by Andre Norton
The fatigue which had enfolded him in the castle was gone. Perhaps, he thought fleetingly, banished by the drink Selrena had pushed upon him. He was flying with some speed. Now the dead forest was overpassed and he was above another line of cliffs which towered to match the heights on which the castle was perched. There came an end to the glimmer of the fungi-like growths, and once more he was over bare stone.
Farree was well out across this, discovering that he had more night sight than he had ever been aware of before, when ahead he caught a beam of a far stronger light than the forest had produced. At the same time the cry which drew him swelled up into what was like a mighty moan before dying away completely.
After that was silence, and some of the urgency which drove him on was gone. He slackened speed, once more somewhat in control of his own movements. The beam of light head became just that, a column pointing skyward. Ship's light! That must be it!
A ship in this direction could not be the one he longed to home in upon. With the cry no longer ringing in his head, deafening and deadening his other senses, he could think clearly again. To rush straight for that beacon was to be a fool. He tried to break from the compulsion, to head east once more. But he had not been released to the point that he could do that.
The heights over which he had been flying curled away to the north and he discovered that he could vary his advance enough to follow their broken line.
"Limit! Limit!"
That might have been shouted in his ear. He swerved a little under the shock of that mind send, the strongest and most punishing he had yet felt. He headed left and there were four strong and frantic beats of wings before he could escape the punishment of that ringing in his head.
Torment or no he was not allowed to go free. He flew in and out, heading always northward against his will, striving again and again to cross some invisible barrier which set off, each time he tried, that burst of ringing in his head, even affecting his sight so that he could not see as clearly as before. He veered once more to the left and gave a leap in the air.
"Limit!"
Dazed by the pain in his head accompanied by a feeling of all beneath him whirling madly around, Farree winged on. He must have broken through, but he was only half conscious that he was still aloft, flying again towards the pillar of light in the distance. Slowly Farree recovered from the latest sharp encounter. He was again in the open, leaving the cliffs once more behind, as he headed, whether he willed it or not, towards that distant finger of brilliance.
There was no more of the crying which had pulled him here, yet he was sure that it was associated with the light. Shortly he was circling what was manifestly an off-world camp.
The ship which had finned down in the open was somewhat larger than that which had brought him here. Its ramp was out and there was a cluster of planet shelters set up about its foot, which suggested that this planeting had been established for some time. The beacon which had attracted him was aimed from the nose of the ship,straight up into the night sky. Perhaps it was more of a guide for those traveling on the planet—a warning or a summons.
There were lesser lights at ground level. Farree coasted down, slapped wings hastily together and trod earth again. Was his arrival still unknown as far as those in ship and camp were concerned? He had seen too many ship devices to believe that there were no guards set against strange arrivals.
The principal light at ground level shined at a place where a flitter—the light exploring craft—rested. Farree could see the forms of those working about that ship; repairs, he guessed. There were five of the planet shelters. Four of the smallest size, hardly large enough to shelter two men at the most, clustered about a single one three times their bulk.
His eyes had adjusted quickly to the glare given off by the beacon and the working lights at its foot. Now he could see who labored there—or stood looking on. From this distance they all looked humanoid. However, there were no recognizable uniforms among them, certainly nothing that marked them as perhaps a Patrol scout that had come to some grief and had only the chance of making a landing and setting a beacon to call for help. Certainly the ship was no broad-bellied freighter, even a one of limited tonnage such as a Free Trader crew would bring in.
He counted seven men—three hard at work on the inner parts of the flitter, two watching, and two more stationed by the entrance of one of the small shelters, their attitudes suggesting they were guards—which should mean a prisoner. His memory fed him a quick flash—could this be where that unfortunate Atra he had heard spoken of was kept?
As if the thought form of the name released a tight grip, mind send reached him.
"Help, oh, wing-kin, help!"
The plea did not strike hard nor very deep: rather it was a whisper which he had to strain to hear. He snapped up mind shield instantly and pushed himself further into a nearby mass of brush for hiding.
"Wing-kin—" The cry was piteous, the reaching out of someone deep in the grip of some peril who called against all hope for succor. It did not have the compulsion which had brought him here; the last of that had been burned away in his battle with that which had cried "Limit" to him. Still it held him uneasily, making him uncertain as to what he did here and why.
A man came at a run down the ramp of the ship, pounding towards the shelter which was under guard. The faint echo of a shout reached Farree. The guards whirled, one facing the door, weapon in hand, the other hastily circling about the bubblelike structure to view its far side.
The runner pushed past the guard and jerked up the tent flap. While both of the guards now prowled about the circumference of the shelter, their heads turned outward, weapons at ready.
Farree longed for Togger. If he could have sent the smux in, seen through his eyes as he had before—! Only there was no Togger within the front of his jerkin, and no one or nothing to depend upon save himself.
