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Dare to Go A-Hunting by Andre Norton
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Chapter One
===========

It was warm, too warm for one of the room's inhabitants. However, it was
probably discourteous to remark upon the heat though a round drop of
sweat gathered just below one of his slightly slanted eyes to trickle
down his cheek. There was a small rustle when he shifted position on the
uncushioned stool which supported him an uncomfortable height from a
floor of tiles matched in brilliant color to form patterns which he
could only glance at or it made his eyes ache. That his host not only
accepted all this as natural, but took comfort in it was one of those
irritating situations which had filled Farree's life for some time.

He had seen aliens a-plenty during his bad time in that sleazy portside
district, the Limits, which formed his earliest memories. However, such
strangers in their own homes were something he was now only being
introduced to by the full swing of fate's finger crystal.

"Hot" Togger's thought, always pitched so high that his own sense could
hardly understand, came testily. Farree's jerkin heaved and wrinkled as
the smux crawled out into the open to gaze up into his face with stalked
eyes.

"Soooo--it is hot, little one?" Not a thought this time but words
uttered with a hissing intonation. At a goodly distance down the room a
third inhabitant arose, the extended talons on his webbed and scaled
feet scraping across the stone pattern on the floor. "Courtesy is all
very well, my little friends, but allow me also the privilege of
displaying it." A yellow scaled arm, banded at both wrist and above the
elbow with well-worn cuffs of an iron-hard wood, reached out to the wall
and flipped a switch.

There was no sound of any winds, yet there blew across the room now a
swift breeze, tepidly warm to be sure, but at least better than the slow
baking heat it disturbed. He who had summoned that now came threading a
path between small tables and large--all piled with learning tapes and
scan plates in boxes. Farree gave a, he hoped, concealed sigh of relief.
Those folds draped across his shoulders, extending down his back so that
their edges swept the floor, rose in turn. He did not flourish the wings
in full display--he needed more room for that--but at least he could
give them a stretch.

The tall old alien watched Farree almost eagerly. He had swept a whole
cascade of scan plate boxes to the floor and seated himself with a
little grunt and some rubbing of one scaled and plated knee.

Then he leaned forward, setting the palms of his hands on both knees.
Farree did not know how long Zacanthans continued to inherit this plane
of existence (which was how they referred to life and death) but he was
sure that Grand Hist-Technneer Zoror was indeed a long-time master of
that skill which, as with all his species, centered upon the collection
of information about oddities in a well-spread galaxy-- especially the
history of such new races as were introduced from time to time into the
records of exploration. They were indeed long-lived, these lizardlike
people, but even the oldest of them often asserted that he was only
beginning his labors.

"Soooo--" Once more Zoror made a hissing of the word. "You wish now that
this old man of scales would come directly to the point and tell you
what you are and from whence you have come." The Zacanthan nodded so
that the pleated frill of skin which lay about the back of his head and
shoulders unfolded into a fan like some large ornamental collar.

"It is not easy, you know," Zoror continued. "We cannot walk to the
records and say 'Tell me who is this winged one? From what earth and
people did he spring?' These," he again flung out an arm to gesture at
the unwieldy piles of tapes and spools fencing them both in, "these are
records of voyages, many, many voyages, also contributed by men who tell
strange tales, sometimes merely out of their own imagination, but other
times bearing a truth which--if the Ever Mighty is helpful--can be
traced about this far!" He held up a hand to display a thumb and
forefinger with a space between them maybe as big as one of Togger's
second claws.

"There--there was nothing then?" Farree had curbed his patience all
morning, ever since all he could remember had been fed into the read-all
of the big computer. His scant store of information had been recorded to
match mixtures of still dubious details.

"No, I do not say that. There are stories of such as you. Those come
from the bards of Loel, the Rememberers of Garth, the Dance-think of
Udolf. Stories, mind you, garnered on more than a hundred planets.
But--it remains that they are stories without concrete proof. Those who
retell them gather details on this world or that. But the strongest of
all--those come from Terra--"

"Terra? But that is but a tale, too." Farree did not try to hide his
disappointment.

"Not so--" Zoror's neck frill fluttered as he shook his head. "However,
there is something common to all the worlds from which the clearest and
most detailed of these stories come. Those were the planets first
colonized by people from Terra. Yes, most certainly there was a Terra.
It bred several races, in all of which there was one abiding gift, that
of curiosity. Terrans were not the first explorers of the space dark,
yet they spread farther in leas time than many of those who came before.
And with them they brought, as we all do, tales which were old and yet
part of their lives."

Farree's face creased in a frown. Zoror, for all his learning, was apt
to tell stories, too. Ordinarily Farree would have listened with
interest. However, what he wanted now was truths, even if they afforded
only a very thin thread to trace. "These from Terra--they were certainly
not like me." He put up a hand to touch the edge of one wing.

"No. They were not Farree's--" Zoror assured him. "Only stories of such
they did carry. In their tales--much of this was researched and put
together by Zahaj in a mist of years ago--in their tales they spoke of
'Little People', which lived sometimes underground--"

Farree unfolded his wings another fraction. "With these they could not!"
he countered.

"True, true. But there were different species or races of them. Some
were wingless according to the tales. They all had a strange
relationship with the men of Terra. Sometimes they were good friends,
again they were blood enemies. It is said that they often stole the
children of men and raised them, to renew and enrich their own blood.
For they were very old so at times their race dwindled until only a
handful of them remained. They were supposed to have great treasures--
perhaps even records!" Zoror's voice soared high. "Only there always
came a time when the men drove them from their homes--perhaps not
wantonly (though there are legends about such deeds as that also) but
because they held land men wanted. And all know the stories of the
ever-living greed of Terra which spread like a mist-dark cloud wherever
their ships touched, until there came the Great Reckoning.

"Before that these winged and unwinged ones fled along the star roads
not knowing where they might land. They found worlds to settle for a
space. But always the same such worlds drew the Terrans. They would come
so that the Little People must once more take to space. This has
happened many times over, judging by legends we have recorded. However,
at last there were no more reports of them, only what remained in songs
and stories."

"Did they war with the Terrans then?" Farree's mouth was dry. He must
have squeezed Togger too hard for the smux twisted about and gave a
warning nip to a finger.

"There was a war, yes, though we hear little of that-- mainly a ballad
over some Terran killed by the evil magic of the Little People.. From
Udolf, for example, there comes a whole set of dance songs lamenting
some leaders who died from weapons known to the Little People alone.
They must have practiced also some form of mind control, for they would
keep men within their hold for what seemed a day or a year and then let
their captives go, for them to discover that they had really been gone
from their homes for a matter of years. There is also the Mingra report.
Come and see for yourself."

Farree followed the Zacanthan to the larger table where there were even
more piles of tapes balanced perilously. Zoror began to clear these
away, piling them on the floor. Farree stooped quickly to help him,
folding his wings tight again lest he cause some disaster.

"This is old, too, by the reckoning of most." The Hist-Technneer was
fussing with a reader, making sure the machine was in proper position.

"Mingra?" That was a word Farree had never heard before.

"The darkened world--the world of the dead-alive--" Zoror was more
intent on the disc he was fitting into the reader than he was to any
question. "Now this"--he gave the roll a last turn, slipping it into
place--"was the Shame of Mingra, the Shame of all who are space
travelers--though perhaps it has so faded during the years that it is
only alive as a poisonous whisper by now. Watch with care--for into it
has gone the hate of one species for another and yet there is nothing to
explain--"

His voice died away in a final hiss. Farree obediently looked at the
small screen. Togger moved impatiently in his grasp until he placed the
smux down carefully on the table before the screen. Togger drew himself
into a ball and perhaps went to sleep. For Farree there was no sleep. He
had seen plenty, since his arrival at Zoror's home which was also
headquarters for a whole quadrant of researchers, of such records. Some
had been so wildly fantastic that he had been sure they were indeed
travelers' tall tales and not any true garnering of knowledge,

A picture formed on the screen. Farree jerked, half arose from his seat.
For there was not only an ominous picture of a sphere, half lit at one
edge by a red beam. But in his head--

He could not say it was a song, he could not even distinguish what must
be wholly alien words. Yet deep into him had struck the thought-feeling
that this held a truth which was evil and powerful. Gripping the edge of
the table he made himself sit again but he did not loose his sustaining
hold.

"Hurt--dark--hurt--" The smux had unrolled from his sleep ball and
crouched before the screen, waving his great claws back and forth as if
he were facing some dire danger.

That thread of sound swelled and, as if it called for sight, the red
light on the screen blazed higher to display a barren stretch of riven
rocks which were eroded, or perhaps storm-clawed, into ridges and
plateaus. Shadows still clung to the feet of those outcrops and these
dark wisps moved as if thrown by some source other than the rocks
against which they sulked.

There was fear--a fear which arose and strengthened-- which began to
twist within Farree. A pile of reading rolls crashed to the floor as his
wings answered to the unconscious stimulus.

With the speed of a laser shot a head flashed into the bloody light. It
was the epitome of all evil Farree had ever known. It clashed
broken-toothed jaws together, and eyes like pits with a fire deep held
stared straight at him.

It knew, it hated, it was coming from him! And it was--

"Boogy--" The hissing of Zoror broke that fearful hold which the
screened creature had half woven about Farree-- either to draw him into
its place or to burst forth from the screen--how could it? This was
unlike any reading roll he had seen. From whose mind had this horror
been shifted for future study--and where--when--?

"This was a collective nightmare," Zoror said. Farree heard him but more
than half of his own attention was still centered on that thing. It had
emerged from the shadow now. The mist lay shrunken behind as if its
substance had been stolen to give the creeper more reality. Creep the
creature did. Stunted limbs supported it--no, not limbs but rather thick
tentacles; and Farree believed that he could actually hear the sound of
suckers being pulled loose from the rock to be set again as it advanced.

Nightmare? This was more alive than any nightmare. Enough to bring death
if it struck through sleep.

"Which it did," the Zacanthan said. "Look to the rocks at the right, my
little friend."

Farree felt that if he withdrew his attention from the crawler he would
leave an opening for attack, even if this was a read-roll. However, he
gave a quick glance in the direction the Zacanthan suggested.

There was no shadow at the foot of this standing stone; rather it was
crowned with such. The form was humanoid and--Farree sucked in a breath
and swallowed a cry. For it was a winged one standing there, and he knew
without being told that this one controlled the creeper, was sending it
at some prey, not to slay--at least not at first--but to torment with
fear. A winged one. He gave it full attention now. Its flesh, shown in
limb and arm and face, was a dirty grey. The eyes, like those of the
thing it commanded, were red and burning. About its body was tight
clothing, also of a red to match the ever-lightening sky. Those wings
which lazily fanned the air were not like Farree's, broad and colored,
with one hue melting into another, so that full-spread the pinions were
things of soft beauty. No, this leader of merciless shadows had wings
which lacked the feathery down which covered Farree's. Instead they were
the same foul greyish shade as the skin. Spread out they displayed
perilous-appearing hooks at the top.

"Winged--" Farree half whispered. To the fear which still coiled within
him was added now true horror. Was this what could claim him as kin--in
spite of Zoror's talk about true tales and false? Somehow he knew that
this _was_ a true tale--

"Only to two." Zoror picked up his thought, and, for the first time
since he had discovered his gift because he could communicate with smux,
Farree resented that this was so.

"Two," Zoror leaned over and one of his well-smoothed finger claws
touched a control which sent the screen dead again. Yet when Farree
looked at it, he could still see that abomination winged and aloft on
the rock waving forward the horror born of shadows.

"The two," the Zacanthan was proceeding, "being he who dreamed and he,
or perhaps it, who sent such a dream! This was taken from the dream
sleep of a small child, one of the many who were brought for treatment
from Mingra to Yorum well over a hundred planet years ago. Five only of
those little ones survived. The rest--nightmares such as you have just
seen pursued them, until some died of fear alone and some then retreated
so far from the outer world in their terror that none could reach within
where they cowered. Thus they became the lost which we could not help."

"But you speak of shame--" countered Farree. He had seen what could be
unending fear perhaps, but there was no shame that he could understand.
Any child, yes, and fully grown adult, too, would have no shame for such
fear.

"There was on Mingra a colony of dream-sleepers and they were learning
how to control their dreams," Zoror explained. "When they were called
upon to help, when children howled and screamed in their sleep--they
fled and refused any aid. Those who dream-sleep hover always on the thin
line of what most men call madness. They have been known to strike out
in their sleep, even take up weapons in their hands, to the hurt of any
who may be with them. Thus they are sent into wilderness until they
learn to control their powers. If this dream recording you have seen
worked upon you, think what it might have done to one who was drilled to
be sensitive to such encounters? It was not only themselves that the
dream-sleepers sought to protect. However, men and women who had seen
their children rave in their sleep, a sleep from which there seemed to
be no waking, no matter how the medical officers of that colony tried to
rouse them--such are not always answerable for red terror which they
wreak on their own. There was a wild descent upon the colony of the
sleepers. They were taken and given to pain of many kinds when they said
they could not awaken nor help the children. They died, not quickly or
easily. It was a ship of the Patrol on a regular duty that landed on a
planet where hands were bloody and more than one mind could no longer
bear the burden of remembering what had happened. The children who had
survived that long, and that were very few of those, were brought to
Yorum and there healers of the mind wrought ceaselessly to banish the
boogyman--"

"The boogyman," repeated Farree.

"That is the name they screamed out of their sleep. However, it was a
name which was already very old--another bit of Old Terra come to the
stars. For the boogyman was an old creation designed to frighten
children into good behavior. And we discovered that some tales of such
had been told on Mingra where they were deemed harmless and amusing."

"Harmless? Amusing?" Farree sputtered. "But that was a scene of evil!
What child could build such a dream? Unless his race was one of swift
punishment and violent tempers?"

"Which they were not--until the plague drove them into such action," the
Zacanthan replied. "Nor were any of the dream-sleepers so unstable that
they played thus with their own gift. As you must have heard, those who
dream-sleep are under vows which are set in their very innermost spirits
so that their work can draw no ill upon anyone. However, all the
children we were able to draw dream pictures from were caught in the
same general horror. And you did not see the worst of this, my small
friend. There are some dream pictures locked in stasis since only the
very steady and exceptionally well stabilized dare look at them. To
dream alike is possible-- the dream-sleepers have brought that to a high
art. Those who are trained almost from birth can serve for communication
even between worlds.

