Zarsthor's Bane

11

“Well do you say, Lady Lalana, it is not courtesy to question the arrangements of your host at a feasting. But since this is now a matter of openness in our company—why, I do not stand under any shadow with a need for hiding what I have done, or will do.” His confidence was high with arrogance at that moment.

“It is true that there is a separation among us of Arvon and this grows the wider—mainly because no one raises a voice to ask why does this happen? We are not of one blood or one kind, yet for long we have managed to dwell peaceably side by side—”

The woman of the white gems arose. Her calm face was in a manner, Brixia sensed, a rebuke to the speaker. Her hand came up breast high between them and her fingers moved in a gesture which the watching girl was not able to follow. But what was a marvel was that those movements left drawn on the air itself a symbol as if white fire, not springing from any tangible source, blazed there.

For a moment out of time that symbol stayed white—as pure as the light of the full summer moon. Then it began to shade as if blood itself seeped in from an unknown space to taint and corrupt it. From a flushing of pink it turned ever darker, though still its outlines remained intact and sharp to the eye.

Full crimson it became. But the change was not yet over—darker and darker—now it held a blackness which at last was entire—Then the symbol itself began to writhe in the air, as if the change brought about some weird torment to substances which lived and could suffer pain.

So at last the white symbol was now a black one and its whole character was changed. While those around the feast board stared at it with grave faces which grew even more disturbed and uneasy. Only the avian woman and the toad creature seemed utterly undisturbed and unimpressed.

Even Eldor took a step backward. Now his own hand half lifted as if he would reach out to erase from sight that sullenly glowing stain upon the air of the hall. But his fist fell back to his side again. However his face was stem set with purpose.

It was not he, however, who broke the silence in which all those within the hall seemed to be holding their breath waiting for some catastrophic event. Rather the woman who had drawn the symbol spoke:

“So be it—” Her three words rang out as might judgment in some court whose pronouncement could alter the fate of whole nations.

Apparently in answer to those words the major part of that company arose from their places, turning to Eldor faces which were set and accusing. But he held his head high and gazed back with a defiance as protective as the armor he wore.

“I am lord in Varr.” He also spoke with emphasis as if the words had a double meaning.

The woman of the white gems inclined her head a fraction.

“You are lord in Varr,” she agreed in a neutral voice. “Thus do you affirm your lordship. But also must a lord answer for that land of which he is warden—in the end.”

He showed teeth in a wolfish grin. “Yes, lordship is a burden to be accounted for. Do not think, your grace, that I did not consider that before—”

“Before you wrought with them!” Zarsthor came a few steps farther into the hall. His arm was raised as if he would hurl the spear he did not hold, the index finger of his hand pointing to toad and bird-woman.

Eldor snarled. “I said I would settle with you, kinsman! You laid shame on me, now worse shall lay on you and your land, and those fish men with whom you lair! Eaters of filth, dwellers in mud, profaners of the world—” his voice arose into near a shout. “You have spit upon the name of your House and brought our blood near to the dust—”

As Eldor’s rage showed the hotter, Zarsthor’s expression became one of emotionless calm. The warriors in scaled armor who had followed him into the hall drew closer about him. Their sword hands hung now close to the hilts of their scabbarded weapons and Brixia saw them glancing swiftly right and left as if they expected to have enemies leap forward from the walls of the chamber.

“Ask of yourself, Eldor,” Zarsthor spoke as the other paused for breath, “with whom you have consorted. What price have you paid for the Bane? To surrender Varr perhaps—”

“Ahhhh—” his answer was a howl of pure rage. But a movement at the far end of the table drew Brixia’s attention, as small as that shifting of position had been.

The avian woman held up her goblet, was looking down into the cup with intense concentration. What she saw there might be of far more interest to her at this moment than the exchange before the two lords. Her head bent forward in a sudden bob. Had her vile mouth dipped into the liquid, or had she, on the contrary, spat into it? Brixia could not tell. But moving with almost a blur of speed she now hurled the cup from her directly into the center of the table before Eldor’s high seat.

There was a flash of—could flame be black?—which flared up as the goblet smashed against the board and spattered its contents outward. There were cries. People reeled back and away from the outward curling black flames which continued to blaze.

