Walfilo’s remnant hastened northward, toward the Steeps of Jonnary. They had no other way to go. Everywhere else the Ulunt-Khazul ramped, bounding after stragglers and hewing them down. We saved something, Theor thought, but for what?
His feet touched bottom. He stood and shuddered.
Eventually a measure of will rose in him. The enemy weren’t pressing the pursuit. It wasn’t worth their while. Still numerous, and with a cadre of professionals, Walfilo’s followers could exact a heavy toll if forced to make a last-ditch stand. Better for Chalkhiz to let them flee, beaten and supplyless; let the wilderness complete their destruction.
I’ve got to join them.
Theor waded to the beach and started off. He must thread a path among hideously battered dead and wounded. The sound of pain wove in and out of the surf-noise. “Drink,” pleaded a demimale he remembered. “Theor, is that you? Give me to drink!” A spear had transfixed the body.
Theor could not help himself. He bent to take the uplifted hands between his own. “I have nothing,” he said. “Farewell.”
“Don’t go! Don’t leave me—!”
The son of the Reeve started off to do whatever he could to help. A shadow fell across him. Two Ulunt-Khazul had their pikes aimed at his thorax.
One of them made a gesture: Come.
IX
Even before its short term was over, the day drew to a close. For a strong wind sprang up from the south, driving a roof of black sulfurous-edged clouds over the sky. Lightning glared ever oftener among them, thunder rolled through the droning air, the distant surf and the waves now loud in the strait. They were bioluminescent, those waves. They reached a tattered sheet of icy white glow out beyond the hunchbacked islands and spouted sparks where they struck the beach.
The Ulunt-Khazul drew their
ships and boats ashore, huddled in groups and muttered to each other.
Such few Nyarrans as had been captured stood silent in their misery. Theor was roused from a doze when a pair of warriors came and spoke to the guards. Their language cut roughly through the weather. A halberd pointed to him; the new arrivals prodded him into motion.
He walked slowly, stumbling on hobbled feet, up the strand toward the booths that had been erected for the chieftains. His wrists were tied together, but in front of him, so that he could still reach it, the communicator hung around his neck. Doubtless a superstitious unease had saved it from being taken off him. Once again he pressed the button. “Mark,” he whispered. “Anyone! I am in need.” There was still no answer.
A spear point urged him through the entrance to the largest booth. Chalkhiz stood within, arms folded. A lightflower cast feeble rays from above, leaving his coarse face mostly in darkness; but the eyes glittered like the weapons stacked against one trembling wall.
“Good evening,” he said with a grin.
Theor had no response.
“Would you like refreshment?” Chalkhiz waved at a bowl of ammonia and a platter of fish on a bench. Theor recognized a taunt, but his upbringing was too practical for pride to stand in the way. He accepted ravenously.
“It is good that you survived, and that a male who had been with my
delegation noticed you among the prisoners,” Chalkhiz said. “Perhaps we can make a bargain.”
“What have I to bargain with?” Theor asked wearily.
“Not much,” Chalkhiz agreed. “Still, Nyarr town has strong defenses.”
“It will cost you dearly to take,” Theor said. “When word comes with those who escaped southward, every male and demimale who was not here today—and they are many, because of the ranching season—will go there with wife and young. They will make a stand.”
“No doubt. Otherwise we could destroy them one at a time. But an agreement might yet be reached.” Theor’s control broke in two. “With animals like ourselves?” Chalkhiz snatched for an ax, withdrew his hand, and said in anger: “We take what is ours by right! Had your lands been flooded, storm-beaten, ruined, the fish deserting, your people starving, you would try to win a country elsewhere. Would you not?”
I suppose so, it sighed in Theor. But I’ll not admit that to him.
A gust struck the booth so that the planks groaned. Rain could be heard marching closer.
“Well.” Chalkhiz leaned forward. “I did not bring you here to trade insults, but to talk. I gather that your he-parents have both died.” The memory came back to strangle Theor. “If I understand your laws aright, this makes you the new Reeve. Your folk ought to obey if you call on them to surrender.”
