Children of the Gates (11 page)

But she did not settle to rest. Instead she lounged at ease, playing with one of her long braids, humming. Now and again she glanced at Nick meaningfully, as he was fully aware.

As he had felt the brutality of the men-at-arms, the raw fanaticism of the monk, so the evil that was in her was like a scent, rank and horrible. Nick’s reaction to this party he could not understand. Never before had he had such an aversion to any person or persons, the sensation that he knew their feelings. It was like his comprehension that Jeremiah could understand him, a heightened power of which he had never before been aware. And this added to his fear.

That he was in a very bad situation there was no denying. They would slit his throat with ease and needed no urging to it. In fact he would swear the woman would relish it. He could gather only one idea—that he was to be kept as a bargaining point with those they called “demons.” And since the monk had screamed that at the Herald, it was the People with whom they intended to bargain, to so threaten by their usage of Nick. The thought was freezing. For what would the People care if he were murdered here? He had refused the Herald’s offer—or at least delayed answer to it—so he was no concern of Avalon’s. The terms had been made plain to him: Avalon defended its own, the rest could meet the fate they had chosen.

Now Nick wished he had answered differently. It seemed to him that the Vicar’s talk of changing, of the wrongness of that choice, was as nothing compared to being in these hands. Yet—there was in him a stubbornness of which he was aware—he would not be forced to a choice he did not freely give.

This whole venture had begun because he had wanted to get away, to be himself without outside pressures, without interference. Yet he had met with nothing but that. He had been swung by duty into guiding Linda. After their meeting with the English party they had to conform to their type of existence, simply because he was not informed enough to take risks—

The monk was snoring, but his small snorts were nearly drowned out by the deeper chorus from the men-at-arms. Their comrade on guard duty came into view and the woman beckoned to him, gave an order. He touched his rusty helmet with a forefinger and went off in the direction of the animals. She watched him go, then arose and went to the stream.

Cupping her hands she dipped up as much of the water as she could, and came, swift-footed, with dripping fingers, to Nick.

“Aqua—” She held it out just a little beyond his reach.

Latin! She had spoken Latin!

Her hands moved closer. His thirst was torment now that the water was here. But he did not trust her in the least. He did not believe that she had a sense of compassion. This was a game she wanted to play.

The moisture dripped on his shirt, he could dip his head and drink. But something in him said “no,” and he heeded it.

Her smile pinched into nothingness. She flung what remained into his face. Then she went back to her rock, to return as swiftly with a small whip, its stock tarnished but set with rough-cut stones. Raising it she struck him across the face, the lash as sharp as a knife stab, leaving a hot line of pain behind.

Now she laughed, for in spite of his control Nick had gasped, and stood flicking the lash back and forth, watching him to see if he understood the threat of that. But if she planned other mischief she was again defeated by the monk.

He had sat up, now he gave voice to what could only be a roar of rage. One so vehemently expressed that it brought the men-at-arms awake and their hands to their weapons, pulled their fellow back through the bushes at a run to join them.

The woman stood her ground, waiting for a lull in the monk’s shouts. Then she replied with a matching sharpness. But she left Nick. Apparently the monk’s wishes still ruled. Nick only wished fervently he knew what those were.

As the shadows of evening drew in he thought of the cave. They must have missed him by now, but even if they found his exit they would have no idea of where he had gone. And for their own sakes they would not venture into the open without a guide. He knew he could not hope for any chance of rescue.

He had been trying at intervals to loosen the ties about his wrists. But they were past dealing with. His hands were numb, and the lack of feeling was spreading up his arms. The support of the tree trunk against which he had been lashed kept him upright, but his feet were also numb. And he was not sure he could move with any speed even if he were now, by some miracle, set free.

With the coming of twilight the men-at-arms were busied. They had had one fire during the day. Now they were bringing wood, making a second some distance away. The monk labored with some lengths of dried branches he had chosen with care. He chipped away with his belt knife, used twists of grass in a way to suggest that he had done this many times before, and fashioned some more crosses of wood.

These in hand, he approached the tree and Nick and proceeded to set them in the ground, as if by doing so he erected a barrier about the captive. As he worked he muttered, and Nick thought that he recognized now and then a Latin word. Having set up the crosses the monk methodically paced along that line, touching each with the metal of the one on the pole, chanting aloud as he went. Behind him the others drew together and their voices were raised now and then in response to the ceremony he was performing.

They then lit the second fire, which gave a light that grew as the darkness increased. The horse and the mule were brought out, once more watered, and then tethered between the fires, while their guardian hung about their bony necks cords with bits of broken metal fastened to them. Into the light between the fires moved the whole company. The men-at-arms drew their daggers, kept them in their hands as if they settled in to await a siege. But the monk thrust the pole of his cross into the ground and stood not too far from Nick.

