Moon Called

by Andre Norton

  Thora nodded. “Always a pattern,” she agreed. “What is the true purpose of these things which you guide so?”

  “They are weapons—such weapons as have not been seen—even in the Days Before, I believe. I think they were new made then, hidden for some reason—to be used only in some last battle. Just as we were raised and trained for that same warfare. They can and do carry death in a new and dreadful form, control powers which are not the kind we know—for they are neither of the light nor the dark, do not answer to words of ceremony, but can serve only those trained in their secrets. Now we take them to the Dark and with them,” she spread her clawfingers wide, “we shall render such an accounting as perhaps shall banish the shadow. Maybe not forever, for that I believe cannot be done, but at least drive it hence for a space—”

  Thora drew a deep breath. This was all like some wild trader legend. Still there stood the crawlers, and she had watched Tarkin make that mighty bulk answer to her as Thora's own knife and spear answered to the muscles of her body.

  Surely this was an odd weaving, yet she could see how the strands had been gathered together—her discovery of Malkin—the finding of the underground storage place—then her journey to the valley—her own first brush with the Red Cloaks—her coming to the place of the furred ones and her meeting with Tarkin. Then came all the rest—the return for the treasures of the Days Before, the drums (which Tarkin believed reawakened memories) to teach the furred ones their once purpose in life— Yes, all was so well woven she could believe that this was how it was meant to be. What was the final design? The defeat of the Dark Ones with these forgotten weapons? It would seem that the furred ones and the valley men were united upon that. And she was still a part of it all whether she chose or not.

  Awakening they moved boldly by day, crunching their way onward. Even in the sun, both sword and wand could mark for them the path along which the vanquished Dark Ones had come. Now Kort took to coursing ahead, adding his own senses to their seeking.

  They had been two nights and a day on their way when, on the dawn of the second day, they saw ahead the rise of a dark mound, in the grey light that was familiar to Thora. This indeed was that place to which the silver footprints of her vision had led her.

  The crawlers came to a stop and those riding leaped down. Then doors opened in the sides of the huge machines and they pushed inside —even Kort, coming at Thora's call, though he growled uneasily.

  Within was a space as large as a small room, with stools fastened to the floor set at intervals. Before each of those wide murky plates on the wall. Thora seated herself cautiously, Kort on the floor beside her.

  From somewhere came a bell note and that plate before her cleared into a window. She looked out at the dark side of that fortress.

  Below each window a ledge jutted out from the wall, forming a half table above the knees of those seated there. On that surface lights began to play, shining faintly out of small pits the size and shape of a finger tip.

  “Weapons controls?” Makil asked, not as if he were expecting any answer but rather musing on his own guess.

  Lights as weapons? Thora could not see the connection—but then all of this was alien. She kept her hands firmly in her lap, resting by instinct over the moon gem.

  That remained cold, lifeless. Now there was the prick of fear in her. But she must not allow that—must instead use her trained power to combat it. What—what if the Lady did not reach here? Thora was more lost within this rumbling box than she could be inside that threatening fortress ahead—for she had no control over any force now.

  The girl shivered, longing to batter her way out of the crawler, but she was not even sure her legs would support her to the door. Her strength seemed draining along with her confidence.

  Then, brighter even than the sun rising in the sky, a wall of flames leaped ahead of them. Sullen, blood red those were, giving off a black, greasy smoke which was forming a thick fog.

  If that was meant to blind them, it had no effect upon the machine in which they sheltered. For that began again its ponderous advance onward, though all Thora could see was fog and raging flame. She expected to feel the heat of that through the shell of these walls, roasting them. For this was not just a barrier of fire, it spread quickly into a pool encompassing them.

  But they felt no heat as on they went. Until before them, looming high as they so deliberately approached, was the bulk of the fortress. This was unlike any structure Thora had seen—more as if someone had found a mountain of stone and then set about rendering it into a citadel within walls nature herself had provided. There were slits which might be windows, but those were few, narrow, and placed well above ground level. While there was no sign of any door.

  At last the crawler pulled to a halt facing a sullen reach of dark stone. Then into Thora's mind shot a sudden sharp command. She knew that came from Tarkin—even as her hands moved to obey and her voice repeated it aloud as if to better impress it upon her mind:

  “Blue—yellow—white!”

  Those were among the color pits on the board and she touched each in just that sequence. She saw that Makil was doing the same, trailed by Borkin a breath or so later.

  There followed a brilliant lance of light, first rippling blue, then yellow, building to a near blinding white—shooting forth in three parts, to unite before those touched the stone. On the far edge of her screen Thora saw the coming of another such beam and believed that must spring from the second machine.

  Now answered a sound, faint, far away. Still it hurt her head, seemed to pull at the muscles of her body as if it would take command of her, flesh and bones. A drummer? If so the crawler provided part protection against that other kind of attack.

