Ice and Shadow (45 page)

“Well journeyed,” Zurzal had the translator at ready. “What does the Axe desire of this company?”

For a moment or so after he came to a halt the priest merely puffed as if he had made the trip across camp at some labor.

“Strangers, Rou frowns upon your travels.”

“How so?”

“The season is late, we move too slowly, there is no entering the Shattered Land after the Wild Winds rise.”

“Our pace is one set by you and your people, Axe of Rou. Can it be that Rou now requires that we prove ourselves by finding a faster way to satisfy
His
bidding in this matter?”

“There is one.” The priest paused as if he were undecided about this, as if he were being forced against his will to come to a decision he distrusted. “The Skrem know another path. This is I’On.” He indicated the strange native. There was little to be seen in the way of features on that one’s face. The helmet (or the outgrowth of natural skull) reached forward in a visor shape which fully shadowed the eyes. Below those half-hidden pits the face narrowed to a sharp point of chin, the nose joined to that in a beaklike extension.

I’On made no move nor sound to acknowledge the introduction. Instead he stepped ahead of the priest to stand directly before the Zacathan, his head moving slowly up and then down, as if he measured the much taller lizard man from head to foot and back again.

Zurzal could not speak any greeting since the other’s speech had not been picked up to be read by the translator.

From the Zacathan, the Skrem turned to Jofre, favored him with the same scrutiny, passed on to Taynad, and last of all shot his head a little forward as if to get a better look at the Jat, which had squeaked and withdrawn nearly behind the girl.

Having submitted them all to some form of his own measurement, the Skrem returned to the Zacathan.

What issued from the beak mouth was a chittering sound not unlike that Jofre had heard the hive man give back on Wayright.

“Why hunt you ghosts?” sputtered the translator.

“To learn,” Zurzal returned briefly.

“To learn what?”

“The ways of the past.”

“Those of the silences are eaters of men. Would you fill their pots joyfully?”

“I would learn of them—”

“There are always fools in the world.” The contempt of that pushed even through the translator. “Well, what have you to offer, fool, to be taken to meet the results of your folly?”

“What do you ask, I’On?”

The Skrem did not answer at once. Rather he turned his head slowly as if to inspect all the pile of their belongings. Then of a sudden, so suddenly, that it brought Jofre to a crouch and ready to defend himself, he turned to the guard.

“This one goes also?”

“He goes,” Zurzal assured him.

“He will have a service to offer—when the time is ready. Let him be also ready.”

“What service?”

“It shall reveal itself. So be it. The Shattered Land shall be a gate opened to you, fools. We shall claim our price when it is right. Be ready to move out at first light.”

He turned and left them, brushing past the Deves and leaving the priest to stare after him before the Axe looked, his big eyes a little narrowed, at the Zacathan, and on to Jofre.

“What does he mean? What service can such as you offer the drifting ones?”

“You heard, Axe, what we heard. It would seem that we have now an open-ended bargain. But it will have to suffice.”

For a moment it seemed as if the priest was going to protest further and then he turned away, but not before he shot another look at Jofre which was both speculative and unpleasant.

“Why me?” Jofre actually voiced that question when they were alone again.

He heard Taynad laugh. “Did he not speak of ghosts who want man flesh for their pots? Perhaps he would herd a particularly toothsome dish in their direction. But I think—Learned One,” she said slowly, “that Skrem—he has a strong inner sense—he sought. Us he could not touch—but the little one,” she stooped and gathered up the trembling Jat, holding its body close, “it knew and feared. I think that we had best be doubly on guard.”

“As if we can be anything else,” Zurzal returned. “This is indeed perhaps folly, yet I cannot—I cannot stray from what I would do here!”

CHAPTER 27

WHAT I’ON HAD TO OFFER
on his part they learned the next morning. Though the caravan moved on its way, the off-worlders remained with the Skrem. Two of the Deves also relinquished their traveling swings, though the Axe had gone with the others. It was apparent that the priest fully intended to have his own sources of information—or control—accompanying the Zacathan’s party.

The stamping march of the bearers was well away from the overnight campsite when the Skrem went to work. He scrabbled in the mosscarpet some distance away from the trampled ground and came up with three rods which he fitted together—much like the tripod on which the scanner rested. But what was then affixed on top was a round of what appeared to be crystal, backed with an interweaving of the same material as the rods.

As the off-worlders remained by the pile of their gear, the Skrem affixed the platter to the tripod and wriggled it back and forth. Jofre recognized something from the Lair days—their mountain sentries had used burnished mirrors for the flashing of messages overland. This must be a similar form of communication.

Swiftly the Skrem tilted his signal back and forth. Then from the northeast there came a flicker of light in return. Methodically the Skrem set about dismantling the apparatus and then reburied it, pulling the moss back over it,

How long must they wait? Taynad leaned back against a box of supplies. It seemed to her now that her wits certainly must have been astray when she had joined up with this muddle-headed Zacathan. Jofre was oathed to him, she was not—save by word alone. The mission to Tssek had been her first big one and it had fallen apart through no fault of her own. She had been given those orders—why did she continue to question them this way? She could only return in thought to those moments when she, Jofre, and Yan had been one—as if at that time there had been forged something as strong as a blood oath. It was almost as if her own will had been weakened, that she had been drawn along as one sometimes was in ill dreams when one struggled against an invisible threatening power.

