Zarsthor's Bane

6

The bird-woman’s head still turned from one side to the other as if she must do so in order to focus on Brixia with one eye at a time. Now her bill-mouth opened. From it came not the earlier call but a mocking screech of what sounded close to malicious human laughter. She raised her arms high, the feathers fringing them extended so that more than ever these appeared like wings. Her talon fingers spread to their widest extent and quivered, as if eager to rake into defenseless flesh. While there was nothing remotely human in the gaze she held steadily on Brixia.

Now the seventh bird which had been perched on the tall rock a little behind its mistress arose into the air and headed straight for the girl. Brixia groped behind her with a reflex action years of facing danger had taught. Her finger closed about one of the stones she had laid ready there and she hurled it with the best aim she could summon.

There was another screech. A noisome feather loosed from the bird, as it veered and circled on up into the air, joining those others still in their besieging ring about the outcrop.

Brixia brought the spear into readiness, expecting now to meet a forward dash from the bird-woman. But the creature delayed. Rather she hopped from one clawed foot to another in an odd jerky dance. But she no longer laughed. Nor did any of the birds drop to dive in upon Brixia.

Why they hesitated to attack the girl could not tell. Unless—her hand went to the breast of her shirt, the bud—Would the now closely closed flower of the tree which had given her shelter again provide some kind of a guard here?

Continuing to hold the spear at ready, she worked the bud out into the open. It was still tightly encased as it had been this morning, the shiny brown outer petals sealing all which had given light and perfume in the night.

But when her hand closed about it Brixia was startied. Though, instead of loosing grip because of what she had felt, rather her fingers tightened the more on it. The bud was warm—not only warm, but it pulsated in her hold. She might well have clasped a slowly beating heart!

Keeping her eyes on the bird-woman, Brixia brought the bud out and then dared to give it a quick glance. No, there was no sign of it opening. It remained tightly enfolded.

Again the bird-woman fanned her arm wings, sending the heated air of the desert to raise a portion of sand and grit, blew that, with the foul scent of her own body, directly into Brixia’s face. Her jiggling dance grew faster, the claw feet in turn stirring up the surface soil in spurts of dust.

One such kick sent flying to Brixia’s own face the feather which had fallen from the wing of the bird. And that did not fall back to earth. Rather it arose in the air like an arrow shot from a bow with a definite target in view.

Brixia dodged. But it was not aimed at her face as she had first thought. Instead it shot up, to lay across the fist which was shut around the bud. The strangeness of that was no natural happening, of that the girl was certain.

But did the feather come to serve some purpose of these desert hunters? She shook her hand vigorously, striving to send it flying. It did not flutter away, but remained balanced across her fist as if fastened there.

And she dared not set down her spear to pluck it off—such a move might be just what these others awaited.

A feather—

Its touch was so light on her flesh she could not be aware of its presence visually. Why—why had it come to her and in such a fashion?

The black length of it was like a giant evil finger laid across to seal the bud from the light of day.

The black length of it—

Brixia’s breath caught in a gasp. Black—no! The color along the quill was changing—The black faded, became gray—

Now the bird-woman screamed, and her throat-wracking cry was picked up and echoed by all those wheeling above. The sound made Brixia jerk her head, cower back against the stone. She watched for the attack she believed that clamor must signal.

But, save for her dance, the bird-woman did not move. While the feather grew lighter and lighter. Now it was the shade of fine ashes, nearly white—

Brixia flipped her hand frantically from side to side, up and down, hoping to shake it off. To no avail. The feather was now a pearly white. Not only white, but it seemed to draw light to it in an odd way, as if a very pale radiance curved along it to be diffused at the edges. The radiance—how could one be sure of such a thing in this blaze of desert sun?

At the same time there was movement within Brixia’s tight hold upon the bud as if something now struggled there for freedom. She found that a will beyond her own commanded her muscles so that her fingers began to loose the protecting grip.

Her hand moved in a high jerk, though she had not consciously ordered that. The feather loosed at last, spun upward and out and—

A bird flew up into the air. In form it was as large and of the same shape as those which beleaguered her. But in color this was the pearl-white of the tree flowers. Once in the air it darted forward straight at the head of the bird-woman.

The creature from the Waste struck at it with outspread wings, screamed in rage. While the birds which served her broke their circle and came spiraling down to where she battled with the darting flyer.

