by Andre Norton
Why? The witch had been explicit at Verlaine. For Jaelithe, no return was allowed. Did she hate him now so that she could not bear to see him? No message even. Kolder! Now was the time to think of Kolder and the confounding of that chill evil, and not of things broken past the mending. Simon concentrated on Kolder. “Simon!” Koris called from the doorway. “The sky ships—they are as we left them.”
Ships for the invasion of Yle. Why had he ever thought it wrong to use their own weapons against the enemy? Why did he see danger lurking in the alien machines? Of course Koris was entirely right in this matter. To crack the shell of Yle what better hammer than those its builders had devised?
They climbed to the roof where stood the flyers. Two had been in the process of being repaired, parts and tools still laid out by workmen who had vanished. Simon went straight to the nearest. But this was simple—there was no need to worry about getting it into action again. One did this and this, tightened this . . .
He was working with confidence, some part of his brain directing every movement of his hand, as if conning a detailed chart. Simon slipped the last fitting into place, then climbed into the cockpit, thumbed the starter button, felt the vibration purr. It was all right, he could lift.
A shouting below, loud, and then dying into the distance as the flyer took off. Simon adjusted the controls. Yle, he was bound for Yle—a task of importance waiting him. The barrier could not hold much longer; there had been too many calls upon the central energy. Sooner or later the barbarians would breach it. The pound of the power of these cursed hags would then shake the walls down.
Cursed hags? Yes, tricky, evil all of them! Wed a man and then walk away from him without a backward look, deeming him too stupid to hold to. Hag—hag!
Simon made a song of that word as he flew over the waters of the bay. Gorm—they had lost Gorm. Perhaps they would lose Yle—for now. But the plan was working. Ah, yes, just let the Gate be opened and the great energy tapped, then these stupid savages, those hags would meet with a reckoning! Sippar’s fall would be nothing to what would happen in Es. Push here, pull there, move a savage to action, ring in the hags with trouble. Win time—time was what was needed—time for the project at the Gate.
So give up Yle now if need be. Let the barbarians believe they had won again, that Kolder was driven away. But Kolder would only withdraw to its source, to wax stronger again—then to move, renewed, straight into the heart of opposition—Es itself!
Simon blinked. Under his confidence, this new and heady knowledge of what was to be done and why, there was a writhing discomfort, as if a fighter held down a still struggling opponent he could not quite master. Ah, there was Yle. And they would be waiting. They had known, they had summoned—and now they waited!
His hands moved on the controls though he was not really conscious of any need for those movements. Flashes inland—the barbarian forces. His mouth shaped a sneer. All right, let them have their worthless triumph here. By the time they broke in with the aid of the hags there would be nothing left worth the gaining. Down now; he must set down on this roof.
The landing gear touched cleanly. For a moment Simon looked about dazedly. This—this was Yle! How had he come here? Koris, the forces . . . His head turned—no, this was true, no dream. He sat alone in a Kolder flyer from Sippar! There was pain in his head, a sickness in his middle. His hand fell from the controls, his fingers without his orders went to Fulk’s sword belt, touched a boss there, began to trace its curves and indentations.
Yes, this was Yle and his task was only beginning. They were coming now, those he must take from this place before it fell to the hags and their savages. A square opened in the roof and from that emerged a rising platform bearing two women. That one—she would give the orders—she was the one who had worked so ably to further the plan in Kars. And the one walking under full control by her side—she was the pawn to be played!
Simon pushed open the cabin door and waited, still in the pilot’s seat. Loyse—again that stir under the surface within him, but less now, more easily pushed aside. She was staring at him, her eyes wide and wild, but she was under control, they would have no trouble with her. Already she had settled as ordered in the seat behind him. Now that other—Aldis. Aldis?
“To sea.”
He did not need that order from her. Simon was pricked by irritation. He knew as well as she where they must fly. They spiralled into the air.