Even Eldor staggered in retreat, his arm flung up before his face to protect himself. While those others, the green lady, the rest, fled as the fire licked out viciously as if to lash them.

Darker grew the flames and higher. They blotted out the scene for Brixia. She caught a glimpse of some of the company in flight through the door, Zarsthor and his shell-helmed followers mixed with them.

At the same time she was aware that the box she held in her hand—that which Uta had given her—was warm—no, hot—until the heat grew close to torment. Still she could not loose her hold and drop it.

The hall was gone—with it the black fire. The girl was caught in a place of gray nothingness. She found herself breathing in great gasps as if there were little air here and she could not find enough to fill her laboring lungs.

Then the grayness became a stretch of ground—barren—rift by furrows—but not the furrows set by any landman’s plow. No, this was as if some great sword had hacked and hacked again—its cutting blade driving all vestiges of life out of the wastage of leached earth.

Farther the mist lifted to show more and more of the gray and ravaged land. Yet Brixia knew by some means that this had once been a fair country before the shadow had fallen on it. She saw tumbled blocks, stained by time, and with the faint shadows of fire scorch laid across them, and believed that once there had stood here some great keep, proud and fine.

Now—out of the curtain of mist which had withdrawn only a short way—there came from either side—two men. About them hung a visible cloud which the girl realized was the hate which corroded and ate at them until they had naught else to keep them living. Though this place was not of their world, (How did she know that also, Brixia wondered fleetingly) rather a hell that they had made for themselves through time itself. No matter who had had the right of it when this had begun, both now were tainted, defiled by the war which had held them, turning in desperation and rage to the Dark when the Light would not support them. Now they were entrapped—always to wander in their hell.

Their mail was hacked, rusted with blood. Though they still wore sword belts, neither had a blade. Only their hatred remained as their weapon.

Now one raised a hand and hurled a ball of force of rage and hate at his adversary. That broke against the other’s breastplate in a rain of dark sparks. He reeled back a step or two, but did not fall.

Instead he who had been struck clapped his hands together. There followed no sound. But the man who had thrown the ball shook from head to foot as might a young tree in the full blast of a winter storm.

Brixia, without any volition on her part, against her will, moved forward until she stood halfway between the two of them. Their heads came slowly around so she could see their faces in the shadow of their battered helms. Their features were withered, scored by passion, yet she knew them for Eldor and Zarsthor—old in hate.

Each held forth a hand, not imploringly, but in command. They spoke together so that it sounded to her like a single sharp order.

“Bane!”

Nor did they after fade as had the others—the outlaw, the toad—Uta—Rather their figures looked even clearer, in a way brighter. Eldor spoke again when she did not move:

“Give it to me, I say! It is mine, I labored in its making, I made a pact with those I distrusted, I gave much to have it! If you will not yield it willingly, then I shall call and what will come to my aid will serve you as you choose—for the choice is yours!”

Zasthor spoke as urgently:

“It is mine! Since it was wrought to break me, and all those who stood with me, then by the very right of Power, I have now the need to defeat it, and him—give him back from my own hand that which he raised to damn me. I must have it!”

In Brixia’s hand the box glowed warm. And in her other hand lay the flower. It seemed to her oddly that each weighed much, but the weight was the same, and in her way she was a balance appointed to hold them so. This was in manner a judgment she did not understand, to be delivered to those whose causes she could not know. One had threatened her—Eldor. Zarsthor’s words might have been taken as a justification and a plea.

“I wrought it!”

“I fought it!”

That they cried together.

“Why?” Her question seemed to startle both of them. How could she hope to render judgment when she knew so little of the rights of the matter which had brought them at each other’s throats?

For a moment they were silent. Then Elder moved a step closer, both his hands out as if to take the box from her by force if he must.

“You have no choice,” he told her fiercely, “what I shall summon shall surely answer. And that coming shall be your bane!”

“Give it to him if you are fearful! But you will never then know how empty his threats may be,” Zarsthor broke in. “Give it to him, thereafter you shall walk in the shadow of fear for as long as you live—and even after! Even as we two now must walk in this place because of the Bane.”

Box and flower—

Brixia found she could break the gaze with which they had held her, their eyes keeping her prisoner. Now she looked down at her two hands—at what those held in balance.

