by Andre Norton
13. HE WHO DREAMS....
The mist was not a quiet thing; it billowed and curled until it appearedto half-conceal darker shadows, any one of which could be an enemy.Shann remained hunkered on the sand, every sense abnormally alert,watching the fog. He was still sure he could hear sounds which markedthe progress of another. What other? One of the Warlockians tracking himto spy? Or was there some prisoner like himself lost out there in themurk? Could it be Thorvald?
Now the sound had ceased. He was not even sure from what direction ithad first come. Perhaps that other was listening now, as intent uponlocating him. Shann ran his tongue over dry lips. The impulse to callout, to try and contact any fellow traveler here, was strong. Onlyhard-learned caution kept him silent. He got to his hands and knees,uncertain as to his previous direction.
Shann crept. Someone expecting a man walking erect might be suitablydistracted by the arrival of a half-seen figure on all fours. He haltedagain to listen.
He had been right! The sound of a very muffled footfall or footfalls,carried to his ears. He was sure that the sound was louder, that theunknown was approaching. Shann stood, his hand close to his stunner. Hewas almost tempted to spray that beam blindly before him, hoping to hitthe unseen by chance.
A shadow--something more swift than a shadow, more than one of thetricks the curling fog played on eyes--was moving with purpose andstraight for him. Still, prudence restrained Shann from calling out.
The figure grew clearer. A Terran! It could be Thorvald! But rememberinghow they had last parted, Shann did not hurry to meet him.
That shadow-shape stretched out a long arm in a sweep as if to pullaside some of the vapor concealing them from each other. Then Shannshivered as if that fog had suddenly turned into the drive of frigidsnow. For the mist did roll back so that the two of them stood in anirregular clearing in its midst.
And he did not front Thorvald.
Shann was caught up in the ice grip of an old fear, frozen by it, butsomehow clinging to a hope that he did not see the unbelievable.
Those hands drawing the lash of a whip back into striking readiness ...a brutal nose broken askew, a blaster burn puckering across cheek tomisshapen ear ... that, evil, gloating grin of anticipation. Flick,flick, the slight dance of the lash in a master's hand as those thickfingers tightened about the stock of the whip. In a moment it wouldwhirl up to lay a ribbon of fire about Shann's defenceless shoulders.Then Logally would laugh and laugh, his sadistic mirth echoed by thoseother men who played jackals to his rogue lion.
Other men.... Shann shook his head dazedly. But he did not stand againin the Dump-size bar of the Big Strike. And he was no longer aterrorized youngster, fit meat for Logally's amusement. Only the whiprose, the lash curled out, catching Shann just as it had that time yearsago, delivering a red slash of pure agony. But Logally was dead, Shann'smind screamed, fighting frantically against the evidence of his eyes, ofthat pain in his chest and shoulder. The Dump bully had been spaced byoff-world miners, now also dead, whose claims he had tried to jump outin the Ajax system.
Logally drew back the lash, preparing to strike again. Shann faced a manfive years dead who walked and fought. Or, Shann bit hard upon his lowerlip, holding desperately to sane reasoning--did he indeed face anything?Logally was the ancient devil of his boyhood produced anew by thewitchery of Warlock. Or had Shann himself been led to recreate both theman and the circumstances of their first meeting with fear as a weaponto pull the creator down? Dream true or false. Logally _was_ dead;therefore, this dream was false, it had to be.
The Terran began to walk toward that grinning ogre rising out of his oldnightmares. His hand was no longer on the butt of his stunner, but swungloosely at his side. He saw the coming lash, the wicked promise in thosesmall narrowed eyes. This was Logally at the acme of his strength, whenhe was most to be feared, as he had continued to exist over the years inthe depths of a boy-child's memory. But Logally was _not_ alive; only ina dream could he be.
For the second time the lash bit at Shann, curling about his body, todissolve. There was no alteration in Logally's grin, His muscular armdrew back as he aimed a third blow. Shann continued to walk forward,bringing up one hand, not to strike at that sweating, bristly jaw, butas if to push the other out of his path. And in his mind he held onethought: this was not Logally; it could not be. Ten years had passedsince they had met. And for five of those years Logally had been dead.Here was Warlockian witchery, to be met by sane Terran reasoning.