Their whole attitude was one of expectancy, and Nick found himself listening, though for what he could not imagine. From time to time the monk muttered, those between the fires shifted, or showed other signs of fatigue, but they lost none of their vigilance.

Nick became aware slowly of a foulness like the odor that wafted to him from the members of this camp. Only this was not a foulness born of the body, but rather of the spirit. That was another sensation he had never known, yet was able to recognize it for what it was. Just as the farmhouse wherein they had sheltered had been a haven of good, so did that which was closing in now advertise its threatening evil.

And the others must have expected its coming. It was not of Avalon, Nick was as sure of that as if the fact had been shouted aloud.

Dank, heavy, a cloud of corruption— Then Nick heard the rasp of something ponderously heavy moving through the brush—a panting breath.

Those in the firelight raised their hands—the iron they held there visible. While the monk freed his cross-pole from the ground and made ready to use it, as he had tried to club the Herald.

Closer—Nick saw a bush quiver to his left. He turned his head to face what might issue from there. In the midst of the branches was a head. He made himself eye it, though fear battled his control and he shivered.

Gray-white, bestial, twisted—it was obscene, the epitome of every night terror. It leered, showed fangs, was gone. A serpent, or something with a serpent’s body, writhed out from another direction. It had a serpent’s body, but the head was that of a woman. And, as the thing came, it called in a hissing voice words that those in the firelight must have understood, for with a cry of horror and hate one of the men-at-arms plunged forward, aiming at the creature with his knife. It sliced into the body behind the smiling head.

But there was no wound and the man cowered back, with a crowing sound, his knife forgotten, his hands before his eyes, huddling in upon himself, while the serpent woman coiled and reared—until the monk lashed out with his pole and she vanished utterly. That was only the beginning of the siege.

11

There were monsters pacing on all fours, others humanoid in shape. They leered, hissed, spat, called, menaced, only to slip back into the shadows and let others come. So far none of this hideous crew attacked the firelit party. But their very appearance rasped the nerves, kept one tense. And it was plain that the nerves of the party were already badly worn, perhaps by earlier meetings with the same threat.

When something with a goat’s head but very human body, save for a tail and hoofed feet, gamboled into the light, prancing and beckoning to the men-at-arms, one of them threw up his head and howled like a dog. The one who had captured Nick rounded on his fellow and knocked him flat. The man lay whimpering on the ground. Goathead snickered, leaping in the air and clapping his hoofs together.

The monk thrust out with the cross-pole and Goathead uttered a thin scream, staggered back as if in that lay dire threat. But there shot up in his place another with a human body that glowed with golden radiance, having white wings stirring from the shoulder blades. Mounted on the broad shoulders was the head of an owl. Its left hand lay loosely on the back of a wolf as large as a horse.

“Andras!” The monk appeared to recognize this apparition. “Demon!” Again he struck out with his weapon.

But this time his attack was not so efficient, for the owl beak in the feathered visage uttered a sound. The noise swelled higher and deeper, filling the night, one’s head—Nick flinched from the pain as that cry went on and on.

The agony grew worse, until he was aware of nothing save that. And he must have been close to losing consciousness when he saw, dimly, that those between the fires had dropped their weapons, even the monk his cross-pole. They were holding their hands to their ears, their faces betraying their torment, and they tottered to their feet and staggered forward.

Not to meet the owl-headed one, for he was gone. No, they wavered and stumbled into the bushes, drawn by some force they could not withstand. Men-at-arms; the woman, stumbling in her long, dragging skirt; last of all, the monk, his face a tormented mask wavering out into the haunted dark. Nick felt the force, too, and struggled against his bonds, the cords cutting deep into his flesh as he sought to obey the command of that screech.

He fought desperately. There was no respite from the pain unless he obeyed that summons—he must go! Yet he could not. And at last he slumped, exhausted, only the punishing cords keeping him on his feet.

His captors had disappeared. The bony horse and the dejected mule remained. And both animals were attempting to graze as if nothing had happened. His own head was free of the pain, though he could hear, fading away, that torturing sound.

What would be the fate of those answering it? Nick did not know. But that any would return to free him, or kill him, he did not believe. He was dazed from the assault upon his ears, but he began to realize he was still trapped.

Bright in the firelight lay the daggers they had drawn for their protection. But they were as far from his use as if they had been in his own world.

It was then that he became aware of a sound overhead, and pushed his head back against the rough bark, striving to find an angle from which he could see what passed there. Was it a flying monster?

