Firehand

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Firehand Page 4

by Andre Norton


  their domains. Any cover we could concoct for you would have to be

  melodramatic to the point that it wouldn't sit right. Besides, a Ton with

  no particular interest in the island would be considerably less likely than a

  healer to take on a voyage and a long trek cross-country just to carry

  warning against Zanthor."

  "A doctor might also reasonably have an eye to a nice reward at the end

  of it all?" Ross suggested.

  "Some generous patronage wouldn't be unwelcome, naturally."

  Gordon nodded, accepting the inevitable. "What precisely are these

  Tons?" he asked. "Lords? Petty kings? It could make a difference in the

  way we'll have to approach and handle them."

  "Neither. The word has no equivalent in any Terran language I know. It

  translates as something like landlord, or as noble and exalted landlord,

  rather, but there's a strong measure of clan chieftain in it plus a good bit

  of chairman of the board and company president thrown in.

  "The setup's different than it used to be with us. The domains are

  owned by the Tons, but they're operated by the whole populace for the

  direct benefit of each family as well as for the whole. The Tons rake off the

  major share of the profits, but everyone working to earn it gets to stick a

  hand into the pot."

  Eveleen smiled. "You'll be learning all that shortly. We all start training

  as soon as we get back."

  Ross winced inwardly. He had gone through the Project's deep

  penetration schooling once before, when he and Gordon Ashe had

  assumed the roles of traders in Terra's Bronze Age. That was just long

  enough ago for a thin mist of nostalgia to have begun spreading a soft veil

  over the experience, but he had a very nasty feeling that the warm glow of

  memory was about to vanish in grinding exhaustion as reality once more

  raised its ugly head with a vengeance. It had been bad enough learning

  how to play the part of a Beaker trader in his own world's past. Now he

  would not only have to fight, but to lead a guerrilla war, and he would

  have to hold the pose of a native son of Dominion of Virgin while he did it.

  He silently laughed at himself. He had been aching to get back to his

  proper work, had he not? Now he had it once more, and there was nothing

  for it but to grit his teeth and go with it.

  The Terran men stood beside the waiting gate. Soon now, they would

  leave this ancient Hawaika for its modern counterpart and the weeks of

  study and labor awaiting them there.

  When they were ready, or as ready as it was possible to be, their true

  work would begin. They would take ship for the cinder that was Dominion

  of Virgin, enter a time gate there, and go back to the age in which that

  planet's fate was to be decided. A sub would bring them from the

  uninhabited island that was the terminus of their gate to the threatened

  isle, though a chopper would probably retrieve them at the conclusion of

  their mission, assuming any of them survived to require its services. They

  would all be exposed to the same degree of peril as any of the locals while

  they remained among them.

  For now, though, the business of parting held them. They had bade

  farewell to the dolphins and to their comrades among the Rovers. Only the

  Foanna remained, and Karara, who was still closeted with Eveleen

  Riordan, discussing the history she was fated to write.

  Ross had quickly taken his leave of the strange trio and had withdrawn

  again before his open pleasure in quitting this place and time should

  become apparent beyond the point of courtesy.

  Ashe stayed with the on-worlders. His own feelings were somewhat

  mixed, and however glad he was to be resuming his proper life and place,

  his heart was heavy. Whatever he and his comrades had done for Hawaika

  herself, they had been unable to help the Foanna. When these three now

  with him died, their race would be extinct. There was no hope of averting

  that doom now, and no hope, either, for the vision that had flickered

  momentarily before him.

  The shame and defeat of his failure filled him, and his head lowered.

  "I'm sorry," he said at last. "I wish we two, or even one of us, had proven

  acceptable to the Powers ruling your kind." Only Karara of all the Terrans

  had been taken, and she was another female…

  "It was not to be, Gordoon," Ynvalda responded. "That we must all

  accept. Doubtless, it is for the best. Our world is death, soul death, for the

  Younger Brother and would probably have proven so for you as well. A

  change in form and ability would not alter that, I think. Ye were made,

  mind and spirit, for other work and other lives."

  "Perhaps, but we found true friends here, and there was much we

  might have learned and accomplished."

  "Friendship is not forgotten. As for the rest, it may be that ye shall win,

  both of ye, what ye desire in other ways and other places. The stars are

  open to your seeking and the plains of time."

  Her head turned slightly. "The Sisters return."

  The two women entered the room even as she spoke. Eveleen, small and

  fair, was the brighter in his eyes despite the shimmering aura that seemed

  to sparkle around and within her companion.

  Whatever had passed between them in their long conference, both were

  silent now, thoughtful, as they approached the place and moment of

  parting.

