The Forerunner Factor (16 page)

Ferwar had measured out its contents in hardly more than sips. Then, she had fallen asleep and Simsa, greatly daring, had taken the small portion which was left from the Old One’s last pouring. The wine had been cool in her mouth, warm in her middle. She had felt for a while as if she so wished she might take wing to seek the upper air, as free as a zorsal in the night. This same freedom was in her now. She threw wide her arms, and trilled the notes which summoned her creatures.

They came, beating their way out of the mist, to whirl about her head. As she turned to watch them, she was aware that her hair lifted somewhat of its own accord. That vigorous life now within her seemed to give the damp locks freedom also. There was another call and floating across the pool came Zass.

Only there was something odd about the zorsal. She rested breast down on the surface, not sinking in—her good wing spread wide. Her good wing—? Simsa stared, startled out of her concentration on herself and what she felt. That wing which had always been bent, frozen into a crooked line, had straightened out. It was not wholly as it had been, not as wide-held as the other; still, neither was it crumpled as it had healed in spite of all Simsa’s tending.

Zass swam to the edge of the pool, ran forward out of it. Both wings raised, to fan the air, the crippled one almost equaling the other. The zorsal cried aloud, prancing on all four feet at Simsa’s side, both wings in motion. It was clear that she was demanding from the girl notice of this healing which had now come to her.

Then it was that Simsa fully remembered! She had not been alone. Nor did she recall ever entering that strange pool, of pulling off her travel worn, sweat-stiffened clothing. Where was he?

On her knees, she looked around quickly. The sense of being inside a cup or basin was still very strong. There had been no lightening of the mist. Indeed, to her, it looked even thicker. The silver dust held no tracks—it could not. Move and it straightaway fell into place so that not even the impression of her body was left. A little distance away lay the muddle of her clothing.

Simsa stood, looking slowly around the circumference of the pool. No one else was anywhere within the mist wall. What she could remember last was watching the off-worlder shed his clothing. She glanced quickly in that direction to see if there was that discarded suit. Nothing there. What had happened to her?

He must have stripped her, put her into the pool. She reached her bundle of clothing in a couple of strides, dropped down to explore; there were those two bits of ancient jewelry, the bag of silver which had weighted her sleeve during all their journey.

Her nose wrinkled as she straightened out the breeches, the bits of ragged under-linen, the heavy sleeved jerkin. The touch of them now made her feel dirty and she felt as if she never wanted to see them again. However, all she had carried was still there—a twist of rag with the necklace, another holding the arm guard.

Here in this place of silver and milky-moon radiance, Simsa freed the two pieces. The arm guard she slipped over her thin wrist. It was not fashioned for such as she, the thing was too massive, too wide. The necklace with its pale green stones—she brought out a bit of the broken silver, twisted off a thin, stem-like bit to join the open links, then dropped the mended treasure over her head. Cool to the touch, it lay across her shoulders, the green stones fell between her breasts, having been set in a longer bit which nearly touched her waist. She liked the wearing of it. The metal felt right, good. As the ring had done, to wear this gave her the sensation it was meant to be hers.

She retied the bag of silver. He must have seen her treasures when he took her clothing from her. If so, he had left them to her. He . . .

But where
was
he?

The silver necklace slipped smoothly over her body as once more she turned to look carefully about the cup of the pool. All three of the zorsals had once more gone back into the water, were floating there as Zass had been when the girl had first seen her.

Only there was no long, pale body also there, no pile of clothing on the silver of the dust. Nor—had they pulled the carrier into this place? Simsa had a dim memory of that. But it was gone. Her hand clutched, then tightened one about the other so that the tower of the ring caused a small sharp pain. She was alone, and she had not the least idea in what direction she must go to leave, from which direction they had come—where into the mist she dared venture.

That sense of content and well-being which had held her when she had awakened, floating in the water, was gone. She stooped and started to dress, though she hated the feel of the grimed and sweat stiff cloth against her body. The zorsals—if they could be persuaded to leave the pool, would they point her a way out? What had led the off-worlder to desert her here?

As she wound the belt about her middle, Simsa clucked enticingly. For a long moment or two, she thought that she could not draw them away from the pool. Then Zass, using her crippled wing better than Simsa had ever seen, turned and paddled with all four limbs, the two younger following her.

They came out on the silver dust and trooped to her feet, not taking into the air, rather squatting down to look up at her with those over-large eyes, the darker rings of fur about them seeming to give them a wide and knowing expression.

Simsa waved her hand in the gesture she had trained them to respond to—the one that when sent them out to scout, and uttered the alerting cry.

Obediently, the two younger arose, sending the silver dust fanning out by the motions of their wings. Their antennae uncurled with a snap as they began to fly around the edge of the pool, only they faced always outward, towards the swirling of the mist.

The girl stooped to catch up Zass, and settle her in her old place on the shoulder, taking a queer kind of comfort from the pinch of the large hind feet as they near pierced the coat to her flesh.

Simsa’s head was up, she listened intently. So quiet was it here that she could hear the flap of the zorsals’ wings in the air. Once, she half lifted her hand to her mouth as if to make a trumpet of that, shout through it. She did not quite bring herself to attempt that call.

Rather, she also began a circuit of the pond’s edge. Some trick of vision made it look smaller than it was in truth, for, as she kept on, still she did not reach the other side of the cup. Then the youngest of the zorsals flashed overhead, straight into the mist uttering a signal, his brother hard on his heels.

Zass’s antennae were rod-stiff, pointing in the same direction. Simsa drew a deep breath. Whether she was indeed on the trail of the vanished off-worlder she could not be sure, but the actions of her furred scouts made plain that something of interest lay in that direction.

