Hunt the Space-Witch! Seven Adventures in Time and Space

by Robert Silverberg

  The robot spoke. “It is time for you to return, now. You have served your task well, and now you may return to your earlier life.”

  Harkins was too exhausted to feel relief. At the moment his only concern was resting a while.

  “Are you to leave?” Katha asked suddenly.

  “I am going to go home,” Harkins said.

  A tear glistened in her eye—the first tear, Harkins thought curiously, that he had seen in any eye since his arrival. “But—how can you leave us?” she asked.

  “I—” He stopped. She was right. He had thought of himself as a mere pawn, but to these people he was a ruler. He could not leave now. These people were savages, and needed guidance. The great computer was theirs to use—but they might never learn to use it.

  He turned to the robot. “The job is not done,” he said. “It’s just beginning.” He managed a tired smile and said, “I’m staying here.”

  Spawn of the Deadly Sea

  Chapter One

  The Sea-Lord ship was but a blurred dot on the horizon, a tiny squib of color against the endless roiling green of the mighty sea. It would be a long time before the men of the sea would draw into the harbor of Vythain—yet the people of the floating city were already congealed with terror.

  The whisper shuddered through the city: “The Sea-Lords come!” Old Lackthan in the spy-tower saw the black sails first, and relayed the word down to those below. “The Sea-Lords come!”

  In the streets of the city, life froze suddenly. The purchasing offish and the scraping of scales ceased, the writing of books and the making of songs. The Sea-Lords were making their way across the panthalassa, the great sea that covered the world, heading for Vythain to collect their annual tribute.

  The hundred thousand people of Vythain awaited their coming with fear. One—one—stood on the concrete pier, down where the oily slick of the sea licked angrily against the base of the floating city, and stared outward with open, unashamed curiosity.

  For Dovirr Stargan, this was a long-awaited day. He was eighteen, now; tall and broad and with the strength of a young shark. Looking out across the darkness of the sea, he scowled impatiently as the Sea-Lord vessel slowly crawled toward Vythain.

  From somewhere above came three shrill trumpet-blasts. Dovirr glanced up. At the parapet atop the sweeping flat face of the Council House, Councilman Morgrun was giving the warning.

  “The Sea-Lords approach! Remain in your houses, make no attempt at resistance while the tribute is being delivered. They will not harm us if we do not give them cause.”

  Morgrun’s words rolled out over the amplifiers left behind by the Dhuchay’y, the long-forgotten, long-departed conquerors of abandoned Terra. And down by the pier, Dovirr spat angrily. Craven! he thought.

  “The piers are to be cleared!” Morgrun ordered, and the amplifiers roared out his voice. Dovirr realized that the Councilman’s words were aimed directly at him; all the sensible citizens of the floating city were long since snug in their cozy nests, huddling till the men of the sea had snatched their loot and gone on.

  Dovirr turned, saw a swarthy red-clad officer come running toward him. He recognized the man: young Lackresh, son of Vythain’s lookout.

  “Dovirr, you madman! Get off the pier before the Sea-Lords arrive!”

  “I’m staying here, Lackresh. I want to see what they’re like.”

  “They’ll kill you, idiot! Come on—I have my orders.” Lackresh brandished a neuron-whip—another legacy from the Dhuchay’y conquerors of old. “Get up to your place, fast!”

  “Suppose I don’t go?”

  Sweat poured down Lackresh’s face. Life was peaceful, here in Vythain; a policeman really had little to do amid the everlasting calm—the calm Dovirr hated so violently. “If you don’t go—if you don’t go—”

  “Yes?”

  The Sea-Lord ship was near the harbor now, and drawing nearer rapidly. Lackresh’s wavering hand unsteadily grasped the compact neuron-whip. Looking at Dovirr with blank lack of comprehension on his face, he said: “Why don’t you act like a normal person, Dovirr?”

  Dovirr laughed harshly. “You’ll never get anywhere reasoning with me, you know. You’d better use force.”

  Lackresh’s lower lip trembled. He raised the neuron-whip and said uneasily, “All right. I’m ordering you to return to your dwelling. I’ve wasted too much time as it is and—”

  Dovirr leaped forward, grinning, and clamped one powerful hand on Lackresh’s wrist. Twisting downward, he forced the officer to release the neuron-whip. He grabbed the weapon and shoved Lackresh back a few feet.

