by Andre Norton
“And if I do not accept?”
“It would be a pity to waste one of your potential. But he who is not with us is against us, and we can always use a strong back, legs, arms to labor here. You have already tasted what we can do—your muscles do not obey you now, and you cannot take a step unless we will it so. This can be used otherwise. Would you care to breathe only by our favor?”
There was a sudden constriction about Simon’s chest. He gasped under that squeezing pressure and panic awoke in him. Less than a second, but the fear did not leave him when he was released. He did not in the least doubt that the Kolder could do as was threatened—keep the air from his lungs, if they chose.
“Why. . . bargain?” he gasped.
“Because the agents we wish cannot be forced. Under such controls you must be constantly checked and watched, you would not so serve our purpose. Accept freely and you will be free—”
“Within your limits,” Simon returned.
“Just so. Within our limits, and that will remain so. Do not believe that you can give assent with your lips and keep to your own purpose thereafter. There will be a change in you, but you will retain your mind, your personality, such of your desires and wishes as fit within the framework of our overall plan. You will not be only flesh to carry out orders as those you term possessed and you will not be dead.”
“And I must choose now?”
The Kolder did not answer at once. Again his expression was blank, but Simon caught a faint tinge of meaning in his voice—threat, uncertainty, maybe one and the same.
“No—not yet.”
He made no signal which Simon could distinguish but the control brought him about, set him walking. No guards this time, but they were not needed. There was no possible way for Simon to break free, and the threat of constriction about his chest was with him still, so that every time he thought of that he had the need to breathe deeply.
Down the corridor, into the elevator again. Up, an open door; the order to move, another hall and another door. Simon went into the room beyond and the control was gone. He turned quickly, but the door was closed and he did not need to try it to know that it would not open.
The harsh, artificial light of the lower room was gone. Two slit windows were open to the day and Simon went to the nearest. He was in a position of some height above a rocky coastline with a sheer descent to water. By side glimpses he got an idea of the building; it must resemble Yle. Not only was the window slit too narrow to climb through, but there was no way down, save that drop straight to the sea-washed rocks.
Simon crossed to the other window. Bare rocks again, not the slightest sign of vegetation—rocks in wind-worn pinnacles, in table mesas, slashed into sharp-walled canyons and drops. It was the most forbidding stretch of natural territory he had ever seen.
Movement. Simon pushed forward as far as he could in the window slit to see what moved in that tormented wilderness of broken rock. A land machine of some sort, not unlike a truck of his own world, though it progressed on caterpillar tracks, which crunched and flattened the surface at a pace, Simon judged, hardly faster than a brisk walk. There were marks on that surface which the machine followed. This was not the first truck which had gone that way, or perhaps not the first trip this one had made in the same direction.
It had a full cargo, and clinging to that lashed-on gear were four men, their ragged scraps of clothing labeling them slave laborers. The machine lurched and jerked so that they held with both hands and feet. That slow crawl inland with a cargo on board. Simon continued to watch until the truck disappeared behind a mesa. It was only then that he turned to examine his new prison.
Monotone color and a bed which was merely a shelf opening from the wall and covered by a puffed, foamy substance. Closed doors of cupboards—a whole row of them. One upon his investigating turned down into a table, another gave him sanitary arrangements as there had been on the submarine. The rest remained tightly closed. It was a room to induce boredom, Simon thought. Perhaps its very monotony was a piece of careful contrivance.
But there was one thing he was sure of: this was the Kolder base. And there was a good chance that they might have him under some form of observation. The fact that he had been released from control might even be because they wished to see how he would use his freedom. Could they suspect the tie? Was he bait in a trap to bring in Jaelithe?
What would the Kolder give to have one of the witches in their hands? Simon thought that under the circumstances they would give a great deal. Suppose that everything—everything—which had happened to him since the awakening in Tormarsh when he had found Jaelithe again had really been of their engineering! He could not be sure it was not.
Yet the Kolder depended upon their machines. They affected to despise the power. So had they any way of detecting what Simon, Jaelithe and Loyse had woven? To contact Jaelithe now . . . would it be right or wrong?
Betrayal or report? He had promised to let her know when he reached the base, give her the news which would eventually summon Estcarp. But how long would it take to bring in that armada? And what could darts and swords or even the power do against the weapons the Kolder must mount here—things which had not perhaps been in Gorm or Yle? Should he call or stay silent?
More movement. A truck crawling back. Was it the same vehicle he had watched depart? But that hardly would have time to unload and this was empty.
Call—or be silent? Simon could no longer use this useless survey of the land as an excuse for not making up his mind. He went to the bed, lay down upon it. A chance—but everything was a chance now, and if this was not betrayal, then he dared not delay.
14 WITCH WEAPON
JAELITHE HAD journeyed on Sulcar ships before, but never into the void of mid-ocean. There was a vast impersonality about the sea which undercut her confidence in herself in a way she had never known before. Only the knowledge that her witchdom had not been swept away was her support. The witches had the reputation of being able to control natural forces. Perhaps on land they could summon up a storm, a mist or weave hallucinations to control the mind. But the sea was a power in itself and the farther the Wave Cleaver sailed the less sure Jaelithe was.
