by Andre Norton
Rentam gestured with one hand as if brushing aside something worn threadbare, an action with its reason lost far back in time.
"Why do we stand here," he asked, "and talk of old tales and whether or not there was death of a city, a curse which grew out of Utyr's orders when he went desert raiding. Rather it would be well for us now to be on our way before that guardian returns, to jealously remove us from its present lair."
"True, true. We shall go hence from here." Modic looked about him as if he stood in some noisome place.
"But from Lonscraft we go not until..." He brought out of the bosom of his robe something which fitted into the hollow of his hand and which he handled as carefully as if he held a palm full of water which he must carry without its draining away.
"Give me the map...."
Rentam handed him that oblong of stone which had the message on it near erased. With this firmly held in his left hand, Modic clapped his right hand about also. Though it looked to be a shard of dull gray, such as lay in the thousands along any trail, Modic was touching it to the map.
It was if he now held a coal, for there sprang up a steady red light in the stone. Modic's features twisted, his lips grimaced as if he did indeed carry a fire's heat against flesh. The fire was answered by a spark on the map, one which glowed as steadily as the Seeker's stone. Modic gave a half-stifled oath, his eyes wide and brightly open so that he would not lose a fraction of what he looked upon.
With the wane of the moon Modic stepped as forward boldly as he would have had it been day. For the lack of anything on which to base a protest, Rentam followed after, leading the horse which plodded as if it had been sentenced to too heavy a 'task.
Lonscraft. In Rentam's mind revolved the name of that ancient death of a city. So far the tale he himself had repeated had been exact.. . yet never had it told what manner of death was spewed forth by the marshes, or why it had not fallen upon those of Betweener blood, just those of Modic's species.
Still, in the many years since that time, perhaps too many to be told over without a knot string to aid, those who ventured into the Great Dry had died... one way or another. None had told what they had chanced upon which was so perilous an enemy.
Lonscraft itself was the name which had been gasped by one of the earlier venturers as he died, tongue stricken save for that word.
They now angled well away from the open center about the dead pool where the others had died. The memory of the color which arose to slay, or else hold the intruders here until something more subtle had come seeking life and blood, haunted Rentam. His hand beneath his cloak sought out that piece of fire curling stone which he had found in the ruin. Yes, there was a brilliant swatch of color to match that which had flashed to kill on the rod or knife.
With each step he took, he glanced sharply about and then at the blade. The star-dotted sky above the central buildings remained free of lighting or change. Though color still swirled within the pointless blade, it did not even reflect on the hand which held it. Still there was a feeling.. . Rentam's head jerked as if that sudden thought had been a blow. Why did he come to imagine thus as he followed Modic through these ruins? Never before had he conceived of things which were not of the earth he knew.
Oh, there had been tales a-plenty concerning demons and creatures from other worlds (with hints that the meddling of some man or Betweener had opened forgotten gates), but always such had appeared or had happened to some guide or wanderer from another clan. One far away enough for the report to become muddled and overlaid with all the fears which were a part of their heritage.
He knew well that the men of the lower lands by the rivers had similar ghosts. Nor were there many who even dared to make a short essay into the Dry with or without a guide. Still there was about Modic now a kind of fever which darkened his skin even under the moon's glow, and made his journey one of erratic pauses and swifter advances, as if two desires warred violently within him, now this and now that taking command.
It was the horse who broke through the Seeker's tight absorption.
Not uttering any sound, it drew back upon the rein, jerking its head as if to free itself. Bracing its spindly legs within a narrow way between two piles of rubble, it refused to advance.
Modic at once appeared fully awakened from his obsession. He stood dragging with all his force at the reins... the horse's head now stretched forward at a painful angle. It was the animal that struck first. It kicked out, though it was not facing Modic, and Rentam , who had had no part in its pull forward, was the victim of that assault.
There was a keening wail... not from either man or beast in their struggle, nor from Rentam either. The guide threw himself backward, not only to escape the hooves of the animal but in utter surprise .. . for the sound issued from the artifact he had found. Nor did it emit a single note, rather a near scream which was suddenly cut off. Neither the horse nor Modic turned to see what had made that cry. Rather the horse sprung forward, near overrunning the man as it burst out of the narrow way between the two tottering pillars of rubble.
The light from the moon was gone. Clouds built up in the northern sky. Rentam's instinct told him a storm was on the way.
But that was of little importance when compared to this thing he had found. It was emitting a droning beat, broken now and then as if each portion of sound was a word of warning or a threat.
He could have turned in the moment and found his way out of this dead curl of broken walls and mounds of stone. The horse and Modic had vanished around a turn in the debris so that he could not be seen.
It was not curiosity, nor any sense of responsibility toward Modic, which brought him apart from the way where he had taken refuge some moments earlier. Seemingly of its own accord the hand holding the weapon (if weapon it was) shook free from his cloak without his willing it. The colors within were running as if he were turning the stone about in his hand. It was .. .