"Therefore if the children were all haunted by the same dream then that
dream had a pattern. The Patrol, my own staff, others with one power and
another, strove to find the source of this common dream but to no avail.
What we did discover was that through that section of the galaxy,
comprising some five solar systems, there was uneasiness, there had been
riots, even small wars fought. Also there was a rumor which will have
meaning to you--the enemy sought was a winged race. Yet no man had
actually seen any such, though our net of inquiry was far spread and
touched some sources which were usually closed to authority--the
Thieves' Guild for example.

"But the outbreak on Mingra appeared to be the end. There were no more
nightmares, even though volunteers of trained tenth class dreamers
offered their services to the search. Then the Patrol and the
authorities said that the whole thing was doubtless started by either
some mischief (those who said that had to lie away the very evidence
before their eyes) or by a tendency to sensitiveness which was awakened
by the old tales. It was then that authority set upon the settlers the
brand of Shame for the massacre of the dream-sleepers, and all was to be
left alone, with no more time or trouble about the outbreak which, after
all, was a very small happening compared to the violence which is ever
snapping at the heels of sanity in all inhabited worlds."

"Then the dream--they never believed it was true?" Farree asked.

Zoror rubbed two talons across his chin just above his first throat
wattle. "Oh, they believed. And for a while they had their eyes and ears
wide. Many of these," he gestured again to the read-rolls, "are their
reports. That is why we have easy access to the material now and it is
not buried in some storehouse. We add a fact or suspicion now and
then--always stories, many of which match one another. The Little Men--
the People of the Hills--"

Farree stiffened. People--of--of--the Hills!

"You have heard that before, have you?" questioned the Zacanthan.

Farree rubbed his hand across his forehead as if he could pluck out some
very deeply buried memory. Back--back-- He was in the sleazy, tent-board
place curled up on the pile of mouldering reeds which was his only bed.
And the man who owned him sat at a flimsy table, a-twirling between his
filthy hands a broken-handled mug which still contained a mouthful or
two of the ill-smelling drink he had been gulping. Lanti raised his head
to look at Farree and there was promise in his scowl which the boy knew
well. It would please the hulking outcast in a few breaths of time to
summon Farree forward and beat him well; most of that storm of blows
would fall on his hunched back. He could remember that right enough--
but what lay before that tent-hut and his miserable captivity was gone.

"Yes." Zoror nodded. "Somehow, sometime, you were brain-erased. Yet when
I mention one name given to the People in the past, you seem to know--"

Farree shook his head. "I can't remember. But--I have heard that
name--surely I have heard it! Only in the Limits where all manner of
spacers come and go, one hears scraps of many tales, or boastings of
ventures."

"Still"--Zoror looked at him kindly--"that is one of the lesser-known
names of these people who, it is true, might never have been. Well, it
remains, Farree, that I must give you a warning. Maelen and Krip brought
you here at night, traveling by air car. Very few must have seen you and
it is true you can fold these"--he pointed to the wings--"amazingly
small. At a distance in a subdued light they might be taken for a
hunched-up cloak. However, by day there would be plenty sharp-eyed
enough to note a difference. And--boy, you are not safe!"

"The Guild?" It was true that he had done enough to break up one plot of
those masters of menace. But was he high enough among their lists of
enemies to draw their attention? If so--

He frowned. Maelen and Krip Vorlund were his friends. It was by their
efforts he had won out of the misery of the Limits. It was with them and
working in their service that the wonder had happened to him--his wings
had displayed themselves for the first time. If he were so noticeable,
then staying with the two who meant so much to him might bring them into
danger in turn.

"No." It was plain Zoror had followed his thoughts. Farree had made no
attempt to shield them, he was so absorbed in what might be an unhappy
discovery. "It is true that the Guild have no reason to cheer any of
you." There was a rattle of a chuckle from the throat of the Zacanthan.
"Much trouble you caused them, you three, as well as putting them to a
form of shame should the story get around. But I believe you are all
discreet enough not to talk about what was done. Rather you look forward
to what lies next. However, among the many other noisome activities of
the Guild is a form of slavery which they indulge in whenever chance
offers. They have a list of clients (many of whom could buy this whole
planet for their pleasure) who desire to own novelties. You are
certainly one such and would bring a very high price on certain pleasure
worlds. Then the Guild have their source of information which may not
equal ours but is clearer than, say, the information tapes studied by
the Patrol. It is quite possible that they have news about the Little
People--especially since the Shame of Mingra. One of the often-mentioned
tasks of that winged race, according to legend, was the amassing and
guarding of treasure. Just suppose the Guild would take it to mind that
you were of that mystery race and that you could lead them to a
treasure-- Ah, I see you understand me. So it is largely for your own
sake that I ask you to take precautions against being seen."

Farree's head jerked on his shoulders. He almost stumbled over the stool
from which he had just arisen. Zoror's words might be the humming of
insects, for Farree's head was now held high, his nostrils were
distended to their limit as he drew in a great breath of air. It had
smelled musty, of dust and time in this chamber. Now there came another
scent in a wave. Just as fear had caught him when he had watched that
horror on the read-roll, so now did he welcome this--fragrance. It
filled his lungs, sent him stumbling towards the door. All the flowers
he had ever known--the spice of bushes--the keeness of water in a dry
land. He dodged about a table and his wings raised and opened. Air--he
must fly--

Chapter Two
===========

The barrier winked out and there stood Maelen and Krip. But where was
the other? Not hidden behind the two, for Farree would have still seen
the edge or tips of wings. He knew--

Where was she!

"For whom do you search, little brother?" asked Krip. There was a shade
of concern in his voice as he studied Farree.

"The one--the gracious one--she who flies in beauty! Where is she, my
brother, my sister! Have you hidden her?" He suddenly recalled the
warning Zoror had given him only moments earner. "On the ship? Surely
she is not of Gragal! For they have not seen our like
before--he"--Farree signaled with a finger--"has told me so."

He wanted to shout--to sing--to fly triumphantly up and up--to meet her
above in the clouds where their own road ran. Yet there were no smiles
on the faces of his friends. Rather Maelen's thought reached into him,
dampening the excitement that filled him.

"There is no one with us--nor at the ship, little brother. Why do you
think--?"

Farree reached her, his hands outstretched, then a chill extinguished
all the sudden joy he had known for the first time in his hard and
barren life. The scent--no, he could not mistake that! And it came
from--

His hand shot out and he grabbed from Maelen's hold, something wrapped
in a sheet of luxwool such as was used to protect some fragile ware
after purchase. The sheet flipped apart, letting him see something which
shimmered in a melting burst of color: rose, pearl-white, and the warm
grey of first twilight.

Farree continued to stare as the fragrance arose about him in a cloud of
scent filling every breath he drew. She--she--

He uttered a harsh cry and dropped upon the nearest pile of dead tapes
that wondrous thing--wondrous, yes. But the feel of raw cruelty was a
part of it: such torment as to sweep away all he had first felt, giving
instead a sense of harsh pain. Then out of that pain grew an anger,
fierce, filling him to the point where he threw out an arm and swept to
the floor two piles of tapes, his lips drawn back so tightly against his
teeth that his face was now that of a snarling animal unable to give
vent to anger save through claw and fang. His other hand flew to his
belt and freed the short defense knife which was his legacy from their
meeting with the Guild. Who could be made to pay for this--this hurt,
sorrow--DEATH!

"Where--" The demand came as a slurred snarl. "Where was this?" He dared
not touch that thing of many colors again; it racked him now even to
look at it.

Maelen moved deliberately, coming up beside him. Farree's whole body
quivered as he longed to turn on her, large as she was, to shake from
her the knowledge he must have. She picked up the scrap of beauty, shook
it out so that he saw, having to watch in spite of his rage and horror,
she held a length which might form a scarf. The strip had been cut at an
angle which led the colors to play in and out.

"What is this?" Maelen did not try to pierce the turmoil in Farree's
mind, rather spoke aloud in a quiet voice such as she would use with her
beloved little ones--those beasts, strange or familiar, which shared her
life.

"What is it--brother?" she asked for the second time. Farree had given
room to too many strong emotions in too short a time. Now he felt dizzy
and sick, having to hold onto the edge of the table. Three times he
swallowed before he could bring forth a word.

"It is--from a wing!" His own quivered as he answered.

"So!" That was Krip Vorlund who answered. "Perhaps a wing such as
yours?" he asked.

Farree turned his head so he did not have to watch that flutter of color
which Maelen had taken up again. Memory-- did he have any memory of
this? He wrestled with his rage and got its explosive force under
control. "A wing--maybe like mine." Save that it was far more beautiful
in its warm colors than his own shaded green pinions.

"Can you tell us more, little brother?" Maelen, who was the, friend of
all winged, pawed, other live forms, was watching him very intently.

Farree did not even raise his hand. His mouth twisted and there was a
burning in his throat--anger was still there but here now was something
else, a sense of loss so great that it bore down on him as had the
burden of his wings before time and dire effort had freed them.

"She is dead--" He spoke the words, and in his mind he wept.

"How did death come?" Vorlund's firm voice steadied Farree enough so he
could answer.

"I--I don't know. If I try to learn"--he waved his thin fingers inches
above the length of the scarf--"I will only feel what she felt, not the
way of death, nor where it came for her."

Zoror's neck frill was fully raised. He leaned forward a little as if he
could force from the length of wing silk more.

"Smuggled--contraband?" His hiss was nearly lost in the sharpness of his
demand. But he did not try to handle the length which continued to
flutter even though there were no breezes here to set it in motion.

Vorlund asked the question for them all. "This then is a forbidden
import? Why would any one risk exile from space to peddle such a thing?
What virtue does it have besides beauty?"

It was true that smuggling was a major crime on all planets, one which
brought a full force of all law enforcement officers, on planet or off,
to find and punish the miscreants.

"I do not know," the Zacanthan returned. "Because I officially deal in
off-world curios, things which might add even a word or two to our
records, I have a full membership in the Importers' Guild, not only here
but on five other worlds. This is on the forbidden list--"

"And how is it listed?" Maelen laid the strip carefully back on the
table.

"As spider silk--a new type--to be reported to the nearest Patrol post
at once."

"I do not know this spider silk." Farree looked at nothing but that
shimmering mass. "But this cannot be that--"

"No." Krip Vorlund shook his head. "It appears to be far more. Taken
from wings--"

At his words Farree shuddered and had again to grab at the table's edge
to steady himself. He must wall off that beginning of thought. In the
scum of the Limits, where these two had found him, had saved him from
rotting with the rest of the drifters bogged there in the mud of evil
which the straggling settlement near the landing space really was, he
had had the first beginnings of thought to thought--sharing with the
smux, also a prisoner. Then these two had come and swept up Togger, and
him. He had seen sights a-plenty which were a mingling of fear and
horror, but somehow none of those had touched within him as this did--as
if it strove to unlock a door which, if he opened it, would sweep him up
into another time and place which he must not enter, not yet--

"If it is on the forbidden list," Maelen said, "then its nature and
source must be known to someone--it's likely been seen before."

It was Zoror who answered the question. "Wings-- brother." He looked now
to Farree and there was concern in his eyes, hidden partly by wrinkles
of scales. "Could you tell us who or where?"

There was a wave of sickness rising in Farree. "I--"

"No!" Maelen interrupted him. "That is one place he dares not
venture--into the past from which this came." She put forth her hand and
pushed back a sweat-damp lock of hair from Farree's forehead.

"Where did _you_ find this, Daughter of Moon Power," Zoror asked in a
formal tone, as if she were to give evidence.

"For open sale at the market. To search bodily, that we can do!" she
returned. "There Farree may find a clue that he dares draw into his
mind."

"Watch for a spacer, down on his luck, far down," commented Vorlund.

"A spacer who has been to many worlds, perhaps, known and unknown,"
Zoror added as if he were attacking some problem with the full strength
of his own knowledge. "It follows that we must see this spacer
again--and perhaps best in his own setting. There may be more--!" He did
not touch the scarf which his talons indicated. "But our little brother
here--he must have some protection. Let us see--"

"Protection?" Vorlund asked.

"Yes. When we have more time I will explain. But twilight is here and I
would say that we had best be about what we would do before the coming
of full night."

There was a hooded cloak which Maelen proved adept at putting about him,
fixing the hood above the upper jet of his wing tips, leaving him a
seeing space in front. Farree's height now was akin to that of his
companions. Before he left Togger leaped from the table where he had
been squatting, seeming no more than a fistful of outward pointing
scarlet quills, dodged within the eye space they had left Farree and
settled down, holding on with all eight of his claws.

As they came out upon the small court where the Zoror's team had their
quarters, the Zacanthan spoke into a wrist dial, summoning a scooter.
Vorlund shook his head.

"With all respect, High Tech, within that we shall be as bare to sight
as a half token on a swept pavement--"

"That is so," Zoror returned as the small flyer set down, waiting
orders. "But it will take us to the port entrance. There will be many
coming and going--and we shall make us a path through such a gathering
to the Faxc entrance--from there it is but a step to the Street of
Traders."

Maelen looked at him keenly. "Elder brother, you speak as one who leaves
a stricken field and expects the victor on your trail. You say that
Farree walks into danger. What pot is boiling here?"

"Of you I could ask the same, little sister," the Zacanthan returned.
"But there is a watch which has been placed on this small brother--of
that I am sure. Yes, he goes into what may be the very heart of danger.
Thus we take what precautions are possible to us."

They climbed into the scooter and Vorlund leaned forward to tap out a
destination.

Farree took up more than his share of room because his cloak-covered
wings returned to him the hump which had once weighed him down so much.
At least they had left that length of wing stuff behind and he was free
of the influence which it exerted over him--though he was not free of a
nagging ache--the now firm belief that somewhere there had been such
trouble as, in spite of all his own sufferings in the Limit, he had not
known. He looked from one to another of his three companions. The
Zacanthan by what expression his scaled face could show was the same.
Maelen's head was up and there was a spark in her eyes which Farree knew
of old, just as he recognized the tightened lips of Vorlund, and the
fact that the spacer's hand slipped back and forth along his belt as if
he sought the hilt of a long knife or the grip of a stunner, both of
which had been lawfully put into a locker by the port officers when they
had landed here.

