Hiero Desteen (Omnibus) (74 page)

He turned and looked down at the prisoner, who was now squatting and rubbing his neck while he stared with frightened eyes at Hiero and the People of the Wind. He was a nasty-looking specimen, but he wore good clothes, and his boots and helmet were excellent in fit. Also, he was clean in his person. Around his neck hung a metal replica of the yellow spiral the Unclean Lords bore on their robes. He was an officer, then, and one of some rank in the enemy hierarchy. Hiero probed the man's mind and, not to his surprise, met blankness, an impenetrable barrier.

Strip him! he
sent on the mind wave of the catfblk. In a moment, the keen claws had left the man's body bare to the waist. The sealed locket on the bluish metal chain contained the mechanical mind shield the Unclean used to protect their servants and allies. In another second, Hiero had whipped it off and thrown the device over the parapet. Now he addressed the man aloud, using
batwah,
the almost universal trade language.

"Speak the truth and only the truth and you may yet live. Lie, and I give you to my friends here." He saw the shudder as the other took in' the avid, yellow eyes. "Where are the secret ships? How many of them are there? What strength of troops is in the town? Are there more on the way and how many? Where are your Masters and how many of them are here?" As he fired the rapid questions, hardly waiting for the answers, he listened to the now unguarded brain as well, a technique in which he had grown so practiced that his ease, compared with that of the previous year, was automatic. He could not
compel
his prisoner to do anything; that power was gone. But he could sense his thoughts.

The man was not a coward and he was indeed of some rank, the equivalent of a Metz regimental commander. His name was Ablom Gord, and he knew a great deal, all of it interesting. He tried to lie, but it made no difference to Hiero, though the Metz masked his face and never indicated when what his ears heard was not the truth.

It seemed that no more than two of the deadly gun ships were anywhere nearby, but those two had been summoned and were close at hand. The garrison of the town still was holding but might crack if and when the invasion took place and the Abbey warships were not successfully challenged. No lightning guns were in the town itself, only on the ships. The Unclean forces were rallying in great strength, having been summoned from far and wide; they were not mustering at Neeyana, but rather at a secret base many leagues to the east. More forces were coalescing in the north on the far side of the Inland Sea, and a mighty assault had been planned. But this sudden attack on Neeyana had been totally unexpected. No help could be summoned in time unless the ships with the lightning guns could alter the balance of forces.

Hiero stared coldly at the officer when he had learned all he thought useful. "You have lied to each question," he said finally. "You were warned." His signal to B'uorgh was sent so swiftly that the knife was in the man's throat before the mind could realize a death sentence had been passed. Hiero dismissed the matter. He had read enough in the fellow's past to sentence him to death a dozen times over, murder of helpless women being only one of the charges.

He stepped over the twitching body, realizing with distaste that his sandals were slippery with blood, and once more stared out at the Abbey war fleet, still engaged in softening up the waterfront with methodical, well-aimed fire. Behind him, the wind rose in increasing strength, ruffling his hair as it blew—steadily now and, aside from small gusts, always to the north, to the sea. The wind, he thought idly, now why was the wind on his mind? The enemy was undoubtedly coming fast; their grim, speedy ships, driven by silent motors in the sleek metal hulls, must even now be close upon the town.

Why on earth was the wind so much in the foreground of his thoughts? Then his thoughts clarified.
That
was the answer!

He wheeled and began to rap out orders, punctuating them with an occasional question. In no more than a minute, so rapid was the mental interchange on the catfolk's mental band, the decision was made and the little party was groping its way down the stairs.

The lower part of the building still seemed silent and deserted. Smoke fumes swirled in through the ancient door. The shrieks and cries, the crackle of flames, and the roar of the bombs and shells outside, all came from a distance. The impetus of the attack, Hiero thought, seemed to have shifted a bit and was coming more from the west, as if the Metz fleet had moved in that direction. So much the better for his purpose.

