Only, his expression now was that of one near the edge of sanity, as if he had witnessed something none of his senses could accept.
Directly before him stood that mailed figure who had denied Lorien passage through the gateway. Around one armored arm a green snake length coiled, but he now moved to attack.
“For—for Star’s sake—!” Spittle exploded from Barbric’s lips as he made that plea. “Let her not feast on me! I am her son—or was her son—for I believe that she who bore me is long gone out of that body which has begun to fray about her like a too-worn dress. This was her place once—when men called her Nona—and she would have it back again.”
Speech appeared to be giving him back a measure of control. “Don’t you understand? She sucks life from the living—and now she readies herself for a new body—Mahart’s—one young enough to give her many more years.”
“You supported her,” Nicolas returned. He was keeping more than half his attention on the metal figure and that snake of light, not sure when either or both would attack.
“I did not know what she would do. Take the throne from that bumbling old fool, yes, but that she had made a pact and then paid for it—that I learned too late.”
“A pity we do not have more foresight,” remarked the Prince.
Barbric showed him a snarling face. “Be not so bold, hero. Your strength will be an extra feeding for her, and do not doubt that she is waiting for you with those she has already gathered in.”
“She has them—the girls—” That was no question but a statement from Nicolas.
Barbric nodded. “Landed them as neatly as if she fished them forth from Gladden Stream. Nor, as you will now discover, can you return to save yourselves either!”
Suddenly his scowl became sheer terror. A single fern which had escaped the massacre of its kind around the pillar bowed as if under a blast of wind. When it arose upright again there were filmy threads floating through the air, the green of the ferns and yet nearly invisible.
Barbric screamed and screamed again. Ssssaaa jumped from Nicolas’s shoulder and hurled herself like a fur-coated arrow straight for the metal-clothed guard. The unexpectedness of such an attack from so small a creature appeared to completely master its reflexes for a moment. It took a ponderous step backward and stumbled over one of the cut ferns, crashing down on its back while the green thing it had nursed traveled up its arm and shoulder and seemed to pour itself into one of the dark eyeholes of the metal mask. The snake did not reappear, but Barbric was fast entangled by green ribbons which wound about him in spite of his frenzied struggles.
Nicolas moved with his knife and the Prince with the sword he had taken from his squad leader. But those blades, keen as they were, simply rebounded from the heaviest blows the two could aim.
Then the lines uncoiled and became a single ribbon heading on into the forest. The shell of Barbric hung as ancient bones against the pillar.
Though they still went at a wary pace, Nicolas, at least, felt the necessity for charging ahead. What they had heard from Barbric was out of all reason—except they had seen what they had seen—that Saylana had somehow been possessed, her body worn as clothing by a sorceress out of legend was near past any serious belief.
Still something had withered Figis and Wyche, sucking life from them, and had done so to Barbric. The collapse of the metal guard was as puzzling. Had he been punished in some manner for allowing Nicolas and Lorien to find Barbric and learn as much as they could of this tangled web?
Once more the fern trees were thinning out, and not far ahead they could see open sky and a tall building which had all the austerity of a temple. Nicolas did not doubt that it was here Saylana, or she who seemed Saylana, now held court.
25
Neither girl had attempted to try fortune and strength against that green ring barrier. The light in this long hall appeared to surge and then fail a little. Willadene was intensely aware in a strange way of that seedpod she and Mahart clasped between them. Almost she could believe it was to be an aid, though the time was not yet.
Saylana huddled back into her throne, her bulky shirts appearing now far too much for her slender body to support. Her eyes, sunken into caverns of her skull, were closed, and the withering of her face and now too-much-revealed shoulders continued before their eyes.
Willadene did not believe this power was asleep, or even worn to exhaustion. It was rather as if that failing body had been left for a space while what animated it went elsewhere. Now would be their time to move, but in which direction and how the girl could not have answered.
Mahart’s shoulder was against hers now. Instinctively they had drawn together as shield mates ready to meet an enemy charge. Fear, yes, there was the scent of that, and she believed that they shared that equally, but it did not rise to panic in them.
The body on the throne gave a twitch of returning energy as a skeleton-thin hand arose to the wrinkled forehead. Loosened by its touch a long lock of dusty black hair separated from the skull and slipped along Saylana’s shoulder. But the age-puckered lips were smiling, and she opened her eyes to regard the two before her gloatingly.
“A feast—by the very roots of Yaster, the ever-cursed, a feast!”
She surveyed the two before her as one might face children who had repented of their naughtiness and now waited to be forgiven. Within their close-clasped hands the seed was warm. Willadene was aware that for an instant they stood in a place of cool, pleasant odors, a mixture of grass, flowers, sun-warmed earth—
“You are Nona,” Mahart said as if some problem had been solved for her.
That raw cackle of laughter answered her. “Nona? My girl, you reach back far in time for that one. I cannot remember well everyone who has provided me with proper clothing. I gather Nona left something of a memory here—think how much more your services will be marked.”
Then that ghastly, tooth-baring smile was gone and she sank again to the back of the chair. Only this time there came a change. In their sight her flesh appeared to firm and the wearing of too many years was erased.