Odd. Mist growing thicker. Aldis leaned forward from beside her charge, eying that gathering cloud outside the cabin as if in fear. And she was right—this was some devilment of those hags. But they could not control the flyer, nor turn him from his course, even though they could bewilder his eyes . . . his eyes . . .
Simon stared. Something white moving on the course of the flyer, keeping pace effortlessly, a little above and ahead. Of course, that was his guide—just keep with that and he need not worry about the mist. They flew on but there seemed no end to the fog which enclosed them. The hags fought hard, only they could not control the flyer. Men they might bend to their purposes but not machines, never the machines! With machines one could be sure—be safe!
The mist was more than blinding, it was confusing, too. Perhaps it was not wise to stare into its eddying mass. But if he did not he would lose sight of that white guide . . . What was it? Simon could not make it out clearly, always some tendril of the mist blurred its outline when he stared intently.
On and on. In the mist time was distorted, too. Some more of their so-called “magic.” Ah, they were artful in deceit all those witches!
“What are you doing?” Aldis leaned forward, her gaze now on one of the dials among the controls. “Where are we going?” Her voice was louder and shriller with that second demand.
“What is ordered.” Simon was again irritated by the necessity for answering her. She had done good work, this female, but that was not to say that she had any right to question him, his competence, his actions.
“But this is not the course!”
Of course it was! He was obeying orders, following his guide. How dared she say that?
Simon looked down at the dial. Then his hand went to his head. Dizzy—he was dizzy. No need to look at the dials—just follow the white guide, that would make all right. “Be quiet!” he flung at the woman behind him.
But she would not. Now she pulled at bis arm. “This is not the way!” She screeched that until her voice hurt his ears. His seat behind the controls was too cramped to let him turn far. But he thrust at her with his right hand pushing her back and away.
She fought back, striving to get at him, her nails raking at the flesh across the back of his hand, and he feared to lose course, have the white guide hidden by the thick enclosure of the mist. A backhand push made her gasp and flinch and Simon’s attention was again for that half-seen thing ahead.
Only now he did see it fully—just for an instant. A bird—a great white bird! A white bird! He had known a white bird before—and the mist left his mind. The white hawk, that trained messenger they had carried into Kars—into Kars . . .
Simon twisted, a small choked cry forced out of him. Kolder! Kolder influenced thoughts, leading him—He stared down at his hands on the controls, totally ignorant now of what they must do, of how to keep the flyer aloft. Panic was a sharp, sick taste in his mouth. Somehow he had been used. His left hand groped down hunting—hunting what? Fascinated Simon watched that movement he had not consciously willed. The fingers touched Fulk’s belt, slipped swiftly along to that entwined knot of green metal which did not match the other bosses. That!
Now he did use his will to pull his hand away—a struggle which left him sweating. He turned his head. Aldis’ hands were tight to her breast, she eyed him with a dark hate, but under that—was it fear?
Simon caught one of her slim wrists, pulled her hand away from what it sought to conceal. Her other hand clung the tighter, but he caught a glimpse of glinting green. Whatever strange talisman had been Fulk’s, Aldis
wore its match. His own hand jerked, twitched, he could hardly keep it away from the belt ornament.
Under them the flyer lurched, dived through the mist. If he did not replace his hand he would not be able to pilot them safely, that much Simon guessed. But he would also return to the bondage which had made him serve Kolder. To crash might mean all their deaths. To accept Kolder control at least postponed that for a space, and time might fight on his side. Simon no longer resisted. His fingers flashed to the intricately carved bit of metal, traced its pattern.
He was—where? What had happened? Tricks, the hag tricks—they had befuddled him. No more, no more of those!
A scream—not from any human throat. Coming straight at the cabin window, as if to fly into his face, that bird, its cruel beak open. Simon’s hands flew to the controls in reflex action, striving to pull under that determined attack. Out of the curls of mist a shadow—a red shadow which took on too much substance. The flyer sideswiped that, the machine spinning from impact. Aldis’ screams were louder and shriller than the hawk’s. Simon cursed as he fought for control. They were still airborne but he could not bring them up, gain any altitude. Sooner or later they were going to land and the best he could do was to try to touch down under power.
