by Andre Norton
The increased light, little though it was, seemed harsh to tired eyes accustomed to the night and unwilling to adapt swiftly to this change in illumination, and he pinched out the candle in his hand.
He set it down and gave a hurried glance around his quarters that yet missed no detail.
Everything was in order, better order than he should have found. He started to frown. His fighting gear was in its place, clean and ready for his use. He had not left it so.
Ross sat down on the narrow bed. That, too, had been made ready for him.
A soft knock sounded at the door, and even as he glanced up Gordon Ashe came into the room.
"You didn't have to do this," Murdock said dully.
"No, but I figured you'd be tied up with Luroc for half the evening and be dead tired afterward. A partisan should be able to sleep for a few hours following one of our raids, not have to hop right into a council of war."
He sighed. "Well, the favor's appreciated tonight. Thanks."
The guerrilla commander looked up suddenly. "I Loran offered me my share of the gold."
Ashe's brows raised, and his lips curved into an amused smile. "I suppose there'll eventually be some sort of ruling against it— conflict of interest or some such thing—but as of the moment, there's no law against…"
"Can it, will you, Gordon! I don't think that's funny." He gripped himself. "Sorry. I'm about done, I guess."
"You are." The other was deadly serious now. "You're also finding that you like Dominion of Virgin a great deal and that you could make it here, make it big."
A knife seemed to drive into Ross, and he turned away swiftly, his head lowering.
Ashe's fingers closed on his shoulder. "Karara stayed, Ross," he reminded him gently. "Only, think carefully, very, very carefully, before you choose this world and time to be your Hawaika."
10
"GET OUT!" Zanthor's eyes bore into the back of the retreating mercenary until the door of his office closed between them. His fist slammed onto the surface of the table that was his desk. "Firehand again! May every demon's curse blight his life!"
"Demons' curses are readily summoned," Tarlroc I Zanthor replied calmly. "That was the last of their gold."
"The last of it in our possession," his sire corrected.
"You will go to them again so soon?"
"I need that gold," he responded bluntly. "Our hirelings had taken possession of their payment and lost it themselves, but I still must send them some sop to ease their disappointment, or I might find myself lacking an army come spring. How long do you think it would be after that before we were all spitted on I Carlroc's swords or on those of Firehand's skulkers in the shadows?"
"That could prove the lesser of our perils."
The tightness in his tone caused the older man to look at him sharply. "You fear the big heads so greatly?" he asked contemptuously.
"I fear them, and so should you." He hesitated. "You feel nothing when we are with them? They do nothing to you?"
I Yoroc started to snap out a curt denial but changed his mind. "Nothing, or nothing since they guided me to them the first time." He described the strange pulling he had experienced then.
"Maybe you are safe," Tarlroc said softly, more to himself than to his father. "That would explain…"
"I do not see that they have done you much harm."
"Not for lack of effort on their part," he responded bitterly. "They attempted to freeze me along with the rest of your escort, but I freed myself." He shivered in his heart. He was good with words, but he could not describe that horrible burning, the invisible fire that had threatened to sear away his mind, to char the core of his being. He could not explain how he had been able to block it. He simply did not know, save that it had cost an enormous effort of will to do so. "Even then, they did not leave me alone. They have never ceased trying to bend me to their will."
"In what manner?" Zanthor demanded. "You have not chosen to mention this before."
Tarlroc's eyes fell. "They press me to kill you."
"The demons ordered that?"
"Not directly, but thoughts rise in me when we are with them, memories of slights, insults, blows. Some of the incidents did happen, but the most of them have to be creations of the hairless ones. They do not come of me."
"Obviously, you have resisted. Thus far."
His son looked up. "I do not want to kill you," he said quietly. "You have used me well enough when another man might have looked at me and done otherwise. You have appreciated the abilities I do have and put them to good use, granting me even greater access to your councils than you do the Ton-heir…"
Tarlroc saw Zanthor's impatient scowl, and his head raised. "I am not growing maudlin or stupid, but we are treating with demons who can draw people to them, reduce soldiers to breathing corpses, insert thoughts and promptings into men's minds. We would do well to be clear about our own intentions and interests when we front them, or we could find ourselves serving theirs only."
"You have a head balanced on that scrawny neck," the Ton of Condor Hall conceded gruffly. "So they try to lure you into slaying me? Why? Why not do it themselves, for that matter? Those fire rods they made sure we saw them use the last time could burn through flesh as readily as through steel."
"Who knows what moves their kind? They may feel they have a better hope of controlling me for their own ends. Whatever their reasons, they do seem to want us, you, to do their butchering for them, though I would not trust them far once we do gain control of the island." His mouth twisted. "If we do."
"We are not beaten yet," I Yoroc told him calmly. "As for trusting them, you may rest assured that I do not, in my sight or out of it. They are allies of need at this point, not of choice."
Zanthor's eyes were hard, determined. "Order our deer saddled. The big heads will not be expecting another visit from us at this point. Perhaps we can surprise some concessions out of them."