“Power—strong—big—” She had a mind vision of a fire raging up into the sky, heat which was not from any sun, even one as hot as this one. Yan crouched against her. The Jat’s paw hand rested over her hand and its large eyes were turned up to view her face. “Power—” Yes, that had sprung from Yan’s thinking, not her own. She shot a glance in Jofre’s direction.

He was watching the actions of the Skrem with complete absorption as if he expected some trouble to burst from a gesture or action on the part of the alien. No, Jofre must not have been touched by that half-message.

Taynad closed her hand gently about the Jat’s. “Power?” She struggled to give all the strength she could to make that word a question.

What she received in return did not altogether surprise her. A wavering, oddly slanted face flashed into her mind—Jofre—as Yan must see him.

“Power?” she asked again in thought.

Flames—shooting flames bursting outward as if a dozen lasers were firing at a single target. She instinctively cringed. Yan was very sure.

The flames were, of course, merely a picturing of punishing force, of that she was certain. The guard could have not smuggled in any weapon that would reveal itself so. In fact she was very sure that she knew exactly the number and style of every piece of armament he had hidden about his person.

There were tales that the Shagga could produce strange effects—bemuse minds—make one see what was not there—even as the issha could protect themselves for short periods of time. But Jofre was not Shagga—to them he was the enemy who must be erased—one way or another.

Why did they want him prisoner, that was a small puzzle—better dead—off-world dead where he would be no problem. Why prisoner—and only dead at the last resort as the instructions passed to her? Or—her thought took another small leap—were those twigs and their messages counterfeit? The Guild was supposed to possess infinite knowledge. She knew that Zarn had been charged with certain delicate negotiations with the Guild. Suppose it was the Guild who wanted Jofre—alive—or dead by her hand?

Her eyes lowered to that hand curved to comfort the Jat. Shadow did not slay Shadow. She must have better reason—Which came back to—

The Jat squirmed closer to her. Another mind picture—blurred—so distorted she could make nothing of it. Except that she was certain that it was an object—something which Jofre owned, or controlled, or—

“They are coming!” Zurzal was on his feet, looking out over the tundra in the direction which that flash had marked. There was certainly movement there and at a speed far transcending the plod of the bearers. As they plowed on through the moss the new party revealed themselves, however, as grotesquely alien to the off-worlders as U-Ky and his caravaners had been.

There were four mounted figures, each leading a line of four-footed creatures but apparently by no lines or reins, the mounts being followed without urging by six of their own kind, in a line behind each of the riders.

They were of the same musty yellow as the tundra, their legs long and thin, their bodies apparently hairless and also nearly skeleton-slender. They held their heads on a straight line with their bodies as they came, and the muzzles ended in sharp points. Those heads were small in proportion to a spread of horns, bending sharply backward, which were flat and shovellike in appearance.

As the runners came pounding up to the deserted campsite Jofre saw that their feet were long and narrow, the fore ones sprouting claws which apparently were not retractable. The Skrem who brought them rode well forward on those slim backs, their hands gripping the edges of the shovel horns.

In height they were close to the size of a small horse such as Jofre had seen used for pleasure riding on Wayright, and on the backs of those without riders there were weavings of odd-looking harness. But there were no saddles; apparently one was to perch like the Skrem, hold on to the horns, and hope for the best.

The Skrem made no move to aid in the loading of the extra mounts, gathering in a knot around I’On and chittering loudly. Fortunately the animals they had brought did not seem to resent the actions of the three in dividing up their gear and stowing it into the baggage nets. Jofre wondered if what they had to haul would not be too heavy a load but the creatures, except for a grunt or two, made no complaint.

At length it was time for they themselves to scramble up, finding that their seats on those ridge-boned backs were not comfortable—but, as with the swings, had to be endured. The riders were back in place, and I’On mounted behind one of those. At some signal the off-worlders did not catch the party wheeled in parade order and headed out, northeast, in the same style as they had arrived, lining up behind the four leaders.

It was a rough jolting, and the hold on the creatures’ horns did little to steady one. But at least they went at a good speed and the animals, ridden or laden, apparently were ready to keep to that pace. Within a short time there loomed before them a rise in the land like a wall. The grey stones of it pierced the moss. The Deves, who had done nothing to help with the luggage, and both bestrode one of the animals, uttered a call which blended both of their voices. This was the Var, a natural walling as far as the Lochanians knew, separating the plains from the highlands. It was also a cut across which a bridge had been strung—an exceedingly fragile-looking bridge—by the approaches to which there were both maned men and Deves stationed. However, at the sight of the two Deves with the Skrem party these fell back and the first of the riders was out on the bridge.

At least here their mounts slowed to a walk and ventured out on the swinging support at well separated intervals, so there was a wait on the far side for their party to again assemble. Also here their path led through gullies and there were rising hills. The vegetation changed to a sharp degree. The yellow moss of the tundra was gone. Here were skeleton-thin, branched shrubs, around the roots of which clustered patches of indigo blue, an eye-aching green, and a bloody red growth which put forth bristles, not unlike thorns, and attracted a great many flying things.