  Trehern looked from one to the other of those who had been her

  comrades. They were the last link with her old species, with the world that

  had borne her and the life to which she once had given herself…

  Her chin lifted and a smile that answered to the force of her will

  flickered on her lips. She glanced once more at the newcomer. "Eveleen,

  you've told me what needs to be recorded but not whether I managed to

  produce a good book out of it all."

  "A runaway best-seller!" the other assured her. "Planetary when it came

  to us and now interstellar, history and legend in one delightful package."

  Karara laughed and tossed her head. "Now I'm not afraid to begin! I've

  always detested those dreary tomes one is compelled to read in school

  practically at pistol point. I'd have hated to think I was the creator of yet

  another of them."

  "No fear of it. This classic's read with pleasure."

  The time was come. Gordon's heart twisted. Ross had been right in

  saying the dark-haired woman no longer had a life anywhere else. Even

  now, in this moment of eternal parting, there was a barrier between her

  and both Murdock and Riordan. The fact that she had been human,

  Terran, and was so no longer stood between them.

  Mistress of power she might become, but Karara Trehern was also a

  woman, a girl, and soon now, she was to be severed utterly from her own

  time, her own world, her own species. It was not difficult to imagine and

  to empathize with the grief and fear that must be burning behind that

  brave mask.

  "Karara," he whispered.

  She came to him, and he folded her in his arms. Ashe kissed her

  tenderly on the forehead. "Learn well, Karara, but be happy, too."

  Ross gripped himself. Was he human at all or even
marginally

  deserving of the title, he who pretended to set such store by it?

  He took his comrade in his arms as well as soon as his partner released

  her. His mouth met hers in a kiss that was strong and earthy. He wanted

  her to know that, whatever she had become, warmth, the right to give it

  and the power to receive it, remained to her.

  She responded with passion, for she recognized that this part of life,

  too, was closing to her forever. It was good to be held thus this one final

  time.

  At last, Karara drew back, smiling, although tears glistened in her eyes.

  She took her place beside those who were now her sisters while the three

  who were to go stepped into the gate, shimmered, and were gone from her

  sight and time.

  5

  SWEAT BEADED UNDER his dark hair. Zanthor I Yoroc removed his

  helmet and cradled it in the crook of his arm. The day was warm, and he

  often rode bareheaded. None of the four with him should guess that there

  was anything amiss.

  His heavy brows came together. Amiss? There was nothing wrong. The

  burning tug inside him was unusual, but he could continue to resist its

  pull as he had for the past two days. He did not because he was curious as

  to its source and purpose, and only by answering it could he learn the

  reason behind it. The Ton of Condor Hall faced the challenges thrown at

  him, including those that might originate only in his own imagination.

  His expression hardened. No. The call was genuine. It had a goal, an

  end, even if he did not know yet where or what it was. For that reason,

  because he could not name the purpose of the quest or what he would

  encounter at its conclusion, he had elected not to come alone. Three

  doughty swordsmen accompanied him and one of his sons as well.

  He glanced briefly at the young man riding at his left. Frail of body,

  slight of stature, lacking in the fine coordination and speed of movement

  essential to make a superior warrior, Tarlroc I Zanthor would have been a

  disappointment to most men, but he had the sharpest wits of all Zanthor's

  sons, and discretion kept a tight rein on his tongue. He served well as his

  father's clerk, and he, with his good mind, might prove a greater asset on

  this strange journey than the muscles and blades of the others.

  They had been traveling for nearly two hours, but none of I Yoroc's

  companions voiced either protest or curiosity. They knew better. Condor

  Hall's ruler tolerated no breach in discipline, no questioning of his orders,

  by those he commanded.

  He himself evinced no uncertainty as to his course. He felt none. It was

  as if he were following a detailed map save that the directions lay within

  himself. If he veered from the path, the pressure within him increased

  until he returned to it.

  The end came abruptly. All five men reined their springdeer at the edge

  of a clearing newly cut, or burned, rather, out of the brush and trees of the

  surrounding countryside. The scene which met their eyes was such that

  they stared like children of herdsmen entering a large Mainland town for

  the first time.

  Nearest them were three structures formed like straw hives but

  fashioned of steel or some similarly colored metal. Two closely spaced

  pillars stood at the opposite end. It looked as if they had once been tall,

  but now they were bent and twisted and blackened as if by some

  incredibly hot fire.

  All this was strange, inexplicable, but it was nothing to the five

  men—the five beings—who had apparently constructed the odd camp and

  who were now facing the newcomers in a manner that suggested they had

  been awaiting their arrival. All were very thin and short by the standards

  of the Dominionite men. Their complexions were a pasty cream white,

  their faces long. The skulls gave them a grotesque appearance, being

  greatly enlarged and utterly hairless. The eyes were deep black, hard and

  penetrating, unshielded by brow or lash. They were dressed alike in an

  iridescent blue uniform that seemed molded to their slender bodies.