Brixia dropped her spear. Holding the bud tight to her breast she snatched up her stones, one after another, and flung them at the wheeling birds, and their furiously dancing and screeching mistress. Some thudded home. There were two of the birds fluttering on the ground. The bird-woman gave a great cry as one wing dropped to her side and she did not seem able to raise it again.

But there was other movement out on the desert land. Brixia had been so intent upon her own struggle that she had not been conscious that a new force was drawing in. Things scuttled about stones, moved so quickly she could not be sure of where they went. She only knew that this battle was now a focus for interest and she could not hope that what came would be any help to her.

The white bird had not attacked with either claws or beak, thought it was as well equipped with both. Rather it appeared to attempt to confuse and mislead the black flock and their mistress. Illusion? There could be no other answer Brixia thought. But whose illusion? It had not been born of any sorcery she had worked. She was no Wise Woman, no dealer in the forgotten magics of the Old Ones. She—

In her mouth there was a faint taste of the healing, nourishing bounty of the tree. And closing her in came the scent of its flowering. She had drawn into her being what it had had to offer—not by conscious knowledge, but because it had seemed the natural thing to do. What had flowed into her then?

“Green Mother,” her voice was hardly more than a croak, “I do not know what I have done—If I only knew!”

Once more the bud within her hand gave a great beat, so strong a one that it made the flesh and bone which encased it quiver. Was that in a measure some answer? Some reassurance? Brixia did not know what was happening to her—nor did she have time to set her mazed thoughts in order.

But the screaming of the birds had brought another sound, not as an echo—rather an answer. Creatures flashed into view, able to move so quickly that Brixia had only a fleeting impression of supple, lengthy bodies, either bare of any haired covering, or else scale set. These leaped out so that the bird-woman, with a great squawk of rage, turned to give battle. She was not backward about action now as she had hesitated when fronting Brixia. It was as if she had not been sure of what armament the girl might bring to bear while what she wrought with now she knew well and classed as an ancient enemy.

Escape! Was this her chance? Brixia could not tell, but she was sure in that moment while she viewed the whirling battle between the two parties of the desert dwellers that she might never have another such opportunity. As she made up her mind to move so, once more the bud gave a throb as if urging her on to that course. Or it might have been in warning—But as long as she was Brixia she was determined to follow her own will.

Back still to the stone, she edged to the left, turning slowly to put the outcrop between her and the struggle. At last that knob of rock did hide the skirmish from her. Bud in one hand, spear in the other she ran—not out into the desert but back towards the dark line of the mounds. Whether she would bring up against the mound wall, pursued by the desert creatures to her death, she did not know. But that she had a chance if she was driven farther into the unknown she was sure could not be so.

Above her the mounds loomed, bare and dark under the westerning sun which was now well on its way down the sky behind her. There was little comfort in viewing the humps of this range. To spend a night in close contact with them was not a thing she wanted. But better that than the desert.

She passed over the rim of sand and gravel and saw before her the unyielding rise of the coarse-grassed slope. In spite of the menace of those cutting blades she would have to win up and over, put at least one of the mounds between her and the open desert. Whether the bird-woman and her flock, always supposing that they did win out in their struggle with those other things, could follow her here she did not know.

Her side pained from running as she lurched along. Hunger was a dull ache and thirst was even worse. How long she could continue to keep going she had no idea. She was not even sure that this was the place where she had come through to enter the desert—or had been herded through at a dark and alien will.

Up then—she would have to make it. Exerting what strength she had left, Brixia dug the spear deep into the mound a little above the height of her own shoulder, prepared to pull on that up the side.

She sprawled forward, slamming down on her face, so that the ill smelling soil filled her nose, squeezed between her lips. For a long moment her dazed mind could not understand what had happened. But as she fought to brace herself up she could see—

The mound she had prepared to climb—was gone! She lay in a narrow way between two arching rises of dank earth where the dying sun did little to show anything ahead but gathering shadows. The road—or a road—had opened again!

Brixia was too winded by her retreat and her fall to do more now for a moment or two than to huddle where she was, gasping for breath, smearing her hand across her muck stained face to clean it as best she could.

She had been herded through this way before—was she now going to once again follow a path which would lead her to some other trap such as the desert had nearly proven to be? If that was the truth of it—why should she hurry into some unknown danger?

So Brixia continued to stay where she was as the last rays of the sun disappeared at her back, and the shadows grew even darker and longer, to reach for her with their hungry fingers. She was trying to marshall her thoughts in order, to understand what had happened to her—if she could ever do that!

