by Andre Norton
The stern wheeler had been a shock. But a Mongol party was almost as severe a dislocation of logic as the strange animals of the wood. And they had not the awesome feeling of the forest to cloak them with the air of being where they belonged.
“That is a yurt—one of their traveling houses,” Lady Diana continued.
He glanced around. Her weatherbeaten, strong-featured face was alive with interest.
“Here the past comes alive.” She seemed to be talking to herself. “Perhaps those warriors down there really did ride with the Great Khan. If we could talk to them—”
“Get a lance through us if we tried it,” Crocker replied. “If I remember rightly they had a talent as bowmen, too.”
“They were good enough,” Lady Diana agreed, “to wipe out half the chivalry of Europe. And they could have mastered the whole continent if they had pressed on.”
“I’d rather,” Nick commented, “see the last of them now.”
But they had to lie in their hastily found hiding places (which perhaps would be no shelter at all should one of the horsemen choose to come scouting) for some time until the Mongols passed out of sight. How many more remnants of the past had been caught here?
“Those fields, the road—” Nick strained to see how far he could trace that highway. “Who built those?”
“Who knows?” Crocker answered. “There are a lot of such places. We’ve seen a complete castle. And there are the cities of the People.”
“Cities?” Nick remembered mention of those before. “The ones the flyers bomb?”
“Not bomb.” Crocker sounded exasperated. “They fly over and hover and shoot rays down. Not that that seems to accomplish anything. But it’s not bombing as we know it. I can testify to that.”
“The cities,” Lady Diana mused, “they are different. Our own cities sprawl. You ride for miles through gradually thickening masses of little box houses swallowing up the country, you see less and less open. These cities are not like that at all, they have no environs, no suburbs, they are just there—in the open.”
“All towers,” murmured Crocker, “and such colors as you wouldn’t think people could use in buildings. No smoke—all light and color. But if Hadlett’s right—they’re traps. And traps can be attractive—we’re in no mind to prove that.”
“Traps?”
“We believe,” Lady Diana explained, “that the Herald comes from one. And that can be the source of energy or whatever it is that draws us—all of us—from our own world. Whatever governs our coming has been going on for a long time.”
“We saw a Roman cohort. If that wasn’t one of their dream spinnings,” Crocker said. “You can’t be sure of what is real and what isn’t, not here with the People around.”
Stroud rose to his feet, and the rest came out of hiding. They used what cover was available to cross the road where the ruts left by the yurt and the hoofprints were deep set, coming into the fields. At the edge of a small copse they laid down their packs to rest and eat.
“That’s an orchard over there.” The Vicar pointed to another stand of trees a field away. “Apples, I believe—perhaps early ones.”
He glanced at Stroud inquiringly. It was apparent that, on the march at least, the Warden was in command.
Stroud squinted into the sun. “We’ve got to make the farm before dusk. And with them around”—he glanced in the direction the horsemen had vanished—“it’s a risk to stop.”
“Not too big a one,” the Vicar answered. “We’ll be under cover of the trees.”
“The wall”—Lady Diana stood, measuring the distance ahead as if this was something she knew well how to do—“runs along to the trees. And it grows higher all the way.”
“We could do with some fruit.” Mrs. Clapp patted her harvest tote as if she already felt it lumpy with plunder.
“All right,” Stroud decided. “We set guards though an’—”
“I am afraid that we shall do nothing now,” Hadlett cut in. “Look there.”
As usual Stroud had steered them to cover. If they kept near to ground level they would escape sighting from any distance.
Bearing down from the same general direction that the Mongols had come was a second party. These were on foot and Nick could see they moved with the caution of those who expected either ambush or attack. They were in uniform and some had rifles, though the majority were not so armed. Their clothing was dull, earth brown, ill fitting, and he could not identify them.
“The Chinese,” Hadlett said softly.
