FORERUNNER FORAY by Andre Norton
A sound—it echoed, vibrated through the walls of the tower—through her body.
The Voice! It had never been heard in her lifetime, but there was no mistaking it for anything else. D’Fani had in so much backed his boasts—the Voice was speaking.
No words, just the rhythm of its beat. But that entered into one’s body, one’s mind! D’Eyree cried out. For the vibration centered in the Eyes, and they caused such a blaze of pain that she rolled across the floor, now whimpering in gasps of agony, clawing at the band that held the source of torture against her skull.
Somehow she got it loose, dragged it off. Then she lay panting, the relief so great she could only grasp that the pain was gone. Still the beat of the Voice shook her bone and flesh, and somehow its meaning was clear in her mind.
As she had drawn that life force in the sea to feed the Lurla, just so was she being drawn. Yet something within her, some hard core which was herself, D’Eyree, was still firm against that pull. And random thoughts drew together.
In all the tales of the Voice she had never heard of this effect. This was something different—wrong. The Voice was a warning, a defense for the people. It did not beat down the mind, control one. What had D’Fani done to unleash this?
Wrong, all wrong! The realization of that was strong inside her. This was a tampering, an assault -- Still, even as she thought that she was crawling against her will on hands and knees toward the door in answer to the summons of that unending sound.
No, she would not answer the Voice—this Voice that was D’Fani’s weapon. D’Eyree fought against the compulsion until she lay writhing on the floor. The band of the Eyes was about one arm like a giant’s bracelet that did not fit, now she brought it to her. The Eyes were braziers filled with blue-green fire, as she had never seen them before. To loose the compulsion—could she touch them, then focus her power on breaking the call of the Voice?
The pain—could she stand it? With courage she did not know she had, D’Eyree laid her hands across the Eyes. Pain, yes, but not so intense, not so concentrated as when she wore them.
She could stand this, and the very hurt helped to break the drag of the Voice. If she went, and she believed she must see what was happening, then she would be armed by having her own will back.
She took the way from the tower inward to the heart of Nornoch. People moved along it with her. But none spoke to the others; rather they stared straight ahead in such concentration as she herself knew when she worked with the Lurla.
So they came to the heart of Nornoch, that tallest spur of rock which had never been leveled, on which was hung the Voice in its cage. And on the ledge beneath it was D’Fani. His entire head was encased in a transparent arg shell of vast size. And below him were D’Atey and others, similarly shielded against the sound of the Voice.
But the people stood swaying in time to the beat of that sound from above. And their faces were blank, without expression. Closer and closer they moved to the foot of that spur, packed tightly now, yet those on the fringe still pushed as if it were imperative that they reach the Voice itself.
D’Eyree halted where she saw, keeping her hold on reality with her grip on the Eyes. But she saw faces she knew in that throng. Not only D’Huna, who had divested herself of her eyes, but the other wearers, and none wore their bands of office.
She looked from them to D’Fani above. There was a vast exultation on his face as his head turned slowly from side to side. He might be numbering those gathered below, taking pleasure in their subordination to the device.
D’Eyree moved back, but she was too late. He saw her and at the same instant was aware that the spell of the Voice did not hold her in thrall. Leaning forward, he caught at the shoulder of one of the helmeted guards below him, pointing with his other hand to D’Eyree.
As the guard raised a distance harpoon, D’Eyree turned and ran. Where could she go? Back to her tower? But they could easily corner her there. She found one of the sharply set stairs and scrambled up it, knowing she fled from death.
That the Voice controlled Nornoch there was no doubt. What did it matter now that she had learned how easily the Lurla could be fed? She would never have any chance to tell what she had learned, save to ears rendered already deaf to any words of hers.
Gasping, she reached the roof of the wall, ran along it. Now the sky was dark; she saw lightning split the clouds over the island’s crown. It was as if the booming of the Voice had drawn the storm faster.
The Lurla—they must be alerted, sent to their posts! But if she were hunted, if the other wearers had laid aside their Eyes—
If she could find a hiding place then she could try to do her duty. The tower ahead was D’Huna’s—her own was a turn of the wall away. She looked back once and saw the first guard come into the open.
Around the tower, on the outer edge—resolutely she kept her eyes from the rocks so far below. She had pushed the Eye band to her shoulder for safekeeping so she could use her two hands to steady her. Step, step, do not think of the pursuers, keep her mind on making this perilous advance.
Again a flatter surface, which looked as wide and open as a road after that narrow detour. She flashed along it as the winds from the sea grew stronger. If the gale became worse she dared not try that outer passage at the other towers too often. The gusts could pluck her forth and dash her to her death below.
Even through the murk of the storm she could see her goal, though whether she had the courage and strength to reach it she did not know. A lesser spur of the rock, like that which supported the Voice, yet not so tall, was within leaping distance from the top of the wall at that point. As she well knew, that had a crevice halfway down its surface on the sea side wherein she could hide.