Shann was alone. The mist, which had formed walls, enclosed him again.But still there was a smarting brand across his shoulder. Shann drewaside the rags of his uniform blouse to discover a welt, raw and red.And seeing that, his unbelief was shaken.
When he had believed in Logally and in Logally's weapon, the other hadhad reality enough to strike that blow, make the lash cut deep. But whenthe Terran had faced the phantom with the truth, then neither Logallynor his lash existed, Shann shivered, trying not to think what might liebefore him. Visions out of nightmares which could put on substance! Hehad dreamed of Logally in the past, many times. And he had had otherdreams, just as frightening. Must he front those nightmares, all ofthem----? Why? To amuse his captors, or to prove their contention that hewas a fool to challenge the powers of such mistresses of illusion?
How did they know just what dreams to use in order to break him? Or didhe himself furnish the actors and the action, projecting old terrors inthis mist as a tri-dee tape projected a story in three dimensions forthe amusement of the viewer?
Dream true--was this progress through the mist also a dream? Dreamswithin dreams.... Shann put his hand to his head, uncertain, badlyshaken. But that stubborn core of determination within him was stillholding. Next time he would be prepared at once to face down anyresurrected memory.
Walking slowly, pausing to listen for the slightest sound which mightherald the coming of a new illusion, Shann tried to guess which of hisnightmares might come to face him. But he was to learn that there wasmore than one kind of dream. Steeled against old fears, he was met byanother emotion altogether.
There was a fluttering in the air, a little crooning cry which pulled athis heart. Without any conscious thought, Shann held out his hands,whistling on two notes a call which his lips appeared to remember morequickly than his mind. The shape which winged through the fog camestraight to his waiting hold, tore at long-walled-away hurt with itsonce familiar beauty. It flew with a list; one of the delicately tintedwings was injured, had never healed straight. But the seraph nestledinto the hollow of Shann's two palms and looked up at him with all theold liquid trust.
"Trav! Trav!" He cradled the tiny creature carefully, regarded with joyits feathered body, the curled plumes on its proudly held head, felt thesilken patting of those infinitesimal claws against his protectingfingers.
Shann sat down in the sand, hardly daring to breathe. Trav--again! Thewonder of this never-to-be-hoped-for return filled him with a surge ofhappiness almost too great to bear, which hurt in its way with as greata pain as Logally's lash; it was a pain rooted in love, not fear andhate.
Logally's lash....
Shann trembled. Trav raised one of those small claws toward the Terran'sface, crooning a soft caressing cry for recognition, for protection,trying to be a part of Shann's life once more.
Trav! How could he bear to will Trav into nothingness, to bear to summonup another harsh memory which would sweep Trav away? Trav was the onlything Shann had ever known which he could love wholeheartedly, that hadanswered his love with a return gift of affection so much greater thanthe light body he now held.
"Trav!" he whispered softly. Then he made his great effort against thissecond and far more subtle attack. With the same agony which he hadknown years earlier, he resolutely summoned a bitter memory, sat nursingonce more a broken thing which died in pain he could not ease, awarehimself of every moment of that pain. And what was worse, this timethere clung that nagging little doubt. What if he had not forced thememory? Perhaps he could have tak
en Trav with him unhurt, alive, atleast for a while.
Shann covered his face with his now empty hands. To see a nightmareflicker out after facing squarely up to its terror, that was no greattask. To give up a dream which was part of a lost heaven, that cutcruelly deep. The Terran dragged himself to his feet, drained and weary,stumbling on.
Was there no end to this aimless circling through a world of greensmoke? He shambled ahead, moving his feet leadenly. How long had he beenhere? There was no division in time, just the unchanging light which wasa part of the fog through which he plodded.
Then he heard more than any shuffle of foot across sand, any crooning ofa long dead seraph, the rising and falling of a voice: a humanvoice--not quite singing or reciting, but something between the two.Shann paused, searching his memory, a memory which seemed bruised, forthe proper answer to match that sound.