The Condor Hall leaders silently made their way along the familiar route. The Ton was deep in thought, as he had been almost from the time they had left the hall. His son welcomed the quiet as he strove to strengthen himself against the compulsion to which he knew he would be subjected.
Suddenly, I Yoroc reined in his mount. "I would prefer to give the demons as little notice of our approach as possible. Let us go the rest of the way on foot."
They fastened the springdeer to a tree near a good patch of browse. The route before them was in actuality a rough path worn by the strange beings in the camp, and they would be able to travel it quietly and quickly, with no snapping or swishing branches to announce their presence.
The Dominionites soon reached the clearing. Those they sought were there, deeply engrossed in heavy, well-ordered labor.
The two damaged pillars were lying on the ground, as they had been since the humans' second visit, and the five strangers were working on them. Already, they had straightened them. Splotches of somewhat differently colored metal revealed where patches had been added to strengthen the original structures and for other purposes incomprehensible to the two observers. A pair of the demons were using their fire rods to melt some of Zanthor's latest offering in preparation to melding it to the column on which they presently worked.
The watchers were given only a brief moment in which to study the camp. In the next, the hairless ones straightened and faced the place where they were standing.
I Yoroc called out his name and stepped forward, keeping his hands well away from his sword. Tarlroc followed a step behind him.
"Put up your fire rods. As always, we come in peace."
"This was poorly done, Ton. Why do you spy on us?"
"Taking a moment's breathing space is not spying," he countered evenly. "Why do you order my son to kill me?"
There was no immediate answer, and Zanthor's eyes narrowed. "Did you think he would not inform me of your efforts?"
"It was merely to test his loyalty as your close associate."
"Your caution is g
reatly appreciated," I Yoroc commented dryly, "but he has met the test. It need not be repeated."
"This is why you have returned here so soon?"
"I am here because I, in my turn, feel compelled to put your supposed goodwill to the test. I want the remainder of the gold now. I have a war to fight which I began at your instigation. Paltry doles will not win it for me or for you."
"You have not brought us a third of the material we requested," the demons' spokesman told him.
"I have brought you all I am going to bring until the Confederation is broken," the Ton of Condor Hall snapped. "I need steel for arms and armor. The rest is either difficult to procure or hard to produce when I require my craftsfolk for direct war work. When my enemies are dead, you shall receive our payment, not before."
It was impossible to read the hairless ones' expressions, but Zanthor knew they were displeased and maybe furious. If he had erred in his reasoning concerning them…
After several tense seconds, the demon nodded in the direction of the chest. "What is there, you may take. You will have no more from us, either gold or any active aid, until you have given us what you have pledged yourself to supply."
The Dominionites led their heavily laden deer. Only when they neared the hall would they mount in order to avoid drawing undue attention to themselves.
Tarlroc's face was white, and his fingers trembled as they clutched the reins. Such hatred. He shuddered to think what it would have done had it burned into him. Had they been trying that and failed or simply feeling their anger as he had felt his fear? He glanced enviously at his father. Zanthor had appeared to be oblivious to the invisible storm his refusal and arrogance had generated.
The young man moistened his lips. The storm would be neither silent nor invisible if I Yoroc caught him still shaking a full hour after the confrontation had ended. "How are you going to ensure that the next shipment reaches our troops?" he ventured.
Zanthor gave him a superior smile and slowed his pace so that they might walk companionably together. "By sending a little on one convoy, a little with another. The bulk of this will be reserved for other expenses and for our own troops. The mercenaries will have to make themselves content with that. I turned our contracted payment over to Commandant A Huron's representative at Condor Hall and have his receipt as proof. It was our hirelings' own property and was traveling in their own care when they lost it. I am not obligated to restore the full amount to them. The same is true of the supplies, but I shall, of course, replace those."
"How?"
"I'll send a few large shipments and a lot of small ones."
"Firehand…"
"He has hurt us badly and will continue to do so as we provide him with additional targets, but enough will get through. Our army will not fatten this winter, but it will not freeze or starve— though I want I Carlroc to believe otherwise."
His son drew a deep breath. "Do—do you believe there is still a real chance?"
Zanthor I Yoroc laughed. "With some luck and a lot of care, there will be victory. Let the war go on as it has until winter, with the Confederates believing we are nigh unto bled to death. Come spring, my mercenaries can renew the fight in full vigor."
"Renew the stalemate. At best, the stalemate," Tarlroc responded bitterly.
"Ah, yes, but I plan to assume direct command of the fighting myself and to release our own Condor Hall troops as well."
"Will that be sufficient to beat the Confederates back? They are strong…"
"We shall not even try. It is the Confederation we will attack, not its army. Luroc I Loran taught the lesson. Now we will show how well we have learned it.
"My troops will push right through the lines, slip through if we can, while our hirelings engage their army. Once behind them, we shall head south, putting to the sword every man, woman, and child that we find. Every animal we cannot drive off will be slaughtered. Everything we cannot carry will be burned. Let us see how long Gurnion I Carlroc's army holds together once the Tons learn their whelps' blood is soaking the ashes of their ruined halls and fields.