"Wing-kin—Farree—come—come—!"
The wail in his head was strong enough nearly to drag him out of hiding, lead him down to the camp. Bait! That was bait set to entrap. However, in this second call for help there was a difference—something which overrode any anger or fear he felt.
"No! Noooo—!"
His hands twisted in the branches about him. Pain, real pain, hot and sharp. Farree felt as if a lash had been laid across his back as had often happened in the old days. The one who summoned was forced to it!
Farree strove to build a barrier against the send. It was meant, he knew, to set him running or flying in to its source, unmindful of anything save the need to help. Perhaps that would have worked well had he been indeed wing-kin, raised here among those who certainly appeared to be of his own kind. Only he possessed no real ties with any he had seen or heard. The Darda, Selrena? To the Darda winglings were of no value—the Darda lived by different rules. And that animal-masked one who had been in the palace of crystal? He had picked up no suggestion that he, she, or it would be moved by any desire to go to the rescue. The one who cried, that must be the Atra they had spoken of—
"Come—" The mind voice was a frail shadow of itself. He could feel the waver in it, believe that the one who called was failing with the plea.
There came a silence which made Farree shiver in spite of his fight for control. Such a silence could perhaps fall when death came. Was the prisoner dead? His hands curled about branches in a grip which broke twigs, sent their sharp ends digging into his flesh.
The guards who had been on duty below separated and two of those by the flitter joined them. They fanned out—two going west, weapons at hand, and the next two coming toward his hiding place on the east.
That mass of brush behind which he had taken refuge was separated from any other chance at cover. And he was without any concrete form of defense. To take to the air should make him fully visible, and Farree was well aware that the off-worlders might well have very sophisticated tracking devices. He could already be within a trap, but he had not fallen into their hands as yet.
O
ne thing to do was to blank out all mind send. Once before he had come up against enemies who were well protected by artificial thought dampeners which protected them, yet also left them well aware that there was someone near at hand to be reckoned with.
Farree began a slow crawl to the right. The hunters were coming at a very deliberate pace. Now and then both men halted for a moment or two near some thick growth of vegetation. Then both would bring left wrists in at waist level to stare down at something they wore. He wondered if perhaps they were even seeking underground for the source of the alarm. Underground—were those who had seized him also busy hereabouts, either building traps or spying?
He was at the inner edge of the bushes now, crawling on a parallel path which he hoped would eventually slope upward so he might reach the foot of the cliffs. The high stand of the vegetation would, he hoped, provide him with a screen.
He was trying, so far vainly, to plan what must be his next move after he did gain the bare earth beneath the cliff. Then, without warning, darkness snapped about him. That beacon of sky-pointing light was abruptly cut. There was a long moment or two and Farree desperately took advantage of that.
He leaped into the air with a wild beat of wings, climbing up and up. Not a moment too soon, for a smaller shaft of light now shot from the nose of the downed ship, not vertically this time but rather horizontally, flicking through a rapid circling of the camp site.
He rose above it until the camp below was small enough to be covered with the palm of one hand. This was his chance—to get back to the cliffs, out of a trap which apparently had its limits after all. Yet even as he turned west, there came the knowledge that the force which had brought him here might have relaxed, but it was not totally gone. Below him the light was now not only making a circle but reached skyward in fast jumps. He was barely able to avoid one. It was plain that even as the guards had appeared to fear something under the earth's surface, they also watched for what might come from above, out of the air.
Farree threw himself toward the cliff crest, but it was as if he tried to fly with wings beating through a viscous flood; it was difficult to keep airborne at all. He fought both for altitude and then more speed. So far he had been very lucky that he had not been caught by the wandering beam, though it seemed to be focused lower than he sought to fly. Farree was nearly to the cliff edge when there were other movements in the air. Birds—? The dragonlike creature which had once herded him back to the ship?
The light stopped suddenly, then flashed, and caught in its glare the edge of what could only be a wing as large as those he wore—only it was black, and it was gone in an instant.
Farree tried to soar higher, sure that the light would be back. Yes, the sweep was already returning! Now it was one of his own wings that was revealed, and by more than just its tip. As he climbed out of that edge of beam, the light flashed up to transfix him.
A downward drag seized him, which he could not break. He was coming down too fast, having no control any longer.
Farree could only hope that he would not smash against the wall of rock which the cliff offered. A last beat of wings, a mighty effort on his part, and he reached the cliff, managing to make a forceful landing on a spur of the rock, scraping his body painfully against that ungivmg substance as he struck. But he had a hold, in spite of the pain in his hands, and he scrambled up a little, coining onto a fraction of ledge where he just managed to turn, pushing his wings back and apart to give him the most room possible.
He had freedom only until those men he could hear now shouting one to another, reached him. The light was centered on him, to keep him where he was, while the brilliance of it made him blind.