It seemed to her now that, ever since she had gone down into the ruins of Eggarsdale and been caught there in the affairs of its mind-ruined lord, she had not been herself, or the person she had learned to be in order to keep on living.

Did some Will now move her without her consent, even without her clear knowledge, to suit a purpose which was not even part of the affairs of her kind? She was all daleblood, no part of her had a trace of the Old Ones—she was not like Lord Marbon who might indeed be pliable to enscorcelment of one kind or another.

Dalesmen—and women—had been caught up, true enough, in some of the sorcery laid traps which were scattered here and there across the country to work alien wills even after the passage of centuries. Brixia from her childhood had had in plenty warnings based on those old tales, rife in any keep, concerning what might happen to any one foolish or reckless enough to go exploring in forbidden places. Men had entered for treasure and came forth blasted, dying, or were not seen again. Some with a curiosity which rode them as strongly as the greed of others pushed them, went seeking knowledge. A few found it—and then discovered that their own kin feared them and they were set apart.

Kuniggod—Not for the first time during her long wandering Brixia thought of the mystery of her old nurse. Kuniggod had been a woman of authority, ruling the House of Torgus as mistress, for Brixia had not the age nor the experience to manage the keep, and her father was cut off in one of the first battles with the invaders—his true fate never known. Since her mother had died at her birthing there was no other lady of the dale.

But—who was Kuniggod? She was—how old had she been? Brixia held memories of her nurse from her own earliest years, and Kuniggod had never seemed to age—she was always the same. Though she did not claim to be a Wise Woman with all the hidden knowledge, she had been a healer and a grower of herbs. Her garden had been the finest Brixia had ever seen. That judgment was not delivered because she herself had seen but little then beyond the boundaries of the dale.

No, travelers had marveled at it. While over the years before the invasion merchant peddlers had brought Kuniggod roots and seeds from far places. Twice a year she had gone to the Abbey at Norsdale, taking Brixia with her when she was of an age to travel. And there Kuniggod had spoken with the Abbess and her Mistress of Herb lore as an equal.

She had, as the landspeople said, “green fingers”, for her plantings thrived and flourished. And at each time of sowing in the fields Kuniggod had thrown always the first handful of grain, uttering the blessing of Gennora of the Harvests as she so gave seed to the waiting ground.

Now Brixia guessed Kuniggod had had her own secrets which she, her nurseling, had never even thought existed. Was it because she remembered something of Kuniggod’s learning that the tree had welcomed her last night, given her the bud—? For that had been freely given to her Brixia was now sure.

The bud had had something to do—probably everything to do—with the change of the feather into bird. Perhaps if she were only more learned she could use it for better protection than the spear, the stones, she had come to depend upon.

Now she opened her hand and looked at the bud. But it was no longer so tightly enrolled. Those dark outer sheath petals were loosening. Through the cracks there issued a small glow. From it also came the fragrance—faint now, but still rising from the bud in her hold.

It had not withered nor faded. Clearly it was not a normal growth such as she might have picked at random from any bush or tree known to the Dales. And it was opening swiftly, the petals springing back even as she watched. While the heady perfume soothed somehow both Brixia’s hunger and thirst.

She looked over the soft glow of the flower back into the desert. The clamor of the struggle there had died away without her noticing it. She could see nothing stirring between her and the outcrop which had been her shelter.

Now, leaning on her spear as a support, she got to her feet and resolutely turned to gaze at the dark way between the mounds which had so strangely opened at her return. She went slowly, keeping moving by will alone, as her aching body answered weakly to the demands she made. But she wanted to be out of sight—and perhaps of the reach of any prowler—of the desert country before she sought shelter for the night.

As it had done when she entered the country of the mounds, so now did the open path between them twist and turn. Sometimes Brixia believed she was going north in the general direction the tracks—when Uta’s paw sign had been a part of them—had led. But at other times she feared that she lost more ground in such twisting than she had gained.

However there was always a way open. While in the twilight the flower in her hand beamed the brighter, saving her from being swallowed altogether by the encroaching dark. She longed to find her way back to the tree, though she feared that that might be impossible. At length she was stumbling so badly that she knew, with a stab of uneasiness, she was nearly done.