Simon’s fear that they might have awakened the suspicions of the Kolder, oddly enough, steadied her. Men—even the Kolder, alien as they were—she could face better than this rolling immensity of wind-driven wave.
“There is no land reckoned hereby on any chart.”
Captain Stymir had out his rolls of sea maps.
“Have none of your exploring ships ever reached in this direction before?” Jaelithe asked, seeing in his very bewilderment something strange.
Stymir continued to study the top chart, tracing markings with his finger. Then he called over his shoulder, “Pass the word for Jokul!”
The crewman who came in answer to that hail was a small man, bent by the years, his brown face seamed and salt-dried. He walked with a lurch and go and Jaelithe saw his right leg was stiff and a little shorter than the left.
“Jokul,” Stymir flattened the chart with a broad hand, “where are we?”
The smaller man’s head came up. He pulled off a knitted cap so that the wind lay over his tight braids of faded hair, his somewhat large nose pointed into that breeze.
“On the lost trace, Cap’n.”
Stymir’s frown grew the deeper. He studied the filled sails above them as if their billowing had taken on a sinister meaning. Jokul still sniffed that wind, advancing a step or two down the deck. Then he pointed to the sea itself.
“The weed—”
A thread of red-brown on the green, whipped up and down with the rise and fall of the swell, trailed on near to another patch. Jaelithe’s gaze, following that, saw that closer to the horizon there was an all red-brown patch. And the change in the captain’s expression made her break silence.
“What is it?”
He brought his fist down with a thumping blow. “That must be it!” His frown was gone. “This i
s why—the weed and the lost trace!” Then he turned to her. “If your course leads there, lady, then—” His hands were up and out in a gesture of bafflement.
“What is it?” she demanded for the second time.
“The weed, it is an ocean thing, living on the surface of the waves in these warmer waters. We have known it long and it is common. One may find bits of it washed ashore after any storm. But there is this about the weed—it has been increasing and now the patches have that on them which kills—”
“Kills how?”
Stymir shook his head. “We do not know, lady. A man touches it and it is as if his hands are burned in a fire. The burns spread upon his skin, his body, and afterwards, he dies. It is some poison in the weed—and wherever it floats we no longer go.”
“But if it is in the water and you are on board ship, do you need to fear the touch?” she countered.
“Let a ship touch it and it clings, clings and grows—aboard!” Jokul broke in. “It has not always been so, lady, only for some years now. So the ocean paths it takes we must now avoid.”
“Only lately,” Jaelithe repeated. “Since the Kolder have grown so bold?”
“Kolder?” Stymir stared at the floating weed in open bewilderment. “Kolder—weed—why?”
“The Kolder ships go under the surface of the sea,” Jaelithe pointed out. “How better could they protect their trail than to sow trouble above where any enemy must follow?”
The captain turned to Jokul. “The lost trace—where did it lead?”
“Nowhere that we wished to go,” the crewman answered promptly. “A few barren islands which have nothing. Water, food, people, even the sea birds are scarce there.”
“Barren islands? Are they not on your chart, Captain?”
He flattened out the top one again. “Not so, my lady. But if this is the lost trace, then it may be that we cannot follow it farther. For the nature of the weed is such that first it appears in such strings as yonder, then in patches, as you see farther beyond. These patches thicken, not only in number but in depth, so that they make small islets borne on the sea, and then larger islets, and at last, if anyone has the folly to push in, they are a solid mass. This, too, was not always so. The weed made islands, aye, but not so solid—nor was it death to hunt there. I have harvested crabs for the eating. But now no man goes near that ocean stain. Does it not seem as blood washing from a gaping wound? The very sign of the death it is!”
“If one cannot penetrate so far how does one know of these isles?”
“At first we did not know the danger. A floating ship with dying men on her deck drifted out of the weed. And of those who chanced upon that vessel and went to their rescue five more died because the weed had fastened to her hull and they had brushed against it. So did we learn, lady. If the Kolders have indeed set this defense about their hold, it is one we cannot face unless we work out some plan against the weed.”
The floating weed—Jaelithe had to accept their word upon its danger. The Sulcar kind knew the sea and all its concerns—that was their mystery. The weed . . . But she no longer saw that trail like blood on the sea. Her hands went to her head and she swayed at an imperative summons. Simon!
Simon in the Kolder base—that way—beyond the floating death. They must head into—through—that.
“Simon,” her reply sought him urgently, “there is danger between us.”
“Stay off! Do not risk it.”
Curtain between them now. She could not penetrate that despite frantic efforts. Kolder curtain. Did they know, or was that only usual precautions? Simon!
Jaelithe felt as if she had screamed that name, it was a tearing pain in her throat. But when she opened her eyes Stymir showed no alarm.
“What we seek lies beyond there,” she said dully, pointing to the horizon where rode the weed. “Perhaps they also know that we come—”
“Captain! The weed!” Not a warning from Jokul, but a cry from the mainmast lookout.