The box was open! Tight held within it lay an oval stone—light pulsed weakly from its visible surface. That light was gray, like a film of shadow—if shadow and light could be one. The flower had also opened to its greatest extent and the light which came from it was not the pure white which she had always before seen, but rather a green glow which was soft and soothing to her eyes.

“This is the Bane, then,” she said slowly. “Why was it wrought, Eldor—truly—why?”

His face was grim and hard.

“Because I would deal with my enemy as I must—”

“No,” Brixia shook her head. “Not as you must—but rather as you chose, is that not so? And why was he your enemy—?”

The harsh face grew even sterner. “Why? Because—because—” His voice trailed away, she saw him bite upon his lower lip.

“Is it that you no longer know?” the girl asked as he continued to hestiate.

He frowned at her fiercely but he did not answer. She turned to Zarsthor.

“Why did he so hate you that he had to make this evil thing?”

“I—I—”

“You also no longer know.” She did not ask this time. “But if you cannot remember why you are enemies—what does it really matter who holds this? You no longer need it, is that not the truth?”

“I am Eldor—the Bane is mine to use as I see fit!”

“I am Zarsthor—and the Bane has brought me this—” he flung out his arms, his hands clasped into fists, to indicate the ravaged world about them.

“I am Brixia,” the girl said, “and—I am not sure what else at this time. But that which abides in me says—let it be thus!”

She brought the flower above the box, made the dim light of that greenish glow fall upon the gray stone within.

“Power of destruction—power of growth and life. Let us now see which is master—even here!”

The gray film on the stone no longer appeared to move. Rather it lay like a still crust over the surface.

And, as the light continued to bathe that crust, it broke, flaked away to reveal new radiance. While the flower slowly dimmed, its petals drew in, began to wither. Brixia wanted to jerk it away from that devouring stone, but her hand would not obey. More and more the flower shriveled, the stone in turn glowed and pulsed. It was no longer the gray of death—of this land which was a trap—rather it now had a green spark at its heart, it could have been a seed ready to break through its protective casing and put forth new life.

Of the flower all which was left was a wisp, a frail skeleton of a blossom. Then there was nothing at all. Her hand was bare. But in her other palm the box was also crumbling, loosing its hold on the stone. Bit by bit it powdered away into dust.

There was no longer any warmth in the stone. If any energy dwelt within it, that was more isolated than had been the Power in the flower. But its beauty was such that Brixia was awed by what she held. Then she looked beyond it from Eldor to Zarsthor.

She held the stone out towards Eldor.

“Do you wish this now? I think it is no longer what you once wrought, but would you have it?”

The frown had been smoothed from his face and with it many of the hard lines which had aged and ravaged it. Dignity was still there and authority but behind those emotions—a freedom. His eyes were alight, but he snatched back his hand hurriedly as hers, holding the stone, approached the closer.

“This I did not make. No Power granted me fills it. I can no longer demand it by right for my own.”

“And you?” Brixia offered it now to Zarsthor.

He gazed at the stone absorbedly, not looking to her. Then, without raising his eyes, he answered:

“That which was meant to be my Bane—no, this is not it. Green magic is life, not death. Though death has brought to me through that as it was once. But I cannot break this as I would have the Bane—loosed its evil upon all. This is yours, lady, do with it as you will. For—” he raised his head and looked about him, there was peace in his face, underlying a great weariness. “The geas which bound us in this world of our own making is broken. It is time we take our rest.”

Together they turned away from Brixia, Zarsthor moved up beside Eldor shoulder to shoulder. As if they had long been shield brothers and not deadly enemies, they marched on, following some road only they could see, into the mist.

Brixia cradled the stone in her two hands. As if she awakened from some absorbing dream she looked about her with the beginning of new uneasiness.

That this place was not of any time or world she had known she was sure. How might she now return to her own place? Or could she? Panic began to grow from the seed of that first uneasiness. She called loudly:

“Uta! Dwed!” And finally—“Marbon!”

Then she listened, hoping against all hope that there would be an answer to guide her. A second time she shouted, this time more loudly—only to hear nothing when her own voice died away.

Names—as all knew names had a power of their own—they were a part of one—as much as skin, hair, or teeth. They were given to one at the birth hour and were thereafter something which could be threatened by evil, used to strengthen good. Now all she had to aid her were names. Still two of those she called upon had no ties with her, nor perhaps held any wish to aid, and the third was an animal, alien to her own kind. Perhaps she had no ties to draw her back at all.

