by Andre Norton
Dream power—lore long forgotten in this land! She knew without explanation that this was the gift he was offering her now: such might as a great lord—or lady—could wield to gather all the world into an iron grip.
Krista swayed, her body striving to betray her. An unseen force was cloaking itself about her, pushing her closer to—
“NO!” She spoke her denial aloud, and in the same moment she was aware of new knowledge. This one—no true trader—was here to play on the greed of the village. Indeed, those of the company surging around the wagon (though some few had stopped, torn themselves away, and were watching the two who stood apart), looked like folk completely overcome by desire.
The outlander was smoothing, almost stroking, the cover of that noisome book, which seemed to Krista to waft forth an ever-growing foulness. Again she braced with all her spirit’s strength against taking what he had to offer. The volume of vision-lore use was truly the most valuable thing he possessed; but by offering it to her, he had, in his arrogant assurance that she would be unable to resist, resummoned her dream—
Again Krista moved, not to step toward the merchant but rather to shake free the quilt that hung limply before her. Strength whose like she had not known she could summon flooded into her arms in that moment and, even as the scarf had lifted weightlessly into the air, this far heavier work of her hands rose. The red of loving hearts, the gold of good fortune flashed brilliantly in the sun. She whirled the bride-piece out, fearing suddenly that she might not have the agility to make it reach to where it must go. But—
The trader, who had opened the foul book, snapped it shut again as the cloth reached him. From its pages puffed up a black dust—and the girl knew that he used, now, his ultimate weapon.
Even as that murky powder thickened, the quilt tugged itself loose from the last fingerhold Krista kept upon it. She heard fear-stricken cries, answered by harsh orders barked by the Keeper. The villagers turned as one and stumbled away as fast as they could, women dragging screaming children, men waving staffs and walking backward as though to put themselves between the merchant and their kinfolk.
Red and gold—warmth of heart and truth of soul—the two were mingled together as the quilt found its prey. So brilliantly did the colors blaze that Krista’s eyes were dazzled until she was near blinded.
The bride-piece settled. Through its bright expanse nothing could be seen of the outlander. Down, down, it fell; then there was no sign of any wandering trader—or Dark One.
Fire flared, leaping to the canvas of the wagon with a roar of what might have been vengeance. In the same instant vile odors arose, and tendrils of sooty smoke coiled out, seeming wishful of trying to reach those who watched.
There was a last burst of raging flame, and then the fire was gone. Where the wagon and beasts had stood was nothing save withered grass, but where the malevolent merchant had paused to confront the maker of the quilt lay a circle of scorched earth.
Krista sank to her knees, her face buried in her oft-pricked hands. She had trifled with a great Power—and, by the traditions of her people, payment would be demanded for this day’s work.
Then hands were on her shoulders, supporting her and drawing her to her feet.
“Have no fear, daughter—you have destroyed the Dark in one of Its guises. True foretelling, Krista, a true foretelling dream!”
The girl turned her head a little so she could see the Keeper’s face. In it, she read concern, but also pride—pride in her and her ability with the needle.
She summoned a wan smile and, within her, peace and belief were warm. Then she glanced to where the work of her hands had become a weapon, and she said, with a small catch in her voice,
“It seems that I must needs set to work again, or there will be no bride-piece come oathing-day.”
Another quilt, yes—but one born of a dream of heart, not head.
Procession to Yar
Guardsmen of Tomorrow (2000) DAW
The Guardian lay belly down on the sun-heated rocks, as flat as if his yellow-furred skin held no body. In the wide canyon below, the intruder crawled at an even pace, seemingly undeterred by the rough ground. There were no signs of any legs below its oval bulk, no other signs of propulsion. It might be a Fos beetle swollen to an unbelievable size.
Almost directly below the Guardian’s perch, it halted. Sound carried easily as a portion of the nearer side swung up. Movement there, then first one and a second creature emerged to stand beside the crawler, pointing to the rock wall and uttering loud noises.
The Guardian froze. It could not be true! For all the generations his breed had kept watch, there had been no such coming. Still, on the wall below were carved, painted, set so deeply that time had not erased, representations of figures akin to these invaders.
One of them ran back to the beetle, returning with a box. Holding that up with forepaws, the creature made a slow passage before the wall from one end of the procession to the other.
The Guardian’s muscles tightened as he gathered his feet under him, rumbling a growl deep in his throat. What did they do? Was this offering a threat to the Far Time? Might they even be trying to wipe away this message of the Great Ones?
He edged backward. Now he could no longer watch them, but it was time he followed orders. These intruders looked so much like the pictures he had seen from cubhood.
Following a trail worn by countless generations of his kind, he pushed between two spurs into the opening behind. His claws were well extended, searching for holds as he passed into darkness.
It had been four seasons since the last inspection, but there had seldom been trouble with rockfalls. He dropped into a long chamber. Though the right-hand wall seemed intact, there were concealed openings that emitted enough light to serve a race with well-developed night sight. In turn, those offered spy holes.