  “Go,” Dovirr ordered hoarsely. “Get moving, Lackresh—or I’ll whip you right into the water!”

  “You’re crazy!” Lackresh whispered.

  “Maybe so—but that’s not your affair. Go!” He tuned the aperture of the neuron-whip down to Low Intensity and flashed a stinging force-beam at the officer. Lackresh quivered under the blow, seemed almost ready to burst into tears—and then, recovering himself, he stared evenly at Dovirr.

  “You’ve beaten me,” he said. “I’ll leave you here—and may the Seaborn pick your bones!”

  “I’ll worry about that,” Dovirr called laughingly, as Lackresh retreated. The officer scrambled without much dignity up the carven stone stairs that led from the piers to the city proper, and vanished into the tumult of winding streets that was Vythain.

  Dovirr turned and planted one foot on the very rim of the sea-wall. The sea rolled on—the endless sea, the sea that covered all of Earth save where the floating cities of the conquering Dhuchay’y broke the pathless waves.

  The Sea-Lord ship made for the harbor. Dovirr could almost hear the raucous chanting as the rough kings of the sea hove to, drawing back the oars. He narrowed his eyes. The black sail billowed, and the ship was close enough to count the banks of oars.

  There were four. It was a quadrireme—that meant the Thalassarch himself was coming to collect the gold! Almost sick with impatience, Dovirr waited for the ship to arrive.

  Gowym, Thalassarch of the Western Sea, was a tall, heavy man with the thick, brutal jaw of a ruthless leader. He wore a tunic of green wool—wool, the precious product of the floating city of Hicanthro—and affected a curling black beard that extended from his thin, hard lips to the middle of his chest.

  The Thalassarch stood six-feet-six; around him were his underlings, buskin-clad, all of them over six feet. They were a proud group. The Sea-Lord vessel lay at anchor in the suddenly quiet harbor at Vythain, while tethered to the side of the pier was Gowyn’s richly-carved dinghy. Dovirr, squatting down out of sight, squinted at the letters inscribed on the black ship’s prow: Garyun.

  He smiled. Dovirr Stargan, Master of the Ship Garyun. It was a worthy title, a noble ambition.

  The rulers of Vythain now came in solemn procession to greet the waiting Gowyn. Dovirr watched them scornfully; eight doddering oldsters, led by Councilman Morgrun. They advanced, bearing the coffers.

  Gold—gold laboriously dredged from the sea by the painstaking hydride process. A year’s work to reclaim a few handfuls of the precious metals—and the Thalassarch claimed what was his due, in payment for guarding the seas.

  Some said there were no pirates, that the Sea-Lords had created them as a convenient fiction for the purpose of keeping the floating cities subservient. That was as may be; it yet remained that ships did disappear, whether at pirate hand or Sea-Lord. And the inter-city commerce was vital to the existence of the floating cities.

  Vythain produced vegetables; Korduna, meat. From Hicanthro came treasured wool, from Dimnon rubber, from Lanobul machined goods. No city was self-sufficient; each of the floating communities that drifted on the great panthalassa, anchored securely to the sunken ancient world of lost Terra beneath the sea, required the aid of the Sea-Lords’ ships to survive.

  “The tribute, sire,” Councilman Morgrun said unctuously. He knelt, soiling his costly robes in the dirt before Gowyn the Thalassarch. His seven conf
reres came forward, set the coffers of gold before the Sea-Lords.

  “Take it,” Gowyn growled to his underlings. Each of the subordinates stooped, easily lifted a heavy coffer, and deposited it in the dinghy. Gowyn struck a demoniac pose, one foot athwart Morgrun’s debased body.

  “For another year,” the Thalassarch rumbled, “I, Gowyn of the Western Sea, declare the city of Vythain under my protection. The gold is solid weight, is it not?”

  “Of course,” Morgrun mumbled.

  “It had better be.” Gowyn kicked the Councilman away from him contemptuously. “Back to your shelter, guppy! Run! Hide! The Sea-Lord will eat you unless you can flee!”

  With undignified haste Morgrun scrambled to his feet. He gathered his robes about him, made a perfunctory bow and muttered thanks, turned, and, flanked by the other seven Councilmen, retreated swiftly toward the carven stairs. Gowyn’s sardonic laughter echoed through the silent city as they ran.

  The Thalassarch turned to his waiting comrades. “This city has no fight,” he remarked. “Each year they hand over the tribute like so many frightened fleas. Damn, but I’d love a good fight some year from one of them!”