Those in the woods watched the cautious advance, as the newcomers went along the same route as the Mongols. Nick wondered if they were in pursuit of the former band. If so, he was not sure of their chances when or if they did catch up. Somehow those rifles looked less efficient than the bows of the horsemen who in their time, as Lady Diana had observed, had accounted for armored knights.
“The whole country,” commented Crocker, “is getting a little too crowded.”
“Yes. And what is the reason for all this activity?” Hadlett added.
“It’s got a nasty kind o’ smell to it,” Stroud broke in. “The sooner we get under cover, I’d say, the better. Maybe there’s a huntin’ party out.”
They spent no time in a fruit harvest. As soon as the Chinese squad was well gone, they broke from the copse and traveled at a jogging pace along the protection of a wall, pushing to reach a ridge about a mile and a half away. Nick thought that most of them could make that effort without difficulty, but he wondered about Mrs. Clapp and the Vicar. He saw Jean fall in beside the older woman and take Jeremiah’s basket, to carry herself.
There was a straggling growth of vegetation in the fields, resembling self-sown grain, though its like was new to Nick, for the ripe heads were red with protuberant seeds or grains. It also possessed narrow leaves studded on the edges with tiny hooks that caught at their clothing with amazing strength so they had to constantly jerk free.
Nick swallowed. He was thirsty, but he had no time to drink from his canteen. The need for speed was so manifest in the attitude of the others that he kept steadily on. Linda had taken Lung up to carry him, though the Peke had walked most of the morning.
Luckily the rise of the ridge was a gradual one, but it taxed their strength after that trot across the open. Stroud signaled a rest. There was plenty of cover and from here one could see some distance.
“More drifters!” Jean and Linda were on either side of Nick, and the English girl indicated, at a distance too far to see details of clothing or accoutrements, another band of travelers.
Stroud and Crocker, Nick noted, had flopped over, shading their eyes against the sun, studying not the country beyond but the sky above.
“No sign of ’em,” the Warden said.
“Not yet. But there’s too much movement. If a big hunt was on—”
“We stay flat an’ under cover until dusk,” Stroud decided. “Yes, that’s pushin’ it,” he added at an exclamation from Lady Diana. “But I don’t see how else we can do it—’less we spend the night right here.”
“How far are we,” Nick ventured to ask, “from your place?”
“About three miles straight. But keepin’ under cover adds to that. We’ve seen more drifters today than we have in weeks before—”
“And now we see something else!” the Vicar interrupted. “The Herald—we are not too far from the city.”
There was no concealment, no hunting for cover by that colorful figure below. As the Mongols, he was mounted. But he did not bestride any rough-coated half-pony. The animal bore a general resemblance to a horse right enough, save that its legs were longer and thinner. And its white coat had about it a halo of light such as had been cast by the hair of the Green Man in the forest.
Mounted on this creature, which skimmed the ground at so swift a pace as made Nick stare, was a man, or at least a humanoid. His clothing was as dazzling as the brilliant coat of his steed, a kind of patchwork of bright colors centering in a stiff a
nd sleeveless tabard that flared out over his hips as if boned. Under that were breeches such as the Green Man had worn. And on his head was a four-cornered cap, the points of which projected.
Unlike the forest man, his hair was short, sleeked to his head. And what little showed was very dark. On his face, a line of hair, as fine as if it had been drawn on with a delicately handled brush, crossed his upper lip, to bracket either end of his mouth.
There was purpose in the way he rode, in the wide, ground-covering strides of his horse. And then, watching their going more carefully, Nick perceived what he had not at first sighted. The “horse” was not hooved, but had clawed paws not unlike those of a hound.
And—they did not touch the surface of the ground over which it passed. The thing galloped as if it followed some invisible pathway some inches above the foundation. It did not swerve or even appear to leap as it came to one of the walls about the fields. Instead it simply rose higher in the air, crossing the obstruction, climbing a little more with each pace, heading for the ridge some distance away.