Simon fought the stubborn machine for that slim chance. They struck, a surface still hidden in a blinding mist—bounced—set down again. Simon’s head hit the cabin wall and he was not truly aware when they were still, the flyer tilted at an angle, nose down. Mist pushed exploring fingers through the door, now cracked open. And with it came a rank stench, the smell of swamp, overpowering with stagnant water and rotting vegetation. Aldis pulled herself up, looked about, drew a deep, explorative breath of that exhalation of decay. Her head turned as if impelled by some impulse and her hand stirred on the Kolder token.
She leaned forward, but quickly halted that as the flyer rocked. Her hand caught at Simon, pulled off his helm. With a tight finger hold in his thick hair she dragged his lolling head back.
There was a trickle of blood on his left temple, his eyes were closed. But the fact that he must be unconscious seemed to make no difference to the woman. Her grasp on his hair held his head as close to her lips as she could manage. And now she spoke—no words of Karsten, nor of the older dialect of Estcarp—but a series of clicking sounds, more the beat of metal against metal than any human speech.
Though his eyes did not open, his head moved. He pulled feebly against her hold, but she did not yield to his struggle. For the second time she repeated her message. Then she waited. But he did not rouse. When Aldis released her grip his head fell forward on his chest.
The woman gave an exclamation of irritation. She strove for a view outside and was rewarded by sighting the twisted skeleton of a long dead tree, its broken branches hung with wisps of pallid moss swaying in the wind. The wind was also driving out the mist, clearing a view which did not lead one to optimism.
Green-scummed water in pools, from which a wood of dead trees protruded, as might skeleton hands raised in threat to the sky, bloated growths anchored to the trees. As she watched, one of those came to life, an obscene lizard-like thing of splotched skin and toothed jaws crawling towards the flyer.
Aldis’ hand pressed tight against her mouth. She was trying to think. Where could they be? This country was beyond her knowledge and the knowledge of those she served. Yet, her head again turned to the right—they were here—or one who served them was. And that meant help. Her hands cupped about the token, she bent all her forces into a summons.
9 TORMAN’S LAND
SIMON OPENED his eyes. The pain in his head seemed one with the greenish light about him. He moved and what supported him responded by rocking in a way which was a warning even his dimmed consciousness could understand. He looked up—to face nightmare!
Only the transparent shell of the cabin window kept that toothed horror from him. Its claws raked the surface of the flyer as it lumbered across the nose of the machine. Unable to move, Simon followed that slow progress with his eyes. It had some vague resemblance to a lizard, but its bulk and awkward movements were unlike the eagle litheness of those creatures as he had seen them in his own world. This thing had a leprous, warty skin, as if it had been striken by some foul disease. Now and then it paused to view him, and there was a malignity in those large whitish eyes which gave terrifying purpose to its deliberate advance.
Simon turned his head with care. The door was open, sprung by the crash. A few more feet, and a little maneuvering by the lizard thing, and it would achieve its goal. He moved his hand by inches, drew the dart gun from his belt holster. Then he remembered the women. With all the care he could muster, Simon changed position, the flyer rocking. The lizard hissed, seemed to spit. A milky liquid hit the cabin window, trickled down its cracked surface.
He could not see Loyse who was immediately behind him. But Aldis sat there, her eyes tightly closed, both hands again over the Kolder talisman, her whole tense position testifying to intense concentration. Simon dare not move far enough to reach the door. The flyer seemed balanced on some point and it dipped nose down at any change of the distribution of weight within.
“Aldis!” Simon spoke loudly, sharply—he must break through the web she had woven about herself. “Aldis!”
If she did hear him the urgency of his voice meant nothing. But there was a breathy sigh from behind him.
“She talks with them,” Loyse’s voice, a shadow of sound, worn and weary.
Simon caught at the hope it gave him. “The door—can you reach the door?”