  A heavily-tanned, red-bearded man in jeweled helmet said: “Never, sire. They need your protection too desperately for that!”

  Gowyn roared in laughter. “Protection! Imagine—they pay us for what we most dearly love to do!” He looked up at the massed bulk of the floating city, and chuckled scornfully.

  The Sea-Lords turned to enter their dinghy. Suddenly Dovirr rose from his hiding-place.

  “Wait, Thalassarch!” he shouted.

  Gowyn had one foot already in the dinghy. He drew it back in utter astonishment and looked up to see who it was had spoken. Dovirr faced him squarely. “The tribute is yours, mighty Gowyn—but you leave too soon.”

  “What want you, boy?”

  Dovirr bristled at the offhand, impatient “boy.” “Boy no more than any of you, Sea-Lords. I seek to leave Vythain. Will ye take me with you?”

  Gowyn roared in amusement and nudged one of his companions. “Ho! A sucker-fish wishes to run with the sharks! Into the water with him, Levrod, and then let’s be off for the ship.”

  The Sea-Lord named Levrod smiled eagerly. “The work of a moment, sire.” He stepped toward Dovirr, who backed away half a step and then held his ground. “Come to me, landman,” Levrod crooned. “Come and taste the sea-water!”

  “You come to me,” Dovirr snarled back. “I’ll stand my ground.”

  Angrily Levrod charged. Dovirr waited for the enraged Sea-Lord to cover the concrete pier and draw close. Levrod was wiry and strong, Dovirr saw. Levrod was planning on a running charge, a quick flip—and a dunking for the rash townsman who delayed the Sea-Lords. Dovirr had other ideas.

  Levrod reached him; the Sea-Lord’s strong fingers clutched for his arm and leg. Deftly, Dovirr stood to one side, stooped, caught the astonished Levrod by the crotch and shoulder. In one swift motion he straightened and catapulted the Sea-Lord into the water. Brine splashed on the pier as Levrod went under.

  Dovirr whirled, expecting the other Sea-Lords to retaliate. But they were holding fast. Levrod swam rapidly to shore—there was never any telling what lurked in the offshore waters—and clambered up, cursing and spitting saltwater. Red-faced, he groped for his sword.

  Dovirr stiffened. Unarmed, he could hardly hope to defend himself. Levrod whipped forth his weapon—

  And Gowyn the Thalassarch drew his, crashing it down ringingly on Levrod’s blade. Stunned, the Sea-Lord let the sword drop from his numbed fingers.

  Gowyn glanced at Dovirr. “Pick it up,” he commanded.

  Silently, Dovirr obeyed. He gripped the jeweled hilt firmly and looked at the Thalassarch.

  Gowyn was smiling. “Run this carrion through,” he said, indicating the dripping, shivering, utterly miserable Levrod.

  Dovirr tightened his grip. Strike an unarmed man? Why—

  He banished the thought. Levrod would have killed him unhesitatingly; besides, Gowyn’s orders were orders. He lunged; the stroke was true. Levrod crumpled. Gowyn kicked the corpse over the side of the pier. Slowly, a red stain seeped out over the oily harbor water.

  Instantly there was a flutter of fins, and the body disappeared. The Seaborn, Dovirr thought moodily. Feeding on their landborn brother.

  “We now have one vacancy aboard the Garyun. Your name, youngster?”

  “Dovirr Stargan,” he stammered. Could it be possible? Was it really happening?

  “Welcome to the Garyun, Dovirr Stargan. You’re young, but I like your spirit. Besides, I long suspected Levrod’s loyalty.”

  Chapter Two

  The wide, uneasy sweep of the sea spread out before Dovirr as he stood near the prow of the Garyun, feeling the salty tang blow sharply against him. The sky was dark; overburdened clouds hung low, threatening cold rain, and the golden-brown fins of the Seaborn broke the surface here, there, cleaving the sea at random.

  Looking outward, Dovirr thought of the Seaborn—those strange once-human things man had created centuries ago in a fruitless attempt to halt the onslaught of the unstoppable Dhuchay’y.

  “Thinking, Dovirr?” a deep voice said.

  He turned. Gowyn stood beside him. In the six months he had been aboard the ship, Dovirr had won a firm place in the grizzled Thalassarch’s affections. Gowyn was near middle age; he had held dominance on the Western Sea more than twenty years. Time ran against him. He sought a successor—and, Dovirr hoped, he had found one at last.

