Moon Called (3 page)

Kort's nails sounded on the substance of the way as he continued on, his head up, plainly testing for scent. Perhaps he so picked up emanation far beyond Thora's detecting, for from his throat, came a low growl—a warning caution—but not yet an urge to prepare for battle.

Whatever Malkin sought in the cloak she could not find. At last she sat back on her heels, looking up to the girl and shaking her head in a very human gesture of bafflement. Then she swiftly rerolled the cloth as Kort went on ahead as if he stalked some quarry.

Malkin caught at Thora's belt once again to steady herself, leaving the hound free to range. He went slowly at first. Then, seeming to make up his mind that no immediate danger lay near, he broke into a trail lope which carried him well ahead into a haze of shadows
filling the far end of the way.

That strange veiling of the distance appeared to keep always the same distance from them, as if it moved even as they did. But Kort had disappeared from sight. Thora wanted to give a summoning whistle to bring him back, but a strong instinct against breaking the quiet here prevailed.

They went, but slowly for Malkin's sake, halting now and again—though the furred one uttered no complaint. Twice so they stopped, Thora squatting down while Malkin subsided beside her, rubbing and kneading her ankle.

Then Kort gave tongue—a sharp series of barks startling them. Thora, so well aware of the range of sounds the huge hound could voice, recognized these as expressing excitement at some find—not a warning of danger. Kort did not return, but continued to bark, urging them to join him.

They came to a second door. This had not been sealed, though it had the same wheel-controlled lock. Rather it stood ajar. Kort appeared there, voicing a series of imperative yaps.

At first Thora could not believe that such an open chamber as they now entered could have been fashioned by man—even those of the Before Time who had been masters of such arts as only the Mother-Touched could dream existed. This spread out near as large to her sight as a good quarter at least of the Craig
meadows and cultivated fields. There was no open sky overhead as she half expected. That same haze which had blanketed out the far reaches of the hall hung far above—they were still underground.

The floor under them had the same sleek surface of the walls and pavement of the hall. Pillars so thick in girth that perhaps three men clasping hands could not have encircled them formed aisles cutting the endless stretch before them. Between those were lines of things covered with taut pulled material which veiled the true shape of what it concealed.

Kort, after he ushered them in, turned to the left, still urging them to follow, trotting along in the open space between the wall and the beginning of those lines of pillars. Finally he guided them into a section where there were no longer any large shrouded objects—rather piles of boxes and containers set up in orderly fashion, leaving a cleared runway between.

There he halted looking back. Thora dropped her backpack, freeing herself from Malkin's hold on her belt, reaching for her throwing spear. Then she realized that what hunkered there no longer lived.

The body was propped against some boxes which had been pulled out of line and jammed together to form a barricade. Clothing still gave a semblance of life, until one saw that an outflung hand was merely dried skin over bone. But the clothing itself had not been
touched by time, having indeed some of the same metallic sheen as the floor and walls. Once, she suspected, it had fitted its wearer near as tightly as his own skin. The head was encased in a round ball of the same material and that had fallen forward so that if that covering had any opening they could not see the face beneath.

There had been little in the past year of her wandering which had left Thora squeamish. She had seen many kills and she had killed in order to live. But there was something alien about this dead one, marking it not of her own world or life. Was this the remains of one of those from the Before Time?

Fallen from the shrunken hand lay a length of metal which she judged to be some type of weapon. He had died alone perhaps—and no one had come to give him burial honors. Had he been the last of his kin? There was no disarray among the boxes about as there might have been if raiders had pillaged here. Thora glanced around—no more bodies—no evidence that this one, in his dying, had taken any enemy with him.

She drew on the air the symbol of honor and peace and the words of leave-taking came to her without conscious calling:

“The One is the beauty of the earth, the green of growing things. SHE is the white moon whose light is full among the stars, soft upon the earth. From HER all things are born,
to HER all things, in their season, return. Where there is beauty and strength, there is beauty and rest. Every act of our will, every thought of our minds is returned three-fold to us in this life—that we may be free when our short day is done and the PATH opens before us.

“Let those who sleep, rest in beauty, to wake in full strength once again—to stride among the stars, spread wings on fresh winds, know and see, where before they abode in ignorance and blindness, being as but children.