  Strange-looking devices depended from the belts circling the narrow

  waists.

  Zanthor recovered from his amazement. He glanced at his companions

  and saw with annoyance that the soldiers were still gaping at the

  strangers, looking slack-faced and stupid. His son seemed equally useless,

  but even as he watched, Tarlroc wrenched his head to one side, almost as

  if by an act of will, and fixed narrowed eyes on I Yoroc.

  The Ton gave a mental shrug and turned his attention to the

  demon-men. Among the rulers and soldiers of his own people, one who

  issued the first challenge from a position of authority often gained the

  advantage in a debate. It could prove so with these hairless ones as well.

  Better to make the move before they did. "Who are you who camp on

  Condor Hall lands without leave?" he demanded coldly.

  "That we shall discuss with the ruler of this domain."

  A glance at his son showed that Tarlroc's attention was fixed on the

  strangers. The others stood like statues or dead men, showing no interest

  in either their commanders or those in the clearing. "I am the Ton."

  "We have come to further your plans."

  Tarlroc I Zanthor drew his sloping shoulders erect. "And your own as

  well, no doubt." His voice sounded as if it were wrenched from his throat,

  but he had the satisfaction of seeing, or feeling, the demons waver slightly

  as he spoke.

  "Is this the Ton-heir speaking to guard his inheritance?" one of the five

  responded imperiously.

  "I am a cadet son only," I Zanthor responded with a hauteur that

  parried the other's dismissal, "the third of four such, but I know how to

  conduct myself—and what the bearing must be of those who would sue my

  father's favor."

  There was a moment's silence. "Let the Ton and his son enter our

  quarters so that we may speak in comfort," the original speaker invited.

  Zanthor smiled coldly, without humor. Did they believe him a fool

  because he had chosen to answer the now-vanished summons in his head?

  "It is a pleasant day," he responded smoothly. "We shall not have many

  more of them before winter sets in. Have seats brought outside so that we

  can enjoy it while we confer."

  This was done, low, backless stools whose webbed seats were made of

  some material the Dominionite ruler could not immediately identify. Each

  of the Condor Hall men accepted one, which they placed, seemingly

  without forethought, so that they could watch both the strangers and their

  own immobilized escort.

  There was no point and perhaps some danger in further delay, and I

  Yoroc raised the issue at once. "You claim you are willing to assist me. In

  what way do you imagine I need help, yours or anyone else's?"

  "We would see you ruler of all this island."

  The Ton's sallow skin darkened in a flush, then he threw back his head

  and laughed. "Conquer the whole island with the garrison of a northern

  domain? You five may be madmen, but I assure you that my wits are

  sound… Come, Tarlroc. We have wasted enough of our time."
<
br />   "The garrison of your domain could seize another, then another and

  still another if you strike one after the other in quick succession. Give the

  rape of the first conquests to your soldiers to whet their appetites and

  build their morale, then use the rest to pay fighters-for-hire, whom you

  would import secretly. Your force would then be sufficiently large to crush

  each domain individually, and if you move rapidly enough, the island

  would be yours before any unified opposition could be organized to stop

  you."

  Zanthor remained silent. He had been giving serious thought to

  annexing the domain adjacent to his on the east. Swallow's Nest's Ton was

  old and in poor health, and the Ton-heir was of distant blood and little

  loved. That he could take and keep. What the blue-clad demon was

  describing was another matter, desirable, but not nearly so readily

  attainable as the other's bright forecast indicated.

  He shook his head at last. "A handful of bought swords will not

  accomplish that. I would need columns, not mere companies, and I do not

  have the means to procure those. Commandants expect to be paid well,

  and they want a significant portion of their fee when they give their oath

  of service."

  The demon inclined his head toward a large, square, white box which

  had been brought from the hive structure along with the stools. Two of his

  comrades wordlessly raised the lid and stepped aside.

  The domain ruler's breath caught. Although the metal inside was

  formed into long rectangular bars instead of the familiar links, there was

  no mistaking its yellow color.

  Zanthor's expression grew hard. "Why show me this? What precisely do

  you want from me?"

  "We show what we are prepared to give. As a sign of good faith, you

  may take with you as much of this gold as your beasts can comfortably

  carry with the understanding that we expect three times its value returned

  to us upon the conclusion of your campaign. In order to secure further aid

  from us, you must deliver to us now good steel, copper, and other

  materials we shall detail upon receiving your agreement, and you shall

  give us the lives of your foes, their females and spawn as well as the men."

  "You want us to herd half the population of the island here for

  slaughter?" the Ton-heir asked incredulously.

  "Where they die or when is irrelevant. We only insist that they do die."

 

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