One trail—one patch. No! A dozen trails now, all reaching out deadly tendrils for them. Stymir roared orders to bring the ship about, send it backtracking. Jaelithe sped for the cage on mid-deck.
The great white falcon welcomed her with a scream as she clicked open the latch of the cage. She stiffened her arm to support its weight as it hooked its heavy claws about her flesh and bone, sidled out to freedom. Fastened to one of those strong legs was what she sought, a tiny mechanism in a rod which the bird could carry with ease. Jaelithe drew a deep breath, to steady her nerves and quiet the racing of her heart. This was a delicate business and she dared make no mistakes. Her finger nail found the tiny indentation in the rod, and she pressed that in code pattern. The bird in flight would automatically register, on this triumph of the Falconers’ devices, the course and distance. But the tale of the weed was another matter which she must record for the Falconers to decode. That done she carried the bird to the afterdeck, speaking to it softly meanwhile. Falconers’ secrets remained secrets as far as their allies were concerned. How much the bird actually understood Jaelithe could not tell. Whether it was training or bred intelligence which made this falcon superior was a matter for argument. But that it was their only chance to warn the fleet following she knew.
“Fly straight, fly fast, winged one.” She drew a finger down the head as those fierce eyes met hers. “This is your time!”
With a scream the falcon tore skyward, circled the ship once, and then shot as a dart back towards the long-vanished land. Jaelithe turned to the sea. The tendrils of weed advanced, a swelling web of them reaching for the ship. Surely, surely their rapid drawing in upon the vessel was not natural. How could floating weed move so swiftly and with a purpose, as she was sure was happening now. Oh, if she only had her jewel! There was more than hallucinations to be controlled through that. At times of great emergency it could pull upon a central store of energy, common to all the witchdom of Estcarp, and so accomplish tangible results.
But she had no jewel, and what she could use was not the power she had known before. Jaelithe watched the fingers of the weed and tried to think. It lay upon the surface—and so far there were no thick islands such as Stymir had feared. Under the water was safe, but the Wave Cleaver could not go below as did a Kolder ship.
Water gave the stuff support and life. Her fingers moved in a studied pattern on the rail before her. Jaelithe found herself reciting one of the first and earliest of the spells she had ever learned: one to impress upon a child’s mind the base for all “changing.”
“Air and earth, water and fire—”
Fire—the eternal opposition to water. Fire could dry water, water could quench fire. Fire—the word lingered with a small beat in her mind. And Jaelithe knew that beat of old, the sign every witch waited for, the sign-post of a spell ready to work. Fire! But how could fire be the answer on the ocean—a weapon against drifting weed which was poison to what it touched?
“Captain!” She turned to Stymir. He scowled at her as if she was only a distraction in his battle to save his ship.
“Sea oil—you have sea oil?”
His expression changed to one of a man facing a hysterical woman, but she was already continuing.
“The weed, will it burn?”
“Burn—on the water?” His protest was halted as if a thought struck home. “Sea oil—fire!” He connected those with the rapidity of a man who had improvised before in the face of danger. “No, lady, I do not know whether it will burn—but one can try!” He shouted an order.
“Alavin, Jokul, get up three skins of oil!”
The skins of thick oil, skimmed from the boil off langmar stems, kept for use in storms, were brought to the deck and Stymir himself made the small cuts on their upper surfaces before they were lowered on lines to drag behind the Wave Cleaver. The oil began to ooze forth some distance from the ship.
It showed as a distinct stain on the waves, spreading as the leaking bags were rolled and mauled by the force of the waves. When that dark shadow ma
de a goodly streak, one of the marines went aloft. His dart gun had been checked by Stymir and a round dozen in the clip load were the burst-fire type, used to set aflame an enemy’s rigging and sails.
They watched the patch eagerly. The strings of weed had reached it, had pushed on so that weed was discolored. There was a burst of eye-searing white fire on one of those soggy tendrils. Soaring flames licked along the oil slick—from more than one place now as the marksman placed his darts.
Smoke rose in a haze and the wind drove to them a stench to set them coughing. Flames roared higher and higher. Stymir laughed.
“More than oil feeds that! The weed burns.”
But would more than just the oil-soaked tendrils burn? That was the important question now. Unless those branches of weed ignited and the fire spread to the other patches, they had not gained more than a small measure of time, a very small measure.
If she only had the jewel! Jaelithe tensed, strained against the bond of impotence. Her lips moved, her hands cupped as if she did hold that weapon. She began to sing. No one had ever understood why the gems worked to focus the magic wrought by will and mind.
If their secret had once been known to her people, it lay so far back in the dim corridor of their too-long history as to be buried in the dust of ages. The making of the jewel itself, the tuning of it to the personality of she who was to wear it, probably for the rest of her life, that they could do. And the training of how to use it properly, that was also a matter of lessoning. But why it worked so and who first discovered this means . . .
The archaic words of her chant meant nothing now either. Jaelithe only knew that they had to be used to raise the power within her, make it flood her body, and then flow outward. And, though she had no jewel, she was doing now what she would have done had it lain on her palm, pulsating with her song.
