by Andre Norton
A staff much like that of the pole ax now at Twilla's feet lay uncovered. It did not hold the gray sheen of the blades and mail which had been piled over it. Rather was dullish red—or tarnished gold, she could not be sure which. Surmounting it was a large knob or carving.
There was a single one of the wizened once captives still remaining, as if he had held himself aloof from the scramble which had armed his companions. Now he strode purposefully forward and picked up the staff.
Then—even as the mirror could do upon occasion—that took on life. From where his hand grasped the shaft red-gold came into gleaming life. As he upped it Twilla could see that it bore the head of a boar, as cunningly fashioned from its tusked snout to its up pricked ears as had been that on the wall of the passage.
He who held it was changing now, and this was no sorcery born of the mirror. His crooked back straightened, his head was proudly aloft, the hollows which showed bones filled out with muscle. He was taller than these others, matching Twilla in height, though below the stature of the forest people, or even most men of the invaders.
Instead of a mail shirt the bits of rag clinging to his own shrunken body drew together and became whole even as did the flesh underneath. Unlike the one who had gazed into the mirror his face was clean of hair, his features finer cut as if he were indeed of another race.
Holding his boar-headed rod as if it were some symbol of office he came toward Twilla. Before him the others gave way, forming an open aisle as courtiers might make room for a king.
He came to a halt, shoulder to shoulder with the warrior who had first regained his face from the mirror.
The boar-headed staff made a slight dip in the girl's direction and Twilla, in return, inclined her head as a sign of respect. Certainly this man was a person of higher authority.
Then he spoke—not in the guttural, deep-throated speech she could not understand but in the language of the upper world, though strangely accented:
“You are not of the trees, nor is that one,” a small gesture indicated Wandi standing wide-eyed beside her. “How came you here—and why?”
“We came by chance, being lost in the ways—and why—because we were hunted.”
There was a moment's silence as he appeared to be thinking that over.
“Prey to those of the trees?” A murmur ran around those who had gathered in to circle them.
“This one—” Twilla touched Wandi's head as the little girl once more crowded closer to her. “She was taken—she must be returned—to those of her blood.”
“How did you come into the long sealed ways?” Now he had another question, and Twilla was aware that all of them were alert. Perhaps those he headed could understand the upper-world speech even if they did not speak it.
“Wandi ran through one of the sealed doors—I followed,” Twilla replied. “Then we found ourselves lost. Can you return us to the forest?”
“If you are not of the tree people—and they hunt this one—then why do you want to go back into their hold?”
“There are others—others of Wandi's kin nearby. There is a good chance to win from the forest and free her to them.”
“But you,” his eyes swept downward from contact with hers to touch on the mirror, “are you then one for power with those?”
“No, if they could find me they would be my enemies. But the child must be sent back to her kin. And the tree people—only one of them would hunt me down. I stand in neither company—that of the fields, nor of the Woods.”
“It has been long, perhaps very long,” he commented, “and we must learn more before we speak any words or make promises we cannot recall. Now, since you have proven that you can break the timelock as you have done for Gorum here, will you do so for the rest?”
“Gladly.” Again she might be being reckless—too quick to judge. Yet without the aid of these newly awakened from sorcery she was sure she and Wandi could not find any door to the proper world again. “Let each come forward in turn,” she readied the mirror, only hoping that its power would not be exhausted again before she had finished this matter of time transformation.
Come they did, lining up to move before her, each one trading eagerly on the heels of the one ahead to face that disk. And the changes continued. They were much of a kind, these prisoners from the fungi. Short, broad-shouldered with well-muscled arms which were longer than was necessary, so that their great fists hung on a level with their knees. Their legs were short but very sturdy and, small as they were, they gave off the aura of impressive strength.
Those who had been revived to what must be their proper state scattered, splitting into bands of three or four, each commanded by one who looked somehow to be older than his fellows. He with the boar standard watched silently.
Once more the drain of the power was on Twilla. She had to fight to keep her hands from shaking as she raised the mirror anew now. And she was barely able to hold it in place when the last of that company stood before her.
As he turned away restored, Twilla's legs suddenly gave out under her and she fell to the ground, the weakness she had tried to hold in check overcoming her.
16
TWILLA WAS NO longer truly aware of what was going on around her. Then Wandi's hold was on her again as the child shook her.
“Lady—they bring us food—”
At the same time she was aware of an odor she had almost forgotten—that of meat which had been roasted. She lifted her head groggily. Coming toward them was one of the small warriors carrying in one hand a platter of what looked to be time-darkened silver from which threads of steam arose, and in the other a goblet oddly curved as if it were fashioned of some beast's horn.
He placed the platter and drinking horn on the rock within Twilla's reach and sketched an awkward bow, backing away still facing her as might a court servant.
There was an eating knife balanced across the plate beside the portion of meat and Twilla used it to carve at the hunk which gave off those mouth-watering smells. She freed a finger-sized portion—it was hot but not burning—presented that to Wandi on the point of the knife before cutting a piece for herself.