"We can eliminate them individually as we originally intended and then return to hunt out Firehand at our leisure."
"Then you will pay the demons?"
Zanthor pursed his lips. "Those hairless ones appear very eager to get the materials they have demanded. I wonder seriously what they will do once they lay their hands on it."
"They will do themselves what they have urged me to do," Tarlroc predicted darkly.
The Ton chuckled. "You worry a great deal, Tarlroc I Zanthor. Demons they may be, but they have proven unable to command or damage either of us with their tricks of mind." He slapped the hilt of his sword. "Steel, they shall have, right enough, but that comes in many forms. They will not enjoy the manner in which I intend to deliver it."
11
WHATEVER HIS EXHAUSTION and the confused, now unremembered dreams that had troubled his sleep, Murdock awoke at his customary time the following morning.
He lay still a few minutes, enjoying the luxury of the bed and the warmth of his cabin after the rugged living of the past several days.
Ross brushed aside the blanket covering him and then paused to look at it. He had slipped off his boots and lain back without troubling to draw it over himself. Gordon must have done this, too, before he had finally left for his own quarters.
He shook his head. Sleep must have hit him with the force of a poleax for him to have remained oblivious to that.
Whatever about it, the night's rest had served him well. He was relaxed and refreshed and, he realized, enormously hungry.
The floor in front of him was striped with bands of gold, sunlight streaming in through the slats of the shutters covering the single unglazed window.
He arose and opened the shutters. The morning was beautiful, the sky was a vibrant blue, the air brisk and clear.
Ashe must have been watching for this sign, for he came to the cabin a few minutes later carrying with him both food and water for washing.
Murdock was not long in readying himself. He sat down to eat at the all-purpose desk table while his partner gave him an account of affairs in the camp, a surprisingly detailed one considering the fact that he, too, had only returned to it the previous afternoon. He had put the time Ross had spent with the Ton to good use.
The other man eyed his rapidly emptied plate with satisfaction, then turned his attention to Ross himself. "I'm glad to find you looking somewhat less like a casualty this morning."
"I feel less like one." He looked a bit sheepish. "I'm afraid I tried to snap the head off you last night."
Gordon smilea. "There aren't many people at whom a commander in a situation like ours can afford to snarl. He also can't afford to take on the man-of-iron pose. That goes down poorly with mere mortals."
Ross nodded ruefully. "I've been getting good practice walking the middle line on this job." Personally, he had long since come to the conclusion that being the junior partner in such a venture had its advantages.
His eyes darkened. "I worry sometimes, Gordon. You should be the one in charge. I'm fine in the field, but when it comes to planning the war, even just Sapphirehold's part in it, and planning what has to come afterward so these people can rebuild…"
"You're doing fine," the archeologist responded quietly. "As a learned scholar and one by now intimately involved in the domain's affairs, I probably will be drawn into some of the reconstruction discussions, but I can't see that I'll have to do more than back up your decisions and I Loran's. Sapphirehold's present and future affairs are in very competent hands."
Murdock smiled his thanks. "I hope you're right, my friend. It seems a lot to be hanging on the judgment of a former minor hood."
He shrugged then. "Is Eveleen up yet?"
"Yes, hard as it is to roust her out of her bed the day after a raid. I saw her just as I was bringing breakfast to you."
"I'd best go find her," Ross said more to himself than to the other. "We
've got a lot to discuss."
"She should still be eating. There's no panic orr for once."
Ross stood in the doorway until he spotted Eveleen sitting by herself on a grassy knoll near the first line of trees. The weapons expert liked to take her breakfast outside whenever the weather permitted, especially when things were quiet and no urgent duty pressed her.
He walked over to her, moving with a brisk, determined step that belied the general air of peace resting on the camp.
Murdock noted that her hair was up once more, but it was softly styled, like the Dominionite women used to wear theirs before war had driven them from their homes. Doubtless, she had her net near to hand, ready to snap into place should danger threaten or a sudden order to ride be given.
All Sapphirehold's female warriors had adopted the finely woven metal mesh caps that were part of every woman fighter's gear to secure their hair lest it should loosen and serve some enemy as a handhold in battle.
She had changed from a linen to a wool shirt in deference to the autumn chill. The garment was an old one and pulled somewhat where it was fastened over her breasts. Its color was the green commonly used by the partisans because of its camouflage value.
Eveleen liked green anyway, he thought irrelevantly. She had been wearing very nearly this same shade when he had first seen her that day three years ago she had sat her future students on their rears on the pistol range.
He was close to her now, and his pace quickened. She seemed withdrawn and pensive beyond her usual wont, so much so that she did not become aware of his approach until he softly spoke her name.
Riordan looked up quickly, in surprise. She recovered herself as swiftly, and, smiling, motioned for him to join her.
He settled himself near her. "You're gloomy this morning," he observed.
She nodded. They had proven sensitive to one another's moods almost from the time they had begun the active phase of their mission, perhaps because they had to work so closely together, all the while preserving the secret of their origins. He had caught her properly, and it was rather too late to cover herself now. "The Ton-heir fought off a wardwolf threatening the does the night before last."