He could hear sounds, meaningless to any pattern he understood, and sensed rising excitement. Two strides brought him to the nearest spy hole.
The invaders were just below him, and he studied them carefully for the report he must make. Like the Great Ones, they walked on their hind legs and were tailless. Their forepaws easily handled objects. But they were not altogether alike—the fur on the head of one was grayish while the other had a fire-red patch.
He began to understand that the constant sound was their form of communication. They would not—or could not—touch mind patterns in the proper manner. But perhaps—
One could contact a spas, though the winged ones of the heights were certainly not People, and those of the water-ways also used mind touch. Dared he try such with these?
He centered his full attention on the one with the red fur and tried to channel. It was the only way he knew to understand who—or what—they were, or from where they had come.
The thought pattern he touched was alien—like a fast-flowing stream ready to swallow up any mind thrust. Red Fur stopped his spray of sound, swayed back and forth, his paws holding his head. His companion caught his shoulder to steady him, uttering louder noises.
Instantly the Guardian threw up a screen. Even if he had not been able to truly contact the others, there was no reason to believe that they did not have power or powers like enough to his own to strike back.
Instead he sent a warning back to the Caves, addressing the duty officer. Only seconds later he was locked to Yinko and giving a report.
“They are somewhat like the Great Ones in appearance. And they are studying the Procession to Var.”
“Have they sought out the Gate of Retrieval?”
“Not so. They have only viewed the carvings. But could it be”—it might be blasphemy to send that thought—”some far kin to the Great Ones have returned after these tens of tens of seasons?”
Yinko did not immediately reply, but when he mind touched again, it was an order.
“Keep watch, report if they do more than look. We shall come.”
Red Fur was on the ground leaning against a rock. His companion r
eentered the beetle. The Guardian studied that carrier as much as his angle of sight allowed.
It was well known that the Great Ones had servants not of their own species. Once, before they had left, they had chosen to instruct the People in many strange things. For a while after they had left, the People still controlled things of metal which could eat out new caves and make life easier in many ways. In time, those had died, though some were kept in memory of those days.
The second intruder was returning with a container he placed on the ground by Red Fur. He pushed something into the mouth of the younger one who then drank from the container. But he still sat with his head supported by his hands, hunched in upon himself.
The Guardian was bemused. It was evident that Red Fur’s plight had been brought about by the attempt at mind touch. So—these could not be any far kin of the Great Ones. They had been masters at such contact.
Thus the People had a defense without having to descend to claw and tooth. If his mild attempt had so brought down Red Fur, what would an all-out thrust by the Elders do? He relaxed as curiosity overcame wariness. What did the beetle riders want here? They had appeared greatly excited by the wall paintings, one of the last rock messages remaining. But it was not those faded carvings which had stationed Guardians here so long.
Those only pointed the way to what the Great Ones had put in keeping for a return which had never come. They had stored secrets beyond secrets. This was the outer shell of a storehouse and the warning had been impressed upon the People that only the Great Ones should ever seek its inner heart.
“—sun—”
Galan, Histechneer, Second Class, steadied his head with both hands and somehow managed to answer Narco.
“Not sun—” With an effort he raised his head. His sight was misted at first, but after a few moments he could see the anxiety in the other’s face.
Galan drew a deep breath and tried to make sense of what had happened—not only for Narco but for himself. There was no reasonable explanation.
“In my head—something—from outside—”
Narco sat back on his heels. “An attack? But what—how?” He continued to survey the younger man closely. “All right—the old rule holds—to each world its powers and secrets. A mental invasion?” He slewed around to look at the wall. “A protection? But this is very old. Could any security device last so long?”
Not waiting for an answer, he went back to the crawler and returned wearing a shock helmet and carrying a second one for Galan.
The eye screen cut out some of the punishing rays of the sun. Wearing it did give a sense of security though Galan still felt shaky.
Narco had gone to stand before the wall at midpoint, his eyes sweeping from right to left and back again.
Perhaps it did conceal some secret, but the pictures were plainly meant to represent a journey. Only nowhere else during trips out from the survey camp had they found any indication of such a civilization as these pictures suggested.
There were a number of platforms apparently hovering above the ground unsupported in any way, each carrying heaped-up cargo. Scattered among these floating platforms were people: humanoids.
To have carved and painted this wall would have taken a long time, yet in their own sweeps of exploration they had not found any trace of settlement on this world. Of course the Zacathan head of their expedition might have information he had not yet shared.
“Who—what were they?” Galan staggered up.
Narco shrugged. “Guess. It always comes in the end to guessing. But this is a major find—will surprise some people.” He grinned.
That was true. There had been grumbling in the camp lately, though Galan was sure no one yet had said they were wasting time—at least not when the Zacathan was within hearing distance.
Narco retrieved the recorder and was reciting into it a careful description of each section of the wall.
Yes, the time-blurred figures in that Procession were certainly humanoid. They walked erect. Unlike the floating platforms, they needed the support of the ground beneath their feet.