She reached the take-off point, measured the distance. If she faltered now she could never again summon up the needed spurt to make it. Recklessly she leaped for the spur, landing hard with a force that bruised her badly. But enough need for self preservation was left to make her crawl down into the break, wedging her body in as soon as she could force entrance.
The smell of the sea arose from below, but she was perched in a cramped space. The winds and waves were beginning their assault. She put on the Eye band, concentrated on the Lurla.
They—they were already at work! And at such a pace as her own prodding could never have won from them. Then this must be the effect of the Voice! No wonder D’Fani had felt safe, had allowed the wearers to be without their Eyes.
But—her mental picture steadied. The Lurla were working, yes, but without proper direction. They spun their congealing exudation along the walls, but also on the floors. And they were spinning too fast. Even as she contacted them, one went utterly limp and fell to the floor where another crawled unheedingly over it, encasing it with the hardening substance.
Frantically D’Eyree tried to slow them, give them direction as she had always done. To no avail. Whatever influence the Eyes had once had was gone, wiped out by the Voice. D’Fani was killing the Lurla, and there was nothing she could do—
D’Eyree was startled out of her concentration as something clanged against the rock near her head clattered down past her perch. A harpoon -- She looked up, caught a glimpse of a guard taking fresh aim with another weapon. Cringing, she tried to make herself smaller.
But before the shot came, she heard a hoarse cry from above. Then, past the outer edge of the cleft in which she sheltered, a body plunged out and down. The force of the wind, or some misstep, had torn the guard from his post.
Before a second gained the same advantage she must be on the move, though she had to force herself to leave that illusion of safety to descend farther. So going she passed another hole, but it was too small to hold her. Three quarters of the way down she found what she sought, pulling herself into a deeper opening. She was certain now that she could not be sighted from overhead. That she could retreat any farther was impossible, as the sea was there, washing with vicious slaps among the rocks.
On
Through the spur of rock that sheltered her she could still feel the beat of the Voice, though most of the sound was now deadened by the sea. Was it that which worked upon the Lurla? And did D’Fani know—or care?
Duty urged her to climb again, to cry out to the people what was happening. But it would be to deaf ears, and she would doubtless be killed long before she reached any point from which they could hear her. She sat with the Eye band between her hands and tried to think.
The Eyes—the wearers were sensitive to the Eyes. If she could reach the mind of one of them, or more than one, with her warning—even though they had taken off their bands. She could only try. Earlier she had traced the old ways of communication with the sea, an exploit she had never thought to try before. Why not attempt this other thing? If she put all her strength to it—
She slipped the band from her arm, and as she did so it rapped sharply against the rock. To her horror one of the Eyes loosened, dropped. Before she could grab it, it rolled into a crevice and was gone. Only one left. But she could try, even though any power she might call upon was now halved.
D’Eyree concentrated as she never had before in her whole life, closing her eyes to better summon to mind the faces of the wearers. But she could not hold more than three at a time. Very well then—three -- And to them, as if she stood before them, she cried aloud her warning, over and over, with no way of knowing either success or failure. At last she tired, tired so that she could not hold those faces in mind. Wearily she opened her eyes—upon darkness!
The storm -- The sound of the sea was only a faint murmur. But she was in the dark! She put forth her hand and felt a wet, slimy surface.
Frantic, D’Eyree beat upon that surface. At first it seemed to her that it gave a little, but that was only illusion. As she ran her fingers across it, she realized the truth; she was walled in. And the smell of the stuff was fetid. It was Lurla slime. That hole past which she had descended must have direct connection with the wall burrows, and some of that overflow had cascaded through it to cover her refuge’s entrance. She was eternally trapped!
The horror of it made her sick. With the band at her breast she rocked back and forth, crying aloud. Entombed—alive—no escape -- This was death—death—
Not death—not death—that stranger in her mind was awakening, taking over. Out—get out—not death—get out! But it was not D’Eyree who thought so—it was—
The clamor of the sea—she could breathe—she was out! And in her hands—
Ziantha sat up dazedly looking down at what she held. In one hand was the focus-stone, in the other a circle of shining metal with two settings in it—one held the twin to the stone, the other was empty! D’Eyree’s Eyes!
But how—she looked along her body, half expecting to see the scaled skin, the alien form. No, she was in Vintra’s body. And she—somehow she had not only found the twin stone, but had apported it from the past. But how long had she been in Nornoch? Turan—was he dead?
Lurching to her feet, she started back to the flyer. The sun was no longer high—instead it was nearly setting, sending a brilliant path across the waves. And the island was a dark and awesome blot. Ziantha shuddered away from the memory of those last moments before she had been able to tear away from D’Eyree. Never could she face that again. She must have won her freedom the very moment that the other had died. And if she had not—
Turan!