"Where is this trader?" Zoror wanted to know.

"Close to the edge of the stalls," Maelen answered, "near those places
which rent at night space to those low in credit." Her hand covered her
own wrist dial, which stated what lay behind her in buying credit.

"Then we shall land by the Gate of Unregistered Aliens." Zoror's talons
clicked against the scales which guarded his lips "And--"

"We are followed," Vorlund interrupted. "There is a private scooter
which flies this line and does not take another course. Merchants have
house colors here, do they not, sir?"

Zoror did not turn to look and satisfy himself that the spacer was
right, paying Vorlund the compliment of trust.

"They do so, yes."

"Then who among them puts up three red stripes with a sun yellow in the
middle?"

Zoror blinked twice. Farree longed to turn and see what Vorlund had
reported but was too tightly wrapped in his cloak to try.

"It makes no sense," the Zacanthan said, "What and why?" the spacer
countered.

"You name the colors of a house which trades by sea and would not show
such a sign this deep into the continent. The sea-based houses are of a
different breed; there are few of them who take to the land for anything
but a Call Out from the Council--and then they do it protestingly. None
of them even has a secondary quarter here."

"No!" Maelen's voice was an order; enough to bring all their eyes
towards her. There was a grim set to her jaw and on her knees her hands
moved in patterns which Farree believed were those of a Moonsinger.

"Do not think," her voice dropped until it was hardly more than a
murmur, "there is none who seeks!"

Farree followed the old path of his own. There was a tower, he speedily
constructed in his thoughts. One like that on Yiktor where he had come
into his proper inheritance and Maelen had discovered the buried history
of her own kin, long forgotten. But this tower was not of stone, nor of
any of the building materials which he had seen; and it was fast
deepening before the eyes of his imagination to a deep rose. Now it
lightened slowly from one story to the next, then darkened again into a
grey which became the velvety shade of the early night sky--

So intently did he fasten his attention that it was with something of
the shock suffered by one who was shaken hurriedly awake from a deep
sleep, that he swayed under Maelen's touch.

The scooter had landed. Just behind them was the gate Zoror had
mentioned though there was no one passing through now. Before them, not
too far away, was the beginning of a sprawling port within a port which
was as dirty and unrulable a place as the Limits had been. There were
plenty to call it home after a fashion: spacers who had committed such
errors as forced them to surrender their active tickets, those who dealt
in smuggled wares. Here one doubtless could re-equip oneself with a
stunner such as Vorlund and Maelen had surrendered upon landing here.

It seemed to Farree that the very air above the jungle of decaying and
half ruined buildings showed against the sky of growing night as might
smoke from a noisome fire. He drew the cloak closer about him and
touched Togger gently. It might have been that gesture which brought the
in and out pattern of the creature's mind to meld with his for a moment
or two.

"In--in--!" There was such urgency in that beaming that Farree found
himself trotting until Vorlund caught him by the shoulder.

"Not so fast, brother," the spacer said quietly. "They still watch--let
them not take such an interest in what we do that might bring them down
upon us, if that is what they are prepared to do."

However, Farree's head was up, and the cloak twisted back and forth as
he turned from side to side. That scent! Once more he had caught the
touch of the same fragrance which had filled Zoror's room. This was far
fainter, having to fight against all the stenches of the place. But he
could not lose it once he had picked it up.

"Right, brother." That was Vorlund. "Lead us--but with care."

Farree paid little attention to that. He moved to the front of their
party, leaving the rest a step or two behind.

"Bad--hurt--bad--" That was Togger again. But Farree did not need the
smux's warning. For the scent which was his guide began to change in
quality. Fear--yes, certainly fear! Farree paid no attention to his
companions as they reached the first stinking pathway which served this
new version of the Limit as a street. He gathered up the skirts of his
cloak and held them closely about him as he met with two staggering
drunks and used all the craft he had learned in the past years to dodge
them, though one aimed a blow at where his head might have been had the
cloak really covered the tail man he seemed.

There were more and more people on the street. Some slipped quickly and
furtively along, taking all advantage they could of every shadow. There
were more drunks and some who were heading to become so. The potions and
drugs one could get within this maze might be watered down and cut to a
lesser strength, but those who must have them headed toward their places
of supply.

Two taverns leered crookedly at each other across the filthy street.
Farther in there were lights beginning to show and one could hear from
there the crash of ear-tormenting music.

"In--" Togger might have shouted, so loud did it seem. Farree put a hand
inside of his loose over-tunic to touch the smux's back bristles. He did
not need Togger's urging now--the beacon he followed was growing
stronger and stronger.

Pain and fear: but now he was almost certain that both those were of the
past--that he was not on his way to rescue some captive. However, where
fragments of wings were to be found, there also one could certainly
learn from whence they had come. Naturally the trader would lie.
Farree's pointed teeth showed for an instant as he grinned in promise.
However--there were he, and Maelen, and Vorlund, and the Zacanthan, and,
of course, Togger. All of them had the reading gift. His own had been
honed and polished during the past months when he had traveled with the
two spacers--he knew that he was far better now at this ploy than he had
ever been.

There was a crowd ahead. Farree halted for a moment and looked to what
lay between him and that which he sought. To push into that crowd--it
would take only one drunken jostling to have him uncloaked and betrayed
to a trader who dealt in wings.

Most of those he surveyed were crowded about a platform set the height
of a man's shoulder above the surface of the street. On this a tall and
very thin man, who wore such a skin-tight article of clothing that he
might be thought to be bones alone, was waving a narrowed hand with six
long fingers back and forth. From the tip of each finger spouted a
flame. He took up from an upturned box which served as a table a
pannikin half full of liquid, turning it as far as he might without
spilling its contents so that the crowd, or at least those immediately
before his perch, could see that the pannikin did have contents. Having
made a portion of his audience believe that, he held the small bowl with
a pair of tongs directly above his own flaming fingers, chanting aloud
words which apparently none of his listeners could understand. Now he
had won their full attention. As they crowded closer Farree was left
with a small space to push by. What he sought was very near; the anguish
of the message had become stronger and he traced it to a booth right on
the other side of the magician. There seemed to be no one in charge
there, though a man in a stained and worn spacer's uniform from one of
the large company ships stood directly before its entrance, eyes on the
magician.

Farree reached the end of the booth, searching with his eyes the wares
laid out there. Some of that was trader trash--such as the companies
used with natives on planets newly opened, where the inhabitants did not
know the true value of off-world things. But this was not what he
sought. He felt Togger move and knew that the smux wanted out; but it
was better, he counciled with a swift thought, to wait yet a while.

He himself held his hand over the counter, clutching the cloak as
tightly around him as possible. Slowly he swung it palm down, fingers
straight and together. No, not on the board at all. But close, very
close. Farree would have to risk Togger after all. With a quarter of his
attention on the back of the man he believed was the trader, Farree
dropped the smux on the piles of stuff. Togger could hurry if there was
a good reason and he did so now, speeding over the trade goods, though
he had to stop once and shake a gaudy necklace of fake Ru crystal off
one of his claws. Reaching the other end of that narrow shelf he swung
part way out, only two of his hind feet anchoring him to the surface.
There was a sudden surge of the fear-torment. Farree braced himself as
if he stood in the path of a tempest.

The smux came into view again, dragging a flat package which pushed some
of the trade trash before it. Farree was shaking now. The fear-terror
was fast changing into anger. He looked down at the stuff but there was
no weapon there. No, the unlicensed trader would not want the State
Pacifers to find him with such. Instead Farree grabbed up the packet.
His trembling had become worse, and his hold had fallen from his cloak
so that the garment was ready to slip from him.

Togger sprang, landing on Farree's chest. His claws went out, caught at
the cloak and dragged it shut toward him. In Farree's hands the packet
shook and nearly fell.

"Hey, you! Trying to get that without a credit, eh? Well, you don't play
that game with Ryss Onvet, no, you don't. I can call me a street warden
good and clear. We may be trash to your up-nosed crowd from the town but
we still got our rights, always being that we ain't on any list."

"But of course that is so," Farree felt the Zacanthan move in on one
side of him and Maelen and the spacer on the other. "My friend here
wishes to make a purchase. He was waiting to attract your attention. The
magician, I must admit, is quite good, very good indeed. Now, if you are
willing to conduct business, how much does my friend owe?"

The man had a heavy scar across his forehead which twisted his eyebrows
unnaturally, but Farree, in spite of the overwhelming discharge from the
package, could sense that the merchant was squinting at them narrowly as
if he looked for something or someone who was not there.

He must have made up his mind quickly for he said in a rush of words, in
trader tongue for emphasis, that he had no business to do with
strangers--

"Do you then," Maelen wanted to know, "deal only with your neighbors
here? Certainly that makes your market a very limited one and I should
think your sales were few."

"Gentle Fem,"--he got out the polite address as if it strangled him to
say it--"I deal with all comers, yet I also take specialty consignments.
One of those your friend there has taken up. I can also add theft to my
complaint against him since that which he holds is _not_ for sale at
all."

"No? Look at me, merchant, and at my friend here." She indicated Krip
Vorlund with a small gesture. "Did you not sell to us a short time since
a curiosity which was indeed better ware than any you show here?"

The man opened his mouth as if to refute her at once and then seemed to
look beyond them as if he sought for some help.

"Was this not true?" she pressed.

He coughed and stroked his throat as if he had swallowed something he
could neither control internally nor heave out again.

"Yes," his voice was hardly above a mutter.

"Sooooooo," the word was such a hiss from the Zacanthan that, for a
moment, Farree could believe that he companioned some great reptile.
"What isss sissss sing?"

He reached across to Farree and effortlessly freed the packet from his
hand.

"Treasure? Sssso you mussst declare it sssso--" Even as the hiss grew
more pronounced the Zacanthan effortlessly put a talon under the top
fold of the wrapped package and gave one short pull to display its
contents.

Farree already knew what he would see. There were two more lengths of
the shining wing stuff. One was a red-brown shading through warm yellows
and oranges. And the other--

Green, several shades of green: not the darker shades which made up the
glory of his own wings; lighter.

Not green--red! The whole world had turned red about him. He mouthed a
strange cry which he had never voiced before and his hands shot
forth--not to seize again upon what the Zacanthan held--but to grasp
that throat rising above the grimy collar of the disgraced uniform, to
dig into the trader's dirty red flesh and squeeze, squeeze and squeeze!

Chapter Three
=============

Get off--you--!" The trader's hand rose. From somewhere he had procured
a band fitting securely about his knuckles, the metal plates of it
starred with sharp pointed spikes facing outward. He crouched a little
behind the warped board on which lay his wares, his armored hand moving
outward and to the side.

The red mist which had filled the world for Farree did not lighten, but
of a sudden not only was there the weight of hands upon his shoulders
but in his mind there was a binding as secure as if he were entangled in
a hunter's net. He could think, could see that which he wanted, but he
was being dragged back by those hands on his shoulders, held helpless by
that swift barrier in his mind--but not so helpless that he could not
catch up the length of green wing.

The grasp which held him then swung him bodily around and pushed him
towards the port end of the crooked street. Then the hold relaxed enough
to let him stumble on as long as it was forward and not toward the
trader's booth. Yet inside him there was a chaos, first nurtured by
anger, and then by scraps and bits of what were certainly no memories of
his!

Heights rising from a green plain into a silver mist: there was no
visible sun and yet there shone a radiance as complete as the full light
of such. What he saw was only snatches, gone before he could center any
in his mind. In his nostrils there was a medley of scents completely
covering the foulness of the path down which he was being urged.

There was a sudden darkness in this place of green and silver. No true
storm, that much he could guess. If he did somehow look through
another's eyes--memories--then there had come a swirling of strong evil
to tear away all he witnessed. Nor was he able to see source of the
evil. He only felt--first curiosity, which caught him as surely as if a
sharp blade did cut into his flesh. Fear for himself, yes, but what was
worse, fear for another whom he could not see but who was as much a part
of him as if she were an arm, a heart--

He was gone into that dream place, unaware now if any walked with him,
knowing only that death stalked and he must stand between prey and
hunter.

Then--there was a last thrust of heart pain. He thought he cried out,
while still he sought to face that which had crept behind him. Only now
it was dark, full and complete dark. When that closed upon him, Farree
knew he had been too weak, too small, too untrained. The blackness was
death and into it she had disappeared. He blinked and there before him
was the Gate of Unregistered Aliens at the port. He looked behind. Hands
were still lying on his shoulders--Maelen. She was watching him very
carefully.

"What chances, small brother?" she asked--and her voice seemed to come
from a vast distance.

"Death--" His answer was hardly above a whisper and he wiped one hand
across his eyes. There were no tears to be so shaken off, only still the
abiding rage. His other hand, the bit of wing silk about his wrist,
strayed to the front of his tunic under the rumpled cloak. Togger! Where
was Togger?

Taking advantage of the loosened grip upon him Farree turned so quickly
that the robe flew out. Only in a few seconds of time did something
which was colder, more exacting than his anger warn him. But he was
already several strides away from them all.

"Togger!" he thought, as he might shout aloud for another companion who
had only speech in common with him.

"Here--we--" Whatever the smux might have added was gone. All that was
left was an emptiness Farree recognized. There were devices known both
to the Patrol and to the Thieves' Guild which could clamp down against
any thought sending. But in order to use those someone must have
suspected Togger--and Farree himself.

He longed to throw aside the muffling cloak, to be in the air and so
able to follow his friend, for Togger had been on the thin outside edge
of response when he had sent that broken call for aid: for that was what
it was.

Farree was no longer aware of their company. The contacts he had made
mentally within the past turn of the hour sweep seemed to have in some
way severed his close contact with the spacers and the Zacanthan.

Only they had not lost him. He was aware of someone moving up close
beside him and swerved, having no desire to be once more bound by
superior strength of either mind or body. It was Maelen--but she was
making no attempt to lay hands on him again. Nor had he picked up that
clear sending which was hers.