“Long ago did you depart, stranger. May you walk on the PATH with swift, joyful feet, looking back upon this sleep as a dream which no longer concerns the you eternal—”

Though this one may not even have known the Lady, still it was fitting that she say these things. While Kort, as if he shared that strange feeling of loss, threw up his head. From his throat came a long, echoing howl—the spirit cry of his own people.

3

The hound did not approach the dead. Rather Kort circled about the body to set off down the aisle which that unknown had guarded. Raising up her pack Thora prepared to follow, feeling Malkin's claws scrape her jerkin as the furred one, too, again grasped a belt hold. The girl stepped out more briskly when they had left the defender well behind, though she kept on the lookout for any more signs of old struggle here.

What had been the purpose of this place, she wondered? Had this been a huge storage depot for traders? What a wealth of materials must be here. And for how long had they lain so?

Her throat was parched and she was hungry. Malkin, in spite of her brave efforts, was
dragging of pace now. They must rest, eat, drink from Thora's water bottle. Kort perhaps agreed with that thought for he stopped in a wider, open space between two lines of boxes to wait for them.

Their supply of water was limited and that worried Thora. Certainly no springs nor streams were to be found here—and could they reach the outer world again? She shared carefully a smaller ration of what sloshed in her trail bottle, pouring Kort's portion into a pannikin for him to lap. Malkin drank easily enough. However, it was plain that the furred one found the portion of half-curled meat Thora offered her hard to swallow.

While Thora was still chewing on her own share, the furred one stood up, shucked off the roll of the cloak she bore, to limp to the wall of boxes beside them. Malkin stooped a little, her head thrust forward, as if she were sniffing, even as Kort might, along the edges of some containers. Kort watched her, his head a little on one side, until she paused, her eyes beginning to glow. Then the hound went to her and pressed his own nose against a visible crack about the edge of a cylinder.

There were markings on the side of that which meant nothing to Thora—no real pattern. The furred one reached with both hands, leaning against other boxes to spare her foot, wriggling loose the container which appeared to be heavier than its size would suggest. The
urgency of her desire reached the girl and Thora arose to help swing the cylinder to the floor.

At once Malkin began picking with her claw tips along the thin seam at the top. Thora watched uneasily, having little desire to meddle, until Malkin looked to her appealingly. With a shrug Thora drew her knife and, with care for that old and precious blade, pried at the crack.

She worked it carefully, then inserted the point of one of the throwing spears to apply stronger leverage. Malkin watched eagerly, her tongue flicking back and forth, giving voice to a low hissing.

With a whoosh the cap gave way, to spin off and clatter across the floor. Thora saw within a number of stopped tubes of transparent substance, each filled with a red-brown dust.

Malkin's claws flashed, closed about one of those tubes, to have it out of its cushioned nest almost in a single uninterrupted movement. Holding the tube firmly, the furred one used her teeth to worry off that cap which corked it. Her tongue played out into the tube, caught up the top layer of powder, snapped back into her mouth. She stood for a moment as if she were savoring the taste of something to be greatly relished.

Then she raised the tube a second time, her tongue scouring the contents, lapping that dust as Kort would lap water. Thora had half
put out a hand to stop her, fearing that this experiment might be harmful. But the speed of Malkin's avid consumption made any such intervention now useless.

One of the tubes, emptied, was tossed aside. Malkin finished the contents of another before her hunger, or greed, was appeased. She settled down, giving every evidence of one who had consumed something her body had long craved, having taken the powder as a man dying of thirst might have gorged himself on water.

Her eyes had lost their bright glow. The lids drooped as if she were so satiated that she was on the verge of sleep, as would be true of some hunting beast who had gorged his fill. Thora ventured to draw out one of the tubes for herself, snap off the cap, sniff at the contents. There was a faint odor but one she could not place.

Malkin roused again, to spread out the cloak and lift out not only the rest of the vials, but also that protecting padding which had been placed around them, stacking them on the folds of cloth, plainly planning to take them with her. She moved more swiftly, favored her foot less. It was as if she had found a sustenance, healing and energy-renewing, in those tubes.

