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."