Up and up, always well above the ground now. The paws worked evenly, without effort. It was gaining altitude steadily, ready to cross the ridge. Now Nick heard a whining hum—from the rider?
No, that came from overhead.
“Hunter!” Stroud warned.
They cowered within their cover as there appeared, as suddenly as if the sky parted to drop it through, a flyer. This was like the saucer they had witnessed in battle beside the lake, but very much smaller. And from its bubble top a ray of light shot groundward.
Nick felt a choking sensation. He could not move, was rooted to the ground on which he lay. There was a tingling close to pain through his body.
The ray held steadily on the climbing-horse thing and its rider. But neither looked up to their attacker. Nor did the gallop of the beast fail. The ray increased in intensity. Nick heard a whimper from Lung, a growl from the cat basket. Yet neither animal protested more loudly.
However, the beam was centered on the rider, strengthening until Nick had to glance away from that searing brightness. When he dared look again it was to see the rider slowly descending on the other side of the ridge. Whatever weapon the flyer used had no effect on the Herald. He continued to speed on, completely disregarding the attack as if the alien had no existence.
Yet the saucer followed, training the beam on the Herald, as if by the persistence of its power it could eventually win. When both were well gone, the Herald only a spot of color rapidly disappearing into the distance, the saucer relentlessly in his wake, Nick discovered that he felt better. He hunched up to watch the strange hunt go out of sight.
“A hunter, but it didn’t get him,” Crocker said. “And he’s heading for the city. Defense, not attack—”
“What do you mean?” Nick wanted to know.
“Just that. The hunters try to break down the cities, but the cities never retaliate. They don’t let off ack-ack, never send a bolt back. It’s as if they don’t care, as if the hunters can’t touch them, and so they needn’t bother to fight. You saw the Herald—he never even looked up to see who or what was strafing him! If we only had a defense like that—”
“We can accept their offer,” the Vicar said quietly, “You know that, Barry.”
“No!” The pilot’s return was violent. “I’m me, Barry Crocker, and I’m going to stay me. Even if I have to run and hide all over this country!”
“What happens if one accepts a Herald’s offer?” pushed Nick. “You said that one changes—how?”
Crocker did not allow the Vicar to answer. He scowled at Nick.
“You just change. We saw it in Rita.” And he closed his mouth as if he could not be forced to add to that.
“You see,” Hadlett answered slowly, gently, as if there was some emotion here he feared to awaken fully, “there was another one of us once, Barry’s fiancée. She met the Herald before we understood, and she accepted what he offered. Then she came to us to urge us to do likewise—”
“She was better dead!” Crocker pushed away from them.
“But what happened to her?” Nick persisted. “I think we, Linda and I, have a right to know—if the same choice should be offered to us.”
“It will be,” Lady Diana replied sharply. “But the boy’s right, Adrian. Give him the truth.”
“There were”—the Vicar hesitated as if he found giving that truth a difficult, almost painful matter—“certain physical changes. Perhaps those could be accepted. But there were mental, emotional ones also. To our belief, Rita—the Rita who returned to us—was no longer human. Men have an inborn fear of death that very few of us are able to overcome, we shrink from even the thought. This change is like a kind of death. For the one who accepts it crosses a division between our life and another. There is no return. We have in us such an aversion to what they become that we cannot stand their presence near us. I am trying to find the proper words, but in reality this change must be faced to be fully understood.”
The Vicar met Nick’s eyes, but all the rest, save Linda, looked away, almost as if they were afraid, or ashamed of what he said. The Lady Diana spoke again, a rough note in her voice:
“Well, Stroud, do we sit here much longer?”
6
In spite of the cover about them Nick felt exposed, helplessly defenseless before whatever might come from the sky, or pad across the land. Yet the way he could overlook from the ridge was far too open. Down there he thought they had no way of passing unseen.