Back and forth they wove through these gullies, sometimes seeming even to turn completely around. Ahead, against the sky, there was a rise of taller hills, mountains. As on the tundra Jofre could distinguish no path or road, or even markings, yet their leader did not falter and those who followed showed no lack of confidence in him.

Once in such a land, Jofre thought, how did one win free again? And from what little they had been able to gather the Shattered Land was even more chaotic.

They came to a halt at last, the off-worlders bone-shaken. Zurzal, because of his greater height, must have found it even a tougher ordeal, though he made no complaint. Here was a spring where water rippled through a crevice in the rocks and threaded down into a pool, which in turn fed a stream. There were gauzy winged things dancing over the water, prismatic colors glinting off their wings as if those were formed of fine lace set with tiny jewels.

That rider who had shared his perch with I’On did not dismount as all the rest swung down. Once the other mounts were free they clustered around that leader which ambled at a much slower pace down the stream, leaving the rest of the party behind. The Skrem paid no attention to the off-worlders, rather gathered in a group about I’On, producing bags in which they rummaged to bring forth what looked like handfuls of dried grass. Two of their number went on hands and knees to the stream side and busied themselves flipping over the water-moistened rocks, now and then scooping up what looked like a pallid wriggling grub which they tossed over their shoulders, their finds eagerly pounced upon by their fellows. It would seem that this was a time to eat.

Jofre had had enough training in living off the countryside on Asborgan to have tasted—without any pleasure but most stoically—insects and rough gathered herbs. But he was glad that for now they had their own trail rations.

The mounts were being watered downstream and then turned to foraging on the most purplish of the bristle growth, chewing it vigorously until dark, slimy juice dribbled from their jaws. With a compressed meat biscuit in one hand Zurzal produced with the foreshortened other a square of nearly transparent stuff which had been folded into very tight compress but shook out into a wide strip which Jofre identified as that mapping of the ways on which the Zacathan had worked many hours from time to time ever since he had obtained from the dying spacer the coordinates the other had brought back from his ordeal on Lochan. But that Zurzal could make any sense of what was marked there was a wonder to the guard. This up-and-down land might present landmarks by the thousands to the educated eye, but those would exist for a native, and he doubted whether the spacer had been in a position to sight many.

The Zacathan’s head came up and he was staring now at the north line of heights, which were like broken teeth gnawing at the sky. They seemed to be paralleling that line rather than heading directly towards it. But was it the boundary of the Shattered Land? Jofre was sure that even Zurzal could not tell.

He got to his feet and walked up and down, to stretch muscles, battling the various aches and pains their riding had produced. His inner thighs felt raw, chafed by the constant pressure he had had to keep to hold his place. But if it were so for him, what had it been for Taynad?

The girl sat with her back to a lichen-crusted stone. Her eyes were closed and there was that masklike quietude in her face which he could understand. One hand, holding a barely nibbled journey square, lay laxly across her knee and the other rested on Yan’s head.

“Eat!” Jofre moved to stand so that his shadow fell across her and hid her from the rest of their company. “Without food, strength goes.” Even in his own ears his voice sounded rough and he must rouse her into seeking inner strength, for there could be no falling behind. He did not believe that the Skrem would in any way suit their form of travel to those in their company. While any Sister to Shadows had to be issha-tough, her own training had differed in places from his—and he did not know, could not judge how much. Why had she agreed to Zurzal’s offer? So far her communication skills had not been put to any testing. He stood in hesitation—there was a wish to somehow lend her strength now as he had when she had brought the Jat out of its catatonic seizure, yet he was at a loss how to do that. He knew very little of women—that was a subject on which none of the Masters ever dwelt, and before a boy gained puberty he was drilled and disciplined into control over the body’s desires.

An issha who had well served on the missions, proved himself worthy to have his bloodline carried on, could be assigned to a mating by selection. Then he passed into another category of fighter, became a trainer, or an advisor. But otherwise women played no part in his life.

It had been growing on him that there was indeed a difference between them, issha-trained though they were. She would have been as disciplined to meet him as a battle comrade only had they been on a double oathing. As a Jewelbright she was a warrior of an entirely different breed. He felt rough-handed, as unskilled as a boy at his first mustering in the arms court.

However, he slipped down beside her now. The Jat stirred and looked at him. Reaching across the girl, who had not moved, Yan caught at Jofre’s hand, keeping its own grip also on Taynad.

Heat, first a warmth and then a flame against his ribs. The stone from Qaw-en-itter—he knew it too well now to doubt that it was so making known its presence. Power? Jofre’s free hand slipped inside his girdle, his fingers closed on that source of warmth.

Power—strength—his thought fastened on that. Flow of strength—he fought to draw upon it even as he had in the battle to win the Jat. And it was coming—up his arm—across his body—into that other hand—the paw which held him in such a grip. And beyond—though he could not trace it any further than Yan, he was sure that the Jat was channeling it into Taynad.

Her eyes opened and focused on him. There was the faintest trace of a frown troubling the mask of her face.