She dropped down, a mound at her back, and stretched her aching legs out before her. The spear lay across her knees, but both of her hands, cupped, rested in her lap, and there lay the flower, now fully open, with a glimmering life of its own, pulsating as if it breathed in a fashion not unlike that which kept the air flowing in and out of her own lungs.

How long could she keep on—without food or water? She did not want to think of what it would be like to crawl on in the morning no better provided for than she was tonight. Resolutely she set her mind to the old discipline of living for the moment only and not anticipating what disappointments or perils might lie ahead.

That she could flog her tired and fasting body to any sentry duty this night was impossible. The sleep which now weighted her lids, made her body lie limply back, could not be denied. Brixia closed her eyes on the humped mounds looming about her.

The flower lay flat open on her breast. Did its flow of light fit itself to the beating of her heart? If it did Brixia did not rouse enough to mark that. But it slowed the flare and fade of light, and the breathing, the heart beat of the sleeping girl grew calmer as she rested in a relaxation deeper than she had known for a long time.

Did she dream? Brixia could not have said yes or no. There was a confused trace of memory afterwards—of seeing Kuniggod lying in the place of the Old Ones—not dead, no—but sleeping—sleeping as to her tired body—but awake in another and more important way. And Kuniggod—or the essence of her which was more important than any body—saw Brixia. Whether she wished her good—again Brixia could not hold any dream born memory of that. But that there was something of import that passed between them—yes. Of that she was certain.

She opened her eyes. The darkness of the night was held at bay just beyond her body by the radiance of the flower. Now the sky overhead was cloud filled and curtained against even the distant sparks of the stars.

For a long moment Brixia lay so. Then whatever summons had drawn her out of slumber once more insinuated itself into her mind. She got to her knees, groped with one hand for the spear. Her body did not seem a part of her anymore—it was the need to get on which mattered.

On her feet, she started down the way. The glow of the flower only showed a step or two beyond. What might be waiting there was hidden. Yet she must go this path and there was a reason for haste. Brixia searched for that reason within herself. Was it so needful that she catch up with those others? Or was this a subtle warning that she must not linger in a dangerous territory? What had made a trap for her once might well so work again.

There were odd sounds to be heard out of the darkness. At first she thought of the birds—and their mistress—and then of the half seen serpent-like things which had done battle with those. There were also the night ranging toads—There could be dangers in the dark so countless that no man could list them in days—and nights—of time.

Only, as she listened, the main part of what she heard came more and more to puzzle her. It was as if someone, just beyond the reach of hearing intelligible words, spoke—some one? Many voices, some high, some low and with more force. Brixia strained more and more in the hope of making out a single word, of learning whether she did catch the muted speech of her own kind. Yet if there was such company she approached it no closer even though she was walking faster, drawn on in spite of herself by the hope of finding perhaps the three that she sought.

This was as if the busy life of a dale flowed about her just beyond her ability to touch it, to make contact with what lay forever in shadow. Or was she the shadow-trapped in that fashion from the real world?

One could imagine anything in the night. Especially if one were light-headed from lack of food and water. The scent of the flower might even have addled her mind somewhat—even as the juice or fruit of some growths could drug and even send mad the unwary.

Still Brixia walked, and listened to the voices always just beyond her understanding. Once she nursed a fancy that the mounds about her covered the ruins of some keep and those who filled the dark with whispering sound were the soul-shadows of those who had lived there. Such things had been known among the legends of her people.

Oddly enough she no longer felt any fear. It was as if the purpose which had sent her on also enveloped her spirit, encasing her with a sense of protection. Right, then left, the way would turn, and her feet with it. And all around ever the darkness.

Did she walk all the rest of the night? Brixia could never afterwards be sure—nor did she know how long she had lain in exhausted sleep before she had started on. One foot was set before the other mechanically now. She did not even try to see what lay ahead, the will which moved her superseded her own.

Nor was she aware at first that the country around her was changing. The mounds were growing fewer, but such as remained gave her, though she could see little of them through the dark, a feeling of being much higher. Then the butt of the spear which she used for a support thudded home not on soil but on something hard, which gave forth a ringing sound that stirred her out of the half dream in which she moved.

Brixia raised her head. There was a dull gray in the sky. She dropped to her knees, released a little from the compulsion to keep on. So the light of the flower fell directly on the ground about her. There was a wide stretch of blocks, fitted one to the other in a manner which could only mark a road. Across the nearest ran a drift of soil. While planted in the midst of that, with the firmness of something stamped with a purpose, was the clear mark of a cat’s paw.