Kort had trotted on a few paces. Now he looked back and whined. With an inward sigh, Thora shouldered her pack, waited for Malkin
to take the belt hold. But the furred one moved out on her own after the dog with a much-lessened limp.

There was no night nor day here. That dusky, grayish light (of which Thora never discovered the source) remained constant. Only her tired body let her know that they had, some time later, come to the end of a day's travel. She had dropped behind, was looking for a camping place, when once more Kort's summoning bark rang out loudly enough to make her hurry on.

He had reached the other side of this huge storehouse at last. Before was another wall—with no doorway. Thora saw Kort, nose to the floor as if he now trailed with a clear scent, again turn left, padding along the open stretch by the wall. There was no dust in which any footprint might be marked, yet the hound appeared certain of his way.

Thora and Malkin hurried after. The furred one's eyes began to glow once more. There was an eagerness and purpose which matched Kort's in her progress. Thora was tired and longed to call a halt. However Kort had ranged far ahead, only his impatient barks kept them in touch.

Thus he brought them into a true battlefield, where death had walked long since. Once more they saw a barricade of tumbled boxes and containers. Many bodies sprawled here. Yet all lay on the other side of the barrier and
here there were no signs of any defenders—Nor did these dead wear the ageless clothing of the sentinel they had found earlier.

Rather their limbs were covered with rags, stained, tattered, a travesty of clothing, such as might serve as body covering for the survivors of some great disaster, people who had been driven back into a feral existence. Uncovered heads were turned up—to make Thora shudder. For, long dead though these were, they wore the marks of madness and terror. The weapons which lay among them were knives bound to branches of decaying wood to serve as crude spears, clubs with rusty spikes protruding from them, even rudely shaped stones bound to hafts, like axes.

They lay without dignity, in no order. Thora had a mind picture of mad creatures coming in a wave of assault—to whom death had been a blessing.

Only among them was a single body, well to the rear of those who had faced so fatally the defenders of that barrier. Unlike the others in that company it was not clad in rags. Rather lying over it, to conceal most of what lay beneath, was a cloak—the edge of that spreading out like the wings of a bird across the floor.

The cloak was bright red—a screaming scarlet which might have come from being dipped in the free flowing blood of those about it. It was also richly glowing—the fabric from which it had been fashioned the finest of
weaving.

Thora stood looking upon this battle site Nothing of compassion moved in her, as it had upon sighting that other they had come upon. There was no stir of kinship here—rather was born a horror which grew even as she looked, something which denied the cleanliness and finality of death.

Malkin threaded a path among the fallen to the side of that cloaked body. With a quick flick of claws she jerked up and back the nearest edge of that covering to display its lining, though not the body.

Here were embroidered patterns such as lined the cloak she herself carried. But these symbols were strange. To gaze at them made Thora uneasy, so that she was glad when Malkin dropped the cloth and they were again hidden from view. If one could sense such, and Thora knew that the initiated could do so, evil hung here now like a noxious vapor which even time had not been able to dissipate.

Deliberately the furred one worked her mouth, her purple lips tight together. Then she spat—straight at the hooded head of the dead. She hissed, striving very hard to twist her tongue about a word, bring that forth so Thora could understand.

“Ssssettt—” Her mouth worked as she tried again. “Sssettt—”

Thora flinched. If she had interpreted that aright—!

He-Who-Abode-in-the-Dark, ruled the Left Hand Path—who gave birth to evil, beguiled men to foul ways—

“Set!” the girl repeated in a low whisper. Her hand moved in the ancient sign of warding. In truth she had found Old Evil here if one who had spoken for that power lay before her, dead or not.

Thora wanted to flee that place of battle. Could fear and evil lash out at the living from such a place? There was a belief among all who were followers of HER that an object might gain stronger reality, greater power, if it was to confront any such force, good or evil. Now she shrank back from that cloak, afraid that the gem she wore in concealment, her own small power, might bring into half-life some of this malignity.

She gestured to Kort fiercely to go. Malkin watched with fire pit eyes in which Thora could read no human emotion. Now as the furred one came away from the Dark Dead, her tongue moved. Thora waited for a struggling word but none came.