  Kort howled, pawing at his ears, his more sensitive hearing suffering the most. But, though human bodies twitched, and within Thora, at least, panic grew, they kept their fingers upon the buttons and the lance of light held true.

  Held and ate. Beneath its touch rock crumbled, turning red, and then a sickly yellow— finally white. It fell in chunks and then actually melted into sluggish riverlets. The light opened a door where there had been none before.

  So they broke the outer ring wall of the Dark fortress and moved on into an open way they had so uncovered. The lance of light shifted before them.

  “Blue!” Again that order. Thora snatched away two fingers. The lance of light thinned to show them a pathway, rather than to destroy a barrier.

  They trundled down a hall, between great pillars. Thora recognized this for a part of her vision. The thrumming of the drums became stronger. She must hold fast to the edge of the board with one hand in order to keep her seat, make sure her fingers were firmly in place.

  The light fanned ahead, showing only emptiness. Where were the fighters Thora had confidently expected to see? That such had not shown also fed her growing fear. She could not believe that even these alien machines might so easily break the Dark defenses.

  The drums—yes, the drums! Her body shook near beyond her ability to control it. That rhythm was stealing away her thoughts, blanking out her awareness. Could just sound defeat them so easily?

  On went the crawler, not hurrying, continuing at the same steady speed it had kept on its journey across the land. Now that light lance reached and touched—held steady.

  Drums—drummers—nine of them! Their drums ranged from one nearly as tall as the man who beat upon it, to another so small she might almost have cupped it in her hands, before which the drummer squatted in a hunkered position.

  They did not seem startled when caught in the beam of the light. Instead their blind eyes stared straight at it. Their faces remained blank. They, themselves, might be machines fashioned in human form.

  Thora waited for another order from Tarkin. Were they to turn upon these blind men that ravaging force of the combined lights? But there came no such command. The girl began to realize that the crawler, as powerful a weapon-transport as it might be—had never been intended for such
a confrontation as this. There were other forces here, drawing battle onto another plane—one impervious to the machine. It seemed that the same thought had struck Makil, for he turned to Borkin, and then to Thora.

  “This now becomes a matter of power—”

  The girl cringed. She was certain that the carrier itself was a part protection against the force of the drums. To venture forth would put them at the mercy of that Dark weapon. Power—what she was so very little—nothing against this! Still she realized that there was no other answer—that they must now carry war to the enemy in what was indeed another way—armed only by what was open to those who walked the Path of Light.

  Somehow Thora got to her feet. The blue lance had not disappeared when they raised their hands. It still illuminated the screen. Its intensity was also fed on the other side from the second crawler.

  Makil, sword in hand, opened the door. Borkin crowded close behind him, wand at ready. Thora tore open her jerkin, not only to draw out her jewel, but to display the mark on her breast. She was the Lady's and in this war she would wear her mark proudly, even to death.

  The drums were an agony. Even to move under that pounding beat which twisted and threatened them so was a torment. Still they stumbled and wavered to the front of the crawler, to face the drummers. None of those nine showed any awareness—they only continued to create that weapon of sound.

  Thora saw both Makil's and Borkin's lips move, she was certain they were reciting some ritual. Now she raised the moon gem and breathed upon it, then spoke about its shape her own plea:

  “I am the servant, Thou the Lady,

  I am the hand to obey, the weapon to use,

  the body to serve—

  I was born to Thy service, and by Thy will I

  live, to die at the time ordained.

  Let now Thy great light come into me—I am

  a cup to be filled that I may do what is

  needful in this hour.

  Blessed be Thy commands—let my ears hear

  them, my hands and feet to obey—

  Blessed be ever the Will which moves me

  take me for Thy everlasting service—”

  Strong was that ritual, one which only the Three-In-One might lawfully utter. But in this hour it was the only one to be used. If she erred in calling to her a power which was not hers, then death might well follow. Only there could be no faltering now—this was the life design.

  Makil held high the Weapon of Lur. She could see the quivering of his body; he must be fighting hard against the drums. Borkin had his wand pointed outward. She drew on the last of her own strength and lowered the gem to the level of her heart.

  From the tip of the wand began to uncoil a spiral which curved out and out. But from her own focus of force the radiance was not too defined—rather it spread as moonglow. The Lady's lamp hung not overhead, but lay in Thora's hand.

  While the Weapon of Lur struck with its beam of clear light, and down that road sped the fighting sparks.

  Those reached the drums, danced upon the taunt skins, while the spiral fell, to encircle them, then began to tighten and draw in. A giant noose might so have been flung to catch drummers and instruments. The radiance engulfed all-dancing sparks, spiral, and the drummers.