As silently as so many ghosts, the five departed from the old building and darted off down the narrow street, all senses tensed to the uttermost. Hiero led, along with B'uorgh, for his human abilities were more needed here in this human-built maze than the more finely attuned nerves of his allies. Soon they came to a small square and shrank back against reeking walls as a mob of shouting people crossed in front of them. Its members seemed to be some of the bewildered and terrified human populace, running with no clear aim in view, and soon disappeared in the smoke off to the east. Hiero signaled, and the five ran swiftly across the square and vanished into the gloom of a smoldering building on the far side. They were heading, insofar as the man could tell, on a slight downward slant. If his judgment, backed by a view from the tower, was at all accurate, they would strike the water in a fairly short time. Once a running figure, shapeless in the murk, loomed up in front of them; but one sight of the five grim shapes, their size magnified by the poor light, was enough to send the runner shrieking away down a side alley.

We must be even more careful now,
the Metz sent.
The main body of their troops will be down here near the water. We have to get through them and find a boat.

M'reen answered.
The water is not far. I can smell it. Even through this dirty air and smoke, it smells clean.

Suddenly, more quickly than the man had thought possible, they were there. They had been slinking down a narrow runway, lined with cracked brick underfoot, when it came abruptly to an end. Before them lay a tangle of ancient piers, some half-rotted and leaning drunkenly in the mud of the shore's edge, while others burned sluggishly, ignited either by the shells of the strange fleet or by chance-caught sparks. The wind still blew from behind the group's backs, and the wreaths of smoke wafted straight out before them to the open sea beyond.

Hiero scanned the scene, his eyes intent for one purpose. There were no Unclean about, at least not near. He could sense them on either side in strength, but none were close. He knew that if the catfolk had seen or sensed why, he would be told at once. He listened intently, but the gunfire was still off to the left, down toward the west. Here where he stood, due to some trick of acoustics, it was even quite quiet, and he could actually hear the lapping of tiny waves on the muddy foreshore at the foot of the street.

Then his roving gaze fixed on a small, pointed shape, half-hidden under one of the crumbling docks, moving gently to the action of the water. It was this slight movement that had caught his eye. He stared harder and again checked the immediate neighborhood for other movement. He could see nothing, yet instinct now began to warn him. There was another presence somewhere near, something watching!

It made no difference, he told himself. Time was too important for these vague fears. The decision had to be taken.

Wait here and keep watch on all sides,
he sent.
If that thing out under the wood, that thing which sits on the water, is what we need, I will signal.
Without waiting for assent, he darted out into the open and sped across and down to the mud and the lapping, oily tide. In a second, he was over the side of the small boat and staring at its sole occupant—doubtless some local fisherman.

The man must have been trying to flee, for there were both oars and a net in the skiff. He was unarmed save for a belt knife and was clad only in a leather vest and a loincloth. Either in the act of fleeing or earlier, he had been shot, and the vanes of a crossbow quarrel thrust up from the center of his back. The oars were still bundled, and it looked to Hiero as if he had been carrying them to the boat when he had suddenly taken leave of life, one more unnumbered casualty of the war.

The Metz breathed a quick prayer, in case the man should have been honest and not one of the Unclean, then tipped the body over the side into the shallows. He turned and waved once, a beckoning gesture, then seated himself on the central thwart and began to cut the leather painter which held the boat to a cleat on one of the crumbling pilings. Seconds later, the other four were wading alongside and clambering aboard, to huddle excitedly on the bottom. In another instant, Hiero had the oars between the crude rowlocks and was easing the little craft out under the pilings toward the open sea.

Behind him, eyes glared in impotent rage from the narrow slit of a window set high on a ruined wall. A white hand fumbled with a neck chain of bluish metal; then, a decision taken, it dropped again. A hooded shape whirled and departed in haste on an urgent errand.

The little boat was about three times Hiero's length, high of prow and with a pointed stern. She rode the water sweetly as the Metz pulled hard away from the shore. The People of the Wind, nervous and yet stoic, crouched silently, two in the bow and two in front of the man and aft. All four were trembling with excitement and the newness of the experience, but they would have died rather than admit it. As the waves increased in strength, they simply laid back their ears and waited for whatever their new friend had to tell them.

Hiero was constantly checking the wind while calculating the course. His scheme was so filled with holes that he could only hope that it had a bare chance of succeeding. If only the wind would keep blowing from the south! Meanwhile, he watched over his shoulder for what the thinning smoke and reek of the burning town would reveal.

