Moon Called

by Andre Norton

  On rolled the monster. Thora glanced from side to side—first to its unrelenting advance, and then at the enemy. The three, who had backed the Dark Lord and commanded the early invasion forces, now lay on the ground, their bodies twisting, their hands over their eyes. The drummer was silent at last. He had crumpled at the very feet of his master, his blind face hidden where it rested on the drum he no longer beat.

  Yet the Dark Lord stood, and his power waxed higher and higher, it was as if flames were running along his body, flaring upward from his cloak. Their tips reached forward towards the monster as his lips shaped words, which, to Thora, seemed to have substance, as if they issued forth in small puffs of evil black smoke. Still his defense held against the beam of the sword.

  Now the monster was close and, for the first time, the girl suddenly realized that this was no thing with any life of its own. No, it was one of those metal made things which had been stored here—which was serving Makil now, as had the wings served Martan. In some manner the men from the valley had brought into half-life this thing, a servant of the Days Before. At the same time she sensed that against such as this no ritual of the Dark One could act, for a thing so fashioned possessed no mind, no essence of spirit which could be touched by power. It was no living animal, no man— nothing but lifeless material.

  The thing was within touching distance now. Thora flattened herself yet more tightly against the box wall—fearing that she might be swept down, pulled under its bulk as had the hunting beast of the Dark Ones. She smelled—

  Why did she still smell the flowers of the furred ones’ dancing place? Why—?

  Thora let out a cry and pressed the jewel so tightly in her hands that its plain silver rim of mounting cut into her flesh.

  “Tarkin!” That name broke from her lips like a cry.

  There was no answer in words. Instead a wave of reassurance, of comforting warmth. Kort and Makil rode this monster, but Tarkin—Tarkin was sending it to its goal!

  Forward still it ground its way; the bulk of it passed Thora. She could see that it was like the one which they had uncovered in their search of this place earlier—save it was smaller. There was no sight of wheels such as a Craig cart possessed. Rather the thing might be sliding forward on its belly like a giant snail.

  The waves of heat aroused by the Red Cloak were reaching such a temperature that Thora slipped back and away as best she could. Some of the boxes were beginning to char. She must get out of range of battle lest she be caught in this fire born of will—a thing which she could understand better than she could the creeping monster.

  Lur's light still could not break through the Dark One's tight defense. The girl heard sounds among the boxes and stiffened. Out behind the monster stumbled those men of the Dark Force who had been set in ambush. They staggered from side to side, stumbling against one another, their eyes wide and unseeing. As if, by daring to attack the crawling thing, they had condemned themselves to blindness. Now followed a second crawler moving with the same ponderous pace, herding before it the men of the enemy. Among them a tottering second drummer his hands pounding steadily. On the back of this second machine rode Eban and Borkin. There was no sign of Martan, nor of the other furred ones. Nor could Thora see how the great machines were being driven.

  One of the men behind the Dark Lord struggled to his knees and then his feet. He was crying out unintelligible words as he turned and wavered away, unsteadily, as if drained by some deadly wound of body. His two fellows still rolled on the ground, while the first drummer was entirely limp and unmoving.

  The machine ground to a halt only paces away from the Dark Lord. Now, from oily beads which gathered on his forehead ran trickles of moisture. His body trembled, and Thora guessed that he had thrown into this battle the full stream of his life form. Still it would seem that the sword light could not break him. In her own hold the moon gem heated—built—

  Thora now squeezed forward, not back. She edged along beside the crawlers, flinching from the heat of the attack-defense of the Dark One. That she could understand, and in this moment perhaps she could play some small part at last.

  She unhooked the chain which girded the moon gem to her body, allowing it to swing from those links of the Lady's own pure metal. This was no time for a spear, a knife, though it could well be time for an upsetting of two well balanced scales—She moved purely by instinct and that inner voice might be wrong. Thora only knew that she must try.

  Holding the chain firmly by its free end, she swung the jewel back and forth, and then whirled it out towards the Dark Lord.

