by Andre Norton
He was right, Farree knew. Here was a Zacanthan, two of the Thassa, and he who really did not know what he was. They were working for a common purpose but they were not a common species—'men—women' by some measurements– that used by those who pioneered in space.
"They fear, I think," he said slowly, "some like those of the Limits. But perhaps we can find an understanding—"
"With whom?" asked Maelen. "Little brother, where have you traveled this night?"
Chapter Ten
Trying hard to make with words a picture of what he had seen, Farree outlined all which had happened in that dream that was not a dream; but he knew not what else to call it.
"Ah." Zoror was the first to break silence when he had finished. "Here then also are several different races. There are the winged ones, the small ones without those pinions, and this one who wears a beast head. Tell me again, little brother, the manner of the mask that one wore."
Once more Farree repeated his description of that figure. Maelen and Vorlund were looking at him intently as if they hoped in some way to enter his memory and view that scene for themselves. But Zoror was nodding as if some bit of unexpected knowledge had suddenly fallen into his hands.
"Swine—" He said when Farree was finished. "Another of the legends come into life for us. You speak of an animal which was known to the People we seek—one the keeping of such they reckoned part of material wealth. Perhaps this masked one was a—" Then he frowned. "But Zargo said in his twin worlds research that this was a matter of women's religion and that a priestess would play herder—though his authorities were few and very obscure."
Farree thought again of the masked figure. A woman—or anyway female? That one's voice had sounded harsh and low pitched. However, it was also certain that the masked one was not of the same blood as those whom he might call kin—it, or he or she, was wingless.
"We can take it," Vorlund said sharply when Zoror's words trailed into silence, "that there is another ship downed here somewhere. And that the crew or owner has captured one of the winged people and is using her as bait."
"Also," Farree broke in, "her people are not trying to rescue her– Ah—" Now it was his turn to lapse into silence. Then he added in a rush of words– "She—it must have been she who called!" Even as he said that he experienced some of the force of the compulsion which had carried him from their landing place off across the mountains until he was stopped by the haze.
The haze! Was that a barrier which the winged ones were using to cut off any of their people who would try to answer the captive's call? To him that instantly seemed possible.
Maelen read his thought. She reached for the far end of his hammock where his head had rested such a short time before. It was faintly alight with green and she clasped it tightly, her eyes once more on Farree's as if she willed him into some action. However, it was Vorlund who asked a question.
"You remember nothing else—nothing of these winged ones? Of how you went from here into the Limits?"
"If he came from here—" Zoror corrected. "There may be more than one world where such dwell. If it is true that they must have a world like to that which those of the old Terran blood required for settlement– Well, are there not numerous planets with such attributes, and not all of them settled, or, if so, only thinly. Our records report that these People have shared many different abiding places with those whom we well know. But there always came a time when the People of the Hills were forced to withdraw, to take flight again for the search for a place of their own, for they never lived in peace long with the human kind. Another planet may be such a home also—"
Farree rubbed one palm across his forehead. The ache was beginning again, becoming a dull torment behind his eyes.
"Guesses." Vorlund shrugged. "That Farree has found those like him may be the only answer. If we could only get behind that mind block which weighs upon you so, little brother!"
Maelen had leaned forward a little and now her fingertips touched Farree's forehead directly between his large eyes. That contact was almost as if he had taken a drink of water when he had been long parched with thirst. He saw that her eyes were closed and now her thought came into him.
"Loose—loose your thoughts, little brother. Do not try to raise any barrier—"
He struggled to do as she asked; the need of his own to find answers made him eager.
Farree whirled around and stumbled back until he half fell over the hammock he had just climbed out of. About him streamed colors and those colors were pain which he could not subdue. He clung to the hammock, feeling as if that flood of color strove to carry him away. Then it winked out and he was once more in the dark, shivering and weak.
"It is a lock which I do not understand." He heard Maelen's voice but it sounded very far off.
"My lady, it is a death lock!" That was surely Zoror. "You must not try that again. Such a lock is unknown to us—even to our records—"
"But perhaps not unknown to the Guild," Vorlund cut in crisply. "Is it not well understood that they have secrets in advance of much of ours? Perhaps they held and lost him, and then only found him again when we battled on Yiktor and he came into his power of flight?"
"Possibly—" Zoror was saying, but Farree had his eyes open though there were tears wet on his cheeks. The ache behind his eyes seemed likely to blind him.
"Little brother—" Maelen touched his cheek, then smoothed his tumbled, sweat-slick hair. "There will be no more, this I promise you."
He was still shaky and weak when he joined the others on the bridge of the ship from which by the landing screens they could view the world about them as they ate ship's rations and watched the sweep of the outer mirrors. The ship itself was locked against any invasion and as an added precaution Maelen had alerted Bojor and Yazz, saying that their minds, being different from those who were seeking knowledge, might stand sentry into the bargain.