She was strangely reluctant to leave the pool, the place where she had experienced such a quietude and joy of spirit. At the same time, she could not sit here forever. While the fact that the carrier had vanished made her believe that Thorn had meant to leave for good. Though why he had abandoned her . . .

The mist wall closed in. She lifted Zass gently from her shoulder, held the zorsal before her so that she could watch the signals of the antennae if they changed direction, which they did—now a few steps to the right, or one or two to the left. For all Simsa knew, they might be back circling the pool at another level, still she had no other guide.

Underfoot here was no sand, only rock. Her sandals and the cloth which had bound them to her feet were so badly worn that she could not use them again. So she must go bare of foot and be glad that her soles had been so toughened by years of such usage that, as long as the footing remained damp rock, she could walk it firmly.

Zass’s antennae, her whole head, suddenly snapped sharply right. The girl obediently turned in that direction. She believed that the mist was thinner and, a moment later, was proven right as she came out in a dull grey funnel which fed into a narrower passage. Though she was sure that this was not the way they had come—this ran on a level, no stairs ahead.

The pavement remained smooth and she was sure not by chance. However, walls were rougher, resembling more the stone of a cavern which had lain in a hill’s heart since the beginning of time.

Her journey through the mist had not entirely stripped from her that feeling of well-being she had known after she had been drawn out of the pond. (Why had he done that and yet not waited for her?) She was not afraid—not yet. Rather, she was ridden by anger at her desertion—that the off-worlder had walked away and left her—perhaps to death for all he knew.

That anger was mixed with puzzlement. She could understand no reason for such action. Unless, her eyes narrowed a little . . . unless he knew far more about the value of what lay hidden in the Hard Hills and wanted no one to share any such find. Only then, why had he brought her along as far as he had? He could well have deserted her anywhere along the trail and so made
sure
of her death. Why that struggle up the monster-hung cliff? Why had he left her half within what she could only believe was a sort of healing water after her strength had broken at last? Simsa could not fit any of this into a pattern she could understand.

The light which the mist had provided diminished the farther she advanced into the passage. However, there was another gleam ahead, brighter—perhaps that of the day itself. She hurried her pace towards that, suddenly wanting more than anything to be back in an outer world she could understand, even if she faced desert once more, and that alone and without supplies.

What she emerged into was not desert—though the sky held the pitiless sun. Rather, she stood in a stone-walled pit—square in shape. In fact it might have been a chamber half hewn from the natural stone. Above her was a crazy patchwork of holes into which might once have been fitted beams to support other floors. The zorsals flew in a back and forth pattern and called to her impatiently.

However, she climbed with caution, testing each hand and foothold as she went. There was no stair here; perhaps when the floors existed the lower levels had been entered by trap doors and ladders. This close to the walls, first rock and then dressed stones fitted securely together, Simsa could see the marks of fire. Most had been weathered away, but here and there in protected places there were still black and direful tokens of disaster.

She reached the first large break in that wall, a niche into which she could pull her whole body and from where she could view all that lay immediately ahead. That this had been either a huge fortress, larger than any palace compound of a Guild Lord, or else a small city, there was no doubt.

Its walls had been remarkably well preserved in many places, but here also was greenery. So lush a growth, where she had been expecting to view more barren desert land, that Simsa blinked and blinked again, thinking at first this was some mirage such as she had heard might be sighted by those who traveled too far into the forbidden lands. The greenery did not vanish.

The complex of walls about her were so vine ridden that only here and there a protruding carved stone broke free. Those stones appeared to form a series and each was a head, easily twice the size of her own. Nor were any two of those she could scan from here alike. Some were animals—she was sure that the nearest was a representative of a zorsal, even though the antennae had been broken off quite close to the skull. Others were clearly of her own general species, yet each an individual, as if portraying someone who had lived here once.

Simsa could easily drop from where she perched to the top of another wall, one whose width near rivaled a lane in Kuxortal. Only, at her examination of that, the girl saw the first proof that the zorsals had guided her on the off-worlder’s track. There was a pulpy mass of vine where something the length of the carrier might have rested for some time and beyond that a tree, lacking a branch, its leaves on those above and below scorched and drooping.

It would seem that for some reason this Thorn had seen the necessity to move this way, and perhaps swiftly, forcing a path through or against anything which would delay him. Simsa thought she did not need to fear coming on him without an alert—the zorsals would see to that. However, she was determined to follow, if for no other reason than she must know why he had gone.

The path along the top of the wall continued to display a number of traces of hasty passage. As she went, Simsa’s winged companions circled back and forth above her head. They were, of course, also by their very attendance, signaling to any who might be watching that she was here.

As she had passed the burnt tree, she had paused to examine it. It was well known that the starmen had fearsome weapons. They could blast into nothingness their enemies or their prey. However it was also one of their own laws, which they enforced rigorously, that these potent arms were never carried by any coming to a world such as hers. Only, neither were they supposed to bring any such marvel as the thing that had lightened the carrier. If Thorn had broken one law of his own kind, what would keep him from breaking another?

She did not like those signs of burning and edged past that place at a much slower pace. After all, who could judge the ways of an off-worlder? They had customs and codes of behavior far different, such that those of another planet might not even understand. Thorn was driven by a great need, or he would not have struck into the desert, would never have come this far.

Another wall arose before her. Here the stepping stone to bring her to its summit was a carved head was a face so horrific Simsa felt a chill. There were the demons and evil things used to frighten children, which one might dream about. As she stared at the thing which now confronted her squarely, she shivered at the pure evil in it.

She found herself making the finger gesture the Burrowers used to evoke fortune (a very fickle presence always in their lives). The worst of this image was not that it wore a grotesque mask of darkness and hate (rather it had a strange beauty which caught and held the eye), but that cruelty, lust, and evil knowledge shone through it in a terrifying way.