  “Thinking, sire. Of the Seaborn.”

  Gowyn squinted at the flashing fins. “Our brethren of the deep? Someday you’ll taste their teeth, young one.”

  “Is it true, sire? That they eat humans who fall below?”

  Gowyn shrugged heavy shoulders. “You will find that out the day you topple overboard. I’ve never had cause to know—but a dying seaman will draw their fins within an instant.”

  “Strange,” Dovirr said, “that they should prey on us. They were men once themselves, weren’t they?”

  “The sons of men only.” Shadows swept the Thalassarch’s face. “Years past—when the Earth was dry land, when the Dhuchay’y first came—man created the Seaborn to fight the alien conquerors.” He chuckled sardonically. “It was hopeless. The Dhuchay’y defeated the Seaborn legions with ease, set a mighty rod in the ocean—and the spreading seas covered the land.”

  “What were they like, the Dhuchay’y?”

  “Amphibians! They lived on sea, on land. They flooded our world to provide breeding ground for their spawn, who live in the sea until grown—and also to rid themselves of the troublesome beings who lived on the land. It was the Dhuchay’y that built the floating cities, and kept a few of us alive to serve them.” Moodily, Gowyn clenched his fists. “Oh, had I been alive then, when they trampled us! But there was no stopping them. The sea covered all of Earth, save only for the cities they built. The world of our fathers lies a thousand fathoms down. The Seaborn sport in the drowned cities.”

  “And they left,” said Dovirr. “Every Dhuchay’y on Earth suddenly left one day. They gave no reason?”

  “None.”

  Harsh clouds seemed to bunch on the horizon. Dovirr shivered as the chill, moisture-laden wind filled the sails. The rhythmical grunting of the oarsmen on the four decks below formed a regular pattern of sound that blended with the beating of the sea against the Garyun’s hull.

  “Some day the Dhuchay’y will return,” Gowyn said suddenly. “Some day—as unexpected as their first coming, and as unexpectedly as they departed, they will come back.”

  Fierce salt spray shot up the bows. In a lowered voice, Gowyn said, “Dovirr—should I die before they come—”

  “Sire?”

  “Should I die—and my time is long since overdue—will you swear to destroy them in my place?”

  Dovirr nervously fingered his sprouting black beard. “I swear, sire,” he said huskily.

  Gowyn was silent for
a moment, his thick fingers digging into Dovirr’s shoulders. Then he pointed toward the lee.

  “From there, this afternoon, will come a ship of Thalassarch Harald. Fight you at my side, Dovirr.”

  “Thank you, sire.” Dovirr bowed his head. To fight at the Thalassarch’s side was a deep honor—a sign that the mantle had been confirmed. Gowyn had named his eventual successor.

  The Thalassarch strode away. Dovirr remained looking outward. Somewhere far to the east was the island city of Vythain. Work and slave, ye landbound lubbers! Dovirr thought defiantly. You’ll pay tribute to Dovirr yet!

  As Gowyn foretold, Harald’s ship did indeed come from the leeward that afternoon, sailing into the wind. The cry resounded from aloft shortly after midday mess, and the Garyun prepared for war.

  There were nine Thalassarchs, each boasting a roughly-hewn section of the globe. Gowyn called his domain the Western Sea; Harald was lord of the Black Ocean, a vague territory lying to the west of Gowyn’s waters, and including the floating cities of Dimnon, Lanobul, and Ariod, among others. But there were no borders in the ocean, and each Thalassarch disputed hotly the extent of his neighbor’s sphere of dominance.

  Harald’s ship approached. Aboard the Garyun, the uppermost bank of oarsmen docked their oars; with the wind blowing strongly, the vessel could maneuver with only three banks, thus freeing twenty men for bearing arms. All of the women of the Garyun, wives and daughters of the Sea-Lords, were safe in their quarters below-decks.

  The Garyun ran up a war-flag. Gowyn strode to the deck, armed and ready, and Dovirr took his place at the Thalassarch’s right hand. He saw several of the ship’s officers staring at him enviously, but ignored them. He was Gowyn’s man, and they would honor Gowyn’s choice—or else!

  The enemy ship called itself the Brehtwol. It, too, ran up its war-flag. Swords bristled aboard the Garyun; the grappling-iron crew readied itself.