"Togger," he thought swiftly, hoping to make good use of his present
freedom. "Togger goes with one--"

"They have found your small one?" That was Zoror and the thought came
from behind.

"I think not," Farree returned. He was already off the smooth surface of
the gate road into the dust which would become the muck of the shunned
street. He looked ahead. The trader--the magician--somehow he thought of
them both together, as if, like Maelen and Vorlund, they were so closely
knit that their thought might blend into a single mind voice.

None of his companions tried to stop him. They might have taken council
together and decided that Farree's loss was theirs also.

The ever-present glow-light of the port was behind them, but the road
took a crooked turn and the evil-smelling splotch of buildings was
closing in behind. There was light of a sort--here and there one of the
door lights demanded by law was a small spark. But it was plain that
none of these were allowed to emit the full glow of the same lamps which
hung in the city beyond the irregular wall cutting the port settlement
from the place where law walked and there could be questions asked with
impunity.

As he went Farree fought to pick up touch with the smux, but the silence
was complete. However, he remained certain that sooner or later he would
be steered aright.

Around their party clung that scent which had brought Farree into the
maze of stinking lanes. Only now he strove not to heed it, since he
wanted a clear mind, with no thrusts of rage, to follow any trail Togger
had set.

They were all with him, Maelen, Vorlund, and Zoror, but this time they
appeared to be content to surrender the lead to Farree. Here was the
magician's shaky platform. Some of the boards of which it had been
fashioned now lay on the ground but no one had attempted to clear them
away.

Farree wheeled to look at the booth where the trader had spread out his
sorry supply of wares. They lay muddled, tossed in small heaps, some of
them fallen into the muck of the roadway. He who had displayed them was
gone, and strangest of all, as Farree knew with particular vividness
from his own life within a port refuse settlement, this seller had left
his stock in trade behind. There must have been raids already on the
tawdry stuff. Even as Farree came up he saw hands which were more like
clawed paws than his own working with lightning speed to sweep off the
largest pile; it disappeared on the other side of the improvised table.
There was a scurry as something small and dark as a blot of night
pressed all together scuttled away.

Farree stretched out his own right hand, passing it slowly back and
forth across what was left. There was nothing to answer until he came to
the extreme edge behind the table. Then his skin pricked and he spread
his fingers wider. Here was a trace of Togger at last. But nothing
remained of that length of a second plundered wing.

With infinite care, Farree held his hand above what looked like a broken
bone--dull and brown and shaped with a cutting edge into a knife. Yes,
Togger! Now he raised the hand and turned around slowly so that the hand
swept across and took in both the magician's platform and this deserted
booth.

There! Farree's hand steadied, pointing inward toward the deeper reaches
of this dangerous district.

"They have not found him." He was convinced of that. Were the smux
captive Farree certainly could have read that also. "But he must have
gone with the trader."

"To search such a maze and its many lurking places," Zacanthan observed,
"may be impossible. Do you receive any more from him?"

"No," Farree returned impatiently, "but-- Ah!" He interrupted his own
answer, corrected it. "He is there! He does not send except with
emotion."

"Yes, that I have, too," Maelen agreed. "Will he leave a trail or guide
you--"

"If he can. It is this way!"

"Wait." For the first time Vorlund spoke. "There are baits for traps--if
they would take you, little brother, how better could they call you so?
It may be that they know Togger is with them, but they will let him do
as he wishes and summon you--"

"Well thought," Zoror hissed. "We cannot turn for any help to the
guards, for they do not venture here themselves by night, nor even far
in by day. If there are deaths here they turn their heads and do not
look. As long as these prey upon their own kind, so will they be left
alone. It is only the very foolhardy who would venture out of the stew
to kill or rob. I do not think that even the Guild have more than a
token representative here."

"I go for Togger," Farree answered simply.

"He will not be turned from that!" Maelen said. "But if they lay a trap
for one and four arrive--four with somewhat better weapons than
expected, may not the plan benefit us?"

Zoror chuckled. "Daughter, that is a thought to lighten the heart. Only
I would suggest that we do not go openly, marching like a landing party
with a talk flag above us. We do not know what we seek--"

It was Farree's turn to interrupt. "The wings!"

"What do you mean?" Maelen asked.

"The wings--such brought me here. I think there is still a link between
those we seek and their plunder--and I wear this!"

"Let us not argue this in the middle of the street," Vorlund warned
again. "Slip around to the back of the booth. It is only right to
believe that we are under constant monitoring and perhaps have been ever
since we left the Place of Long Knowledge. However, what precautions are
possible let us follow."

Now Farree heard a small sound from Maelen which might be smothered
laughter. "Wise, oh, wise. Just let us hope that we do not tumble into
some hole of refuse and smother ourselves with nose lifting stenches."

Farree was around the counter in the booth before she had finished
talking. And he was barely out of the way when the others joined him.

"Now what have you to say about the wings--you are sure these are parts
of wings?" Maelen wanted to know.

"I am sure," Farree replied shortly. "And those who once wore them--" He
swallowed twice as if he would bite and hold fast the emotion which the
thought awoke in him. "Those are dead."

None of them answered that. Perhaps the very tone of his voice made it
impossible to quarrel with his statement.

They were behind the booth, going single file down a narrow way between
the rear of two lines of booths which backed upon one another. Farree
forced from his mind all but the seeking.

At the end of that narrow cut with its soft foul footing rising nearly
ankle high he stood for a moment, his head turned a little as if he were
listening to something which should be audible to all of them. Then he
slipped into the wider alley which ran towards the center of the maze.
Not Togger, not yet. But he again caught the faintest trace of the other
odor in spite of the stenches about--the scent of the torn wings.
Abruptly he turned to Maelen and held out one hand while with the other
he drew his concealing cloak even closer about him.

"Give me--yes, give me that other piece! The one you bought before."

She asked no question, but unsealed the long pocket which was part of
her suit at the thigh. There came a rustle and then he felt the length
of silky stuff she passed to him--felt and _SAW_. For, though here were
not even booth lanterns with their dull smoky light--his eyes could
detect a faint glow from the stuff he had wound about his wrist. And
with both strips so tightly in his hold he felt a drawing again--not
from Togger. The green length seemed to wrap of itself about his flesh.
There was a bitter chill which crept from it up his arm, down into his
fingers. Dead--worn by the dead once--but alive in a way he did not
understand--save that he was sure it was acting with him, perhaps for
him.

Farree darted across the opening of the wider alley and once more sought
a very narrow way. He had to be careful to twist and turn to accommodate
his wings. The faint radiance from his wrist band was growing
stronger--or was it that he was trusting its guidance the more?

"Here!" He backed a little away and nursed the banded wrist against his
body. The shadow against shadow which was Vorlund moved closer.

"There is a door here," the spacer reported. "It is set in as part of a
wall--I see no latch or way of opening it."

"Let me, brother." It was Zoror's turn before the wall. Farree caught a
glimpse of a larger shadow moving in behind Vorlund. There were always
noises in these streets--more so now that night had come and most of the
inhabitants who sheltered or swaggered here were rousing for another
night's pleasure or darksome business. Yet Farree caught a faint
clicking and knew that Zoror must be trying his own way of gaining
entrance through the wall door.

"It is ssooo,"--the Zacanthan sank his speech to that hiss which served
his species as a whisper. "This is most easy-- Thus!"

He was gone and Farree caught only a quick sight by the fading color of
the scarf he carried to show that the Zacanthan had gone apparently
through the door or wall as if that had been an illusion and not a solid
barrier. He himself was quick to follow. There was a narrow hall running
before him, but what was most important there was also a flight of
narrow and splintery steps to his left. Light came from a globe fastened
over their heads wherein luminous insects crawled and spun threads which
shone brightly.

The steps were narrow and very steep. Farree wondered if he could take
them with the cloak still bundled about him.

He had lowered and folded his wings to the smallest possible size but
still they were a bigger obstacle than the case which had once held them
and made him a hunchback.

There was a sudden thrust with his head. Togger! Perhaps the smux had
been casting out for him all the time but the beamed message had not
been able to reach him before.

"Here--bad--bad--" A recognition and a warning. At the same moment
Maelen caught at the fold of Farree's cloak and held him back.

"Not yet--" As the Zacanthan had used his voice in whisper so did she
use her mind speech in a similarly low key. "There is a cover here!"

Farree stopped. He could beam in on Togger right enough and now he
sharpened his contact. The Zacanthan, with the usual silent steps of his
kind, was already on the stairs, Vorlund only a little behind. Farree
tried a trace of touch. There was nothing--none from his companions and
curiously deadened for those beyond. This was not the first time he had
faced a mind shield in action, though such would certainly be of great
value to any of the dwellers in this filthy tangle of rotting buildings
and swampy streets.

Instantly he clamped down on his own thought. Did they have some
warning--and he suspected that they might well have--so any who would
follow them must be thought proof? Had they picked up the smux's
broadcast and were the four of them indeed now entering a trap?

The stairway led the four to an upper hall where there seemed more
substantial walls and some pretense of cleanliness. Two doors opened on
one side and one on the opposite-- all closed. However, the murmur of
voices reached them. Zoror noiselessly passed to the farthest room and
there stretched out his hand, planting it palm down against the surface,
but not before Farree caught a quick glance of what was a small disc.
Having pushed that against the door, he reached back his other hand and
took firm grasp of Vorlund's; the spacer in turn caught Maelen's in a
similar grip with Farree ending the chain.

He could hear! By now he should not be surprised by anything which could
happen. Instead he strained hard so as to not miss a single word uttered
within the room.

"It is so." The voice so brought to them lacked any expression of
feeling--it might have been a tape left to run. "He was in the Painted
Street tonight. I tell you, the information Varis gave was right."

There was still only a murmur from a second voice, a deep-sounding one
which seemed easier to hear yet could not as well be understood: it
uttered words which were disguised against Zoror's spy disc.

"Three of them with him--"

Murmur.

"A Zacanthan! You would not say go up against that one? He was carefully
watched I tell you--it was the scarf which brought him--near pushed into
an act where we could have taken him easily. But not with a Zacanthan
there. Also those others--there has been a lot said about them--powers
they have."

Murmur.

"Yes, he seemed to know--there was a killing anger in him then. They
have said these would never go off-world-- well, whoever swore that
would take oath to Zambut and then go and spit in his god's fat face!"

Murmur.

"Certain--yes, I am certain. He might still be shaking the dust-smoke
from the Red Dunes off his shoulders. He wore a cloak--and underneath
were wings! Wings, I tell you! You heard the report, saw the spin
record. He is one of a kind and he is of his own world--he can play no
tricks here. Take him and you'll find your backwards-running River and
Old Saptal's treasure all laid right to your hand. They all have the
secret--if that is the secret you wish to uncover."

A murmur which interrupted.

"We have tried that before--you have seen the reports. They will die
rather than talk--and they will their own minds to crack rather than
answer with the truth. Get him and--"

Maelen turned her head a fraction toward the stairs and then she alerted
Vorlund with a small pull which he, in turn, passed as a. warning on to
Zoror. The Zacanthan moved away from the door, but he did not loose his
hand tie with Vorlund. He retreated back down the hall and, holding the
disc between two fingers, he gave a push to a second door. It swung open
upon a small room. Another of the luminous insect globes showed a bed,
narrow and stripped of all bedding, a small table and two stools. There
was nothing else and the air within seemed stale. Zoror let go Vorlund's
hand long enough to shut the door behind them and make a sweeping
gesture which took in most of that side of the room. Then he crossed to
the wall which separated this chamber from the one which now held the
speakers. When Maelen briefly dropped her hand, Farree used the free
moment to knot the second wing strip over the first around his wrist.

Their hands linked once more, again they could hear. "Speak it, then! If
such action is correct, can you do it?"

Murmur.

"Try then!"

There was the sound of footsteps outside. Someone who had no reason to
fear those in the far room had just walked past the hall door towards
that same room.

"Guide here." A third voice. And then it came again, undoubtedly from
inside the room itself.

Murmur.

"I have promises, High Ones. Three pieces for covering your capture--"

Once more the murmur interrupted.

"It is not my failure, High One. What I was to do, I did.

That others could not carry through the plan was no fault of mine. You,
High One--what is THAT!"

"Bad--bad--" The smux was broadcasting in a calling frenzy which Farree
had not heard him use since he had been freed from the cage and the
torture of Russtif on that day when a better life had come for both him
and Farree.

"Catch it, fool with a head of feathers! Why did you bring that here?"
The murmur had become speech, unscrambled by any device.

"I bring it?" That must be the trader. "I never saw it--this rotten wall
hive may have many stranger things hiding out. Who can swear the Great
Oath that ships landing here do not sometimes carry more than is on
their cargo listing? It is nothing but a--a thing. Crush it--"

"It is a key," the growling voice began and then sank once again into
the murmur. "The thing thinks." That much arose from out of the low
notes.

"High One, it is then a way to spy upon us. Let me crush it--" The
magician sounded shaky.

Murmur.

"Bait, High One? But is it possible that this is of _their_
company--rather than a creature from a ship?"

Murmur. Then from Togger a mind cry as terrible and hideous as the ones
the smux used to make when Russtif used the prod to send it into battle.

Togger! Farree pulled loose from their chain of communication and
started for the door. Just as rage had taken him over earlier that day
so did it rise again to drive him past all thoughts of safety, leaving
only the need to rescue the smux.

There was a second cry from Togger. Vorlund had stepped between Farree
and the door. He reached out and caught both of Farree's hands in what
could be a merciless grip. There was no chance of evading that.
But--Togger!

While Farree struggled fruitlessly against the hold the spacer used, he
jerked, his body bending backwards, the cape falling to the floor. His
face was a mask of pain.

Through the door, or the walls of the whole of this warren of a house
there sounded a shrill, ear-shattering call. Farree was frozen into the
position in which he was held, filled with a torturing pain which spread
from his head down the length of his spare body. His wings, now that he
could no longer hold command of his body--or his mind--swelled up, to
open.