Those candles of light had disappeared from the mounds attendant on the large one, but every time the mirrors' report flashed on the last they could all see that there was still a pulsing circlet about it—no longer in the form of that wondrous crown, yet visible as a pale ring.
The ramp had been run out again for a short time, long enough for Bojor to shamble down, his thick-furred pelt, having been grown for the season of chill on Yiktor, making him look twice the size that he really was. But the bartles were never to go unmarked by anyone invading their native mountains. Although Bojor had been captured as a yearling, he still retained inherent in him the strength and cunning of a nasty fighter were he to be aroused. As all those Maelen called her "little ones" (which was a misnomer in the case of Bojor, for his breed was notorious for their handling of any would-be trapper and also stood taller than Vorlund when he rose to his full fighting stance on his sturdy hind legs), the mighty beast was able to thought meld with the Moonsinger to an astonishing degree, and had welcomed the chance to be a part of the active forces from the ship.
He melted into the dark as they tried to follow him with the ship's sighting equipment. However, he had been given directions to stay away from the hillocks and to head directly for the cliffs, prowling along the foot of those. Suddenly, as they sought to watch him, there appeared to burst from the ground itself a number of light dots. As if those, too, were under orders, they clustered, outlining the body of Bojor. He squatted back on his haunches, one of his huge paws, meant to deliver crushing blows, waving through the air. Yet he was unable to beat them off. They flashed so quickly that it was apparent he could make no contact with them. As length he went again to four feet and moved on, still revealed by the light dots so that now he could be easily watched by those within the ship as well as by anyone who might have summoned that form of illumination to keep spy sight on the ship and those within it.
Twice Maelen communicated with Bojor, only to report that the bartle had not been attacked, that the sparks of strange fire only hung about him. Yazz, who had come up into the cabin to watch the mission of her f
urred companion, whined deep in her throat, her attention all for the screen. She raised a forepaw suddenly as if she could scrape the surface of the view plate and so release Bojor from his strange escort. Even Farree, who had only limited rapport with her compared to Maelen's ability, felt her uneasiness, a kind of foreboding. Though the bevy of lights had made no really hostile move, it was plain that Yazz did not trust them.
The bartle's speed was deceptive. Though he appeared to amble along at hardly more than a strolling pace, he had almost finished a quarter of the wall's length. He had passed well beyond the carpet growth of ill-bane and was into the withered land overlaid with the pattern of the hagger web.
Yazz once more whined. Farree dropped a piece of leather-tough dried fruit on which he had been chewing.
"Back!" he cried out. The advancing lights gave only a partial sight of Bojor, not clear to ground level. Farree had felt through his body, as clearly as if he stood out there beside the bartle, that beginning of a stir; not what had moved earlier beneath the hillock but something of the here and now. It was like an evil stench projected to his mind instead of assaulting his nostrils.
Yazz threw back her head and gave voice to a growling which was her own battle cry. She turned swiftly and pawed at the door of the control cabin, at the same time looking over her shoulder to Maelen, her whole attitude expressing her need to be loosed to join Bojor. In the days they had spent together these two, so different in species and early training, had thought themselves into a team, a team which had drawn Farree, too, into its being.
Farree had pushed past Vorlund and was busy with the door latch, Yazz crowding in beside him, ready to leap when that portal opened.
It must have been their united fear which reached Bojor. For the bartle had halted and was standing now, back to the cliffs, from facing outward to where that webbing lay across bare earth. Maelen accepted the warning of them both. With no questions asked she pointed directly to the screen where Bojor was to be seen.
The light sparks shifted as the bartle settled back, again on his haunches, a favorite stance to await attack. His paws hung down before his barrel of body and, though Farree could not see them clearly in the minute flashes of light, he knew that the bartle was extending to their fullest length those broad punishing claws which could tear apart any attacker who got too close.
"What—" Vorlund moved, planting one booted foot over the fastening of the trap door in a stride so swift that Farree had only an instant to get his fingers out of the way. "What are you doing?"
"The hagger– Underground!" Farree returned impatiently. "They can attack, never coming into sight, from below! Lady, call him back!"
Maelen's fingers blazed, building up, as Farree knew, power for her mind sending. But if she reached Bojor, the bartle gave no sign of having received any such orders. His mouth was a little open and they could see his head more clearly, for the sparks were now clustering tighter there about. Though those within the ship could not pick up the sound, Farree knew that the bartle was roaring a challenge. He grasped a fleeting mind picture of a dark tunnel in the earth and things moving along it. Had he or had he not also glimpsed for just a second just such a figure as those small men he had seen in his "dream"?
He thrust his shoulder against Vorlund's leg, the suddenness of his move pushing the spacer off the door even as he struck a fast blow with the side of his hand against the latch. With his other hand he jerked up the plate which formed that barrier and Yazz, snuffling and whimpering beside him, leaped down, not touching the steps of the ladder.
Farree swung, folding his wings as tightly as he could. But it was always difficult to struggle through such passages with what he bore on his back.
