Zarsthor's Bane

7

Almost timidly Brixia put out a finger tip to touch that track. It was real, not some trick played by her eyes in the very dim early light. Uta—if Uta had left this sign—then she herself must have won through the trickery—at least for a time—which had been played on her. If she hurried—then surely she could find the others, she would not be lost alone in a place of witchery against which she had only a flower to use in her own defense.

Brixia wavered again to her feet and staggered forward. The flower itself was once more closing, but more slowly than it had opened. Enough light still spread from it to give her a clear sight of the path. So she continued to spy other markings surely left by Uta wherever there was patch of soil to play her guide.

The mounds no longer closed her in. Also here was something else—a stand of thorned bushes, growths she recognized. Though protected with long thorns as was the fruit still clinging to those branches, Brixia was ready to fight to fill her mouth, know the relief of the tart juice from crushed berries to ease the torment of both thirst and hunger. She ate ravenously, paying no attention to scratches as she jerked whole handfuls of the dark globes from their stems at once. They were poor fare, sour and small. But at that moment she thought them better than any banquet of a high feast day.

Not only did she eat until she was unable to swallow more, but she pinned together some of the leaves, plucking the thorns to do so, and filled as best she could the unsteady bag which resulted from her labors. There was no promise that she might have such overwhelming luck again.

The first streamers of the sun were painting the sky when she had done what she could to assemble her supplies. So having recruited her strength somewhat, she now gave a more detailed survey to the land around her.

Whether or no the mounds through which she had come had been the remains of some ancient ruins, there was evidence enough around that she did follow a way of the Old Ones. Traces of walls projected here and there, and it was plain that a paved road stretched ahead to where some heights greater than the mounds, stood dark against the sky northward.

Since Uta’s tracks pointed in that direction it was where she must go, much as her fast awakening distrust of everything to do with the Waste made her wary. There was no “feel” to this place, however—she sensed neither the peace and welcome which lay about some of the old remains, nor the warning shrinking which was the foretaste of evil to come. The road ran straight ahead, its blocks easy to see, though covered in parts with soil in which grass, even bushes, had taken root to cloak it.

By the clear light of day Brixia faced those higher hills and went forward, but not without such caution as she had learned, until she reached those hills. Like the mounds they were covered with grass, dull green and rather withered looking. While these were only the first of a barrier of rises which grew taller and taller ahead. The road headed straight towards a break between two of the hills.

On either hand stood a pillar of stone. These towered high enough to match the crowns of the wailing hills. The pillars were square with eroded corners, bearing the same signs of great age as had the carvings on the cliff she had descended into the Waste. On the tops had been set figures.

To the right, in spite of the wear of wind and weather, was a representation of a toad thing. It had been fashioned, with unmistakable menace and perhaps warning, in a crouching position as if about to leap from its post to bar the path.

While opposite, not facing outward, as did the threatening toad, but across the gap, staring slit-eyed at its fellow, was a cat. The figure was seated in the same quiet fashion which Uta often chose, the tip of its tail folded neatly over forepaws. It displayed no dark promises similar to the toad’s threat, rather a suggestion of curious interest.

Viewing the toad Brixia’s hand went to her breast, to press against the now closed blossom from the tree. She was not surprised at an answer to that pressure, the feeling of gentle warmth against her skin.

Once beyond the pillars, the road narrowed so that if she stretched her arms as far apart as she might, her finger tips would brush, on either side, the sides of the hills.

Brixia was aware of something else. Though she tried to keep to her steady pace, here she went more slowly. Not by any desire, but with the odd feeling that, with each step she took, she was wading through unseen, adhesive muck which sought to detain her. So shortly her effort to advance became more and more of a struggle.

The hunger which the berries had only in part stilled was again gnawing at her, thirst as well. Her bruised feet hurt, the crude sandals having not protected them over well. Water—food—the hurt of her feet—her body sagged more and more, demanding relief for its needs.