“No. We are a free people. They need not heed me, and I hope they wouldn’t. Not that I would ever speak such words.”
“Listen to me. If they fight, we will destroy them utterly. But if they give up, we will let them go beyond the mountains. That’s not a good country, I know, but they would at least be alive.”
“How could we trust you not to fall on us once we had opened the passages through the city hedge?” Theor countered.
Chalkhiz laughed. “You would have to take my promise. However, we are fewer than you, and less skilled in land maintenance. When we inherit the country, we also inherit the hungry barbarians of the north. Are we likely to spend troops on a large, armed mass of Nyarrans without provocation?” And grimly he said: “I can promise that if you do not yield, there will be nothing but death or enslavement for your people.”
Theor summoned what strength remained to him. “The core of our army got away. You will be the ones destroyed!”
Chalkhiz made a spitting noise.
Thunder banged overhead. After a while, the Ulunt-Khazuli said: “I shall have you kept apart from the others. I advise you to think hard and to change your mind. Otherwise we will eat you before the city hedge.” He shouted out the doorway and a guard came in.
The warrior’s hand closed on Theor’s arm and guided him away. They walked along the strand, to a small booth at the edge of the camp. The guard pushed his prisoner through and took up a position outside the open entrance. Lightning covered the sky, etching him black against the hasty clouds and blazing off the head of a pike.
Thunder followed, and the first rain roared on the shelter. Theor locked his knees to rest in night and racket. For a moment he was maliciously pleased—let that fellow stand out in the wet!
But despair rolled over him. What could he do? What could anyone do? The invaders were victorious. Norlak the clever and Elkor the unbendable lay under the sea, and the Ulunt-Khazul had butchered Nyarr’s strongest for meat. They could ring the city and starve its defenders while their legions plundered the countryside. Might it not be best to yield . . . forsake the land, forsake identity, slink off toward barbarism in the wilderness? A shabby freedom; but worse would be to become cattle for the conquerors. He thought of the child Leenant carried, his and hers and gentle Pors’, cringing before an owner.
“Theor!”
He started. The blood ran through him louder than the gale outside.
“Theor, this is Mark. Do you receive me?”
Another flash in the sky showed the sentry, huge and menacing outside. Theor would have laughed, if he could. The Oracle—the friend from the stars—now—here—too late!
TO BE CONCLUDED
the characters
FRASER was a scientist, not a soldier; he had chosen his life as a communications specialist on Ganymede, his wife and children with him, his project an attempt to reach and talk with the strange methane-and-ammonia quadrupeds who lived on the high-pressure hell of Jupiter’s surface. Yet when a renegade Earth traitor landed his ship on Ganymede, Fraser found himself involved in a sudden, suicidal war. His fellows were defeated. Earth itself was threatened. Yet even so Fraser found his thoughts going out to—
THEOR, centaur-like in body, his metabolism a sink of poisons, his thoughts utterly alien to anything human. . . . yet a friend to Fraser, and like Fraser the defeated in a sudden war. For while Ganymede had been captured by treason, on Jupiter itself Theor’s people
had been overrun by larger, stronger creatures migrating in search of land to till and cities to loot. Fraser had promised Theor at least the help of a mystic message to confound the other creatures and perhaps frighten them. But he could not deliver even that much, for at the appointed time Fraser was a fugitive, cut off from the transmitter that could reach Jupiter.
Now Theor was defeated and captive . . . and now, when it was too late, Fraser’s voice come through on the tiny radio medallion he wore around his neck.
He brought the transceiver disc to his throat, but could not hold it steady. “Most yes,” he stammered. “I hear your message, friend. Speak!”
Another flash in the sky showed the sentry. Rain rushed off his flanks. He had not stirred. In so much wind and wave-beat, the little sound muffled in Theor’s hands did not reach him.
“I’ve been . . . busy. This is my first chance at a transmitter linked with JoCom’s. How are you?”
Theor told his story in a few flat words.
“Oh, God damn everything,” said Fraser beyond the lightning.
“What has happened to you, mind-brother?”