The meat had a curious texture between her teeth, it was unlike any she had tasted before. However, she was hungry enough at the moment to seize upon a rock and chew it if it seemed to be edible. And Wandi was apparently relishing the food as much as she did.
“Go slow—” Healer's knowledge awoke in Twilla. One did not overfill at a single meal after a long fast without dire results. “It is not good to eat too fast—too much.”
Wandi had already finished her first portion, her hand was out for another. “Hungry—” came that near whine again.
Twilla made sure that the second cut she made and gave to the child was smaller. She picked up the drinking horn, sniffed at what it held—a darkish liquid. What might serve these underground dwellers might not be as good for those from above. She put a fingertip cautiously into the stuff sloshing back and forth, a little for her hand seemed still inclined to tremble.
The water! Now as she had tested the water! Twilla flicked several drops from her fingertip onto the surface of the mirror. There they showed a yellow-brown tinge, and there arose a faint odor not unlike spice. But the mirror seemed unchanging. She could only hope that was a verdict affirming her guess of harmlessness.
She dared to taste now. Like the meat it was different from anything she had savored before. Tart but not enough to catch in the throat, and, as she swallowed, a warmth arose in her middle.
It might be too hearty a drink for a child, yet she herself was feeling a renewal of strength from only that one cautious sip.
She held the horn out to Wandi. “Only a little—”
However, Wandi made a face after a first sip and pushed it away.
“It tastes funny,” she declared.
Her hunger a little appeased and feeling far more alert and strong than when she had first awakened, Twilla now looked about her.
Where that fung
i-disguised force had stood there was only a stretch of bare rock. However, for some reason the whole cavern seemed much lighter. Not too far away three of the warriors were assaulting the wall from which they had scarped the lichen coating.
Twilla could see that what they uncovered was a doorway fast sealed with a panel which fitted so well that only a marking line made it visible. There was no latch or bar. But deep graven into the stone above that portal was another representation of the boar's head. This did not jut from the rock as had the one in the passageway but rather was far more akin to a flattened mask. Save that the small eyes on either side of the snout glistened.
Behind the workers stood the standard bearer. There was a tense line to his unarmored body as if in expectation of important action upon which might depend much.
As the last of the cloaking lichen was slashed away and the door fully cleared, the work party stepped to one side allowing their leader free passage. He moved forward to stand directly before that latchless door.
Gripping the staff of the standard with both hands he raised it higher so that the head at the top was directly facing the wall mask. And then—
Twin beams of light speared forth from the standard head, struck full upon those gleaming eyes in the mask. They began to ripple as if some power coursed along them but not steadily, rather in juts.
Twilla absently eating as she watched was fascinated by what she saw. Here was another kind of power. As with the mirror it must be focused—what was its source? Certainly this could not be moon-fed when so far underground.
There was a sound, sharp high—one which was a sudden stab at ears and as quickly gone. The sealed portal shimmered, then Twilla witnessed a webbing of cracks spread across it. Those cracks grew greater, the substance which separated one from the other crumbled, broke, fell as gravel-sized rubble.
Out streamed a reddish light to bathe the priest leader who still stood, standard aloft. The boar light flickered, was gone, as the pole slid through his grip. He was leaning on the staff a little as a man very tired might lean on a traveler's aid.
Around where she and Wandi sat there came movement. From all corners of the cavern the others of the fungi prisoners drew in. Some of them seemed to be carrying what looked like freshly butchered meat.
Now he who had opened the gate glanced over his shoulder to Twilla.
“Power carrier, power mistress, it is time for us to enter Ragnok which was ours—was long lost—and now ours again. We give you and the child free passage, for we of the Makers and Doers pay all debts.”
He did not move and Twilla guessed that he was waiting for her and Wandi to join him. Since there seemed to be no other way out of this place, and she was sure the small people wished them well, Twilla was willing. She could perhaps draw on that debt he had mentioned to get them eventually to open another door one into the other world she and the child had lost.
The red light was tinged with gold. It might have shown as the glory of a summer sunset. Taking Wandi's hand, though the child dragged back a little as if she was afraid, Twilla walked confidently forward.
What they entered so was not another maze of passages but rather—as the forest people entered their stronghold through that mighty tree—another world indeed.
Twilla could see no source for the light—it just was. What it showed was a stretch of country pushing on and on into a hazy distance her sight could not pierce.
Right before them lay a gentle slope downward, and that was covered with a matting of growth, brown, yellow, pale green, spotted with patches of paler flowers which were, in contrast to their foliage, near as bright as the jeweled fruit of the forest.
She heard from behind cries, cries which blended into the rhythm of a marching song, though the words she could not understand. However, her feet answered to the beat. It was a song of triumph, of victory over odds—a song of return to a homeland.