  Those flames which encircled him, were fed by his knowledge, his spirit, touched the jewel. There followed a flare of such brilliance that Thora cried out, even though she had been shading her eyes with her other hand. Lur's Light drew upon that flare. So fed, it in turn pierced and struck!

  The flames roared into an unholy fire, seeming to draw substance from the light of the sword. They hid the Dark Lord utterly by a wall which was first a sullen red, and then slowly lightened, to the yellow of the full sun—finally to the pure light of the sword beam, or of her own gem.

  That which had been aimed had returned, a thousand-fold.

  The column of flame, now purely white, began to shrink in upon itself, growing smaller and smaller. Thora waited to see the Dark Lord appear once again. But—

  No one stood there secure in pride and power as the flames receded farther and farther. Was he kneeling? No, already the fire had shrunk—was he—?

  There was nothing. Where the Dark Lord had wrought with the full command of the forces he could summon—there was nothing! Even the drummer who had lain at his feet was also gone. The flames in turn dwindled, died.

  Now the two men left from the enemy force moved feebly, raised their heads. But there was no true life in them. They were as husks driven by the wind, allowed to fall where they might. Thora heard the other sounds, turned her head a fraction. Those who had been herded forward by the second crawler were falling—or blundering straight into the walls of the boxes, as if rendered mindless. The second drummer crashed forward—his instrument splintering under his body.

  She believed she understood. In the final drawing-in of power the Dark Lord had pulled upon not only his own strength, but upon all the inner life of those who followed him. What were left now were bodies without spirit cores, bodies which were already beginning to drop to the floor, even the life of the flesh departing when there was no longer a true essence to hold it intact.

  A vast weariness struck at her. Perhaps the Dark Lord had not made of her one of these husks, but he had pried and picked at her spirit. While, in the end, she had given all she had to give when she had used the jewel. Out of her, also had flown power, and, as Thora slipped down the side of the boxes against which she had leaned, she wondered dazedly if she were about to follow the Enemy into the final darkness.

  That did not yet close about her. Makil and Kort leaped from the back of the monster, going forward into the battle field to survey those still remaining. Now the girl witnessed the opening of a lid pushed upward where the valley man and the hound had ridden into battle. Through that a furred body pulled itself.

  Then, with a light leap, Tarkin also dismounted. But the furred one had no eyes for the site ahead. Instead she came straight to Thora, her clawed hands touching the girl gently, first on forehead and then over her heart.

  Tarkin caught up the chain of the gem which was still between Thora's fingers, drew the silver length towards them. She touched the jewel itself with care, as if she expected to find it subtly changed in some manner, and then nodded as if reassured.

  Moving quickly she laid the jewel on Thora's breast, just above the mark which the Lady had set upon the girl so long ago. There was no blazing heat in the jewel to wound and burn, but rather it was cool, as if Tarkin had dripped down upon her fevered flesh purest spring water.

  The furred one again touched her gently. “Rest, sister—we have done much, but there is sti
ll more to do.”

  As if that were an order which she could not disobey, Thora closed her eyes, and then indeed swung into a darkness which was welcoming and in no way evil.

  But it was a darkness in which there was life and movement—although none of it touched her. She was as one, who blind, still walked with sure, swift steps along a road where she knew she could not stumble and which would lead her straight to that which she had always sought.

  Only she did not walk that road alone. There were many others, she could not see—carrying with them a sense of purpose and of need. So that Thora was sure that each had duty to perform. There was a feeling of time which—which was the road itself! That which lay behind ever gave birth to what lay still before. Far back there had been deeds done which were like unto the unopened buds of the flowers of the furred ones; now those deeds must open, then provide the final fruit.

  Thora only trod that road for a heartbeat or so, but she knew it for the stream of true life, and that she was indeed a part of a weaving which had begun long before and was still to have its pattern finally set far, far ahead. The thread which was Thora had been pulled in and out—forming parts of many designs in passing—designs this Thora could not remember, for it was not the part of the thread to remember—unless that was allowed when one reached the destined end of the weaving.