He could hear and he could see, but all else was sealed in some fearsome
case even as his wings had been. He rocked on his feet as Vorlund
changed grip upon him. Maelen had taken a step toward him, he could see
her only from the corner of one eye. The Zacanthan swung closer to the
wall. He had broken all contact with the others and stood pressed
against the stained surface, only the palm of his hand between his head
and the disc. He fanned his other hand--a gesture which could only mean
for them to remain in silence where they now were. Farree's panic was
drying his mouth and throat. Even if the Zacanthan had not signaled
silence he could not have broken through that which encased him now.
Vorlund drew him closer, supporting Farree against a fall.

Togger! Though he was cold with fear, with the fear that they might
indeed have fallen into a trap, Farree thought first of the smux. He was
fearful enough to try mind touch. Instantly there was more movement
beside him and Maelen's hands came out to clap upon his head just over
his ears.

Now he could not see! Streaks of brilliant light played back and forth
before his eyes as did lightning over the heights of Yiktor. She was a
wisewoman of her kind and she had knowledge. But to use that against
him--No, Togger was his own friend more than any other in this world.
For a moment there was fire--fire to cut through the chill of that which
imprisoned him. He could see the scarves he had looped around his wrist.
Along the edges of the wing-strips there flashed sparks of white, of
green--and last of all a sun-brilliant yellow. The force of their coming
to life shot through his body.

Chapter Four
============

During all his life Farree had chosen to do the prudent thing and
withdraw from danger. The uncasing of his wings but a short span ago had
given him self confidence to be sure, but to face up to an enemy
infinitely larger and more muscular than himself, an enemy fighting on
his home territory who might perhaps call on any manner of forces-- Only
this time all the common sense had been shaken out of his trapped body.
He could summon no strength to lunge against Vorlund, somehow to
shoulder the tall, battle-trained spacer out of the way, and win to
Togger's aid. He was still dumbly in the toils of that mysterious force
which the whistle had laid upon him. Dumbly, then, he allowed himself to
be shifted between Vorlund and Maelen till the three of them were again
handfast with the listening Zacanthan.

"We are under a silence?" That was the magician who asked. Some
sibilance of his trade speech betrayed him.

"Do we look to be brainless muck worms? Yes, we are under silence, only
one begins to wonder--"

The murmur broke for a second time and they could catch intelligible
speech. "Yes--wonder--there is nothing can come upon us here--or is that
also false? What traveler can ever weigh the marvelous strengths and
defenses of a new world? Be silent!"

Straightway there came something new to plague Farree. The force which
held him was sloughing away as if it were a covering which he could rend
from his body. That which had struck him at the whistling broke--was
partly gone. On his wrist the yellow light of the scarf bands was
shading down the scale of color, green-brown-red, and then a red as true
as would come with new shed blood. In his mind there was a queer beat as
if some drum or rattle was pounding out a code, while the now scarlet
band flickered.

Vorlund shifted his grip again, and still Farree was without the
necessary energy to pull free. He saw by the mingled light furnished by
the band on his wrist and the single dim lamp a pulsating to match the
beats. At first he thought that he was swinging from side to side in the
same pattern and then he saw that Maelen, Zoror, and Vorlund himself
were all one with him and that pounding. Vorlund's lips moved; he might
have been speaking, but the drum beat in Farree's head had deadened his
ears to outer sound--only the pattern of the drum remained.

It was the Zacanthan who made the first move. Catching at the purse and
sheath at his belt he brought forth not one of the knives forbidden to
off-worlders but rather what looked to be a curved and shining talon
twice the size of any of those which sprouted from his fingers.

The silver length of it was patterned by bits of blue which sparkled
like jewels. Stepping away from the wall Zoror used that talon as if it
were indeed knife, slicing it back and forth through the air as he might
engage some invisible enemy. The talon weapon began to change color,
those bits of blue inlay shading into darker and more violent shades
just as the scarves had done. It was difficult for any but his own
species to read any expression on the Zacanthan's scaled face; however,
one could not mistake his eyes--not dark with anger but bright with
interest, as if some new bit of learning had been drawn to his attention
and he was about to pluck all or any secrets out of this encounter.

Maelen held her own hands out, palms down, her fingers quirking up one
by one until they stretched to their farthest reach in fan shape. She
was staring at each finger in turn, as if assuring herself that she
still possessed them all.

There was moisture on Farree's wrist. He glanced down. Drops were
bubbling out of the double band. He might have just taken it out of a
stream or pool. Save what fell was not the clearness of true water,
rather it was first a pinkish froth and then took on more substance,
becoming the same shade of red as the band now was. Blood! Surely that
was blood such as might ooze through the dressing on a wound. It fell,
but not to the floor, for it diffused again into small balls of mist
before it reached even the level of Farree's knees.

It was as if that moisture filled the air it had disappeared into, for
it seemed now as if he could actually taste blood, smell it.

Now the color was draining out of the band. It became wrinkled as ashy
spots grew on it. Then both layers of it thinned, flaked away as might
ashes from a burning. Only on his flesh there remained a brand, red as a
burn. That which had held him prisoner was gone and Farree's medley of
thoughts could be sorted out into messages again.

Togger! He quested outward.

"Bad--" He managed to pick up that, but it came very faint and low.

What followed then they all heard clearly, having no need this time for
any disc or connected line of search: A cry which was not of the mind
but rather had broken from a throat of flesh.

"Ahhhhh!"

Togger! Not that cry from him. Rather another mind send: A sensation of
being held tightly, of being flung through the air--

"Fool!" They could hear the snap of that voice without any aid.
"Spaquet!" There was a blurred mind image of a pale animal bulk plodding
into a thick soup of mud.

"The little one"--Zoror's hiss of whisper came as he moved to restore
the silver talon into his belt pouch--"he has struck one--I believe he
who was the spider of this net weaving. What weapon has Togger, little
brother?"

"Poison--on his foreclaws." There must be more than a lethal dose
available now, for Farree had never tried to milk away thin yellow beads
of moisture which Russtif had always forced from the claws when he had
kept Togger captive.

"Soooo." The Zacanthan crossed the floor with noiseless tread and
Vorlund slipped aside to let Zoror reach the outer door. "This one so
assaulted will die?" He had put out a hand and drew Farree away from the
spacer and closer to him.

The youth was rubbing his hands together, wriggling his shoulders,
reversing as best he could the spreading of his wings, back into a
burden the cloak would cover once more. "Will this one die?" repeated
the Zacanthan. Farree shook his head. He felt as tired as if he had
marched all day through a Nexus swamp. It took much of the will left in
him even to stand and then turn his mind to what might be happening in
the other room.

"I do not know," he answered. "There is a poison--but to some life forms
it might not be deadly. There is so much difference--" He let that
explanation die away while he rubbed his hand across the brand left upon
his other wrist. "What may promise death to one kind, may be no more
than the bites of a Lugk fly to another. Togger!" He went from words to
mind call.

There was an answer, but it was very hazy and he could not understand.
At least that meant that the smux was still alive.

"Let him lie," again the voice speaking clearly instead of in a deep
rumble. Whatever had cloaked those within these walls must have gone.
"He was without a useful thought, a helpful bit of action. Now--get you
down to that hole where he burrowed and bring me back--" Not words but
rather a series of clicks followed.

"They may be searching, High One." That voice verged on a whine and was
certainly from the magician.

"If so it is better that you not be caught, is _that_ not the truth?
Remember, we have our own methods for resisting capture--the body can
fall into the hands of those who would stand against us--but the mind,
ah, now, that is a very different thing. You have seen what you have
seen of that, is that not so? A certain ship owner from the Circle--"

"High One, no--I will go. But what of that thing which has done this to
Guide? Should we not seek it out and--"

"And die? You seem doubly eager to bring down upon you evils this night,
Ioque. Almost one could believe that you yourself had hints of how one
might safely use that crawler."

"Not so!"

"You speak that like an Oath of Heart Blood, Ioque. Look out when below
where that went out the window if you still tremble with fears. Bring
your heel down on its head--"

"But, High One, was it not your saying that this creature might bring to
us what we want? Did not the scout swear that the thing belonged to him
we have been tracing?"

"At least your memory works, Ioque. But deal with it as you will. We no
longer need it."

"How--?"

"With ease." Once more the voice went even higher as if to address a
party. "Thus!"

Farree fell to his knees as if his bones had suddenly turned too soft to
supply any support. As before he was helpless in the clutch of something
invisible which enfolded him both without and within.

It was Maelen who caught and steadied him, once more with her hands on
his shoulders. While from the fingers of those hands there poured into
him new energy. With a gasp he stiffened and clung in spirit to what she
gave him.

There was a new battle in him. He must seek the source of this
weakness--if he crawled on his hands and knees to do so--which was a
dark urging, and meet it with what remnants of power he still possessed,
awakened and armed by Maelen as she fed into his mind belief in his
ability.

The room was gone, as if wiped away by a giant hand. He was caught up in
a swirl of color, and somehow that in itself made him able to think--or
feel--or--what was it--a dream?

There were winged ones in the air. As they dipped and soared or alighted
near him he felt a vast peace--or perhaps only the shadow of it--that he
was a part of an enduring something which had no failure--which had
been, was, and ever would be!

He could not see the faces of those who danced with and on the wind;
there seemed ever to be a glittering mist which enshrouded them when he
looked too closely. Yet he did not doubt that he was one of them and
that this was his own place. He strove to use his own wings, to mount
and become a true part of their game, or dance, or the ceremony which he
knew was of great meaning and needed only concentration to give up a
truth greater than anything he had known before.

How long was he in that place of color, life, and peace? If it were only
a moment or two then it possessed a kind of energy which itself
vanquished time--the time which ruled the world he knew.

There came a sudden flurry and the winged ones gathered together to face
him as if they had but that moment become aware that he was there.

From them came wind-carried bands of color. These swirled around him yet
did not touch his body. Instead they wove a pattern as among them spun
in turn bits of glitter. This glitter did not float purposelessly but
rather came to hang unsupported in the air until he looked upon
something which was a distinct pattern and about which there glowed
light of another kind, green and white. Each of the bits were stilled in
turn and hung quietly before him while he knew, though he did not know
why, that this was a thing he must use--

The color, the place, the dancers--gone! What had he seen--with his
eyes, or with his mind? He could not have said. But he knew that what he
had seen did exist; and there was growing now a new ache within him, an
ache like the hunger his body had once known which had come to be a part
of him, in the dark days of his previous life.

"Come--" Who said that? One of the winged ones whom he could not see? Or
was it an actual voice in his ears? Come--to that place--Yes, with all
his heart he would reach for it now.

He was suddenly as aware of a force restraining his body as he had been
of the place beyond the darkness. But this was not a holding within him
as that other had been, but rather the pressure of hands upon him. He
blinked and then blinked again and saw that he was back in the room
where Maelen stood behind him, Zoror before, looking down at him with
what could only be concern in his large green-gold eyes. The terrible
fatigue which had struck Farree was gone. Rather he was filled with an
eagerness to be gone--where he was not yet sure, only that he must
answer that new hunger which had come.

Without his willing it his right hand twitched. His hand rose and the
index finger pointed to the door while the brand the scarf had left on
his flesh warmed and there seemed to be even a faint glow from it.
"What--" Vorlund spoke first.

"No!" Zoror shook his head, his neck frill extended to its full extent.
"There will be time later for questions and answers. For now we shall
find us a way back, one that no eyes shall light upon when we take it.
You can go?" He addressed that last to Farree.

Shaking a little the other stirred in Maelen's hold. Her hands moved to
help to draw him back to his feet.

He shook his head a fraction and fought for steadiness, for the world
about him had a tendency to heave and to flicker. "I can go--but there
is Togger."

"Call now," the Zacanthan returned. Farree sent forth that mental signal
which had so long made a bridge between his mind and that of the smux.
He hardly dared believe that he would be answered. Yet there came to him
a clearer signal than any he had used to locate his companion before
this evening.

"Out--wait--out. Big one--throw through hole--out--" A longer message
than he had ever received and yet one he was certain was true meant, not
sent to entice him into the hands of those others.

Vorlund had gone to the door. Now he opened it a crack and stood
listening, perhaps for both any sound and with his mind for a hint that
they were facing trouble once more. Looking over his shoulder he nodded
and slipped quickly into the hall beyond.

There was no one to be heard or sensed. However, Vorlund did not
withdraw to the stairs, as Farree saw as they followed the spacer.
Rather he slipped along the wall towards the closed door of that other
chamber. Maelen reached out and tapped Zoror on the wrist but the
Zacanthan was already on his way. As they all wore soft-soled foot
coverings and not the heavy metal-soled boots of the space borne, they
did not raise a whisper of sound.

Once more Zoror planted his spy disc against the other door and stood
statue still, the others as frozen behind him. Then with a quick nod he
lingered the door itself and that portal opened, letting them look into
a larger room. There was a slit of a window and through that came not
only the seething smells of this muck heap, but also the sound of the
settlement which was more alive at night than by day.

At first Farree thought the room was empty and he wondered how the
inhabitants had gotten past their own hiding place without revealing
their passage. Then he came two steps in on Maelen's heels and saw the
crumpled body by the far wall. The man's face was swollen and flushed
purple on one cheek, his eyes fastened in their direction. Dead eyes! It
would seem that Togger's defense against this particular enemy had
struck nearly twice as potently as Farree had ever seen it before.

The dead man held no interest for Vorlund. He was across the room in a
hurry, edging by the body and coming to the wall against which it
huddled. His hands were out and he traced with arm sweeps and the tops
of his fingers that barrier itself.

"A hidden door, yes," Zoror nodded. "Though I would say he is long
gone."

"Do we go hence also?" Maelen wanted to know. The Zacanthan reached
above and beyond Vorlund's shoulder to rasp his talons along that
stained and crumbling surface.

"I think not."

"Togger--" Farree had no intention of withdrawal until he was sure of
the smux's safety. He certainly could have been flung through that slit
of a window but that did not mean that he would otherwise be hidden from
harm where he to fall to the way below.

Thought might have been a shout in summons. There was a hump which
appeared at the sill of that window and the smux clambered through,
taking off in one of the leaps his kind could make when they were forced
to it. He reached Farree and a moment later was clinging to his chest,
all but two of the spike-mounted eyes retreating into cover.

Farree was quick to put the smux into a safer perch in an inner pocket
of the cape. Only those stalked eyes protruded enough to follow what he
did.