The air had grown cold, and was damp in Theor’s gills. He recalled what he had once been told by Fraser, that Ganymede was so chill that ammonia itself lay frozen. Jupiter’s atmosphere trapped heat. . . but tonight the heat seemed to be bleeding away, back toward those dead globes that rolled through outer space. He shivered.
“Theor, I’m so unspeakably sorry about you. About me.” A bleak chuckle. “Better off, but also beaten. They stopped our attack on Aurora and threw us back. Now we’re camped at the place they ordered, and their leaders are about to open talks with ours.”
“Ill is this time. Has the whole universe gone awry? But tell me, if your foes have so much power, why do they negotiate at all?”
Perhaps there is a clue buried in that to what l should do about my own enemy’s wish.
“Well, we’d be hard to wipe out. And, of course, if driven to desperation, we might wreck the city. We wouldn’t actually, but I suspect Swayne credits us with a touch of his own fanaticism. He needs its facilities for his scheme. So he’ll try for some compromise, such as us returning home without any further punishment.”
“Have you any hope of striking again, successfully? Or at least of summoning help from Earth?”
The sand was chill and moist beneath Theor’s pads. He rubbed his feet one by one against his legs.
Fraser sighed. “I don’t see how. Even if we could get hold of a moonship, none is equipped to go beyond the Jovian System. That is, they could, but they’d be unable to accelerate long enough to build up the speed for a hyperbolic orbit. The trip would take many months. We haven’t got that much time before Swayne returns home.”
“Be cheered,” said Theor clumsily. “At worst, you will still live on your own land, and even if you do not like your masters, they will be of your own kind.”
Lightning flamed anew. The thunder rolled for minutes, shaking the ground.
“Whereas you—Theor, we’ve got to get you out of there.”
“How?”
Despite all hopelessness, the Jovian’s pulses jumped. They had so many marvels in the sky; could there possibly be one somewhere for him?
“Describe your situation as carefully as you’re able.”
Theor did so. When he had finished, the transmission time stretched till he thought it must break.
“Hm. You’re not very near anyone else, and you’ve got a storm for cover. That’s something. Could you somehow manage to overcome your guard?”
“I am hobbled and my hands are bound. He has a pike and dagger also.”
The answer flashed into Theor even as he waited.
Fraser spoke it: “If you could distract his attention, you might be able to grab one of those weapons. Eh? Dangerous as hell, but you don’t have anything in particular to lose. Turn up your communicator to full volume and throw it out when he isn’t looking. I’ll yell.”
“Aye!” Theor pulled the cord of the disc over his head.
Fraser hesitated. “If you get hurt, though—”
“As you say, that makes small difference to my present plight. Hurgh . . . let me think.” Calm descended upon him as he stood. “Yes, I would do best to steal a boat. They could track me over this wet ground, and they can run faster than I. In the past I have had some experience with sail, and you can also advise me. Very well, when you hear me call aloud, speak for a few moments. Imitate a Jovian voice as well as possible—though it will still sound impressively alien. I have a feeling that night makes these Ulunt-Khazul nervous anyway.”
He paused, wondering how to frame a farewell. Before long he might lie with a blade of whetted ice alloy between his ribs.
“If it made any sense for me, I’d say God be with you, Theor. Good luck, anyhow.” Fraser’s voice wavered. “Yeah. All the luck in the universe.”
“No, keep some for yourself. Now wait for my call. Good-bye, mind-brother.”
Theor advanced to the doorway, the disc hidden between his palms. He stuck his head out. Rain flung against his brows and runneled
down his crest. The guard, a bulk in the flicker-touched gloom, very faintly glowing by his own infrared radiation, growled an order at him and jabbed with the pike.
Theor pointed with his arms and exclaimed.
The guard looked in that direction, only for a split second, but there was time for Theor to toss the communicator a little way to his other side. Now came the transmission lag.
The warrior scowled back at him and poised his shaft. No doubt he was saying, “Get inside before I skewer you.”
The disc wailed.
