by Andre Norton
Elossa brought out the last of her journey cakes—a mass of crumbs. And they had the water in the bottles. Having eaten, they drank, and then agreed, though they lacked any method of telling time, to share sentry duties.
Stans arbitrarily claimed the first watch period and Elossa did not dispute him. The ordeal of the bridge crossing still was with her. She was content for now to huddle within her cloak and just rest. But sleep came upon her then with the suddenness of a blow.
When she roused from that state it was to feel Stans’ hand on her shoulder, shaking her into wakefulness. He grunted some disjointed words she did not clearly catch and settled down himself in the dark leaving her to look out upon the strangeness of this over-mountain country. At first she sharpened her sleep-drugged wits by trying to place their present position. Their crossing of the valley had been mainly an east to west trail. But when Stans had sought the Mouth he had certainly gone north. Had their journey also within the interior of the heights been northward? She was certain that was so. As her eyes adjusted to the dark she believed that they were surrounded by peaks higher than the foothills among which they had earlier traveled. There was no mistaking a certain feel to which she was sensitive from her life among the heights.
Now that the pressure of the journey, the need to escape, was gone, she tried to marshal what little she knew, what she had observed and felt, into a logical sequence from which she might reason possible future action.
Two heritages had been very much in evidence in the way of the Mouth: Raski—even though Stans denied that he knew much of Atturn—Yurth in the mysterious figure who had attempted to slay them with the ancient weapon of her own people and then had vanished.
Yet because of their very heritage there was no reasonable motive for such a melding of menace. Until she and Stans had stood in the sky ship and made their own uneasy alliance there had been, to Elossa’s knowledge, no pacific meeting between Yurth and Raski.
She fumbled in folds of her clothing and brought forth the mirror pendant. There was no light of moon to give it life; she was able to see only a disc, and that very shadowy in her hand. Also to use that would open her mind, leave her defenseless to any other who had mind-send, mind-probe. Restlessly she fingered it, longing to put it to use, caution acting as a brake on her desire.
That Yurth call—concerning that she had not been mistaken. If that were only a mental illusion, to match what had been visual ones, then she was indeed lost. A chill of fear crawled along her body, far worse than any cold brought by the wind and the stone surrounding her. Mind must control illusion. But if the mind itself were to be invaded by such—against that not even the most strongly armed Yurth could stand! And she did not claim the completely trained powers of her elders.
She raised the half-seen mirror to her lips, breathed upon it. Then holding it at eye level she concentrated.
Yurth—if there was Yurth here then that call would bring, should bring. . . .
Elossa could see the disc only as an object between her fingers. She had never tried before to use it in such an absence of light. There was—no, she was not mistaken! The disc grew warm—it was activated!
Yurth! Urgently she beamed out that call.
No answer, though she put into her mind-send all the strength she could summon. If Yurth had ever been here then her people were now gone. Dare she try Raski? As Elossa hesitated, the memory of the Mouth was sharp in her mind. Better not play with forces she did not understand. That looping shadow tongue which had near taken Stans was something beyond her own knowledge. Regretfully she clasped the mirror between her palms, loosed all concentration, then stowed it carefully away.
There was a lighting of the sky beginning, and, judging by that, they were indeed facing north. How long did they have before the first storms of the cold season would close in? Though the Yurth had their log huts and stone caves, their storage houses, yet that season was never easy for them. She and Stans had no supplies, no shelter as yet. Both must now be their primary concern.
Dawn broke at last and Elossa could see the new land lying below, for the passage in which they had sheltered part of the night fronted on a slope well above the floor of a valley. Unlike the wide expanse which had held the destroyed city, this was relatively narrow. But it ran east and west and she was sure that she caught a glimpse of a stream of some size forming a ribbon down its center. There was growth of dark vegetation on the lower slopes, rising to stunted trees. But there was something unwholesome about the look of that.
Still a source of water was important. Only, where there was any stream, they could also expect to find a come and go of life. Sargon, such as had already near made an end to her over mountain, and kindred beasts of the heights might well roam here. Stans carried a hunter’s weapons, she had nothing save her staff. Nor had she ever taken life herself.
“Darksome. . . .” Stans moved out to join her. “This is no country to welcome the traveler. Yet there is water. So it may well be good hunting territory.”
They left the entrance to the tunnel to proceed down slope. Without any spoken agreement they both made good use of all cover as they went, while Elossa opened her mind a little, striving to pick up any hint of life.
“Two-horns—” She spoke in a whisper gauged just to reach the ears of the man moving hardly an arm’s distance away.
He shot her a startled glance.
“To the west.” She pointed with her chin. “There are four—they graze.”
He nodded swiftly and turned in the direction she had indicated. His crossbow was in his hands. Elossa felt a little sick. At least she had not tolled a helpless animal within striking distance. But her betrayal was little the less. How true was it that one was allowed to slay in order to live? She could defend herself against attack—but a two horn was no attacker. She. . . . No, in this much she must face the necessity of breaking her own creed. To starve because one would not kill—a stronger person might face that rule, she fell far short of such strength.