They slipped along the outer hall. The light supplied by the bowls
pulsated but was strong enough to let them edge safely down the
staircase. Again Vorlund took the lead, peering out the door first while
holding it partly closed. He beckoned at last to the others, but there
was a look of concentration on both his face and that of Maelen, as if
they prepared to face a struggle or some wily attack. It was now Zoror
who kept a hand on Farree's shoulder under the bunch of the cape,
drawing him forward.

They were out again in the muck of the lane and Vorlund had his back
against the wall. He had no weapon, but his hands were out in a position
Farree had seen before. There were tricks of attack and defense which
could be wrought by muscle alone which were as effective as any
delivered by steel. Spacers were adept in such as well as in an array of
weapons. Those who were prudent never questioned that they could return
in full any attack upon them which did not begin with them at once
rendered unconscious in some manner.

Just as Farree had been led here earlier by a silent compulsion which no
longer existed, so was he now being moved away. He strove to throw off
that feeling that he must obey some strange order as delivered by an
unknown voice. From that pocket at the level of his chest he felt Togger
changing position and there nibbled at his mind a thought which
certainly might have been from or relayed by the smux.

"Go--far-- "

"We go--at least from here," he returned by mind touch, setting his own
pace to match the Zacanthan's. Maelen was now in the advance of their
party and Vorlund was behind. They might have been guards escorting some
VIP whose life was under threat.

Farree himself could hardly believe that they were withdrawing without
facing an attack, and he was about to question this when the Zacanthan
drew him close as Maelen had held him earlier. He saw the lips of the
wide mouth shape a word, for they were hurrying past a smoking torch.

"We are followed. Take care."

Farree held out his hand and felt Togger's claws close gently upon his
finger not with the poisoned claws but lesser ones. Moving more
awkwardly than usual the smux allowed himself to be hoisted out of the
pocket and settled on the front of Farree's jerkin. If they were
attacked now the smux would have a better chance for defense.

However, the need for that did not come. They were past the trader's
wrecked booth. Then the magician's tipsy platform was also behind them.
They quickened pace until once more the smooth surface of the port gate
was underfoot. Here lights blazed and they must pass in that full glare.
If they were still followed their tracker would have no difficulty
keeping them in sight.

For the first time Farree dared to try mind seek. Instantly his sending
or searching was cut off by the heavy power of the Zacanthan. He did not
need any further instructions to keep silence.

They were in the main room of the port now and there were enough
travelers, staff, and guards, to form a crowd so that the four from the
port slum could weave back and forth among them. Farree knew what they
would do. In any place such as this where there were minds in a
number--their owners intent on affairs only of consequence to
themselves-- this should provide shield for their own passage, as long
as they could blend their own identities into that of travelers
interested only upon reaching some important destination. Swiftly he
withdrew behind a simulacrum of his own constructive thought, a servant
eager to finish a task for a departing master, then to be on his own for
the night. He had not had much practice in such action but he had been
introduced to part-playing roles by Maelen and knew a little. His
companions were adept at this and he was certain that they could draw
about them cloaks of hallucination as strong in their way as the fabric
one he clung to. But he longed to turn and look behind, to test his own
power of unmasking any pursuers.

The Guild--of a certainty those they watched for would be of Guild
employment. On Yiktor the game of that mighty force had been spent by
what Maelen and Krip could summon--with some help from him, and the
smux, and the two other animals who had become Maelen's people in fur,
rejoicing to be numbered so. Only even there the Guild had had their
defense--a man-made thing which could deflect any mental probe and
protect the wearer from such interference.

His memories of that--No! That could provide a counter to what they
needed now. Farree expelled memory. He made himself once more into the
persona which he had seized upon earlier--a servant, hurrying to deliver
a message. Yes, that was surely who and what he was.

They came down the length of that very long room and passed through the
gate where those only visiting the port would exit--avoiding the
passengers' section. Zoror's talons on his right hand tapped out a call
on the credit dial about his wrist. A carrier swung out of the line of
vehicles moving slowly towards their take off. Fighting the desire to
rush for the escape that promised, Farree controlled his anxious need to
be away, in order to follow Maelen and the Zacanthan at a reasonable
pace. They had all boarded the craft and Zoror had tapped out their
destination before Krip said:

"Human and yet not--Terran to the eighth degree in body. Something else
in mind."

Maelen nodded. "Off-world--and with a different mind pattern from any we
have crossed." She looked to the Zacanthan as if she expected he would
know the proper answer to the identity of the follower they had detected
in their careful search.

"A Plantgon--" Zoror said.

Krip's lips shaped a whistle and Maelen looked as if she would deny
Zoror's identification.

"How--"

The Zacanthan shook his head. "His shield is very complete. I might have
pried a little and learned more, but then he, too, would be aware that
we are not altogether without the same defenses and weapons. Yes, he is
one-- No, in that I am wrong--_it_ is one such as we seldom have here.
That it passed the port detectors makes it formidable enough for us. It
is plus ten to be able to reach a place where it will have all the
defenses known to a great many more races than live or have lived. We
may be grateful to some explorer whose wind-blown ashes have fallen into
the smallest of tracing and whose race and time can only be guessed at.
There is one place where even a Plantgon, and I know all which had been
said and guessed about them, cannot pierce with either mind or dream
body."

They were winging, at the speed allowed in the fast lanes, straight for
the headquarters of the Zacanthan study team. Farree relaxed. He had
heard one or two whispers concerning Plantgons but he was not quite sure
what they might be. However, if the name meant so much to those about
him they truly must be formidable opponents.

Chapter Five
============

"What have we then?" Zoror was settled in an easiseat which accommodated
itself to his body. He held in one hand a blackish-skinned fruit into
the skin of which had been inserted a tube from which he sucked now and
then. His companions of the late adventure were all occupied with
restoratives, each matched to taste of the drinker.

Farree rolled his tongue about his own drink tube. The tart liquid was
refreshing, seeming to wash out of him some remnants of the ordeal
through which he had gone.

"Qun Glude 'p itho." Vorlund looked to the small screen of the reader on
the table. "No identification with the Guild. Was second officer on
Halfway in last employment--legal one, that is. He disappeared after his
flight right was canceled. That was on Wayland's World near five planet
years ago. Activities unknown but was seen in company with Xexepan,
commander of a Free Trader under suspicion by the Patrol. Entered into
the records because Xexepan has twice been accused of smuggling--mainly
in the Wormost slave trade. Apparently"--he raised his eyes from the
screen from which he had been reading aloud in trade code the few lines
on a val slip--"Xexepan must have been a shrewd voyager. But what was a
slaver doing so far into the civilized lanes? He could not have been--"

Maelen leaned a little forward. "There is always kidnapping," she
pointed out. "No tie for Xexepan with the Guild?"

Vorlund flicked a switch with his finger and the lines of code flashed
on again. "No straight tie, no. Wayland's World?" He looked now to
Zoror.

The Zacanthan made reference to his own call screen.

"Fourth quadrant--Ast showing. However, this Xexepan sounds of interest.
What was his cover on Wayland?"

"Straight trading. He had some skins, a full cargo of yale sap
containers. That was all on the landing permit."

It was Farree who interrupted, for a dark picture had touched him, but
not from any screen. "What kind of skins--are they listed?"

They all three glanced at him. In the Zacanthan's eyes there was a
sudden gleam.

"Little brother--yes, perhaps you have put thought to something there.
Indeed skins may be a key--"

Vorlund turned back to the reader. "No other definition--only skins. We
might use a chart, High One," he addressed Zoror.

Zoror swung his seat a little to the right. There was a second screen
there, its picture surface now occupied with a viewing of a broken stone
slab across which ran a wavy line of nearly time-erased scratches. With
a click of a button this was gone. Zoror inserted another plate. This
time the screen flared to life with a star map which grew larger and
larger, hurtling towards them.

"Wayland--to the left." He prodded a button and one of the dots flared
green for a moment.

Farree felt giddy, as if he had been wafted into that screen without any
safe anchorage or propulsion. His gaze flickered, almost as if he had
been ordered, not to view the planet Zoror had pointed out but to look
for another. His wings spread, not from any conscious order of his mind.

"Farree!" Maelen's voice broke the beginning of the spell. "What is it?"

"The chart--there and there!" He had reached the table, edged past
Zoror, as his fingers jabbed at the sector far distant from the flashing
representative of Wayland to the northeast, nearly at the end of the
frame itself where there was only a scattering of stars.

"Why?" Zoror asked. "Wayland is near the rim--there is very little
beyond save unexplored worlds, mapped by chart swimmers but with no
information taped to draw either First in Scouts or Free Traders, as
venturesome as those are."

"No!" Farree pounded impatiently at the table. Togger squeaked and
tumbled from his hold on Farree's shirt. He fell on his back and lay for
a moment waving his claws, wide spread to show all their vicious
promise. One of those scraped along Farree's hand as he raised it to
point again at the bright dots on the screen, but luckily did not cut
flesh. "There--that is what I saw--the sky dancers! That chart--it was
what I saw behind them!"

"Sky dancers?" echoed Maelen. "Little brother, we have not been there."

Farree was impatient now. Within him there was a tug, a need to answer
something which was neither words nor mind touch from his companions.
"I--when we were there--in the shiptown. I saw--because of this." Now he
ran his fingers around that brand the vanished scarves had set upon him.
"There were the winged ones--the Mist Dancers--and then before them the
lights. I tell you--the lights are those!" Again he pointed to the
screen. "They are there!"

Vorlund leaned across to see the chart better.

"You say this Xexepan is a Free Trader--and a slaver?" His tone was cold
and his jaw was set. He spoke not to Farree but to the Zacanthan.

"My son, there are rogue traders. And if a Guild man wishes perhaps to
find himself a cover--can he not use such a listing?"

"No!" Now it was Vorlund's turn to explode. "We are not dirty handed, no
matter what others may say of us. As for this Xexepan--if he wears such
a registry mark and is not one of us--then he is an outlaw and no one
can stand between him and any trader who calls him to account. We can
take his ship, him--" Vorlund drew a deep breath. "There was the affair
of the Angol-- Surely it is remembered! Those who used her so--they did
not space again--unless walking on the emptiness outside an air lock can
be considered spacing. The Free Traders take care of their own
name--those who would push it into darkness will have every ship against
them. I say that your Xexepan was either a liar--or the worst of
fools--to name himself so!"

"Well enough," Maelen's calm voice, measured against the heat of
Vorlund's, was very cool. "Wayland--let us see now."

It was her turn to survey the chart closer. Zacanthan drew aside for
her. "I have been a spacer for a short time but--" Now she tapped the
screen with a forefinger. "Look you--a ship riding outward from
this"--it was the cluster of stars Farree had indicated--"what is the
first planetfall suitable for trade or perhaps for contacting some
emissary of the Guild? If one stumbles upon a treasure which is too
large for one to handle there are but two solutions--one, to bring forth
a part of it and seek a partner, or--to leave it, to be ever more
regretted. I do not think that Xexepan is the type to nourish regrets.
Therefore with a token cargo he would search for the nearest planet to
serve his purpose. It may even be that he was already one of the eyes
and hands of the Guild--to search out what will be of meaning to them.

"Somehow I do not think he is a slaver. The Patrol rides the space along
the rim. There would be too much risk in slaving. Perhaps he did go to
Way land to hunt what he did not have--a Guild contact."

"He came from there!" Farree held to his own interest.

"This Guide"--the name twisted in his mouth--"had-- the wings--the parts
of them! You say he had skins--what if those 'skins' were wings?"

Vorlund drew a breath which sounded almost like a whistle. But it was
Maelen who asked in that calm voice of hers, "What _did_ you see, little
brother? Tell us."

He frowned, trying to remember every small detail. "There was an open
land, very fair--" For a moment he was caught by the memory of that
place so totally unlike any world he had seen. "There were
mountains--and those who danced upon the air. I could not see their
faces in the mist. But they possessed wings"--he put up a hand to touch
the outer ribbing of his own--"like mine. They--danced and then came the
lights through the mist and those formed that!" Once more he indicated
the corner of the chart.

"A far reader." Maelen looked to him. "It could be possible. Try--" She
reached out to the top of the table where sat the screen and caught up
what must be a lump of earth, or so it looked to Farree. This she pushed
at him until, without knowing why, he took it up. Again without the
volition of any thought his fingers enclosed it tightly. He looked to
Maelen for an explanation.

"What comes to your mind, little brother?" she asked.

Why did she do this when there were other things to be thought of? But
under her compelling gaze he looked down at the clod he held. In that
part of his mind which could and did speak to Togger and the others
something stirred.

He closed his eyes, again not knowing just why.

Before him was darkness, then into that night came--

A creature moved. It was slender of body, and was raised on stiltlike
limbs--four of them. Two more jutted out from the body and those gripped
a black wand or stick. The slim body was round in comparison to those
legs, as was its much smaller head. And it emitted purpose--and that
purpose was killing. Behind that no rage nor fear, rather the neutral
state of a thing which grew because the instinct of growth lay within
it, as might a seed within the earth. It raised its weapon, if weapon
that was, to bring it down with what appeared to be the full strength it
possessed.

Yet that defense did not save it. Rather it stumbled back as a sharp
lance of what might be flame centered on the creature's body. It twisted
its limbs as it fell, twitching and kicking. Still Farree knew that it
was dead.

He opened his eyes then and looked to Zoror. Choosing words as best he
could he was about to speak when the Zacanthan said it for him.

"Death--yes--and a being who knew enough to arm itself and strive for
defense." He spoke to Maelen and Vorlund. "You saw--?"

They both nodded. Zoror took the lump from Farree. He tapped it
carefully against the table then brought forth that talon instrument
which he had used to such good effect in the shiptown. The nearly iron
hard covering flaked away, to show a contorted mass of fine yellow
bones--hardly larger than a finger.

"This is from my own world," the Zacanthan explained. "Zatan made an
expedition when I was but a fingerling. He went into the Canyon of
Double Dark and what he found there was this--" Again he slipped a tape
holder into the screen rim and the scene vanished to display something
else--a bulky cylinder lying on a table, a hand and part of an arm of a
Zacanthan resting next to it to show that it was indeed small.

