Andre Norton - Zarsthor's Bane

“We are nothing—but the Power lasts forever!” Marbon cried.

“Fate has written,” he continued, “that our kind shall run, has run, beyond all seas. We shall reach earth’s last boundaries and shall end as dust shaken from a traveler’s boot. But ahead in the heavens still lies Power, and those there are the Lords of outer space!”

There were powers and powers, Brixia thought wildly. What gathered here gave off a stench, ever thickening as the evil tree thing took on substance. The same noisome smell she had met with the toad things and the birds filled her nostrils. Her knife fell from her hand. Its too often sharpend blade shattered against the stone floor. But she did not heed those splinters of metal. Rather she groped for the bud dead and brown. When she held that safe within her hand she became only a door, a mouth—a way for another presence to enter her world. It was true, at least she knew what part she had in this—she was a servant and now full service was demanded of her.

Brixia moistened her lips with tongue tip. She felt strange—as if there was now a veil between her and the past—Who or what invaded her now, used her for a mouthpiece—or a tool? Whatever force of personality possessed her (and she could not detect the nature of the compulsion present in control) it was not born of her own will, thought, or being.

“Hatred does not last forever, no matter how hot or how deep it has run,” that other will brought the words out of her now. “If those who gave it birth are gone it dwindles and dies. But in the brilliant light of the past may lie the seeds of future glory—for those secrets rest hidden in the minds of man.” So did that presence give tongue.

Marbon stared at her. Once more he appeared fully awake, conscious, the man he once had been, might again be, coming into part life once more. This vigor which blazed up in him centered in his eyes. Those appeared cored by a ruddy spark of hunger. Brixia felt as if his demanding gaze dug and pried at her, as one might strive to hunt from its safe protection some shell dwelling creature.

“That was the thoughts of Jartar!” He hissed the name. “I know not how or why I can swear this! But Jartar—” his voice died away, there was a flush across his high cheekbones.

That which possessed Brixia spoke again. Her voice sounded different in her own ears, deeper, harsher.

“Hate dies—but while it lives it can twist and torment the unwary who summon its aid. However old the hates—even those backed by a Power can lose their strength—”

“Lord!”

Dwed’s cry, one of amazement and fear, cut across her speech. The boy had come a step or two forward from the doorway. He was no longer blank of face, rather seemed one who was but an extension of a stronger will.

Around his body twined a dark tendril loosed from the vine of mist. He struggled to throw that off, slashing furiously at it with his free hand. To no purpose, for the mist, which seemed more and more a tangible thing, clung and could not be loosened.

His face was stricken with fear as he writhed more and more vigorously against the whispy stuff. But thin as it looked it appeared well able to keep him in thrall.

“Lord!” his repeated cry was a frantic plea.

Marbon did not even turn his head to glance at his fosterling. Rather his gaze centered and narrowed upon Brixia, even as a man about to match sword against sword watches his enemy.

“Eldron, if you are here to protect the Bane,” he challenged sharply, “then I am also! I am of Zarsthor’s line—ours the ancient quarrel—if you do not sulk within your Power—then show yourself!”

“Lord!” The mist arose farther about Dwed. He was enwrapped by it save for his white and stricken face, now a mask of fear. “Lord, by your powers—save me!”

That which was still Brixia, not entirely possessed by the entity which made use of her as a vessel for other thought and emotions (Jartar’s or Eldor’s, who could tell) knew what held Dwed was surely beyond the boy’s strength to resist. That his courage had already so broken before the lord he worshipped must seem to him black defeat.

“The Bane!” Still Marbon gave no heed to his fosterling.

He strode to advance upon the girl, beat with his hand in rage against that invisible barrier between them. He even slashed the air with his knife as if he could tear that asunder as he might fabric tight stretched.

“Give me the Bane!” he shouted.

Now about his feet the mist tendrils gathered in turn, puddled and thickened. The fog drew about him, crept upward along his body. It lapped his knees, clung to his thighs but he did not seem to notice.

Only Dwed hung in the stuff as a spider’s prey is enwrapped in web, helpless, motionless. The horror on his face was stark as wavelets of the mist touched his cheeks, clung to his chin.

“The Bane!” Marbon mouthed.

Uta stood tall on her hind feet. She slapped out viciously at a tongue of the mist reaching for her. At that same moment Brixia was—emptied. She had no other word to describe that sensation of release. Something had withdrawn. She was now alone, open to whatever Marbon might use against her. Even her knife lay shattered at her feet.

Her hand closed convulsively as if she could still grip the. haft of that weapon. But what she held was the bud. And it moved! As her fingers spread flat, the flower began to open.

The dull brown outer husks split. From the heart within came that glow which had lightened her path, heartened her, during her journey through the night in the Waste.

Powers and powers, she thought frantically. Now her other hand went to that box Uta had entrusted to her, closed on it where it lay within her shirt.

Marbon stirred. His face was no longer that of the man she knew—slack or conscious either one. Could it be possible that features could writhe in that intolerable fashion—resettle into an entirely different countenance? Even if this change was only illusion, it was surely never meant for any one sane to witness. She was icy cold, now filled with such terror that she could not will herself to the slightest movement towards escape, even though Dwed now left the door open for her going.

The man fronting her flung high his arms. His face turned up to the twining, squirming snakes of fog above them. He called:

“Jartar—sle—frawa—ti!”

The mist whirled in a pattern which made one dizzy to watch. Brixia, now that Marbon’s gaze no longer held and commanded hers, closed her eyes lest she lose her senses watching the vortex of the fog. Then the fragrance of the flower wafted upward to clear her head.

What he might have called on she could not guess. But—something answered. It was here—with her—for, though she did not open her eyes to look, she was sure this new presence loomed near her—reached out—

Box and flower—she did not know why the two came together in her mind and that combination seemed right—needful. Flower and box—Do not look! What is here had come to cloud her thoughts, lessen what she might do to defend herself. There was a tugging which she must not yield to.

Once more the cry arose from her, the appeal to the only thing which seemed to promise safety in this shifting and alien world.

“Green mother, what must I do? This is no magic of my own—in these ways am I lost!”

Did she in truth cry that aloud, or was it only thought so intense that it seemed open speech, a plea made perhaps fruitlessly to a power she could not understand? Who were the gods—those great sources of power who were reputed to use men and women as tools and weapons? And did those so used have any defenses at all? Was this struggle now centering on her as battle between one alien power and another?