When she addressed them again she was once more Saylana, but a Saylana who might have aged a score of years from the time Willadene had seen her dancing in the great ballroom.
“Well, well,” she commented. “So dear Barbric did have unexpected strengths in him after all. Like a true son he is now with his mother.” She gave a pat to a breast which once more filled out the low-cut bodice properly.
“Now, my dear, more visitors—whether you shall find them welcome, I do not know. But they will serve my purpose very well indeed.”
A slim shadow crossed the floor from behind that throne in great bounds. It came toward the girls until it was within a handsbreadth of the ring about them, and there whirled and crouched, its head uplifted to the highest point in order to view the throned woman best.
“Mahart!”
“Willadene!”
So close together came those names that they near blended into one. As had Ssssaaa, Nicolas came around the dais with the wariness of a lurker. And keeping close was a man in mail and half armor, a drawn sword in his hand.
“Stop!” Again a single warning from two throats but it halted that race toward them. Nicolas gave a quick glance to the floor, sighting the green ring, and then threw himself before Lorien to halt the other’s stride.
Willadene had been working with her free hand at the fastening of the healer’s pack she had refused to abandon. She located a bottle by touch, hoping that she was guessing right, raised the flask hastily to her mouth, and worried loose the cork.
She wondered at Saylana’s forbearance. That she had been allowed to so arm herself must mean that this—this enthroned thing had full confidence in its own powers. Perhaps her thought of some intervention was merely an added fraction of amusement to the game it intended to play.
The cork was gone. Willadene spun the bottle in her grip and hurled what was left of its contents as well as she could toward the nearest po
rtion of the green ring. Most of the stuff splashed short, and for a stiff moment of fear, she knew failure. Then she noted a curl of steam from that green ribbon—nor did it hold to its circle shape any longer, but rather beat upon the floor and fell into two parts, cut by those drops which had reached it.
Avoiding the writhing lengths with a mighty stride Lorien was with the girls, a hand out to Mahart. Nicolas did not turn his back on the enthroned figure, rather approached the other three in a sidewise fashion.
“So—” The caricature of Saylana spoke. “You have learned something from that weird-wife after all.” However, she did not show any great surprise as she spoke to Willadene. “Welladay, you shall be a juicier morsel for the taking if that is so.”
Though her hands still rested on the arms of the throne the lower part of her body began to twist and turn. The fullness of her bedraggled skirt swelled and swayed, and from beneath its hem there showed tips of brilliant green.
These lengthened, moved purposefully toward those below. They had the appearance of leafless vines, growing at such a rate that that process was visible. Lorien moved between the girls and those advancing vine serpents.
Again came that cackle of laughter. “Yes, mighty slayer of outlaws, use that blade of yours. You have already lost one to the crawlers—do you think you shall be any luckier this time?”
The Prince’s mouth tightened, and Nicolas and Willadene could guess that he was remembering what had happened at the pass. One of those crawling ribbons flailed out to the far side and then began to draw in again. Nicolas was now being herded closer to the others. He gave a glance upward—at least there was no netting visible there ready to descend upon them.
The need for action worked upon Mahart. She managed to keep her voice steady, her courage high.
“We stand in the Light of the Star, you who are of Darkness. Thus we are a greater company than you see.”
The gaunt face of the woman flushed a dusky red. “Call upon your puny light, High Lady. I do not think you will be answered—”
“Oh"—that was Nicolas—"but then again she might be, as once before the Star answered here and—”
“Be tongueless! That was long ago. One learns more with every year’s passing. The Sisters of your Abbeys sit upon old lore as a hen does upon eggs, afraid to use even what they know. I do not think that any of you have something new.” She raised one hand and made a gesture.
That green vine which had neared Nicolas’s side slapped over. Willadene gasped. She had been so sure that it would have a stranglehold about the Bat, but a swerve of his body left him free, as it brought him up almost shoulder to shoulder with her.
“Quite a little chipper you are,” their captor observed. “Try all you can, all of you—the longer you strive to hold off fate the sweeter my feasting shall be. Will you now try that sword, Prince? How do you know—perhaps this new one you carry is somewhat tougher of blade.”
Willadene caught a small flash of movement from the corner of her eye. Saylana had been concentrating on her human captives—perhaps she had forgotten Ssssaaa entirely. What weapons the creature might possess the girl could not guess, but at least she was moving purposefully, and straight for the throne.
“Ah, Prince, you disappoint me—” Saylana had gotten that far. The vine which had herded him lifted up from the floor and was swinging back and forth like the blind head of a giant worm.
Lorien made no attempt to use steel on that wriggling threat. Instead, his left hand went to his throat and he yanked from under his mail a chain on which swung a piece of glittering crystal. His next move was quick and unexpected, as he whirled the chain about his head and loosed it so that the spark of glitter swooped through the air and struck the ever-thickened body of the vine.
“By the Power of the Star,” his voice rang out.