But no matter how hard he tried, Galan could not clearly distinguish any features. Their elaborate headdresses were as secretive as masks.
As Narco went to signal their find to base camp, Galan began to pace along the line of carvings. He noted now that the parade was led by a single figure several lengths ahead of the rest. All of them were wearing tight-fitting garments, each having a belt from which dangled a number of unidentifiable objects, The leader, however, carried a round ball breast high, resting on the palms of both hands. And that ball appeared to be of some substance not native to the cliff, dark gray in color.
The Procession ended just before a fault in the cliff wall itself. Instead of a smooth surface, there was a fissure, triangular in shape, one angle pointing skyward. This was packed tightly with rubble, thoroughly corked.
Tomb? Treasure chamber? Temple? Galan approached that matting of stones cautiously. There had always been a pattern in Forerunner finds on other worlds. Those had varied from the remains of cities to what might only have been temporary encampments. And there were many different races, so these finds had varied to a striking degree.
If something did lie behind that packing of rubble—Every seeker of the past longed to make the GREAT discovery. The Forerunners had spread through the galaxy, ruled a mighty stellar empire, only to vanish in a sea of time where his own people could not hope to venture beyond the shallows.
Stepping back several feet, he continued to survey that triangular mass from bottom to top. But, as Galan’s glance reached the tip, he stiffened. Crowning that point very near the lip of the canyon was—
A carving? But one far more clear-etched,—it could have been finished this very day. A head! But not that of any humanoid. The features were almost hidden in a full bearding of red-gold hair or fur. While the broad nose and jaw appeared to resemble a beast’s muzzle, the eyes were very large and a startling green, making one think of sun-touched gems.
Galan could not remember sighting that image during their previous close study. Suddenly, there was a grating sound and, from a point not far below that head, a detached stone fell. Galan’s hand went to the stunner at his belt.
As his fingers closed on the weapon, they seemed to freeze in a rock-hard position. He struggled to call Narco, only to discover that he was not only held by invisible bonds but also unable to speak.
The green eyes continued to study him impassively for a long moment and then the head withdrew, leaving a dark hole behind. As it disappeared, he found himself free of the strange paralysis that had gripped him.
“Narco!” He felt he dared not turn his back on that hole, and his stunner was out and ready.
“What?” His companion stopped short when he saw the weapon.
“Up there—” Galan used the stunner to indicate the hole as he told what he had seen and how he had been helpless when he thought of trying to defend himself.
Yinko slipped back to where the Guardian and his own escort of scouts waited.
“Weapons they do carry, but against the Power those can not act. They are certainly not of this world.” He paused and looked to the Guardian. “Since touch sent one into helplessness, it may be necessary for us to unite and open their minds, to discover what they would do here.”
What he suggested was against the First Law and they all knew it. But there was also the oath by which the People had been bound. That which they guarded must not fall into the hands of invaders.
“Upon me,” Yinko continued, “the debt of such an action shall fall.”
Yinko’s words were interrupted by an odd sound which none had ever heard before, a sound that seemed to come from out of the air. A “thing” crossed the pale green of the sky. Not a spas—infinitely larger and moving without any bending of wings.
Instinctively, the party on the cliff flattened themselves down on the rock. The sky thing coasted along above the canyon to where it widened at the
northern end. There, the object dropped until it settled near the beetle and sand sprayed out.
As had happened with the beetle, a side opening appeared and more invaders disembarked. However, these did not resemble those from the beetle. The first was humanoid, the body covered with a form-fitting garment not unlike the hue of the rocks. A tight black cap covered all but the humanoid’s facial features. High on its shoulders the newcomer wore a bag; from this projected a second head, much smaller and furred.
This first comer moved a short distance away, in a manner which suggested wariness to the watchers above though there was no weapon to be seen. Another figure emerged from the flyer. This one was taller and not of the same species, for all its visible skin was scaled. The hairless head was backed by a fan of skin which rose like a bristling mane, the forepart lying about throat and breast like a collar.
There was an added oddity to this stranger. The left arm was shorter, ending in a hand far too small for the size of the rest of the body, and the appendage on the right was hardly larger.
The scaled one raised that stub of a right hand and started to join the earlier invaders. However, his companion swung around suddenly, as if his body must shield the other from the carved wall, while he also signaled.
Black Cap faced the cliff squarely while the creature he carried in the backpack rested its chin on his shoulder to stare at the carved wall.
On his way to join the newcomers, Galan halted also—half expecting to see a furred head appear aloft.
Naturally, the Histechneer Zurzal had come at the first report of their find. Ranking very high among the Zacathans, he had supplied the backing to assemble this expedition. This planet, for some reason of his own, had been his first choice for investigation.
Black Cap was a Shadow, a professional guard, the Zacathan’s constant companion, formally oathed to his service. It was well known that Zurzal was on the Black List of the Thieves Guild, having ruined one of their long prepared missions, and it was well he did travel with one of the formidable Shadows.