For a second, perhaps even less, he opened his eyes to their greatest extent. The thing was moving weapon-wise at last, though there was no enemy before him. His muscles responded as they never had to any journey knife or battle staff, thrusting and recovering with a knowledge which he knew he had never learned in any clan drill. His hand and arm might now be possessed by ... By the dead? In all the lore taught by his people there was no room for such an idea. One was born, lived, and when the time set had come, one died. Nor had the ken any tales of the walking of the dead, troubling from those who were past all of this world's sorrows, acts, thoughts. The dead spoke not... between them and the living there was not even the thinnest crack of a doorway.
It was not the dead suspicioned so to frighten some of the Seeker's people and be a part of the dangers of the Dry as far as they were concerned. The Betweeners hinted of dealing with dark powers. Demons . . . some of his kin, he knew, believed that there were unseen malignant forces at loose in ancient cities. This city . . .
Rentam stopped short and stared unseeingly at the shard he held. What of that story Modic had asked of him, a story long current among his own people? The cloaked one from out of the desert who had gone to the marsh pier and thereafter summoned a thing past any man's knowing.
Rentam, still keeping the broken sliver in his hand under a flap of clothing, strode in the direction Modic and his mount had taken. Rounding a tall heap of debris he came abruptly into the open once more. There was just enough light to see a square ahead and the facades of the buildings forming its sides had apparently suffered less from whatever doom had erased Lonscraft. Directly across from him was a seemingly intact building which bore no signs of ruin at all. The wide doorway was above the level of the square so that a flight of broad steps led to its open doorway. Strangest of all in this desert country, there was a runnel which had cut its way through the steps, to a hole which gaped at ground level. Running water? No, the color was wrong. Each drop of that small flood was as scarlet as newly shed blood. While above its surface, back and forth, danced winged things which skimmed so c
losely to the small flood that they might have been swallowed up, yet always they coasted to safety beyond.
Modic had lost hold on the broken rein, the horse backed away ffrom the steps and the liquid on them, showing the whites of its eyes, foam dripping from its nostrils to slime its nose and the bony expanse of its chest. It retreated from Modic, from the building.
Then it swung half around and cantered awkwardly to Rentam's left. Modic was pulling on the head-concealing mask that he had worn when they had entered Lonscraft. As he did so he walked as does one who bends his body against the force of a mountain wind, taking one slow step and then another. He gestured force ably with one arm as if to keep off an attack of flies. While in his other hand was that map which now was a fire to light the whole of the stairway.
If that spark of light upon it had been fashioned to beckon, now surely it proclaimed to be nearly to the goal.
The smooth running rill was disturbed on the surface, now dimpled as if a shower fell upon it. The flies gathered in the upper air to become a black blot, still over the water but hovering above Modic as he climbed.
Rentam shivered. He had known fear before, but it had always been caused by things he understood ... of one of the Vort beasts raiding the herds of the Betweeners... of the sickness which was supposed to strike anyone invading the old cities, of the ill will of his own clan should he break their few but skintight taboos (for that would un clan him and make him as one dead walking among the living). Now... this was like fronting a cold rage, an are so great that his kin could not even sense more than a portion of it.
Here lay in wait a will, a power, a brutal rule which shook him.
Still the time had come ... or he had come ... too far past the borders of its control to struggle against it now.
A will, a power ... he was caught up by sharp command as he came fully into the open passing the horse that now stood with drooping head as if the beast had lost all hope. This horse lived, so did Modic as he climbed from one step of the wide stair to the next. Still, though
Rentam began search with his own heightened guide's sense, he could trace back that bold assault against him to nothing! There was no trace of man, of Betweener, of animal, of life as he knew it, aroused to draw him shivering towards the source. To that highly developed sense, trained to locate life, there came, at last, an answer from a source he had not expected.
From the broken tip of the many-colored blade sped a thin thread of red and blue, entwined one with the other. Those were the same colors as the light which had been thrown across the rubble-lined streets of Lonscraft... the fearsome alien weapon.
What did Rentam now hold? An artifact which was a dueling ground for bursts of killing color? By arousing his will, pitting his inner strength against that pull, the guide was able to linger on the second step, even as Modic reeled and wavered far closer to that aperture above which served as an ever open door.
Inch by inch Rentam edged around to look back over the way he had come. The horse screamed and reared to strike out with its front feet as might a war-trained stallion. Around it ringed a crowd of shadows, curious moving bolts of darkness which never clearly showed themselves. Though there were a number of these remains gathered around the horse, others padded to the foot of the stair to form a double line of dark forms, though they avoided the running rill. Rentam flicked out his tongue in their direction. Full of viciousness, yes, but these were not a true part of that which waited within. However they now formed a guard wall against any retreat, and that could only mean that Modic and he were being edged towards another and doubtless more powerful enemy.