She tore open the cabin door to look within. He lay in his seat, his eyes closed. He looked dead.
“Turan!” She caught him by the shoulders, exerted her strength to draw him up, to make him open his eyes and see her.
13
Ziantha leaned over him, so filled with fear she could not immediately use mind-search to explore for any spark of life in Turan’s body. But slowly those eyes opened; she saw them focus upon her, know her—
“Not dead.” His slack lips tightened to shape the words. “You—got—out—“
“You knew that I was dying—back there?”
He did not seem to have even strength left to nod, but she could read his faint assent. Then she knew in turn—
“You helped me!”
“Trapped—needed—“ His voice trailed away. Those eyes closed again, and his head rolled limply on his shoulders.
“No! Not now, Turan—we have won! See!” Before his closed eyes she held the two stones, one free, one in its setting. But perhaps it was too late, or was it?
She thought of the way D’Eyree had used the Eyes. Could she do likewise now? Could she give to Turan through them some of her own life force?
She tried to fit the band on her head, but its shape was too different. It had been fashioned for another species. At length she cupped the stones in her hands, held them to her forehead, and thought—thought life, energy, being, into Turan, seeking that spark almost driven out by death. And in that seeking she found it, united with it, fed it with her will, her belief, and confidence. As D’Eyree had driven the Lurla, so did she now in fact drive Turan, feeding him all she had to give.
He stirred. Once more his eyes opened; he pulled himself up in the seat.
“No.” His voice was stronger. “I can hold, but do not exhaust what you have to give. The time is not yet when it may be that all you can offer will be needed. We must get back—back to the beginning—Turan’s tomb. And you must pilot this flyer.”
Ziantha could not protest. In her mind he had earlier set the proper information. But in what direction? Where would she find a guide?
He might have picked that question out of her mind as he answered:
“I have set it—“ Once more he lapsed into that state of nonbeing, hoarding his energy, she knew. Now it was her doing, all of it.
Ziantha pushed into the sea, fronted the controls. His instructions were clear in her mind. One did this and this. But could she lift the flyer off this stretch of rock, or would it crash into the sea, taking them both to a swift ending? There was no way to make sure but to try.
Her hands shaking a little, she brought the motor to life; the flyer moved forward. Now one did this and this. Frantically she worked at the controls, nor could she believe that she had succeeded until they were indeed airborne, climbing into the dusk of evening. She circled the rock that was all that was left of Nornoch, her eyes on the direction dial. The needle swung, steadied, and held. If he had been right that would take them back.
As they winged over the sea she tried to plan. That she had brought the second stone out of the past was still difficult for her to believe, unless the drawing power of its twin already in her hands and in use had been the deciding factor. But she was convinced that without careful study, her contemporaries would not be able to understand the psychic power locked in these gems.
The stones had been ancient in Nornoch, put to psychic uses by generations of sensitives. This in turn had built up in them reserves of energy. Reawakened by her use, that power had, in a manner, exploded. Would it now be as quickly dispersed, or could she harness it to return them to their own time?
Night came and still the flyer was airborne; the needle on the guide held steady. Turan moved once or twice, sighed. But she had not tried to reach him either by speech or mind-send. He was not to be disturbed. He needed all the strength he had to hold on. That he had given her of his last reserves in that moment of D’Eyree’s death was a debt she must repay.
It was in the first dawn that she saw the coast lights, and, with those, lights moving in the sky as well, marking at least two other flyers. She could not maneuver this machine off course, nor did she know any way of defending it. She could only hope—
Locked on course, the flyer held steady,
The other flyers were boxing them in now, one on either side. Ziantha tensed. How soon would they fire upon them? Vintra’s memory could not supply her with information. The rebels did not have many flyers, and Vintra had not used one. Would it be better to try to land? One glance at Turan told her of the impossibility of trying to cross country on foot.
Before her on the instrument board a light flashed on and off in a pattern of several colors. Code—but one she could not read, much less answer. They were helpless until the flyer reached the goal Turan had set.
When no attack came, Ziantha breathed a little easier. Zuha had ordered them shot down on sight, but that had not happened. Therefore it might be that other orders had been issued since. How long had they been on the island? She did not know whether it was only part of a day or much longer.
The flyer bored steadily on into the morning. Ziantha was very hungry, thirsty, and her sensitive’s control could no longer banish those needs. She found a compartment in which emergency rations were carried. The contents of the tube were not appetizing but she gulped them down. Turan? She drew forth a second tube, prepared to uncap it.
“No.” His word was hardly more than a whisper. He was looking beyond her to the flyer that was their escort—or guard.
“They have not attacked,” she told him the obvious. “For a while they tried to communicate by code. Now they do nothing.”
“The focus-stones—“ He made such a visible effort to get out those words that her anxiety grew.
“Here,” she held out her hand so he could see them lying on her palm.