He caught only a fleeting glimpse. But he was sure he had not been mistaken. One of the saucers was swinging in the direction of the fugitives.

Was that sound intended to drive or pull those sheltered here into the open where they could be taken? Those monsters—the people seemed able to identify them, he remembered the monk had named the owl head—what had they to do with this? But such could be used to disarm and break down the nerves of selected victims.

But if the saucer people made their capture they would learn about him! Perhaps they already knew and believed him safely immobilized. He had to get loose!

At that moment Nick feared the saucer people more than any monster he had seen lurking here tonight. For the monsters could be illusions, but the saucers were real.

Get free, but how? The daggers—He had no possible chance of reaching those any more than he had of summoning Stroud, Crocker or the Vicar. Or of seeing the Herald—

The Herald!

Nick’s memory fastened on the picture of the Herald as he had seen him from the cave entrance. The brilliant tabard seemed to flicker before his eyes. Slowly his fear ebbed. The stench of evil that had come with the dark was gone. What Nick now felt against his sweating face was the clean breeze of the woods, with it a pleasant scent.

But the saucer! Freedom before its crew could come here! He was too spent now to struggle against the cords that only drew tighter as he fought. His hands and feet were alarmingly numb.

The Herald—in spite of his need to think of a way of escape Nick kept remembering—seeing Avalon.

“Avalon!”

What had moved him to call that name?

The horse nickered. It flung up its head, called, was answered by a bray from the mule. Both animals ceased to graze. They stood looking toward the tree where Nick was bound.

Then—
HE
was there!

Another illusion? If so it was very solid-seeming.

“Avalon?” Nick made of that a question. Would the Herald release him? Or, since Nick had not accepted the bargain, would he be left to whatever fate the saucer people had in mind?

“I am Avalon.” Nick could hear that.

“Can you—will you free me?” Nick came directly to the point. Let the Herald say “yes” or “no” and get it over with.

“Each man must free himself. Freedom is offered, the choice is yours alone.”

“But—I can’t move—even to take that precious apple of yours, if I want to!”

As before the Herald’s features were untouched by expression. There was a glow about him that did not come from the fires.

“There are three freedoms.” Avalon did not produce the apple. “There is the freedom of body, there is the freedom of mind, there is the freedom of spirit. A man must have all three if he would be truly released from bondage.”

Nick’s anger rose. With time his enemy, he had no desire to waste it on philosophical discussion. “That does not get me free.”

“Freedom lies in yourself,” Avalon returned. “Even as it is within all living things—”

He turned a fraction then, his level gaze moving from Nick to the horse and mule. For a space as long as several deep breaths he regarded the two animals. Then both of them moved their heads vigorously, certainly with more alertness than the half-starved beasts had displayed before.

They walked to the bushes and thrust their heads and necks into the foliage, turning, twisting with obviously intelligent purpose. Their motions snagged on branches the thongs about their necks that were hung with metal bits. Now each lowered its head and jerked back, so those cords were drawn off, left to swing there.

Freed, they came directly to the Herald, lowering their heads before him. He reached out a hand but did not quite touch their halters. Those in turn fell away, giving them freedom from all man had laid upon them.

Yet they still stood and gazed at the Herald and he back at them, as if they communicated. At last the horse whinnied, the mule brayed. Together they turned and trotted off into the night.

“If you can free them,” Nick said hotly, “you can do that for me.”

“Freedom is yours, only you can provide it.”

That there was some purpose in what he said more than just the desire to frustrate the captive, Nick now believed. The horse and the mule had had to rid themselves of “cold iron” that men had laid upon them. But all his struggles had only exhausted him. He could not free himself—that was impossible.

“How?” he asked.

There was no answer.

“You told the animals!” Nick accused.

Still the Herald was silent.

Freedom that only he himself could provide? Perhaps because he had not accepted Avalon’s offer the Herald could or would not aid him more than in such oblique statements. Nick leaned his weight against the tree and tried to think. Undoubtedly there was a way. He did not believe that Avalon was tormenting him for some obscure reason. And if there was a way he must have the will, patience and intelligence to find it.

Futile struggles did not aid. He could not reach the daggers so tantalizingly within sight but not within reach. So—what remained?

Freedom of body he did not have. Freedom of mind, freedom of spirit—could he use either? Telepathy—precognition—there were powers of the mind—paranormal powers. But those were talents few possessed and he was not one of them.

The daggers—within his sight—freedom of mind—

Avalon waited. There was nothing to be gained from him, Nick was sure. What he had to do was wholly by his own will and strength.

The daggers—a use for them—

Nick stared with all the concentration he could summon at the nearest blade, the slender one the woman had dropped. Knife—cord—one meeting the other with freedom to follow.