At the same time that other sense of clarity, of oneness with the world, which had been with her from the mornings she had awakened under the tree, was returning to be a spur. Perhaps it was a warning that the needs of her flesh must in no way master her now.

Brixia continued on with dogged stubborness. Above her the slice of sky was clear of any cloud. But full beams of the morning sun were shut out and a chill spread from the hillsides. The girl shivered, and often she glanced behind her. A feeling that she was being followed grew stronger with every breath she drew. Perhaps some creature from the desert dogged her just out of sight. She looked often to the sky, fearing to see, a sweep of black wings there. Always she listened—sure that sooner or later she might hear the gibbering of the toad things, or that confused muttering which had accompanied her through the mound land.

As she watched so intently for what lay both before and behind her, Brixia sighted more paw signs left by Uta. Always they were on the hillside to her left, stretching behind cat marker.

What part had Uta’s people long ago played in the Waste? Brixia had seen from time to time fragments of Old Ones’ working—small figures, grotesque, few of them beautiful—some amusing, but many disturbingly ugly, most of species unknown to the Dales people. There had been a few representations of horses, one or two of hounds (though with odd peculiarities which no Dale dog matched), but never had she seen a cat. In fact Brixia had always believed those had been, as the Dales people themselves, newcomers into a land the Old Ones had largely deserted.

Still it was plain that the sculptured cat on the pillar must be as old as its toad companion. Therefore Uta herself might have come, from no pillaged homestead or keep as Brixia had believed, but out of the Waste. If so—To trust anything out of the Waste was folly.

Slower and slower grew the girl’s pace, for with each step that struggle against the unseen pressure sharpened. Her mouth was dry again so much so a handful of the bruised berries brought no ease. Water—a spring—a brook—Could such be found here? Or was the Waste indeed mostly desert, its sources of water secrets known only to the life which crept, flew, walked here?

The thought of water strengthened its hold upon her mind. She had vivid mental pictures of small pools, of a spring breaking out of the earth.

Water—

Brixia’s head came up, turned sharply right. She was sure she could not mistake that tantalizing sound. Water—running—just over the hill. She faced the steep rise. Just over the hill, or she certainly could not hear it so clearly! Water—her tongue rasped across her dry lips.

Then—

Heat—heat as searing as a glowing iron laid upon bare flesh. She uttered a small cry, clutched at her breast. Under the shirt—

Tearing upon her clothing she examined her body. The flower! Though the tight bud it had returned to this morning had not again opened, it was once more emitting a light which she could see in this dusky way. Not only light, but a strong heat which she had not felt even when she had fronted the bird-woman.

Brixia brought out the bud. The heat it generated did not lessen. Light streamed from the very tip where the ends of the petals folded against each other, a small thread of light reminding her once again of the wick of a burning candle.

On impulse she held the bud closer to the slope she had been about to climb. The light flared, and with that came a surge of heat so intense she might have dropped the bud had she not half suspected such a reaction might occur.

The girl bit her lip. The heat—a warning? She had asked a question in her mind, and that burning flare seemed to leave answered that peril awaited there. But was there water? Now she strained to hear that sound which had been so loud and luring—

It had ceased. Bait for another snare—a trap—? With the bud in the open where she could look upon it so, that reassuring feeling of oneness with the world took an upsurge. Yes, her confidence grew as might a plant in rich earth, well fostered by care.

So the water sound was a trap! Set by whom for whom? Brixia did not think this one set for her—rather it must be one placed long ago—perhaps forgotten, but still working, though the trapper had departed.

She thirsted still; only when she held the bud before her eyes her desires lessened—flesh did not command spirit. The bud must not be hidden but used as the spear, the worn knife, a defense as powerful as either.

However, Brixia discovered that even if the flower could reveal the trap, it was less efficient against that curious pull which kept her walking against the counter feeling of unseen obstruction. Though all men knew magic was both lesser and greater. Some spells, they declared, might move mountains and change the world, and others could scarce lift a pebble. Thus the bud might be a talisman against one danger and little or no aid against another.

