she knew she must have time to think of a way past the defenses in the heights. If Borkin planned to make further use of her as an unwilling guide to that place of the Dark, then those outer guards would be alerted not to let her pass. She could hope for a little time, while Borkin was concerned with Makil. However, that time might be short—

At the thought of the sword Makil bore she shook her head. That was a mighty talisman or focus of Power—such as she had heard of in legends. As such it could not be a threat to her.

The Three-In-One had their ritual knives, their wands, their cups—yes. But though these might hold power for a short space—no one could deliver such a lance of force as she had seen twice now issue from the hilt of that weapon. Her own gem was nothing compared to that. The valley men had learned mighty secrets—Very well: let them now employ them against the Dark.

Against the Dark—According to them the Dark was rising, lapping farther and farther out from whatever foul source fed and maintained it. She had felt the power of those drums. As for the cloaked Three—especially he who commanded them—even the Old Ones of the Three-In-One after long years of their
Calling Down—might not be reckoned his equal. It was treason to all Thora believed to admit that, but she must reluctantly face the truth.

Still these valley men could also have other strong resources beside the sword. Only, if they possessed such, why had
she
been used to hunt out Karn? The girl shook her head determinedly as she slipped along a hedge dividing two fields, following where Kort led. Soon the sun would be up, then she would be a fool to seek a way out by day. She must find shelter in which to rest and break her fast from the scanty supplies remaining in her pack. Now she motioned to Kort, saw him move on, hunting a hiding place.

They found hiding in a small wood where there was brush enough to form a screen. Kort crept on his belly into the heart of that growth, and Thora, going flat and pushing her pack before her, wriggled after, into a hollow which she enlarged with her knife to fit them better, packing the lengths she had cut to curtain the passage they had used.

The ground was damp and there were flies which bit viciously until the girl brought out a box of greasy herb mixture and used it, rubbing the stuff over her face and arms, and drawing fingers of it down Kort’s hide. Then, with her head pillowed on the hound’s side, knowing that he was better than any human watchman, Thora allowed herself to sleep.

The sleep was not deep. Rather she dozed and woke, then dozed again. Grimly she practiced the disciplines she had been taught to relax mind and body. But her last night’s venture had left her as distraught as she had not been since her first vigil under the Lady’s great lamp. It was hard to shut out of her mind the thoughts of the Dark.