Moon Called (16 page)

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.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

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.

Copyright © 1982 by Andre Norton

ISBN: 978-1-4976-5648-2

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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