The Ulunt-Khazuli leaped in the air. Fraser’s words snarled at him. Lightning ignited; briefly the beach lay under ruthless white illumination, so that Theor could see the guard’s sheathed knife, the rivets on his pike and a scar on his cheek. Dazzlingly to Jovian eyes, the disc reflected that glare.
The guard jabbed wildly at it. His mouth gaped with terror and his throat worked with shouts for help. Theor was forgotten. As thunder came to drown out both voices, the Nyarran lurched forward.
His hands closed on the knife. The Ulunt-Khazuli swung toward him. Theor drew the blade and stabbed under the great jaws.
Arms closed around his torso. Pain lanced as his gills were bruised. He haggled the knife in an arc. Blood spurted into his face. The clutch on him slipped away. The guard went to the ground, flopped like a landed fish, and died.
Now only the wan shimmer in the sky gave light, continuous electric discharges in the upper atmosphere whose radiation filtered down through many cloud layers. The sea, the camp, the land were locked away in rain. Theor said aloud: “I have him, Mark. Keep silence. I can only hope that no one heard the fight.” He caught the pike awkwardly between his foreknees and sawed the bonds on his wrists across the edged head. It kept slipping sideways and cutting him. Rain beat his body, wind skirled, the sea stamped.
Free! He withdrew the knife from the guard’s throat and slashed away the hobbles on his legs. Next . . . best take the belt and sheath. The body was heavy to roll over. He got the belt around himself, the communicator back under his head, picked up the guard’s pike and started for the beach.
Lightning turned the world incandescent again. Theor saw two Ulunt-Khazul approaching. They must be on their way by mere unlucky chance, for they were in no hurry. But the axes on their shoulders shone through the rain.
Darkness and thunder. Theor ran.
The boats lay on the beach, not far off, anchors biting the ground. Half blind, Theor strained against one prow. No . . . no movement . . . he’d have to flee on foot, then. By wading through the shallows he could prevent tracks, but it would be deadly slow——The hull stirred and grated down the sandslope. He flung the anchor and pike aboard and gave himself to the task.
Each time that lightning came, he thought surely he must have been seen. Confusion was loose in the camp, warriors galloping back and
forth, shouting as they ran. The dead guard had been found, but probably no one except Chalkhiz knew he’d been watching a prisoner, so—
Ammonia splashed about Theor’s hocks. The boat came afloat. He pulled himself into the open hull and lay shaking.
No. He mustn’t. He had to be away. He picked himself up and groped aft to the mast. The sail was furled around the yard, an unfamiliar arrangement of lines and grommets baffled him. But at least there was some light here, from the sea.
Slowly he puzzled out what he must do, while the boat rose and fell, rocked and yawed in the waves. He undid the last lashing and pulled on the halyard. The sail cracked like thunder and threshed up. Theor made fast. The sail filled and the boat plunged its nose into a wave. Spray sheeted cold and flaming across him. He let down the daggerboard and crawled onto the tiller.
Now—straighten her out—fill the sail with wind—drive her!
“Mark!” he called exultantly. “I am free again!”
The vessel heeled. Billows rose with a volcano noise under the hissing strakes, climbed and climbed, broke in a flurry that spouted into the open hull.
The man’s tiny voice said, “I haven’t got words for how glad I am. Uh, are you having trouble with the boat? If so, describe the layout and I’ll give you whatever recommendations I can.”
Theor did so, while rain beat him from behind. The shore was now invisible.
“Gosh, it sounds so much like one I had when I was a kid. Let me think a bit. The general principles of sailing ought to be the same for you as for me, but the application—” After a pause, Fraser issued a crisp lecture.
Theor heeded the counsel. “That does well, mind-brother. I feel entirely confident of riding out the storm. It should not last much longer in any event. Wind velocities like this are quite rare.”
“Have you any idea where to go?”
“Only vague ones. I could attempt to double back and reach Nyarr, but at best I would merely be one more mouth to feed and at worst—and most probable—I would find the Ulunt-Khazul already there, and sail straight into their grasp. Reckless though it seems, I think I must continue north until I am past the Steeps of Jonnary, then abandon the boat and strike inland in search of Walfilo’s folk, that core of our army which escaped today.”
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