Ah! Sure enough, there was the Metz fleet! The five warships, looking more than ever like turtles or even the roofs of barns come adrift, were slowly steaming back to the east in his direction, firing as steadily as ever. If the offshore breeze obscured their targets, they gave no sign of it. Gaps in the smoke probably afforded them all the aiming points they needed. Farther out, the armada of sailing craft still moved sluggishly under light sail, waiting for a signal to close in. The offshore breeze held steady over the brown water.

Hiero rested on his oars and stared as hard as he could to the east, using his mind at its utmost, as well as his eyes. Was there something there? On the edge of his mind, that something came, then went, then came again and steadied. It was like a cloud, a moving shroud in his mind. He could detect no thoughts, nor did he need to do so. Once before, on the far side of the Inland Sea, he had felt this sensation. Ships were coming from the east, faster than anything driven by either sail or the engines of the new vessels of his country. The secret ships of the enemy were coming to the rescue of Neeyana, summoned by the devices of the Masters of the Unclean. The lightning guns were going to be opposed to the crude armor of the Metz warships.

Hiero had no hope in his own mind as to which would be the victor. The Metz ships were powerful and had taken Neeyana by surprise. But he did not for one moment think his people could stand up against the forces of the Unclean ships. That Abbot Demero and the Abbey Council were the source of the new war fleet, he never doubted. But he felt that, in the short time the Abbeys had had at their disposal, they could hardly have matched the strength and speed of the Unclean warships. Wonderful as it was to see a Metz battle squadron, those crude floating forts would be horribly outclassed by what was speeding from the east!

M'reen,
he sent in haste,
get ready with your preparations. Hurry! The enemy comes! We must all lie down so that this craft appears empty. If our foes see nothing but a drifting skiff, they may pass before us to attack our friends.

It was B'uorgh who answered.
She is working. And I can see our enemy. How fast they come!

Hiero could see them now himself, two dots rushing at tremendous speed from down the coast to the east, growing larger by the minute. He almost wrung his hands. If only he could break the mental shield of his friends and tell them what was going on! He ducked below the gunwale with the others and tried to free his mind from worry. At the same time, he felt a sudden wave of fear come over him and secretly rejoiced. For M'reen's bag of hide was open and her hands were stirring, mixing, and blending. The fear was coming
back
from her, ignored by the cat people but acting on his human body chemistry! The Wind of Death was churning and drifting out over the open sea to their front. The veils of smoke from the burning port had something far more lethal than a throat irritant mixed in with their dark shroud.

Hiero stole a look to the west, then ducked back hastily. So far all was well. The Abbey fleet had formed a line well down the coast and was preparing to receive the Unclean forces. The ships were no longer firing at the town, and the sailing vessels had moved even farther down in order to take shelter behind them.

They come,
B'uorgh sent.
Now we will see.

Hiero shut his eyes and began to pray. He had done all he could, and only God could help now. Perhaps the Unclean wizards had learned long in the past how to nullify this awful weapon, back in the days when the catfolk had broken free and fled from their bondage of torture and enslavement.

As he prayed silently, he heard the sound he had been waiting for and dreading, the hissing crackle of the enemy weapon which had once struck him down—the lightning gun! Was it aimed at their little vessel? One blast could incinerate them in seconds. He could no longer restrain himself and peered over the side of the boat. So did the others, and all five beings watched the panorama of a sea battle in silent awe.

The Unclean ships, sharp-prowed and slender, had no tactics for pitched battle on anything like an equal basis. They had never had to learn any, since their mysterious craft so far outclassed any possible foe. As a result, they simply charged at the Metz fleet, bows on, the weapons on their foredecks firing as fast as they could. The two ships were quite close to each other, as if racing to be first for what they thought was the inevitable kill. They apparently never even noticed the drifting boat which floated on the oily sea a quarter of a mile to their south and well out of their path. And they were scoring hits. As the Metz priest had feared, the strange weapon on their bows, which somehow fired sheets of static electricity, outranged the crude cannon of the Metz fleet. Already one of the clumsy vessels was smoking from a great rent in its sloping hull, although it held its line along with the other four. None of the Abbey ships were firing now, and Hiero knew they were holding back until their outranged weapons could bear. He prayed again for the miracle he had tried so hard to conjure up, his eyes smarting both from the smoke and with unshed tears for the discipline that held his countrymen in their silent line.