The spark of flying light was lost to sight almost in the same moment they had seen it. Saylana’s grimace made her aging face a mask for a monster. Both of her hands swung up and out. The vines writhed, began to whirl, formed a waist-high wall about the four before her, herding them close together. There was no use for Willadene to depend upon her herbs now. Those she had used against the earlier attack were gone.
Saylana was rocking slowly back and forth, a patch of whitish foam at one corner of her mouth, foam which spattered as she cried out in a tongue none of them understood, doubtless some curse from another time and place.
There was strain in every line of her distorted body now as if she fought more than just those helpless captives.
Avoiding the flailing cords of green with supreme agility Ssssaaa was closing in on the foot of the throne. Willadene grew aware of a new element in this struggle. She still gripped hands tightly with Mahart, between their palms that pod. There was rising warmth against her flesh; she caught a hint of that unwordly fragrance.
On her other side she had a glimpse of Nicolas’s slender hands, busied with his knife. But no steel would stand against the noxious weapon which was beginning to rise again after a brief halt. What would he do?
On the throne Saylana’s body convulsed. She raised her right hand and pointed it at Lorien. “Fool, you have not brought me death—but you shall be the first to pay for your folly!”
To his right the green wall sent forth a long whirling tendril. Before he could avoid it, it fell upon his shoulder and encircled him. He had moved in the only direction left him, separating himself as far as he could from Mahart.
Just as Lorien had swung that splinter of crystal, so did Nicolas now flip his knife in the direction of their enemy. But Willadene saw no bared steel blade—somehow he had twisted about it a sheath of dull clay color.
It landed cleanly, dispatched by long-practiced skill, on the billowing lap of the woman.
Her scream was such as to deafen all of them. Her face was hardly more than a skull with living eyes. Frantically she brushed the weapon away. But it left smoldering patches on her torn and twisted robe.
The heat in that pod Willadene shared guardianship of was growing ever stronger—much higher and it would sear her flesh. She turned to look at Mahart, whose eyes were all for Lorien. The Prince stood statue still, his body braced as if he were enduring some powerful struggle against unnatural strength.
“Mahart!” Willadene lifted her enclosed fist with a jerk which brought the other’s attention back to her. “Now!”
She did not understand whether the same mental command had reached the other girl or not, but somehow she was sure that it had. Together their arms swung and they loosed the pod into the turgid, rancid air of the chamber.
Only to see it fall short as if it had hit against some unseen barrier. Mahart gave a small broken cry, but Willadene was intent on something else. Ssssaaa’s sinewy black body was there even as the pod fell short of their target. Seizing it between sharp teeth she made one of those extraordinary leaps and landed on the body of the thing on the throne whose energy and flesh appeared to be giving birth to ever stronger and longer tendrils.
Saylana’s skull bowed for an instant as she viewed this new attacker and what she bore. She raised both hands and grasped Ssssaaa about the middle, whirling her up in the air, but that which the creature had brought remained with Saylana.
Now she screamed. Not only was that cry one of pain but it was overlaid with terror, such fear as none of them had ever heard from any human throat. The small black body flew through the air.
Willadene was aware of movement from beside her. Leaning out at a perilous angle over the wall of green, which luckily had stopped its advance for the moment, Nicolas managed to catch the limp black body and bring it to nestle to his breast. But there was no answering sound or movement out of Ssssaaa.
Another and still more tortured scream burst from the thing before them. From where the pod lay on Saylana there was a flicker of light which grew brighter with every breath they took.
The green wall about them trembled, strove to close in and engulf them entirely. But that
last surge failed. Instead now the green tendrils were being hurriedly withdrawn, brought back to she who had given them birth. Once more her figure filled out, she became closer to the human woman they had always known, except for her face. For that now bore the features of that carving which guarded the entrance into its sorcery-ridden land.
She was making no move to rid herself of that ever-growing patch of light which was now near breast high, only sat watching its growth with wide eyes.
Lorien stumbled and might have gone down as that vine withdrew its hold on him, but Mahart was close and quick enough to steady him. His face was gaunt and grayish, but slowly he shook his head as if to rid himself of some nightmare vision and gave his attention, with the others, to their enemy.
That which rested on her lap might have found her its proper soil for rooting. Now, through the haze, they could see the rise of a stem, the uncurling of long leaves. And the veins on those leaves blazed gold, sharply defined as had been the ones on the leaf map.
Only her face remained clear, unmoved—her face and the eyes which sought them one after another with a piercing glare that in itself was a curse.
Up grew the flower. Willadene drew in a deep breath of delight. Not in all the world had she expected ever to find such a perfect fragrance. Not in the world—yes, because this was not of this world—it was never meant to be.
“Heart-Hold!” Mahart had kept her grip on Lorien though he no longer needed steadying.
The mask of perfect beauty, which was the last unchanged bit of the throned one, cracked, shattered, fell in powdered dust. There was a great wind about them, first of northern cold—a threat, and yet one that weakened steadily—and then one of summer as their earth knew it.
This was no hall. Mahart threw wide her arms, wanting to embrace the flower-embroidered fields before her. Her dream made real. And that one she had waited for—here he was—his hands reaching out to catch at hers.