But, though he recalled scene after scene out of the years, that voicedid not trigger any return from his past. He turned toward its source,dully determined to get over quickly the meeting which lay behind thatsignal. Only, though he walked on and on, Shann did not appear anycloser to the man behind the voice, nor was he able to make out separatewords composing that chant, a chant broken now and then by pauses, sothat the Terran grew aware of the distress of his fellow prisoner. Forthe impression that he sought another captive came out of nowhere andgrew as he cast wider and wider in his quest.
Then he might have turned some invisible corner in the mist, for thechant broke out anew in stronger volume, and now he was able todistinguish words he knew.
"... where blow the winds between the worlds, And hang the suns in dark of space. For Power is given a man to use. Let him do so well before the last accounting--"
The voice was hoarse, cracked, the words spaced with uneven catches ofbreath, as if they had been repeated many, many times to provide ananchor against madness, form a tie to reality. And hearing that note,Shann slowed his pace. This was out of no memory of his; he was sure ofthat.
"... blow the winds between the worlds, And hang the suns in ... dark--of--of--"
That harsh croak of voice was running down, as a clock runs down forlack of winding. Shann sped on, reacting to a plea which did not lay inthe words themselves.
Once more the mist curled back, provided him with an open space. A mansat on the sand, his fists buried wrist deep in the smooth grains oneither side of his body, his eyes set, red-rimmed, glazed, his bodyrocking back and forth in time to his labored chant.
"... the dark of space--"
"Thorvald!" Shann skidded in the sand, went down on his knees. Themanner of their last parting was forgotten as he took in the officer'scondition.
The other did not stop his swaying, but his head turned with a stiffjerk, the gray eyes making a visible effort to focus on Shann. Then someof the strain smoothed out of the gaunt features and Thorvald laughedsoftly.
"Garth!"
Shann stiffened but had no chance to protest that mistakenidentification as the other continued: "So you made class one status,boy! I always knew you could if you'd work for it. A couple of blackmarks on your record, sure. But those can be rubbed out, boy, whenyou're willing to try. Thorvalds always have been Survey. Our fatherwould have been proud."
Thorvald's voice flattened, his smile faded, there was a growing sparkof some emotion in those gray eyes. Unexpectedly, he hurled himselfforward, his hands clawing for Shann's throat. He bore the younger mandown under him to the sand where Lantee found himself fightingdesperately for his life against a man who could only be mad.
Shann used a trick learned on the Dumps, and his opponent doubled upwith a gasp of agony to let the younger man break free. He planted aknee on the small of Thorvald's back, digging the officer into the sand,pinning down his arms in spite of the other's struggles. Regaining hisown breath in gulps, Shann tried to appeal to some spark of reason inthe other.
"Thorvald! This is Lantee--Lantee----" His name echoed in the mist-walledvoid like an unhuman wail.
"Lantee----? No, Throg! Lantee--Throg--killed my brother!"
Sand puffed out with the breath, which expelled that indictment. ButThorvald no longer fought, and Shann believed him close to collapse.
Shann relaxed his hold, rolling the other man over. Thorvald obeyed hispull limply, lying face upward, sand in his hair and eyebrows, crustinghis slack lips. The younger man brushed the dirt away gently as theother opened his eyes to regard Shann with his old impersonal stare.
"You're alive," Thorvald stated bleakly. "Garth's dead. You ought to bedead too."
Shann drew back, rubbed sand from his hands, his concern dampened by theother's patent hostility. Only that angry accusation vanished in a blinkof those gray eyes. Then there was a warmer recognition in Thorvald'sexpression.
"Lantee!" The younger man might just have come into sight. "What are youdoing here?"
Shann tightened his belt. "Just about what you are." He was still aloof,giving no acknowledgment of difference in rank now. "Running around inthis fog hunting the way out."
Thorvald sat up, surveying the billowing walls of the hole whichcontained them. Then he reached out a hand to draw fingers down Shann'sforearm.
"You _are_ real," he observed simply, and his voice was warm, welcoming.
"Don't bet on it," Shann snapped. "The unreal can be mighty real--here."His hand went up to the smarting brand on his shoulder.