Vorlund was following, but he could move no faster than Farree lest he push before him, perhaps disastrously, the smaller, hunched body. He asked no more questions and Farree would have had few answers for him if he had. There was only one thing true—that Bojor was about to face such an attack as none of his kind had ever known and against which all his strength and native knowledge would provide no defense.
They were in the lower corridor now and Yazz was on her hind feet against the wall, pawing at the controls of the ramp.
Farree reached up also and snatched from the rack mounted there a stunner kepi for just such emergencies when trouble awaited outside.
He brought the butt of that against the ramp controls just as Vorlund caught him by folded wing edge. Farree glared at the spacer.
"Out!" he said between gritted teeth. "Bojor will be taken else."
The ramp had answered; the hum of its expansion vibrated through the ship and the scent of ill-bane was wafted in to them by a brisk breeze. Yazz had already taken the lead and was riding the ramp out and down, her formidable rows of teeth locked around one of the railings to steady her as she was swung by the motion of her footing.
Vorlund loosed his hold on Farree. "What and from where?" he snapped.
"Hagger and from underground! Their webs already lie out there. But those are old. Now they are being led!"
Farree leaped ahead, free of the ship port. His wings expanded and he was airborne in the night, wheeling about to face that part of the cliff where Bojor waited at bay.
The spots of light were larger and brighter here, making a beacon easy to see. Farree shook his head a fraction; having left the interior of the ship, he could feel better and stronger that warning of the coming of the attackers. Beating his wings against a strong flow of air he headed toward the splotch of light. A moment later and he himself gathered up attendants. For the same sparks of fire which had hailed Bojor sprang to life around about him, outlining his body, gathering in a tight cluster over his head.
At the same time his wings faltered in their beat. He was nearly sent earthward as their power failed for the pace of a heartbeat of two, while in his mind the old ache steadied into an ever-growing pain. He forced himself on but it was as if he were trying to beat his way through some viscous invisible flood in which his wings were being tangled and slowed until he was brought down so low he was skimming across the ground, the toes of his space boots caught now and again by some higher tangle of growth.
Yet he refused to answer a compulsion and go a-foot, for there grew in him the strong feeling that as long as he continued to fight so he was free of another entanglement, this one ready to grip his mind. He was able to pick up Bojor's rage now. Not since the bartle had helped to retake their ship, captured by the Guild fighters on Yiktor, rescuing Maelen and Vorlund from imprisonment, had Farree known such anger to fill the brain of the huge furred one. However, threaded through that anger was puzzlement, for Bojor as yet faced no visible foe, only sensed, as did Farree himself, the threat growing ever stronger.
Those sparks of light which clustered over his head and followed the likeness of his suddenly too-heavy wings were glowing brighter. Pressing against him was the power which attempted to bring him to earth, perhaps to render him useless in any confrontation to come.
As Farree fought on, throwing all his strength into the struggle with the pressure, he was suddenly shocked by such a spear of thought as he had not felt even from Maelen, the acknowledged leader in their own communication.
"Come—die! Traitor, losstreek, demni—"
Loud and firm as that rang in his mind, he could not pick up, save as a wavering and faceless shadow, who thought that. But that opponent had erred for, by the very storm he so loosed, he gave Farree himself a goal for a counterattack.
At the very edge of that part of the valley floor which was crisscrossed by the web lines, Farree settled, though he kept his wings spread, and kept so little of his weight on the ground that he hardly crushed the last straggle of ill-bane.
Instead of concentrating on keeping aloft, he now bent all of his strength on a mind thrust—dragging out of the depths of himself anger engrossed by fear—a fear he projected on that other. Because he had no other clue and very much needed a target, he pictured his opponent fi
rmly—one such small man as he had seen in the hall of the crystal—giving that vision all the details he could summon.
Above and around him the points of light blazed—no longer white, but green as if the ill-bane itself had become a fire and he had wound the flames about him as he might a cloak. The green motes swirled now, all gathering above his head and moving so fast that they appeared to form a ring. But Farree was more aware that his mind touch had vanquished a shield. It was not a shield like any he had met before—either the science-produced ones the Guildsmen had worn on Yiktor, or those he had encountered with Maelen, Vorlund and the Zacanthan when they had tested him in hope of finding some answer to the barrier which he found so crippling.
Having damaged it, Farree now threw strength against it. At his second raging attempt the barrier went completely down. He was caught up in a chaos of thoughts but the greatest and clearest was intelligible enough. The one who broadcast was afraid, yes, but under the spur of that fear was determination to act. It was true that the broadcast came from underground and the general direction showed that he who was coming into attack was heading toward Bojor. Only the mind Farree was now reading in part did not see the attacker to be physically engaged in any battle.
There ran before this other mind and under his control, others, perhaps for their size the most dangerous entities Farree had ever known—and since he only had a half knowledge of them sifted through another mind it could well be that they were even more dangerous than he believed. Hagger!