Kort trotted on, Thora followed, not waiting for Malkin to catch up. Luckily there was escape from this underground prison in sight now—Kort sniffed at a break in the wall. That itself was rent apart, earth and stones had cascaded out into the storage place, leaving a dark hole.

There was a scent here, too, a dank mustiness
Thora did not like. Kort growled as Malkin pushed up beside him. She still carried the throwing spear she had used as a staff and this she swung point forward.

“Out!” The fear which had been seeded at Malkin’s recognition of the scarlet cloaked dead grew fast in Thora. She had no doubt that both of her companions were wary of something ahead, only it was better to face the unknown that any remnant of the DARK. The girl wanted passionately to be above ground where the
Sign
of the
Lady
rode the night sky and there was nothing of ancient evil.

Kort growled again, but he did not refuse to enter the hole, rather he crawled up the fall of earth and stone and shouldered on into the shadowed space. While Malkin appeared as willing to face what might lie there. Thora loosed the pack from her back so that she might go more easily through the break.

Here were no lighted walls. Again the faint radiance of Malkin’s rolled cloak was her only guide. She swept the path before her with her own spear, fearing a misstep. The footing was rough so she went carefully, hearing the scrambling and scuffling of her companions. Then there
was
a wan light—far ahead. They might be making their way not along a passage, but in a narrow cleft with the night sky above.

Kort gave a great rasping howl. Warning enough for Thora to set back to the wall, pack
thrown aside, spear and knife ready. There came a scrabbling, growls from Kort, a flurry of what must be a fight. A musky stench enveloped the girl as she caught sight of small points of light near the ground—eyes?

To Kort’s growls was added a hissing she was sure came from Malkin. Then followed a shrill squealing. Thora braced herself, struck down at the pair of eyes within reach. Her spear entered flesh; there was another squeal of pain. Thora jerked free the spear to strike again. That which she attacked was gone, but another leaped upward, scored a burning slash along her arm. She used the knife, felt blood, warm and foul smelling, gush over her hand. Knife—spear—still the attackers came.

Her arm burned but she had not dropped her weapon. Thora had no time—already another was on her. Still the snarling and hissing assured her that her companions were fighting on.

Then that hissing arose to an ear-torturing sibilance which made Thora cry out, for the sound seemed to bite into her brain. She staggered, feeling as if the bones of her skull were being forced apart.

Dazed now, she could only huddle back against the sour earth, clinging still to her weapons, though her body shook to the rise and fall of that sound. There were no more eyes. The squealing grew weaker—or perhaps it was drowned out by Malkin’s
throat wrenching cries.

Was it quiet at last, or had hearing failed her? Thora was only fully aware of the pain in her head. Then there was a touch on her tooth-lacerated arm. She tried to flinch away. That grip tightened, pulling her on.

Her boots trod on softness—bodies? She stumbled, was jerked up and ahead. In a daze of pain she followed. For how long she did not know nor care—all she wanted was relief from the agony in her head.

Cool wind on her face, allaying that agony a little. Then she toppled forward into space, struck against earth, only to slide into complete darkness.

Thora stood at a clearly marked crossroads where three well-worn paths met. Standing at their centerpoint, stark and grim, was a hewn form so long settled there that its feet had become one with the earth itself. Around it grew a long hedging of tall plant stalks, withered and dead, as if the carven countenance above had blasted them out of life.

Fungi clung to the statue itself, loathsome yellow-green patches like the markings of a fell plague. The face, with blind blank eyes, bore across it, from forehead to sharp, out-pointing chin, a crack, distorting even more the malice and hatred suggested by that carving.

This—this was the Dark Side of the Mother—that part of HER which took pleasure
in slaying. So was this representation of HER ever set at ill-famed crossroads. There followed a stirring among the dead weeds, as from there emerged grey things with bared fangs. These were not common rats, but rather huge monsters of their species. Dappled they were with scabs and sores, and their eyes were afire with greed and hunger as they pattered towards Thora.

She strove to lift spear, knife. But her arms were weighted; she could not stir.

Still within her was life and to her could come death—perhaps not of the body, but of that which was there encased during this lifetime. Thora cried out, a mindless, wordless scream, as the first of the rats sprang.