Movement and again the flyer rocked. “Sit still!” he ordered. And then saw that the movement, as dangerous as it had been, had aided them in this much, the lizard thing was slipping, despite all its efforts, down the inclined slope of the flyer’s nose. Its claws could not dig into the sleek stuff of the machine’s surface.
It opened its mouth and gave voice to a hooting honk as, still scrabbling for a foothold, it went over the edge. On the ground, if the swamp surface could be termed “ground,” it might yet find its way to the open door. Simon thought he dared not delay.
“Loyse,” he said quickly, “move as far back as you can—”
“Yes!”
The flyer rocked. But the nose was rising, he was sure of that.
“Now!” From the tail of his eye Simon caught a glimpse of hands in action. Loyse was adding to his instructions with an idea of her own as she gripped Aldis by the shoulders and dragged her back in turn. Simon slid along the seat, his hand now on the edge of the open door. But he could not get in the right position to exert much strength and he could not bring it closed.
The flyer rocked violently as Aldis struggled in Loyse’s hold, lying back upon the girl who had her in a fierce clutch. Simon struck and the Kolder agent went limp, her hands falling away from the enemy talisman.
“Is she dead?” Loyse asked as she pulled from beneath the limp weight of the other woman.
“No. But she will not trouble us for a space. Here—” Together they pushed Aldis to the back and that change of weight appeared to establish the flyer so that it no longer swung under them, providing they moved cautiously. For the first time Simon had a chance to survey what lay beyond, though he kept watch on the door, his gun ready.
The half-immersed, dead wood, the scummed pools, and weird vegetation—this was like nothing he had seen before. Where they were he had no idea, nor could he tell clearly how they had come here. The stench of the swamp was in itself a deadening thing which clogged lungs and added to the pain in his head.
“Where is this place?” Loyse broke the silence first.
“I don’t know—” Yet far in the back of memory there was something . . . A swamp. What did he know of a swamp? Outside the moss on the long dead trees stirred with the dank wind. There was a rustling in a clump of pointed reeds. Reeds . . . Simon frowned with pain and the effort at remembering. Reeds and scummed pools —and a mist—those he remembered from far away and long
ago. From his own time and world? No—
Then all at once for a second or two he was an earlier Simon Tregarth, the one who at dawn had come through a gate onto a wild moor under the rain. The Simon Tregarth who had run with a fugitive witch before the hounds of Alizon hunters—and they had skirted just such a bog while the witch had appealed to its in-dwellers for aid, only to be refused. So they needs must cut across the edge of the swampland and find elsewhere a refuge. The Fens of Tor! Forbidden country which no man save one had been known to enter and return from again. And that man had fathered Koris of Gorm. He had brought his Torwoman out and held her to wife, in spite of his people’s hatred and fear of such blood mixing. But the heritage he had so left his son had been sorrow and loss. Tor blood did not mix, the Tor marshes were closed to all outsiders.
“Tor—the Fens of Tor,” Simon heard Loyse gasp in answer.
“But—” She put out her hand. “Aldis was calling for aid. And yet Tor does not mix with outworlders.”
“What does anyone know of the secrets of Tormarsh?” Simon countered. “Kolder has entered Kars, and I will swear that it walks elsewhere, as in Alizon. Only the Old Race cannot accept the Kolder taint and know it instantly for what it is. That is why Kolder fears and hates them most. Perhaps in Tormarsh there is no such barrier to mingling.”
“She called. They will answer—and find us here!” Loyse cried.
“That I know.” To go out into that swamp might well mean death, but it held also a thin promise of escape. To remain pent in the crashed flyer would lead but to recapture. Simon wished that his head did not ache, that he knew only a little of where they lay in the swamp. They might be only yards away from the border through which he and Jaelithe had fled. The trees, he decided, provided their best road. For all those which still stood, or leaned, an equal number lay prone, their length in a crazy pattern furnishing at least a footway over the treacherous surface.