There was a sudden flicker of the light: something had swung between him and its source. Wings again—dark wings—invisible in the night—then something else flew through the air. At first he thought something had been cast at him, but it was jammed into a crack beyond his reach. He saw a rod which quivered from the force of its strike.
Farree crept along the ledge. The beacon no longer pinned him so tightly, for it was swinging back and forth again, striving, he was sure, to pick up that other winged one. As far as those below could see it might be that they thought him safely at their mercy, and they were now endeavoring to bring down a second captive.
Farree reached out, swinging his arm and hand as far as he dared extend his body. Those groping fingers closed to meet around the rod, which still moved a little. Exerting what strength he could, Farree deliberately added to that quiver, fighting to pull the shaft free from the crevice. At first he thought he had no chance, then it yielded so suddenly that he was nearly tumbled off his perch.
What he held was a hollow rod almost the length of his body. For all its size it was light of weight. The beacon had not caught his move to free it—instead it had risen yet higher, sweeping along the edge of the cliff, once more catching part of a wing which was as quickly gone.
Farree ran the rod through his hands. It was smooth for most of its length, but at one end there were protrusions like buttons—four of them. He had a strong guess that this might be a weapon of sorts but it was totally strange to him. Huddling as far back on his foothold as he could, Farree shifted the rod from one hand to another. There was no cutting blade which he could discover, nor was it either a stunner or a tangler. A simple staff of defense, he believed, one which would be less than nothing when used against such weapons as those the hunters below carried.
The light was swinging back and forth at a high rate of speed. Then a flash of brilliant red cut the air. Though he had not seen any trace of wings again, some one of the men must have fired a laser. However, that single burst of lethal flame, for Farree was sure by the depth of color it had been on kill strength, was not followed by another.
All at once he uttered a small yelp. The light had not turned but, out of nowhere, there had sprung a force which beat upon him, shoving him hard against the rock, making him entirely unable to move. That held for only a few breaths—breaths which his lungs labored to draw in and exhale. Then it was gone. Farree guessed that whatever it might have been must be being used methodically against the cliff, striving to catch and hold the unseen flyer.
He fought to see. There were small lights below now. These spread out along the cliff side. Like the beacon they swept back and forth, also up and down. Twice they flicked over him but did not linger. He was judged, he thought, a core of anger starting to glow within him, to be safely pinned—they were intent now on locating possible other quarry.
With those beams, the great and the small, playing back and forth so close, he dared not try to climb. If he took again to wings he could well be burnt down by the lasers. In his hold the rod moved, turned of itself. He gripped it the tighter, not letting surprise rob him of what he had thought was a weapon if a very weak one. His finger caught upon one of the buttons, and his tightened grip pressed a second one.
From the opposite end of the rod sped a small projectile, or so he believed because he saw a chip appear on the wall. From where it had struck a small bead of glitter grew rapidly into a tiny hollow of fire. Farree loosed his touch on both buttons hurriedly. Whatever chance or the concern of that other winged one had brought him was far more potent than he had expected.
For the first time his anger grew to equal his sense of caution. Let them try plucking him down and he would now have some kind of an answer for them.
"Come—come—"
Out of the silence that had fallen the plea came again.
"Come—" The mind touch trailed away. Then it was back, sharp, urgent– "Go, no, go! They come with nets—"
For the second time that communication was silenced as if the one who sent it had been out down. He dared not try to search for it.
Suddenly into the very center of the great beam there winged a flyer and another behind, two, three– Behind them shot something even stranger—charging ahead, unheeding of either light or those below. It appeared to be flat platform unfitt
ed with wings, far different in shape than any air sled. On it stood a single figure.
Searchlights caught and awoke glitter from the tight clothing the rider wore—she might have been encased in metal. Farree did not mistake the face of the one who dared test the strength of the enemy with such a disregard of their power to attack. This was Selrena.
The speed of the platform on which she rode brushed back the long streamers of her silver hair until it seemed to be a cloak stretched behind her. She held close in both hands what looked to be a twin of the strange weapon Farree grasped.
Her attendant winged ones were of his kind, save that their pinions were black and their hair was the color of a starless night sky. Each of them grasped a silvery chain such as that which Farree had taken from the dead in the underground ways. These chains stretched downward, but hung very stiff and straight, as if their other ends might be anchored. And there was something there—a mass which piled up against each chain in near invisible folds, but able to be glimpsed against the gleam of the silver.
As they came, so did the beacon swing around to keep centered on the airborne party. Laser beams cut high—but the ends of those beams veered outward, as if the firing had been aimed against the surface of a wall. Yet no wall or any construction of which Farree had ever heard could have held off a laser attack of that intensity.
It was certain, however, that the newcomers had the full attention of the attackers. Farree teetered on the edge of his ledge. If he could even reach the top of the cliff he would be better able to take care of himself. He leaped from the ledge.