Also, since this was of her doing, she must force herself to watch. So, like Stans, she slipped along.
The brush which cloaked the slope gave way to a stand of grass which waved tips near as tall as the shoulders of the animals who grazed there. Four two-horns. Elossa had read the emanations of life forces aright. There was one female, a half-grown yearling, and two males—one with the wide-curved horns of a herd leader of more than ten seasons.
Stans shot. The younger male gave a convulsive leap forward, a red stream shooting from its throat. The other male cried aloud in a great bellow and herded the female and her yearling before him into flight. The wounded animal had fallen to its knees as the bolt in its jugular drained it of blood. Stans raced on, knife in hand, to swiftly end its struggles.
Sick at what she had seen, Elossa made herself advance to where the Raski was busy butchering the kill. She stooped and thrust her fingers into the congealing blood. Then she drew on her forehead the scarlet sign of her sin. So must she wear that for all to note until in some manner she might atone. She looked around to see the Raski, pausing in his bloody work, watching her action with open amazement.
“It is through me the innocent had died,” she said, not wanting to explain her shame, but knowing that she must “So must I wear a killer’s blood token.”
His surprise did not lighten. “This is meat, we must have it or die. There are no fields to be harvested here, no fruit ripe for the picking. Do not the Yurth eat meat? If not so, how do they live?”
“We live,” she said bleakly. “And we kill. But never must we let ourselves forget that in killing we take on ever the burden which is part of the death of another, be it man or animal.”
“You did not blood yourself with the sargon,” he commented.
“No, for then the fight was equal—life risked against life—and that is left upon the balance of the First Principle, not upon any better skill or trick of ours.”
Stans shook his head and his expression was still
one of bafflement.
“Yurth ways—” He shrugged. “It remains, we can eat.”
“Dare we light a fire?” The girl looked on to the end of the meadow which bordered on the stream. Across that swift flow of water (and it was swift, bearing with it sticks, masses of wrack as if there had been a storm somewhere higher up and the hurrying flood had picked up much debris along the way) there were standing rocks and sand, none of the vegetation which grew on this side.
“What do your Yurth talents tell you?” he countered. “If you can so find a beast to give us food without searching far, can you not also tell us whether we are alone here?” He sat back on his heels, his face impassive.
Elossa could not be really convinced whether he asked that without latent hostility. They were so different in their heritage—dare she ever be certain that there did not lie some other motive under any speech he made to her?
She hesitated. To reveal her weaknesses when she could not be sure of this Raski—that might be the height of stupidity. Yet she must not, on the other hand, claim powers which in a time of emergency she could not summon. That might well be worse in the future than admitting now there were limits to what she could do.
“If I use such a mind-search,” Elossa said slowly, “and there is a mind equally trained within range, then instantly that other will know of me—or us.”
“It would be a Yurth mind which could do so, would it not?” he asked. “Do you then fear your own people?”
“I travel with a Raski.” She picked the first excuse she could light upon. “They do not hate nor fear your kind, but I would be so strange because of that.”
“Yes, even as I company with Yurth!” He nodded. “Most of my own blood would send such a bolt as this—“ He touched what he had taken from the wound—“through me without question.”
She made her decision, mainly for the reason that hunger was strong in her; still she could not think of putting raw flesh into her mouth. A poor reason, in which the needs of her body overrode all else, yet the body must be fed or the mind also would perish.
Kneeling a little away from where Stans had gone back to his butchery, Elossa again brought out her mirror. The sun was up now, and the surface of the disc she held was bright as it had not been in the night time. She looked down into the pool of light, for that was what it seemed to become in her hold.
“Yurth!” She aimed the thought sharply into the disc. “Show me Yurth!”
There was—yes! It came—a rippling on the surface of the disc. Then she saw—but very faint and hard to define—a figure which might have been that which had fronted them in the corridor. Her mind-send reached out and out. Life . . . far. . . . But was it Yurth? She met no answering spark of mind. It was more like Raski—closed, unknowing.
“There is nothing close.” She slipped the disc back into its carrying place.
“Good enough. There is drift along the stream—dry enough to give us a good fire, and also that which will not cause much smoke.”
Leaving him to finish his bloody task, Elossa went down to the water and began to gather those bone-white, water-polished sticks which had caught in the rocks above the present rise of the water, though, she noted, that was creeping higher now even as she watched.
They roasted chunks of the meat speared on sharpened pieces of drift and held over the flames. Elossa forced herself to eat, applying mental discipline against her half nausea. Stans was licking his fingers one by one as he spoke disjointedly:
“We should smoke what we can—to carry with us.”
He had said only that when Elossa was on her feet staring across the stream at the other rock-covered bank. Just as the strange Yurth and the face had both appeared without warning in the passage, so now had a figure winked into sight there.
She gasped. Not Yurth as she had half expected. Like Stans the man was dark skinned, dark haired. But—his face! He wore a living countenance of flesh and bone but it was still the one of Atturn. Nor was his clothing the hide garments of the hunter, even the clumsy ill-woven robes of the city men, or the primitive armor of the Raski soldiers who patrolled the plains.