The light from its tip did not die. That fact heartened her as the hills grew higher, the way between more and more shadowed. To see the sky now she must strain her head far back on her shoulders and stare directly up.

Ahead the rearing hills came together, forming a high wall. But the path did not end, rather it fed into a dark opening. The arch over that was of stone, set and fitted as if to support a door. No such barrier hung there, however. The way was wide open, yet it did not welcome.

Brixia paused. Her flesh tingled, the light of the bud was brighter, flaring up. This was—a place of Power! Though she had no training as a Wise Woman, she was able to sense that even without such learning—one could feel the out-reaching of this kind of Power in one’s body.

But there were powers and powers. All the world was balanced, light against dark, good against evil. So it was with the Powers—and the Dark could be as powerful and conquering in some places as the Light was in others. Which did she face now? She sniffed for the taint of evil—tried to open some illusive inner sense to give her warning.

She had only the flower on which to build her frail hopes. It and the tree from which it sprung had saved her before. That the toad things who tried to net her with their sorcery were of the Dark Brixia had not the slightest doubt. And the flower had been her defense in the desert as well as protecting her only a short time ago from the enchantment of the promised water, working even here in a place which she had begun to think was tainted with a trace at least of evil.

In truth she had no choice—that compulsion which had brought her into the Waste grew ever stronger as she journeyed. Try as she might now she could go no way except ahead.

Step by halting step Brixia approached the mouth of the doorway. If the light of the bud only continued—the bud? In her hold the flower was once again opening. The girl hurriedly flattened her palm, allowing it room for the petals to unfurl. From those arose that clean and cleansing scent, while the light grew ever stronger.

Still engrossed in the wonder of that new blooming, she passed beneath the stone arch, into a way which would have been as utterly dark as the secret passage of the keep had she not had the flower to hearten her.

The walls were of dressed stone. Within a few paces of the entrance these became dankly damp with trickling moisture. Thirsty as Brixia was, she could not bring herself to attempt to catch that. For the drops were thick and oily, as if formed by unwholesome liquid oozing through the crevices.

Fighting against the dank smell was the fragrance of the flower. Not for the first time Brixia wondered how long the blossom might last before withering. She marveled that such fading had not yet begun… Deeper and deeper bored the passage. By the light of her flower-torch she saw paw marks on the floor. So the others or at least Uta, were still before her.

What did Lord Marbon seek? To his disordered wits had that old doggerel he had sung become a truth he must prove? If so he might push on, uncaring, until he dropped, worn out by the demands of a body which he did not rest nor tend. Or would the boy be able to break through that web of confusion, and, sooner or later, rescue his lord?

Zarsthor’s bane—Brixia shaped the words with her lips but did not repeat them aloud. What was Zarsthor’s Bane? There were tales a-many about lost talismans—things of power which could grant their possessors this or that favor—or in turn bring about this or that fate. It would seem that Zarsthor’s Bane was of the latter sort. Then why did Marbon seek it? To bring revenge on his enemy?

The war was over. Even to such wanderers as Brixia had drifted the news that the invaders had been driven back until, caught between the bitter hatred of the Dalemen and the sea, they had been ground into nothingness. Outlaws there were in plenty, and scavengers out to loot and kill where no lord could marshall a force to beat them off. This was a blasted land in which each man’s hand was raised in suspicious against his fellow. There might be many reasons for a man to long for a “bane” to use as a weapon.

She wondered how far ahead of her the others now were. If man and boy and cat had pushed on they might be a whole day’s tramp ahead. But surely they must have rested—

There was a scuttling noise. The thin radiance of the flower was reflected by two sparks of greenish light near the floor. Brixia paused, took a firmer grip on her spear. She held the flower out, stooping a little, striving to catch a glimpse of what moved there.