His foot touched on the next step. There was a crackling, the sound of something rolling back toward the waiting band. Rentam saw a skull, polished enough to reflect the gleam of this alien light.
He no longer watched the hunters, rather studied his footing. That remnant of his own species, or Modic's, was not alone. There lay a scattering of broken bones, some near reduced to powder, along each step.
He heard a thin, half-muffled cry which might have come from Modic, muffled as he was by mask. The Seeker tripped, fell to his knees on the last step, his shoulders shaking, his head turning from side to side as if so he tried to avoid blows. Some strong compulsion drew him on to crawl along the platform above as might a seriously injured animal seeking shelter. There was no cracking of splintering bones now, all sound had been absorbed by a deep hum which hurt Rentam's ears, throbbed through his body. Two more strides brought the guide
beside Modic. He reached down and hooked his fingers in the other's armpit, giving a steady pull, while the Seeker scrambled in the bones and flopped about, seeming unable regain to his feet.
"Up!" He was so near to Modic Rentam believed that his words were not lost in that ever growing throb.
"Up to your feet, Seeker.
Would you meet battle on your knees, already so far spent as you seem?"
Modic turned his shaking head to look up at Rentam dull eyed.
Spittle ran from the corner of his mouth and with it a thread of blood from a lip he had bitten though. He showed no understanding, but some part of the guide's urgency must have reached him, as he swung around to clasp both of his sweat slicked hands on Rentam's arm. Using that hold for leverage as he might a tree or rock pillar, he drew himself up, near over setting Rentam in the process, when for a moment or two he hung a dead weight on the other before regaining his feet.
The throbbing grew heavier, more assertive as if something ahead was impatient at their delay. As they moved forward, Modic, still using Rentam as a support, they were plunged into light... a blaze of blue. Modic halted, stopping Rentam almost in midstride, to jerk at the edge of the mask the guide had worn into the city.
"Put on," he croaked hoarsely, his mouth close to the guide's nearest ear.
One-handed, for he could not put aside the gem light he held, the Betweener obediently pulled on the mask once again though he did not like the curtailment of sight which wearing it caused.
Only it was true that once he was again shrouded that blaze of raw light was subdued, and he could see enough to mark the fact they they were indeed in a palace or some incredibly rich shrine.
The light might blot out a measure of response from the display of unbelievable wealth about them, but it could not utterly hide what was set in patterns on the walls, and not only on the walls. There were dunes and drifts of precious metals and gem stones across the floor, many of the pieces broken.
As they shuffled on they tramped on a medley of stones and metals of stones and metals such as could not be seen at a fair even if all which had ever changed hands there had been reassembled for one great showing.
There were weapons, too, swords and knives possessing hilts rich in jewels, strange other objects which were certainly not intended for adornment but which, if weapons, Rentam did not recognize.
Here and there was a rack of bones .. . some draped with chains of office of the adornment of chief wives. Several of these lay broken across the things which Rentam believed might be weapons.
Before them was still that blast of light which gave no hint of its source or purpose .. . unless that latter was death, which Rentam could well believe. In his hands the colored spindle of stone quivered past all his endeavors to control it, but so far it had not broken free.
His tongue touched the rough stuff of the mask, the tip of it pointed through the hole which served for the mouth cutting and the opening for breathing. Deliberately he began to try to set the pace for himself, to be quickly forced into the maelstrom of color.
It was a battle, and his uncovered skin pricked and stung. Modic had again fallen to hands and knees. Even his head hung low so he did not watch the way ahead, he merely crawled toward the source of the light.
Rentam was able to slow his advance though he could not tear himself free of the strong pull upon him. Still he quested with tongue tip, thrusting that even farther into the crackling air about.
The
light must have a source, and having a source it must be set, meant to protect it's own inner sanctum as he had seen its overflow light up the sky in the first coming of their party. Animal, biped, brain . . . thought process which?
His flesh was so seared by assault... what awaited him? For the first time ... his Betweener-born organ for detection brought him no knowledge. There was nothing ahead, that sense insisted, but the light itself, and that was not tended by any living thing.
The way was growing narrower as the great room started to close in about them to form a corridor. Here the treasure was less visible. There were more skeletons, insignias of office mingled with brittle bones, and there were indeed weapons he knew, some lying half into the red flood of the stream from which he edged away as it began to flow widening more and more. The stench rising from it was choking. Rentam coughed hollowly and leaned with one hand against the wall as he steadied himself against unseen gusts which struck him.
Modic halted. Then he hunched in a crouch, sweeping his hands from side to side about him though without seeming to see what lay there. By chance his fingers curved about one of the rodlike things which Rentam believed was a weapon. Still not raising his head so that he might look at what he had found, the Seeker allowed the rod to slip through his fingers until a dark band meant for a grip was resting in his hold.