"The remains of a ship," Zoror continued. "Old beyond even our counting,
but truly a star ship. The crew must have been both small and limited as
to numbers. We sent inner beams to explore and classify. Its like had
never been seen before. That"--he indicated the bones still entombed in
the stone hard lump--"was found not far from the exit lock. What our
little brother here has shown us may be a crew member of that ship. This
lump was caught against the ship which our expedition brought back. I
have kept it as a reminder that there may be strange things even in
one's old world--puzzles which have no solving--as yet. We have talked,
Farree and I, about legends and tales, both encased in 'history' as
these bones are in this petrified soil, but perhaps still alive in the
speech of some races even today. The Terrans have such stories, which
they carried with them out among the stars. A winged race, a race which
once inhabited the same planet as they sprang from, a race which was
feared both for their strange knowledge and its enmity with the dominant
species of that home world.

"The legend sprang up again on many worlds as those of Terran descent
spread among the stars: Little People sometimes friendly, but mostly to
be feared for the powers they possessed, which could not be equaled or
understood by those of other blood.

"It is perhaps not mere coincidence that such a story could be known on
Wayland. In fact that world was named by a scout who was known to be a
collector of legends. He served my people also with what he brought back
in strange tales and artifacts. When age caught him he retired to Zorp
where he was received with honors and his lectures were deservedly
popular. I, myself, attended the one which dealt with 'Wayland,' which
world he named after a legendary 'god' or storied hero. There was part
of a memory song which he told us then--and it has lingered always in my
mind, for to my race it carries a hint of interesting speculation. To
his kind it was meant as a warning, to my race a challenge in our quest
for knowledge.

"The bit of old lore went like this:

"Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We dare not go a-hunting
For fear of little men."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vorlund's lips had moved in company with the Zacanthan's as he repeated
the rhyme. The Zacanthan nodded.

"So you know this also, far traveler?"

"I heard a part of it once--from a tales teller on Dawn. But it was then
part of another story which ended--'because of the grind'--which was a
local story monster--one who was an eater of children."

"Little men," repeated Maelen. "And the knowledge of them spread--yet
none have been seen?"

Zoror nodded toward Farree. "Perhaps they are seen now. As for gifts
which would seem strange and even dangerous to those who did not have
them--here is our younger brother able to mind speak, and also to read
the past in part." He tapped the broken lump.

Only Farree was thinking of something else. "The wings," his hand went
up to touch an edge of one of his own. "The wings--'skins'?"

That rage which had possessed him earlier was returning. Again his hands
met before him so he could rub fingers about that brand which had been
set on him, as he looked over Zoror's shoulder to the screen where he
saw not the miniature space craft still pictured there but rather the
star chart. It would seem that the Zacanthan's thought moved with him
though Farree was not aware of the invasion of that other mind this
time.

"It would seem that there is trouble there."

"The Patrol?" questioned Vorlund.

Slowly the Zacanthan shook his head. "What evidence have we? You have
read the data existing on the man with whom we have had contact. Xexepan
is under suspicion, but unless more evidence comes to light they would
not move. The Guild? One can believe anything of them. What we overheard
makes plain that there have been seeing eyes following Farree and
doubtless you also. But it is our younger brother here who I think is
their main objective. Yet he does not have any knowledge which would
benefit them. Thus they want him because he is how he is."

"And who am I?" flared Farree. Sometimes he felt as if he were entangled
in words when he wished only the freedom to do--to do what? He could not
answer that.

"That is what you have come here to learn," Zoror returned. "A race new
to us, save in old legends--"

"A race," Farree repeated, "which was once feared, which has a feud
perhaps with the Guild--" His mind sped from what he believed to what
might be believed. There were odds and ends which might well be woven to
form the truth of that!

"West quadrant." Vorlund might be still staring at the chart but it was
plain that his thoughts were speeding elsewhere. "There are journey
tapes for Wayland, that must be so. But do those exist which will lift a
ship still farther out?"

"Officially?" Zoror picked up his drink again. "That would be only the
brief one of the scanner. There may be another--perhaps Xexepan has it."

"A scanner tape," Krip said musingly. "We have operated on such before.
It is a chancy way to travel, to be sure. But my people proved that it
can be done--over and over again."

"So they have," the Zacanthan agreed.

"You cannot go there." Farree spoke against the surge of feeling which
was filling him. "You have done much for me--" He held out his hands,
one toward Maelen and one to the Free Trader. "Twice you have freed me.
From the stench that was the Limits, from the hiding place I carried
with me." His wings waved as he remembered how he had walked under the
burden of his tight-furled pinions, thinking that he was one deformed, a
bit of refuse. They had called him, those of the Limits, "Dung," and he
had accepted that he was not one who had any future save the days and
nights of a scavenger. Not until when venturing with these two into
danger had his wings at last broken free, and he had done for his
friends what they had done for him--a service beyond their power of
body. They did not look at him. Krip might have been turning over in his
mind some problem, viewing it first from one side and then the other, as
he often did. Maelen again flexed her fingers--she could have been
painting on the air some picture which only she and those of her people
might translate.

Zoror leaned back in his chair, putting aside the drained fruit. "Yes."
He was not answering Farree but appeared to speak his own thoughts
aloud. "There have been expeditions outfitted from just such a thin
thread. But two things will be needed--authorization from the Patrol and
credits enough to outfit for what may be years of search."

Krip's mouth quirked. "And neither do we have;" Farree stared again at
the star pattern. He was without any influence, without any credit save
what had been his part of the reward for their smashing of the Guild
conspiracy on Yiktor. He wore wings to be sure, but they were not such
as would bear him across the star lanes. Yet there was a hunger growing
in him, the feeling there would never be any peace for him unless he
could find out--

"No, you do not," Zoror conceded. "But--" Maelen interrupted. "An
expedition for the purpose of studying a new race, or ruins remaining:
what else do you have but the best reason of all! Your own life has been
spent thus, and if you should add something to that great storehouse of
knowledge your people maintain--"

There was a throaty chuckle from the Zacanthan. "Sister, you need not
tempt me. As all my race would be, I am already won to this quest. You
are right, we do not value any reward save that of knowledge gained. We
heard those space vermin speak of a treasure. That must be the lever
used to move the Guild. However, we can adapt that rumor to our own use.
Treasure has many times been found in the remains of a dead and gone
race, or even species. Wait--"

He pulled out of the embrace of the easiseat and crossed to a second
screen. Before he dropped his hand to the call button there he waved at
the others. They caught his unvoiced warning--to scramble out of the
range of that screen so that whoever might answer would not learn that
Zoror was not alone.

The face which flashed on the screen at Zoror's summoning was that of a
Tryistian, her sleek feather crest lying flat, her large eyes half
lidded. By the badge on her jacket she was one of the records keepers
and also Patrol, but of the Scouts.

Zoror spoke first: "Serve-Wing, is it possible to locate for my seeing
the spotter tape covering--?" And he recited a jumble of figures which
meant nothing to Farree.

"Your purpose, High One?" she asked.

"Recent information. There may well be a find of note to be made there.
Before I make my report I must check this."

"A spotter tape, High One, has little information. However, if anything
so reported would be of interest to you, it is freed. Switch to inner
files--"

"My thanks-giving, Serve-Wing--" Her picture had already disappeared
from the screen. What flashed on in her place was a diagram composed of
figures and symbols making no sense to Farree, restraining his growing
impatience. However, both Krip and Maelen now went to look over the
Zacanthan's shoulder to watch the procession of data.

Impatience continued to eat at Farree, for it seemed that the streams of
formulae would never cease. Twice those lines were halted for a moment
or two by a sharp motion from Krip. He had taken from an inner pocket a
small hand recorder and was holding that up to face the other
broadcasting unit, apparently taking notes on some portions which he
must believe to be important. Then the date was gone leaving the screen
bare except for the flickering light. Zoror typed out an answer which
would carry his thanks for the information and list it as Zacanthan
research.

"Two solar systems," Krip said. "A sum of twelve planets. I think even
Zacanthans might think several times before an expedition was fitted out
for such a prolonged hunt."

"Some of those worlds," Maelen pointed out, "are such as would not
sustain any life with the same requirements as ours."

Krip nodded but did not answer otherwise. He was busy with his own small
record. "There are three Arth-A, six which are borderline, the rest--"
He shrugged.

"So you have three now, not twelve," Maelen pointed out.

"Two in one system, one in the other," the Zacanthan agreed. "If you
were a far trader--as you once were, brother-- to which would you first
chart your way?"

"To a doubtful gamble--that one." His finger indicated a choice. "But
there was no reading of life on that report. Should it not have checked
for that?"

"Some do, some don't," Zoror answered. "The probe making this report was
a long way from its home base, or the ship which launched it. Its data
banks were nearly full. They are sensitive enough to anticipate a shut
down and allow for one as they clear their complete fill up, and it is
time for them to return. This was launched on 7546G and it returned on
7869G."

"The time of the Pan-wen War!" Krip cut in.

"Just so. And during that time the Patrol was fully occupied. The report
may have just been added to others, lain unnoted for a hundred planet
years or more.

"I wonder." He tapped his display of fangs with a talon on a forefinger.
"We may not have been the first to be so interested."

"Who could reach that information without authority?" asked Maelen.

Again Zoror gave that throaty chuckle. "A good many, sister. There are
many secrets which the Guild hug to themselves. It is said, and with
truth, that new weapons and informational devices are often obtained by
bribery, murder, thievery. No matter what arms they may run and sell for
planet wars, the most effective ones are kept for their own raids and
secret attacks. That they have access to sealed information is well
understood. So that if they tap into such storehouses of exploration
tapes as that we just witnessed they will have their own method of
making it profitable. Who knows, they may hold rights auctions to their
own newly discovered worlds with outlaws bidding, and a large cut for
the Guild at regular intervals. Just as your people, younger
brother"--he nodded toward Krip--"buy traders' rights from Survey."

"So," Krip returned, "then we have a secret which may not be one?"

"Our Farree here says so with his very presence," Maelen answered. "How
did he come into the Limits? He is mind blocked, and with such an
unknown power that even the Ancient Ones of the Thassa could not search
far into his memory. Perhaps one of your stolen Guild devices did that.
He is here and we--what do we know?"

"Only the bits of legends which are deemed more tale than fact," the
Zacanthan said.

"The wings!" Farree burst out. What if the Guild had as many devices as
the stars sprinkled in the night heavens? There were those lengths of
beauty which he had held. That dream, or vision, also--the dancers with
the wind who were like himself.

"The wings," Zoror repeated. "And a measure of what we overheard this
night. So--" His words carried more of a hissing as he spoke faster and
with emphasis. "We have a chart, we have the edge of a mystery wherein
the Guild may be at odds with all comers. We have a ship." Now he
pointed with his taloned forefinger to Krip. "We have a Moonsinger whose
talents perhaps even the burrowing, spying Guild do not understand. We
have one from an unknown world and his valiant companion." Now he
indicated first Farree, and then Togger. "We have an old one who wishes
to learn a little for himself and no longer, for a space, pore over the
reports of others--" Now the finger pointed to his own chest. "Do we mix
the lot of these and what do we do with the sum of it?"

Maelen laughed. "I look to you, High One, and I look to my comrade in
adventure, as to our younger brother here. To your questions there is
only one answer. Let us go and see!"

Chapter Six
===========

Farree hung suspended in the webbing which protected him during take-off
and transition into shift. With his wings he could not lie on one of the
bunks. As usual he was giddy, with a sickish taste in his mouth, and was
for the moment content to remain within the restraints. Around him the
walls of the ship vibrated with the force which was its life. It was
Krip's ship, Maelen's ship, the one which they had thought to travel the
star lanes with those in fur and feathers who would go, to prove to the
other worlds they might visit that there was a brotherhood between life
forms which must be recognized. They had begun on the world of the
Limits with a bartle and Yazz, both of whom had played a part when the
Guild threatened them on Yiktor. Nor had those two chosen to remain
behind now although Maelen, mind touching, had explained what must be
done.

This time, they need not depend upon an unknown pilot, one who might
even be a traitor to them as had been so before, for Zoror was himself a
pilot and had carefully studied the tape he and Krip had patched
together from the data of the searcher. They had lifted off-world
recording a goal which was far enough from what they sought that their
actual destination might remain their own secret.

Zoror was sure that no spy set by the Guild could penetrate his own
library-cum-laboratory. That building was manned largely by robots
carefully constructed to obey his voice alone. Though the Zacanthans
spoke trade talk, their own language demanded a voice range no other
species could project.

However, Maelen had detected a mind search seeking vainly to enter their
stronghold several times during the counts of twenty days while they
were making their preparations. There had been no difficulty with the
authorities. The sector Patrol Commander had stamped his own private
seal on their permission papers. A Zacanthan was never questioned when
he or she voyaged.

With Zoror's own equipment tuned to a new use, they had inspected--and
Farree had been able to join in handling that--every shipment of
supplies before it was sealed into the ship. There would be no stowaway
surprises to attack them.

Farree himself had lapsed now and then into meditation. To his continued
disappointment there were no more visions. He might have been
concentrating upon Zoror's own home. On their last night a-planet he at
last ventured to speak of this--for if there was no truth in his vision
they might even now be acting at a long range motivation induced by the
Guild.

He had stood among them, his own wings folded as tightly as possible,
and voiced his fears.

Maelen shook her head. "Not so, little brother! Had your vision been a
trick its falseness could be speedily read. We who did not see with you
might well have seen instead a lashing of the web in which that was
bait."

Zoror agreed with her. "There is this too: an object which carries a
message may be set to carry such only once. Having made contact with you
the charge was exhausted. That one did indeed leave its mark." He gently
touched the brand on Farree's wrist. "But only we know of this."

Though he had a great deal of awe and respect for both the Moonsinger
and the Zacanthan, and their similar though different ranges of mind
send and thought examination, Farree was not convinced. However, he did
not mention his fears again. At least on his wrist he did carry proof
that there had been power a-plenty in those remnants they had found.

To his shock and disappointment his memory of the dancers and the sky
chart did fade even though he strove to hold it in detail. Zoror's story
of unknown devices which the Guild could control was part of a private
distress. He had been helpless prisoner for a time to one such when they
had made their foray into the Field edge town. Could he then have also
been marked, even by the scar on his wrist, so that he could prove a
guide for others without his knowledge?