Stroud was making a careful survey of the same territory. “We can work along there.” His finger indicated the slope of the ridge far to the right. “When we get that far we can see better what’s still ahead—”
The journey along the ridge was a rough one. They had to take part of it on their hands and knees, scuttling from one patch of brush to the next. It was hardest on Mrs. Clapp. But she made no complaint and the rest took turns by her side, giving what unobtrusive help they could. At least they did not witness the return of the hunting saucer, nor did they see any more drifters in the country below. However, by the time they reached Stroud’s halting point, the sun was well west. Mrs. Clapp’s face was deeply flushed and she breathed in small gasps. Her hands, as they lay across her knees, were shaking. Privately Nick thought she would never make it without a good rest.
“We wait ’til dusk,” Stroud said. “Eat and wait.”
Nick’s canteen and another Stroud carried made the rounds and they ate from their supplies. To all sighting, the land below appeared deserted now. But, as the sun crawled down the sky, Nick became aware of another light radiant in the northeast.
He was sharing the watch with Jean. Now he touched her shoulder lightly and pointed to the glow.
“The city,” she answered his unasked question. “At night it is all alight—you have never seen anything like it.”
He wondered if he detected a wistfulness in her voice.
“How close have you seen it?” The mysterious city, or cities, intrigued him. Apparently they were secure havens of safety for their inhabitants.
“Close enough,” she returned, “close enough to be afraid.” For a moment she was silent and then she added:
“What the Vicar said about Rita—is true. She was—different. But she was crying that last time she tried to come to us. She didn’t mean us any harm—she wanted to help—”
Her voice was uneasy, as if in some way she felt guilt.
“But you all turned her away.” Nick regretted his words the moment he spoke.
Jean turned her head to look straight at him. “We sent her away,” she said harshly.
Nick was disconcerted. Why had he said that? These people knew what they were doing, what they had to do to survive here. And what he had voiced sounded like an accusation.
Jean had turned away again to watch the dusk creeping across the land. Though she lay within easy touching distance, Nick sensed that in one way she had totally withdrawn.
; “If we go on”—he wanted to break that silence—“how can Mrs. Clapp make it? She is exhausted—”
“I know.” Her tone was remote. “But she will have to try and we can all give her a hand. We must get to a place we can trust before nightfall.”
“See anything?” asked Stroud from behind them.
Jean shook her head. “It’s been clear. The city’s turned up tonight.”
The glow in the sky strengthened as the natural light failed.
“But the far ridge will cut that off.” Stroud appeared satisfied at that thought. “We’d best be gettin’ to it.”
The descent from the ridge was gradual. Jean again had Jeremiah’s basket. And Linda, carrying Lung, had closed in on Mrs. Clapp’s left. When they hit the more level country Stroud set a brisk pace and the Vicar dropped back to the three women.
They took breaks at intervals, and Mrs. Clapp made no complaint. But it was plain to see that only her determination kept her going. Even her collecting tote now swung from Linda’s shoulder to balance her own duffel bag.
Lady Diana moved in, setting her hand firmly, without any word, under Mrs. Clapp’s arm. What they would do when the full dark came Nick could not tell. Luckily this was the season when twilight held. And the land also had light from the glow in the sky.
The night was not quiet. Nick’s tense nerves twitched in answer to the sounds. There were cries, sometimes wailing. None of the sweet, beguiling singing such as he had heard the night of the rain. Rather these held an abiding terror to feed one’s fears, made one look at intervals over one’s shoulder to see what sniffed along one’s trail. He longed to ask what this or that noise meant. But as his companions accepted them he would not.
“We’re well along,” Stroud announced at one halt. “We’ve only a short bit now, then we’ll lie snug.”
They were out of the fields, nearly at the foot of the ridge above which blazed the radiance of the city. As Stroud led right again, they followed a smoother path between more tumbled walls—this could be a lane.
So they arrived at a black bulk of building, its walls also stone, though now the twilight was so subdued Nick could not be sure just what it was like. With the ease of familiarity Stroud opened a door and entered.