His body was covered with a black, tight-fitting suit, not unlike those worn by the Yurth in their shipboard life, save that the black was scrolled over by patterns in red as if so drawn by some point dipped in fresh blood. Those patterns glowed, waned, and glowed again, their brightness speeding from one part of the body they helped to clothe to another. From his shoulders hung a short cloak of the blood red, and that was patterned in black, reversing the order of that on his other clothing. His head was surmounted by a towering crest of either thick black hair set in some invisible helm, or else his own locks stiffened and allowed to grow to a height of more than a foot above his skull, In all he was the most barbaric figure Elossa had ever seen.
Instinctively she had sent forth a mind-probe. And met—nothing.
The stranger raised his hand and pointed, while his lips—the thickish, sneering lips of the Mouth of Atturn—shaped words which sounded heavily through the air as if the words themselves were bolts from some weapon dispatched to bring down the two on the other side of the river.
“Raski, si lar dit!”
Stans cried out. The appearance of the man had caught him kneeling, now he was on his feet in a half crouch, his hand tightly grasping the hilt of his knife. Like the stranger who wore Atturn’s face his features were alive, but his expression was that of defiance.
“Philbur!” He made of the name of his house a battle cry. It was as if he met red hate with a rage as great and overpowering.
Without clear thought Elossa’s hand grabbed her mirror from its hiding place, the swift jerk of her pull breaking the cord which held it. Then, swinging it by what was left of that cord, she spun it through the air.
Was what happened then chance alone or some intervention of power she did not realize she could call upon? A beam of searing red fire had shot from the pointed finder of he who wore Atturn’s face. It struck full on the disc of the mirror and was reflected back—its force of beam increased. The black and red figure vanished.
15
“Who was that?” Elossa found words first, Stans was still staring bemused at where that stranger had stood.
“It was—no!” He flung up one hand in an emphatic gesture of denial. “It could not be that!” Now he turned his head a little to look at the girl and his look of astonishment was still plain. “Time does not stop—a man dead these half thousand years cannot walk!”
“Walk.” She gazed at the mirror which had so providently, almost impossibly, deflected whatever it was the stranger would have hurled at Stans. The disc was cracked, darkened. A vigorous rubbing against her cloak did not free it from that discoloration. Without even trying it she could be sure it was now useless for her purposes. “Walk,” she repeated explosively, “that strove to kill!” For Elossa did not doubt in the least that had that beam of light struck Stans he would have been as dead as she would have been had the Yurth weapon in the corridor cooked her flesh from her charred bones.
“It was Karn of the House of Philbur—he who ruled in Kal-Hath-Tan. He is—was—of my blood, or I of his. But he died with the city! It is so—all men know it! Yet, you saw him, did you not? Tell me—” His voice was near a fierce shout—“you did see him!”
“I saw a man—a Raski if you say he is so—in black and red, but he wore the face of the Mouth of Atturn and you said you did not know it.” Stans rubbed his hand across his forehead. He was visibly more shaken than she had yet seen him.
“I know—what do I know—or not know?” He cried that question, not to her, she knew, but to the world around them. “I am no longer sure of anything.”
Then he took a leap in her direction, and, before the girl could move, he had seized her shoulders in a hurtful grip and was shaking her as if he would so reduce her to a kind of slavery.
“Was this of your doing, Yurth? All know you can tangle and play with minds, as a true man
can toss pebbles to his liking. Have you so tossed my thoughts, bewitched my eyes—made me see what is not?”
The girl fought him, tearing herself free by the very fury of her resistance. Then she backed away, holding up to him at eye level the blackened and near destroyed mirror of seeing.
“He did that—with the beam that he threw! Think you, Raski, how would you have been served had this not deflected that power!”
Stans’ scowl did not lighten but his eyes did flicker at the disc.
“I do not know what he would have done,” he said sullenly. “This is an evil land and—”
He got no further. They came boiling out of the rocks across the water, splashing through, some of them covering the distance between with huge leaps. Not Yurth, not Raski. . . . Elossa gave a cry of horror, so alien were these creatures to any normal life that she knew.
Twisted bodies, limbs too long or too short, heads with horribly misshapen features—a nightmare of distorted things which vaguely aped the human yet were totally monstrous. It was this alien horror which kept both Elossa and Stans from instant defense. Also the creatures attacked without a sound, surging on in a wave over the water toward them.
Elossa stopped to catch up her staff; Stans still had his hunting knife to hand. But they had no chance. Evil smelling bodies ringed them in, hands which had four fingers, six, boneless tentacles for digits, seized upon them, dragged them down. The terrible revulsion which filled Elossa as she looked upon their distorted and deformed bodies and faces weakened her. She fought, but it was as if nausea weighted her limbs, deadened her powers of constructive thought.
They poured over the two by the fire like an irresistible wave, bearing them to earth. Elossa shuddered at the touch of their unwholesome flesh against her own. The fetid odor they wore like a second skin made it hard for her to breathe, she had to fight to regain consciousness. There were bonds pulled cruelly tight about her wrists and ankles. Still one of the creatures squatted on her, using the force of its weight to keep her quiet.
