But Uta’s attention remained fixed on Marbon.
Dwed lingered before the door, knife in hand, guarding that exit, leaving the active hunt to his lord.
Marbon’s mouth worked, his lips moved. It he spoke Brixia could hear no sound. Only she felt the cat stiffen against her. Into her own head, burst small thrusts of pain, sharp enough to set her gasping, building up strength with every stab. It was as if some spell the man uttered soundlessly was so translated to her torment.
Around the pillar where Uta had crouched curled a gray mist, wreathing up the length of that as a vine might grow. Marbon continued to attempt to reach at Brixia, pressing first this side and then that. The mist about the pillar towered beyond the crest of that aiming towards the roof of the chamber. There it spread out in long wisps—a shadowy tree putting out branches. Those spread evenly, save directly above the girl and there they did not gather. Whatever protection was about her was present there also.
Uta nudged against her demandingly. The box—did Uta want her to take the box? Brixia reached for it—Uta’s head snapped away. What then—?
The cat nosed against the opening of her shirt. Brixia, knife still ready in her hand, pulled open the neck of that. Uta straightway dropped the box within. Now the cat fought against the girl’s hold so ruthlessly Brixia dropped her, blood threading along her scratched hands. A moment after landing on the floor, Uta made another spring—she was back again on her pillar perch.
Marbon wheeled. His attention was still for the cat. His lips moved steadily, Brixia now caught a mutter of words.
“Blood to bind, blood to sow, blood to pay. So is it demanded!”
He reached out his left hand and, with his knife, he scored his own flesh. Without a single wince he waved the wounded hand, flinging a sprinkling of blood drops at the pillar. Dwed walked forward from the door as one walks in a trance.
“Blood to pay—” his lighter, higher voice repeated the words. Now he cut at his hand also and watered the foot of the pillar.
Tendrills of the fog spread out, to fasten on those drops where they had fallen. Brixia could see dark streaks rising from each drop as if the mist drew that into its own substance, fed upon it.
The color of the mist changed. As it darkened it also became more and more opaque. She thought now the illusion was that of stout vines clinging about the pillar, rising to crawl out upon the ceiling. As she raised her eyes, she saw that those were at last moving on over her head, thickening, darkening as they grew. From those stalks above drooped thinner tendrils which swayed, casting back and forth through the air.
She glanced anxiously at Uta, fearing that the cat might have been already netted by the thicker growth about the pillar. But there was a clear space there within which Uta crouched, snarling.
“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.
10
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.