Thorvald nodded. "Masters of illusion," he murmured.
"Mistresses," Shann corrected. "This place is run by a gang of prettysmart witches."
"Witches? You've seen them? Where? And what--who are they?" Thorvaldpounced with a return of his old-time sharpness.
"They're females right enough, and they can make the impossible happen.I'd say that classifies them as witches. One of them tried to take meover back on the island. I set a trap and caught her; then somehow shetransported me----" Swiftly he outlined the chain of events leading fromhis sudden awakening in the river tunnel to his present penetration ofthis fog-world.
Thorvald listened eagerly. When the story was finished, he rubbed hishands across his drawn face, smearing away the last of the sand. "Atleast you have some idea of who they are and a suggestion of how you gothere. I don't remember that much about my own arrival. As far as I canremember I went to sleep on the Island and woke up here!"
Shann studied him and knew that Thorvald was telling the truth. He couldremember nothing of his departure in the outrigger, the way he hadfought Shann in the lagoon. The Survey officer must have been under thecontrol of the Warlockians then. Quickly he gave the older man hisversion of the other's actions in the outer world and Thorvald wasclearly astounded, though he did not question the facts Shann presented.
"They just _took_ me!" Thorvald said in a husky half whisper. "But why?And why are we here? Is this a prison?"
Shann shook his head. "I think all this"--a wave of his hand encompassedthe green wall, what lay beyond it, and in it--"is a test of some kind.This dream business.... A little while ago I got to thinking that Iwasn't here at all, that I might be dreaming it all. Then I met you."
Thorvald understood. "Yes, but this _could_ be a dream meeting. How canwe tell?" He hesitated, almost diffidently, before he asked: "Have youmet anyone else here?"
"Yes." Shann had no desire to go into that.
"People out of your past life?"
"Yes." Again he did not elaborate.
"So did I." Thorvald's expression was bleak; his encounters in the fogmust have proved no more pleasant than Shann's. "That suggests that wedo trigger the hallucinations ourselves. But maybe we can really lick itnow."
"How?"
"Well, if these phantoms are born of our memories there are about onlytwo or three we could see together--maybe a Throg on the rampage, orthat hound we left back in the mountains. And if we do sight anythinglike that, we'll know what it is. On the other hand, if we sticktogether and one of us sees something that the other can't ... well,that fact alone w
ill explode the ghost."
There was sense in what he said. Shann aided the officer to his feet.
"I must be a better subject for their experiments than you," the olderman remarked ruefully. "They took me over completely at the first."
"You were carrying that disk," Shann pointed out. "Maybe that acted as afocusing lens for whatever power they use to make us play trainedanimals."
"Could be!" Thorvald brought out the cloth-wrapped bone coin. "I stillhave it." But he made no move to pull off the bit of rag about it."Now"--he gazed at the wall of green--"which way?"
Shann shrugged. Long ago he had lost any idea of keeping a straightcourse through the murk. He might have turned around any number of timessince he first walked blindly into this place. Then he pointed to thepacket Thorvald held.
"Why not flip that?" he asked. "Heads, we go that way--" he indicatedthe direction in which they were facing--"tails, we do arightabout-face."
There was an answering grin on Thorvald's lips. "As good a guide as anywe're likely to find here. We'll do it." He pulled away the twist ofcloth and with a swift snap, reminiscent of that used by the Warlockianwitch to empty the bowl of sticks, he tossed the disk into the air.
It spun, whirled, but--to their open-jawed amazement--it did not fall tothe sand. Instead it spun until it looked like a small globe instead ofa disk. And it lost its dead white for a glow of green. When that glowbecame dazzling for Terran eyes the miniature sun swung out, not inorbit but in straight line of flight, heading to their right.
With a muffled cry, Thorvald started in pursuit, Shann running besidehim. They were in a tunnel of the fog now, and the pace set by thespinning coin was swift. The Terrans continued to follow it at the bestpace they could summon, having no idea of where they were headed, buteach with the hope that they finally did have a guide to lead themthrough this place of confusion and into a sane world where they couldface on more equal terms those who had sent them there.