Brixia lifted her cupped hands, stared at the stone. This was truly a thing of Power. It had been wrought to bring evil, even as Eldor (or the part of him who had existed here) had claimed and Zarsthor in turn had agreed. But its evil had somehow been discharged by the flower. Could it serve her, she who had no command over any force, no training as a Wise Woman? “Uta”—this time she did not shout that name aloud into the mist, rather spoke it softly to the stone. “Uta, if you have any fair feeling for me now—if I am granted any desire of yours for my salvation—Uta—where are you?”

The light glow began to pulse in ripples from the stone. A deeper green sparked in its heart—grew and spread. Brixia strove to keep her thoughts fixed on Uta.

That dark spot put out pricked ears, opened slits of eyes, became a head. The head in turn pushed out of the surface of the stone. Brixia, almost beyond wonder now, crouched down, held her hand closer to the earth. The tiny image of the cat was three dimensional as it arose from the stone. When it was fully clear it leaped to the ground.

Mist which had been encroaching ever since Eldor and Zarsthor had gone, curled back from where the cat stood. Uta’s image turned its head up to the girl, its tiny mouth opened. But if it mewed she caught no sound. Then it began to trot away and Brixia scrambled to follow it.

The fog swirled in, covering her own body to knee level. But it did not hide the cat, a clear space continued to encircle and move with it. She hurried to catch up as the illusion—if that was what it was—moved faster.

How far they had come across the hidden land Brixia could not tell. Then her guide slowed, and, to her despair, began to fade.

“Uta!” She screamed. She could see through the small body now—it was fast becoming a part of the mist.

Brixia went to her knees. Without Uta she was lost—and now Uta was nearly gone. Only an outline in the fog remained. If she could only bring it back! Now—Uta had come when she called her name and concentrated on the stone—but perhaps the cat’s powers were not strong enough to hold her here until her mission could be accomplished.

What of Marbon—Dwed? The man might be counted her enemy—at least he had seemed so before she had been caught into this place. While the boy then had been entrapped in enchantment. Even if she could reach them—dared she hope for any help?

Dwed—Marbon—which should she try?

The man had been free when last she saw him—except for the obsession which had ridden him. Brixia raised the stone to eye level.

“Marbon!” she summoned.

There was no darkening of the stone heart, nor any sign that her call had reached him, whether or not he would answer her plea.

“Marbon!” Because she thought it now her only hope she called again.

A rippling in the stone, yes, but faint and with nothing centered in it. However, as she dropped her hand in despair, she saw Uta a little beyond her again!

From and clear, larger—seemingly substantial, Uta was watching her impatiently, her mouth opening and closing in soundless mews. Brixia jumped to her feet, ready to follow. Had Marbon in some way strengthened the cat? She did not know—but that Uta was here again gave her a lighter heart.

Uta began to run and Brixia after her. The sense of urgency spread from cat to girl. On—

Then a huge, dark pillar loomed out of the mist, rising so suddenly that Brixia felt it had not been there long, but rather risen abruptly to front her. Uta stood on hind legs, pawed with her forefeet at its surface, plainly urging on the girl the need to climb.

She tucked the stone within her shirt once more for safe keeping, then she sought on the pillar some holds for fingers and toes. Uta—vanished. She had not faded slowly as before, but simply winked out.

Brixia found by touch irregularities in the pillar her eyes could not detect. With effort she began to climb. The holds were small and the higher she went the slower her progress became. Yet she was winning upward, if it were only a matter of a few fingers length at a time.

Up and up, she knew better than to look down. Her fingers ached and then grew numb. Her whole body was tense as it pressed against the pillars. Fear was a heavy burden resting on her. Up and still up—

How long had she climbed? There was no counting of time in this place—moments might have spun out into days—perhaps months. Always above her the pillar reached higher still and there were hanging drapes of mist to hide its crest—if it had a crest!

Brixia felt as if she could not seek another hand hold, the pain in her shoulders was intense. Up—ever up! She could not lift her hand again, the effort was too great. Soon her grip would break and she would fall—back—to be swallowed up in the mist and forever lost.

“Uta!” her voice was a croaked whisper which she had no hope would be answered.