  She was now Thora, but she had been called by other names, and lived in different ways. All of those had had meaning and were of the power—though it might be a different kind of power. She had a flash of seeing—a Thora who went armed and who fought the Enemy—not a red-cloaked one—but of the same breed with weapons—who hurried with a fearful and pressing purpose to duty in a place where much must be hidden against another day—a Thora who had known during that journey the sharp outweaving of death—and then—

  But that insight was only a flash and quickly gone. Yes, that which rested during the outweave could not be remembered. Perhaps the thread of those rested mindless and quiescent until it was time to help form a new design.

  There was the scent of flowers—white bells of flowers. One danced among those drawing in strength—letting it flow out again as a balm and boon to others—

  Thora felt a soft down against her cheek. She opened her eyes. Her head rested in Tarkin's lap, there was the edge of a cup set to her lips, and the furred one was so urging her to drink. The red of the eyes above her was softly glowing—like the small flame of a trail side fire which was in its way a protection against all which might crawl in the dark.

  “Drink, sister. This is now the time to be gone.”

  She felt the rough caress of Kort's tongue against the hand which rested at her side. The hound's bright eyes were watching her. Now he whined as she lifted that hand to lay upon his head. She drank and the liquid was sharp, aromatic. As Thora swallowed and felt it warm her, she knew also a return of strength so that she lifted herself out of Tarkin's hold to look around.

  This was not the edge of the battlefield where she had fallen. They were in a wider, open space and before them on the wall was the outline of a door—a large door. There Martan and Eban were busied. The girl caught a glimpse of one of the same kind of wheels for locking as she had found in the tunnel leading to the place of storage—save that the door this one controlled was far larger.

  There were the two crawling machines, also. Those two which must have brought the battle to the Red Cloak. Sitting perched on them by the open doors in the tops were Malkin and the male each licking from blood vials. As Thora moved Makil came quickly to her.

  The Weapon of Lur was back in its sheath, its hilt showing above his shoulder. He was smiling, and there was a softening in his expression which she had not seen before.

  “That was well done, Chosen,” he said.

  What was well done? For a moment Thora was confused. Then she understood and her hand sought her jewel.

  “Better than that, even, Chosen. You brought us both the key and the lock, and now we shall see what comes of knowledge.”

  Thora shook her head— “I do not understand—” she began.

  His smile grew wider. “Ask this sister,” he nodded to Tarkin, “for indeed it was she who had the answers for us—”

  15

  This time Kort did not lead the way across the open land, rather it was Makil who walked at a steady pace, swinging the unsheathed sword above the quick growing grass. And sometimes from that grass, a stone, or even a spot of bare earth, there would shoot a spark of dull red—sullenly answering the Weapon of Lur, marking the path earlier taken by the forces of the Dark. He would rest at times, returning to ride with the others on those lumbering crawlers awakened from centuries old sleep. Then Borkin took his place, using the wand.

  Thora rode reluctantly. She did not share the valley men's triumph at the new life of these massive things of metal. To her they were dangerous to her own kind and she placed no trust in them.

  However, it had not been the men who had brought them to life. She discovered that when they began that journey and Martan spilled out eagerly all which had happened after she had run to Kort's call. Perhaps the machines had been made by people distantly akin to them, but it was the furred ones who actually controlled them.

  That was almost the hardest to understand of all that had happened. Between such as Tarkin and these huge crawlers now trundling along Thora could see no kinship. Surely those who lived in the flower-entwined wood, and made magic akin to what she knew, could not be tied to this metal bearing—to her—the scent of dusty death. Her world was not the world of the storage place.

  Surely it must have been men who had fashioned these things—men akin to that sentry they had first found dead. Martan, who gloried in his sky-conquering wings, he could be of the same distant blood. Why was not Martan then, or Eban, or even Borkin, the one to sit in that contained space where there was a board of many lights to be fingered—fingers used instead of busy and agile claws?