  There was a long moment when Thora feared failure—

  Then the drums burst as they had in her vision. Those who had played them, tumbled to the pavement as if only the sound they had created were their real life—otherwise they were as the long-time dead.

  Somewhere from high overhead, sounded a cry—of a rage so terrible that the very fury of it swayed Thora, already weakened by the drum power. She staggered, Makil caught her arm, steadied her. She was aware, in the blue light, of Tarkin erupting from the top of the crawler, taking a great leap to the second of the machines. It was toward that that they all now fled, pushing into the door held open for them, where Martan and Eban stood ready to haul them in. Thora saw Kort coming towards them. The hound's teeth were closed upon the hand of a man—one who stumbled and tottered, walked as blind-eyed as the drummers, one whom Borkin seized and bore with him into the shelter.

  They dropped to the floor, strength drained out of them. Thora felt the shudder of the crawler coming to life. It was moving, where she could not have said.

  When she could raise her head to look at the “windows” she saw that they were backing out of the citadel—emerging into the clear day. The machine lurched, shaking them from side to side. It was plain that it was being forced to the highest speed it could maintain.

  She threw her arm about Kort, wondering dimly where he had found that man over whom Eban now bent. The dog was shaking violently but he did not even growl.

  Now—the crawler was—were they about to return into the foul nest of the Dark?

  Thora could have shouted that protest. Her attention was all for the “window.” There lay the citadel, ugly under the sun, a blot on the whole world. She could see the ragged hole they had burned. Now she waited tensely for the enemy to issue forth from that—

  There was a rumble; the very ground under the carrier moved. The solid earth might have been a wave across a pond. Then—the rise of rock before them quivered visibly. It moved—upward—outward—before collapsing upon itself into a huge, smoking pile of debris. The fortress had been reduced to rubble!

  That crawler they had left behind—had it accomplished this without direction? Perhaps even that was possible by this strange other way of Power.

  Thora was so drained she rested in a stupor of weariness, as she shared the cramped quarters during their journey back across the flat-lands. What was put into her hands she ate, she drank when Tarkin or one of the others handed her a water bottle. Makil and Borkin looked to be in a hardly better state—Malkin hovering over her blood-brother, tending him. While Karn lay quiet but still living, a matter of concern for his fellows.

  However when they reached the entrance to the storage place Thora shook off the daze which had held her so. She spoke to Tarkin first, for now she held the furred one of more importance than the valley men—in her own way.

  “What will you do now—be what you say you were meant to be—a driver of these machines?”

  “Not so. The flower cannot refold itself into a bud. We were seed planted, we grew, and we shall not return to what the Former Ones thought to make of us. These—” she looked to Martan, who as usual, was examining the machine with a very eager light in his eyes, “shall strive mightily to relearn the old secrets. I do not think they are wise, but such is their nature and they cannot deny it. We shall not aid them. We are free—what was once forgotten can be so again.”

  Thora gave a small sigh of relief. She had feared another answer—an awakening which was not of the Faith—perhaps a way which could lead to a new Darkness if they meddled too much with such soulless power.

  “You are right, sister—” Tarkin's hand lay on hers. “Our answer is already there—” She nodded to the crawler. “You saw what its fellow did to the Dark Halls? This one, when we leave here, shall do the same for what has been hidden.”

  Thora watched Martan. “Will they let you?” she was doubtful.

  “They shall have no choice. They have not the secrets we have. And such machines as these must not be loosed upon the world now,” Tarkin said firmly and then continued:

  “And you, sister, do you go to the valley?”

  Thora smiled. “I think my answer to that you already know, Tarkin. Their life is not for me. I believe I was led here to serve the Lady—that in Her own way She has trained me as no other priestess has been fashioned before. Thus I remain in Her service, and She is not of the valley.”

  “That is so.” Tarkin hesitated for a moment. “However, there may be perhaps one who will try to change your mind upon the matter.”

  Thora glanced at Makil who knelt by Kara, helping the rescued man to drink.

  “He has Malkin—in a comradeship more complete, I believe, than any I can understand. No, I
am a Chosen—and there must be more for me to do.”

  Tarkin's hands lay soft on her shoulders. “Slip away then, sister. But remember there remains a bond between us two—even though it is not sealed in blood. I, also, think that there is another way to walk. Go forth as the Maiden, for so you now are. Serve Her well—but watch often by your night fire, so shall I come—for I am also Chosen!”

  With Kort as a silent shadow, her pack reclaimed, Thora did slip away before the fall of night. Saying no farewells, for those would be useless words. There remained a wall between which she had been wise enough to recognize. Makil was already claimed by custom. Nor did the Maiden take a mate. She was—free!

  That word sang in her head as she ran, Kort by her side. The world opened before her. The Lady must have other plans. She would be a part of those before the final knot of the weaving was set and the pattern finished.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.