A narrow head upraised. This creature was not unlike the lizard she had seen perched upon the rock when she first entered the Waste. It was not one of the foul toads to be feared. When the beam of flower light touched it, the thing did not flee, as she had half expected. Rather it strained to hold its head higher, and that weaved back and forth on a supple neck. Its jaws parted and a tongue flickered at her. There sounded a hiss, as it backed a little away. Keeping always the same distance from her, it made no other move to either advance or retreat

“Haa—” she uttered that, hoping her voice might banish it when light did not. Though the creature did not seem large enough to be a threat, she could not tell if it were poisonous.

Her voice did not send it into hiding either. Instead the lizard paused and reared. Now she could see it was six-legged—different from a lizard of the outer world. It balanced on the four hind feet, lacking any length of tail save a stub jutting from the hind quarters. The two forepaws were oddly shaped—more like her own hands, the clawed digits resembling fingers. These dangled over its lighter underbelly as it watched her.

Brixia stood still. Lizards could move with lightning speed. She doubted whether she could counter any attack with her spear. Though when it was erect it stood no taller than her knee, so size and weight were in her favor. Her best hope was perhaps the flower.

“I mean no harm—” Why she spoke to the creature the girl did not know, the words came from her much as those others had when she addressed the tree. “I only wish to pass this way, seeing that it is set upon me that I must. Remain free from any harm from me, scaled one.”

The tongue no longer flickered. Instead the narrow head cocked a little to one side, the unblinking beads of eyes regarded her, as Uta was wont to do, with a measuring stare.

“I am no unfriend to you and your kin. By this gift of the Green Mother,” she stooped farther, holding the flower still lower and closer to the lizard one, “see that I am without harm.”

A tongue, seeming so long that it could not be furled within the space of the creature’s mouth, lashed forward, held for a moment but finger distance from the flower, snapped back into hiding once more. Still balanced upon the two pair of hind feet, the thing edged away to the left wall of the passage, leaving open the way immediately before her. Brixia believed she understood.

“My thanks to you, scaled one,” she said softly. “Whatever you desire—may that thing be yours.”

She walked by the upright creature, schooling herself to show no apprehension. To it she must convey that she accepted without question what it offered, free passage without harm.

Nor did she allow herself to quicken her pace. If the creature was of the true Dark, then the flower had again proven its worth as a safeguard. If the lizard were allied perhaps to the Light, the blossom must have been her passport.

The way continued and Brixia wondered how large a hill she did traverse, for the way had neither dipped nor arisen, but ran straight. Though there was no gravel here to cut the sadly worn wrappings on her feet, the soles burned and ached, and she was tired. Still, to rest in this dark pocket—no, that she could not bring herself to do.

At last she limped once more into the open. What she saw was a valley shaped like a huge basin, high lands marking its rim, sloping gently downward. Nor could she detect from where she now stood any visible break in that wall of the heights.

What meant the most to her was that the center of the vale cupped a stretch of water. On that part of the bank closest to her burned a fire from which a thin thread of smoke arose. Up from the edge of the water came the boy. Of Lord Marbon she could see nothing—unless he lay in the tall growing grass.

Water more than company drew her stumbling on. She halted once to tuck the closing flower back into hiding under her shirt. Then again using her spear as a support she went on; gaining some relief from the soft grass underfoot.

She was half the distance toward the lake when Uta appeared out of the grass beside her. The cat mewed a loud welcome before, turning, she matched pace with Brixia’s, escorting her toward the small camp. But the boy did not equal Uta’s friendliness.

“Why do you come?” His hostility was as open as it had been at their first meeting.

The words with which Brixia answered him came not from any conscious thought at all. It was almost as if they had been dictated by another.

“There must be three—three to search—and one—one to find and lose.”

Lord Marbon heaved himself up from where he had indeed been lying near, concealed in the grass. He did not look to her, rather replied as if her words had stirred him again into either partial memory or coherent thought:

“Three must be—and the fourth—It is so. Three to go—one to reach outside—It is truly so.”