  Yet it was Tarkin and Malkin who alternated in that cup of a seat there—by its size surely fashioned only for one of their race. And it was the male of their kind who guided the second of the moving boxes.

  Thora could not believe that the furred ones had built these. She mulled over that mystery, as she held on firmly with both hands, set her teeth, gave care to maintaining her place on that tipping, rocking surface. Martan lay belly down on the second machine, his head hanging over the open door, his attention all for the actions of the driver. Eban was beside him on that second crawler, but appeared less concerned with how they were getting there, more with where they were going.

  They crushed and battered a way onward. Nothing seemed able to deter the passing of these creeping fortresses of metal. They crunched earth, even small trees, under their treads—even as the one had overridden that monster of the Red Cloak.

  Sometimes, as she so jolted along, Thora felt as if she traveled in a dream, even though they halted at intervals and she ate and drank with the others. She was still weakened by her struggle with the Dark Lord. Only the waxing moon overhead tied her to what she could understand. Here the Lady could be reached. They were the hunters, and that which Makil and Borkin could control pointed the path.

  At the midpoint of the night they halted to camp. Thora climbed stiffly down from her perch, glad to stand on honest ground again. Borkin and Makil established the protection area, but not about the two crawlers—seemingly careful as they wrought so to avoid any contact with the machines. It was almost as if some half-forgotten enmity lay between the metal monsters and their own things of power.

  She asked no questions, determined that she would keep herself aloof from what she distrusted so. This was not of the Lady—But then the valley men used the wings, thus it followed they were excited, pleased by the crawlers. This enthusiasm set them even farther apart from what she deemed right and natural.

  Tarkin came to sit beside her. The furred one flexed the fingerclaws of both hands as if they had stiffened at their task. Then s
he dug into her food pouch and ate with noticeable appetite. It was as if—though to the eye she had only sat within that cubicle at the top of the machines and moved her fingers—she had performed some heavy, exhausting labor. Now she hissed a sigh, stretching her arms wide, straightening her back. Thora asked the questions which she would not voice to the men:

  “Tarkin—what power do you use?”

  The furred one's eyes were heavy lidded, they did not blaze—though the light in them was warm and steady.

  “We have remembered—”

  “Remembered what?”

  “What was of old and who we are and why we were once born—through forces which were forgotten in the Change. We were born for a purpose, sister—though, in the long years since, we have changed also, becoming in many ways different from what we once were. Still in us there lay a deep memory asleep and it was wakened—perhaps by the power of that demon drumming. A forgotten place in our minds opened—” she shook her head slowly. “It is true that with us sounds have very great powers.”

  Thora remembered that pain-giving sound which Malkin had used to win their battle with the rats, and she could believe that. Also there was the dancing song. Yes, the furred ones had their own form of power—even as she her moon-call gem, Makil his sword, and Borkin that wand.

  “So, suddenly remembering, we went to the task for which we were first intended, we brought out the machines which only we could move. In the Days Before there must have been some reason why we were the ones—” she rubbed her claws across her forehead— “but memory so deeply buried can be faulty. Perhaps my people never even knew why this task must be theirs. We were never like you—but that you already know. We spring from a far different seed, but we were given skills so we were used—”

  “Used?” Thora repeated, that word had a sour taste in her mouth. To use intelligent life—that was of the Shadow, not of the Lady's clear way.

  “Used!” Tarkin was firm. “It was the Change which freed us, that we might learn what we ourselves chose to be, to grasp our own power. Still there was born into us—and that we could not forget—a need to be close to man—such as those of the valley. This bond became a different kind, perhaps, than it was intended—rather one of bloodsharing. Neither of us could understand just why we could and did make such a choice—why most of us had a longing to be so joined. I think it was another thing planned carefully by those who brought about our existence, so that in time of danger, the blood-bound could be ready to face danger as a single entity, one need, one mind— Save—” Now she looked directly at Thora, “when you came there was a new thing—a meeting between us which was not to be bound with blood. Perhaps this is a different pattern—a new one— But there is always a pattern.”