Knife—cord—He must shut out of his mind all else but that slender, shining blade, red with the light of the now dying fire, the thought of the cord about him. Knife—cord—

Sweat trickled down Nick’s face. He felt strange, as if part of him struggled to be free from his body. A part of him—like a hand—reaching for freedom. If he could not move the knife with his desire—what of his hand?

Nick changed tactics. A hand—an arm—free—reaching into the firelight. His body obeyed his mind in some things, would it now? Something was forming, thin, misty—touching the knife. So iron did not prevent this! Nick concentrated. A hand, five fingers—fingers and thumb to close about the haft. That grayish thing was there—clasped about the hilt.

There was the hand, but a hand must be joined to an arm or it was useless. An arm—he set himself to visualize a wrist, an arm. Once more there was the gathering of foggy material. It joined the hand, yet it also reached back to him.

Now!

He had never in his life centered on any act the intense will he now summoned. The long, long “arm” of mist began to draw back toward him. He must hold it—he must!

Nick’s breath came in gasps. Back, draw back—he must bring the knife!

The blade was out of the firelight now, trailing across the ground in little jumps as if his energy ebbed and flowed. But it was coming! Nick knew no triumph, only the need to hold and draw.

Now the knife lay at his feet, misty hand, elongated arm collapsed, faintly luminous, coiled like a slackened rope. Nick was so tired—fatigue of a kind he had never before experienced hung upon him like a black cloak. If he let it get to him he was lost.

The knife must come up! The coiled substance thickened, loops melted into a stouter, more visible column with the hand at the top, the knife in it. Up! Nick’s whole force of being centered in his desire.

By jerks the blade arose. Its point pricked his knee. He brought it higher to the first twist of cord. Cut! He gave the order—cut!

It moved slowly, too slowly. He almost panicked, and then firmed his control. Slow it was, but it moved—

Cut!

Feebly the blade sawed back and forth across the tough hide. If only the edge was sharp enough! Do not think of that—think of nothing but the action—cut—cut—cut!

A loop of hide fell at his feet. The column of mist collapsed, the dagger falling with it to the ground. Nick writhed furiously with all the strength he had left. His hands fell away and he toppled over, to fall headlong, spent and breathless.

He turned his head to look for Avalon. But the Herald was gone. Nick lay alone between the dying fires, one of the wooden crosses standing in crooked silhouette between him and the limited light. He was free of the tree, but his hands were still tied and his feet numb, his body exhausted.

His hands—he must free his hands. There was the knife. Nick lay watching it. Once more he tried to create the hand. But the power, whatever power had worked in him to produce that, was gone. If he would help himself now he must do it by physical means.

Weakly he rolled over, hunched along until he could feel the blade. Wedge it somehow—but his hands were numb. Wedge it! Scrabbling in the leaf mold he dug the haft with the weight of his body into the ground. There was a stone, move that—Patiently he worked until he thought the blade secure. Up and down, Nick moved his wrists, not even sure the blade bit the cords.

He was not certain until his arms fell to his sides and the torture of returning circulation began. Then he pulled himself up onto his feet. He leaned against the tree that had been his place of bondage. The knife on the ground—iron. Stiffly, steadying himself with one swollen hand against the tree, Nick stooped to pick it up. Though the effort of putting his fingers around the hilt was almost too much, he managed to thrust the dagger into his belt.

Once more the danger of attack gripped him. He used the tree as a support, slipping around it, away from the fire. But his feet stumbled, he felt as if he could not walk. The bushes—if he could roll into, or under those—

Nick tottered forward. Ahead, only half to be seen in the gloom, was a thicker growth. He went to his knees, then lower, pushing, edging under that hope of shelter until he could fight no longer, his last atom of energy expended.

It was not real sleep that overcame him then, rather an exhaustion of body so great he could not lift his hand an inch from where it lay beside him. He was held in a vise of extreme fatigue but his mind was clear.

He could not yet understand what he had done. The mechanics of it, yes. He had brought the knife and freed himself. But how had he been able to accomplish that?

There were natural laws. He had been taught in his own world to believe what he had just done was impossible. But here those laws did not seem to hold. The Herald had spoken of three freedoms. This night Nick had used one to achieve a second in a way he would have sworn could not be done.

Nick closed his eyes. Do not think now—stop wondering, speculating. Close off memory. He needed release, not to think, concentrate, act—

A lulling, a slow healing—The evil that had been so thick was gone. The earth under him hollowed a little to receive his aching body, cradled him. Twigs and leaves brushed his upturned face, their clean scent in his nostrils. He was one with the ground, the bush—He was safe—secure—held—The sleep that came to him was dreamless.