There were no trees in this land. Here and there stood tall monoliths of rock, rock veined with crystals which flashed as their party moved past. Perched on some of these were lizard-like creatures equipped with skin flap wings. One such took to the air and wheeled about them. Wandi shrank closer to Twilla, her hand hold tightened. The creature came in a circle to the priest-leader and settled on his shoulder. While he reached up with his free hand to caress its bobbing head.
The downward slope led to water. But not the small stream of the fungi cavern. This was a full river. Could it possibly be the same as entered the forest above, here running underneath the ground for a space? If so, perhaps this would provide them with a road out.
On the other side of that there was what could only be a hall, in its way to match the forest castle. There was something about it which awoke wonder in Twilla—though it was but a mighty pile of stones of various colors, patterned with crystals. This was somber and projected a feeling of sadness. The company with her may have been touched by that emotion also, for the song of their triumphant return slowed, and then died.
Around the hall there were no signs of life except for the flying lizards, some of which appeared to have found quarters in the upper reaches of that building. The great door, in the wall facing them as they came to the river bank could be seen clearly to hang a little open. This was a deserted place.
One of the small war band, whom Twilla recognized as he passed her, as the one who had first asked her to use the mirror for changing, pushed ahead of all down to the very edge of the riverbank. He carried a pole ax—perhaps the same one she had used in defense—and now he thrust the shaft of that into the flow of the water.
It struck some obstruction before it was very deeply sunk. He pulled the weapon out as a dripping length, shook it above his head. At the same time his beard-ringed mouth opened and a sound very vast for such a small man, roared up from his throat.
“Hullloooo!”
A number of the winged lizards took to the air, circling back and forth across the river. However, there came no other answer, though it was plain, Twilla thought, that the shouter had hoped for one.
He did not turn back toward them, but, staff in hand, sounding out of path which he took step by step, he plowed into the current. A ford of sorts Twilla guessed.
The carrier of the boar standard followed him, beckoning to Twilla and Wandi. It was true, the girl discovered, there was a hard ridge not too far under the surface and although the current pulled at them until she took a tight grip on Wandi, there was firm enough footing to bring them across.
Yet since that summons had been uttered by the first in line there was no other sound from any in the band. That vague melancholy Twilla had felt when she first looked upon the hall deepened.
They came up to that door ajar and she could see that it had been designed as a proper height for her dwarfish companions. The taller priest had to bend his head, as did she, when they passed within.
The interior was totally unlike any castle or keep of her knowledge. For they shuffled down a short passage, dark but with the call of light ahead, until they came out into a mighty chamber, which perhaps occupied the whole center portion of the building. At roof level there were open spaces where the light poured down.
Each of the four walls was broken by openings. There were flights of steep stairs which led from one floor to the next, each feeding into a balcony running completely around the center court. There were four stories of such. Some of the doors opening onto the balconies were less guarded. Some entirely open almost like merchants’ stalls.
Over all hung that awesome heart-deadening silence. They all seemed bound in place by that, none venturing away from the others to explore, until the priest made the first move.
He did not hurry, perhaps he did not want to have some suspicion or fear confirmed, but he crossed the open courtyard to one of the larger cubbies. Not exactly knowing why, Twilla followed, drawing Wandi with her.
There was a measure of dust on the pavement, mounded here and there into small dunes as if winds might venture here no
w and then to shift this debris of what must be many seasons. Within the cubby there was a small fire-blacked hearth. And by it was clearly an anvil—though too small for any human smith to put to the test. Along the walls hung various tools Twilla could not recognize, but she was able to put name to an assortment of different-sized hammers laid near the forge.
The priest stood by the workplace, looking around him slowly. There was a stricken expression on his face. Whatever should be here was not—for him.
“Long gone—” He used the speech she could understand. Then his features set in a stern mask and she could actually feel the hate and sorrow radiating from him. Swiftly he looked back to the others, only two of which had ventured into the forge.
In their guttural tongue he gave what might be an order. The party split, some of the men ran for the steps which would take them up to the balconies, others scattered, to invade the other hall floor apartments. They had found their voices, for many were calling as they ran or climbed.
Wandi tugged at Twilla. “This—this is a hurting place—”
The oddness of that observation centered Twilla's attention. It was true. The sadness she had felt was growing deeper. Now she wanted out of here as one might want out of a tomb in which hopes as well as bodies had been laid to painful rest.
She dared to break the silence here which had fallen when the priest had sent the others out:
“Wise one, what has happened here?”
He gave a small start as if his thoughts had been well away but there was now set anger in his face.
“This is our Great Hold. When we were tricked by Khargel and caught by his dark-spun magic we were on the march—for still we believed that we could find a common ground with those above. We had lived in peace with them for many lifetimes. There was trade between us, times of feasting. Then came Khargel. He was one filled with greed—instead of trade he demanded tribute. I have heard it said that he used certain ores we worked for strange purposes of power.