They made the change into warp drive easily enough. Farree had to move
carefully through the ship, with his wings tight folded, as the passages
were narrow, His sleep periods were uncomfortable as he must also
accommodate those pinions within another cramped space. Some of the time
he spent down on the lower deck with Bojor and Yazz. The huge shaggy
bartle that had come from the world of the Limits passed easily into
slumber, content to spend most of the voyage in a kind of hibernation.
However, Yazz sought mind contact and asked questions Farree could not
adequately answer.

Yes, there was a world awaiting them which had open spaces where a
fisual could run to her pleasure. Though he himself could not remember
too much of the world of his vision, the bright green of the land below
the mist clad mountains remained with him. He was sure such a world
existed elsewhere--he could only hope that the tape Krip had spliced
together would lead them there.

Since the ship was running on a locked voyage tape, with all the alarms
for any emergency set, Zoror did not occupy the pilot's seat any longer
than it took for him to check at certain intervals that all was well.
When hunched back again into the long seat at the end of the bridge, he
triggered a small scanner and set a procession of pictures, interspersed
with more lines of the intricate script of his own species. Maelen
shared his seat and his interest in the records of finds which had been
made--Forerunners' long lost works. Rightly she might search such, for
the body she now wore was that of a Forerunner--some queen, goddess or
ruler of a people totally forgotten until their hiding place of treasure
and long sleepers was uncovered in a secret mountain hold where the
Guild had come to meddle with that which they might not have been any
longer able to command had they gone some steps farther in their
investigations.

Dying, Maelen had taken on the body of another long sealed into a
chamber to await a waking which had not come in the millenniums between
the time when the last barrier had closed and that hour when spoilers
had broken through. There she had fought a battle with the remnants of
an evil will which still clung to the body, banishing that other after a
hard fought engagement. Now she asked Zoror if her present like existed
in Zacanthan records, only to be told that she who was gone might have
been one of half a hundred races who had sought the stars in years now
so far in the past that the numbering of them could not even be tallied.

"It is, you see," Zoror said once when they were all together, Vorlund
swung about in the co-pilot's seat to face the other three, "for us a
matter of putting together many bits of discoveries, like striving to
set in position the shards of a Trysua glass picture which has been
broken past redemption. There is perhaps the find of a derelict ship,
preserved in space where it has hung past our accounting, or one of the
wind-beaten ruins of the Uavan Desert on Tav where one can only guess
what the original form once was.

"And there is also the shifting of old tales, of stories told by far
travelers. There was that of the Numerod--"

"Captain Famble's find!" Vorlund cut in.

"Just so. Famble might well have been one of my own race, so diligently
did he search for that which was only known because of a few sentences
gasped by a dying spacer taken from a life boat. The richness of his
find on Scar nearly matched that which your own ship discovered on
Sehkmet. Only of the people who fashioned those works of art, those
things of great beauty, we know nothing more. In none of that treasure
was there any hint even of their race or species. They used many motifs
of flowers, strange birds--or at least winged creatures--and others
which ran six-legged, inlaid with gems to remain for all time. But of
the representation of any creature which might be deemed one of the
makers--of that we had no hint at all. And Scar, as you know, was a
burn-off, half of its surface congealed slag, so imbued with radiation
that any close search was impossible, even for one well suited up; while
over the rest of the world there was a tangle of vegetation gone totally
wild. We have deduced by what we saw and found there that those who had
left their belongings in the caverns had done so in haste, yet thought
they might come again. However, they did not--"

"There was also," Maelen said, "the skull of Orsuis. Not even your
people, High One, had seen such as that before."

"That has proved to be a puzzle which many of us seek to penetrate when
we are in youth studies." Zoror nodded. "The skull might be that of a
modern spacer of the old Terran breed--but it is wrought from a single
lump of Cris-crystal which the experts tell us today cannot be worked by
any known method. Yet it exists, and plainly it was in some way a manner
of communication. There are many puzzles for the finding here and
there."

Farree nodded, rubbing the brand on his wrist. During his time in the
Zacanthan's headquarters he had seen many strange things. There were
also the legends Zoror had stressed about winged people, the Little Folk
who were supposedly known to Terrans, not only on their own world but
out among the stars.

Flight time was wearying at best--especially when the ship was on
destination tape. However, the Zacanthan used this period to keep their
minds alert, holding their interest to more than just winning through to
the end of the voyage. During the arbitrarily set ship's hours Farree
and the others listened to Zoror's fund of stories of finds and
mysterious worlds dead from some war or catastrophe, where ancient
weapons yet fought on and anyone trying to land was attacked. Farree
paid eager interest at first. The world of his childhood--the malodorous
Limits--had had nothing to feed his imagination or instruct his
mind--and this was heady stuff.

Only when he was back in his own cabin, Togger occupying the bunk Farree
could no longer use because of his wings, he would rub his wrist until
the skin was chafed-- wishing he had the other silky scraps the booth
owner had had, trying, until his very mind seemed to ache, trying to
evoke an answer alone, but possessing nothing to read it from.

He shivered now and again when he seemed to be answered by a thrust of
pain as sharp and fleeting as if he had faced a laser beam. Each time
that occurred he was left sick and hurting.

Farree was squatting on the edge of the bunk, his back to the
compartment door, when one such a session had been so sharp and
debilitating that he swayed back and forth. Togger gave a claw rattle
that made plain he had picked up a strong broadcast of Farree's pain.
Nor was he the only one for a voice reached him from the compartment
door:

"Farree! That--is death!"

His arms were wrapped over his chest as if he must cling to some part of
himself against a fear that was near unbearable. Almost, almost he had
been able to pierce that fear, to reach who or what was behind it. His
cheeks were wet with drops which gathered on his forehead and ran
downward.

Fear--yes, fear, but with it anger-- Both emotions seemed to lie as a
brand upon his thoughts even as that length around his wrist had put its
burden on his flesh.

"Farree." Maelen had moved along the wall until she could look directly
into his face. "You must not do this--"

He shook his head. Then he half whispered: "I must know!"

"And what will be good for you to know, younger brother, if it puts its
mark so deeply on you that you cannot function? See?" She reached out to
draw her fingers down his wet cheek. "You labor and that which you would
draw near you is--death. We also have the inner sight, we can follow so
far--to go farther means the upsetting of the Scales. Molaster gave us
the gift of such sight; we are vowed not to use it wrongly."

For the first time he looked at her. "I must know," he repeated; but his
voice was dull, that painful awareness gone.

"Perhaps--but not that way--never that way, Farree. None can see beyond
when they take the White Path, just as none may return." Again her hand
stretched forth as she held it palm down and a little above his wrist.
"This--even I can feel what this holds, little brother. That which is
implanted with sorrow and death cannot be used lightly. For your own
sake do not seek to do that."

There spread into his mind something more than the words she spoke--it
was a soothing, gentling feeling, like hands bandaging a gaping wound.
Dimly he realized that what Maelen was mind casting was that same
assurance that she had many times used with those she called her little
ones, whom others might term beasts. Sighing, he nursed his wrist, for,
under the soothing thought, he realized that there was truth in what she
said. He dare not waste he strength on this search-- not when there lay
more arduous trails ahead. That there was danger coming he had no doubt.

"Good," she spoke aloud rather than thought. "I promise you, younger
brother, that there will be a time for you, and when that comes you
shall have a great part in what will follow."

He glanced at her, surprised. There were always hints that those with
mind speech could also do more--even as he had proven he might read from
touch. Only to foresee was not widely known and all he had ever heard of
it was rumors.

"Not foreseeing." She picked that up quickly. "It is rather by
reasoning, Farree. This is no easy voyage which we make now. If we raise
the planet of your people it is well we be prepared for trouble there--"

He nodded. Yes, it did not take any mind skill beyond thought' to
understand that. Also she was right, he should not waste what gifts he
had trying to compel answers, for that was useless. Any mind skill came
and went spasmodically and you could not force it.

So he did not try to summon up again what he had seen so briefly in his
one vision. That must have fulfilled its purpose when he had remembered
and read the chart which had sent them on this voyage. Instead he set
himself to another way of preparing for that which might wait ahead. Not
only did he coax more and more reminiscences from Zoror, but he visited
Bojor in the cabin which had been specially fashioned to fit the huge
furred body of the one-time wild hunter, an animal on its own world so
greatly feared that even the stories of its bloody meeting with settlers
roused terror.

Farree was learning now from a source which lived and breathed, far from
the tapes and scrolls the Zacanthan guarded so dearly. His own short
life--or as much of it as he could remember--had been spent in the
filthy dregs of the Limits--infinitely worse than even the portside on
the planet from which they had risen. He had never seen open country
until they had finned down on Yiktor. There events had sped by so fast
that he had not had time to think of what they saw but only of what must
be done, and as speedily as possible. He had acted mainly from instinct
and not from knowledge.

Now he matched thoughts with the bartle and so lived the life of the
great furred hunter. He padded down mountain trails, his head up to
savor the wind and any message that it brought. Claws were sharpened on
a favorite rock which also marked the boundary of Bojor's own hunting
ground. And so did he slip from one outcrop of rock to another, eyeing a
small herd of grush feeding the shoulder-high grass. Thus he squatted on
the banks of the stream, one paw ready to dip in with a gesture
seemingly too delicate to be used by a bartle, and bring out a
swift-swimming creature which had the sinuous body of a reptile.

It was not a one-way meeting for thought which tied Farree to Bojor
during those sessions. For the bartle roused from his hibernation enough
to display a curiosity of his own, and demanded that Farree return
adventure to balance adventure. The life of the Limits was something
which Farree recalled very briefly and from which Bojor turned away in
disgust. Those hours he had spent on Yiktor were all he had to offer.

He could still recall the wonder of that time when the hideous hump
which had made him a matter of disgust all through his days split and
peeled away and his wings were born. The first moments of his beginning
flight, when, unsure and clumsy, he had made the attempt to raise
himself above the ground, he remembered well--and all the rest of what
the wings had brought him--the chance to serve Maelen and her people as
no one except he who was so endowed could do.

That memory appeared to interest Bojor above all others.

His own experience with flyers had been only with birds, one species of
which had followed him boldly from place to place, feasting on the
scraps of any kill. For creatures such as himself and the others aboard
this ship (Farree discovered from the first that Bojor looked upon them
all as fellow beasts, clearly apart from the hunters who had first
entrapped him, even though they had worn the same kind of bodies as his
present companions had), flight was very strange indeed. He plied Farree
with thought questions as to how one felt speeding above and not across
the earth.

There were not only Bojor's memories to be tapped, but also Yazz's. The
slender-legged, beautifully coated animal had other information to add
to that which Farree was eagerly assimulating. So and so did it feel to
come upon a strange track in the muddy bank of a drink-pool. A nose at
such times was greater than an eye to tell whether this was an enemy or
a stranger who need not be feared.

Farree rubbed his own nose ruefully at that. Though he had been able to
trail the wing patches into the ship, he certainly lacked such sensitive
and selective nostrils. Thus Yazz added to his store of knowledge about
what one might search for in a new territory.

Zoror, Bojor and Yazz all had something to add to his lessoning in
preparation for the future. But it was from Maelen, and from Vorlund,
that he learned that which would be of most importance if they descended
from the stars to discover their chosen world had other menaces--perhaps
from those whose interest they had already brushed against.

"They had that wing portion." Vorlund gestured to the mark on Farree's
wrist. "It is true that trade after trade may swing from planet to
planet, nearly across the space lanes-- but those wing portions, while
they are rare enough, might have little value in themselves. They might
have been brought to back up some story, to entice backing, even as a
form of introduction from one Veep to another. Perhaps they thought to
use them not only as bait for you--but for all of us, little brother,
who must now be well known to the Guild--did we not spoil their game on
Yiktor? And they do not easily forget losses and failures. It would not
be well for them to either lose or fail without exacting
punishment--they have enemies enough who might be so encouraged to fight
back. Yes, if this is bait--then we are perhaps heading straight into a
trap. So for that we must be prepared."

Thus Vorlund became his instructor in other ways. There was the use of
the slender knife which the spacer carried concealed in the top of his
space boot. Though their room for practice was greatly curtailed, Farree
learned how to throw. In addition he listened as carefully as he did to
all his other instructors for useful information which could only come
from a Free Trader who had known a number of different worlds. Not the
least was Vorlund's collection of Guild information gathered from years
of listening in ports and to shipmates.

Farree had thought that life was of little worth in the Limits where not
even the peacekeepers walked except in pairs and then with tanglers at
alert. However, the more he heard, the more he came to believe that
there were dangers he had never dreamed of when he had slunk through the
shadows of that pest hole. He had once thought that life in the upper
town would be ideal and now he was certain that peril was even more
complex and ever-present there also.

Dream-- It was one night when he had settled in his cabin hammock that
he began to dream.

He was hovering above a rich green spread of vegetation where bright
touches of color rose up to the sun as the worlds appeared to spark a
star chart. A stream of water bubbled along, so clear that one could
well view the stones scattered over its sandy flooring and spy upon the
fleeting shapes of water dwellers.

There were taller growing plants along the stream edge and among those
fluttered gauzy winged insects, their armored bodies jewel bright. For
there was warmth and light-- not only from a sun, but also shooting from
the mountains which stood high to protect this peaceful cup of valley.
Here, too, there was the drifting silvery mist which floated, now and
then veiling off one of those heights and then another. Only this time
no flyers winged through it--there was only an empty land. Farree was
struck of a sudden with a sensation of vast loneliness containing not
fear but despair.

He was unaware of his own body--only that he could see--and feel:
settling upon him was a need to go elsewhere. There was a flashing of
light and he faced an opening of what might be a mountain cave. From the
throat of that spiraled the glittering mist.

If this was a natural fault in the rock there had been those eager to
refashion it, for there were workings to smooth the rock and then
overlay it with crystals such as he had never seen. Pure white, like
water frozen into clusters, shading downward to the threshold and upward
to a squared-off space. Those jutting points near the foot were dusky,
yellowish, as if soil had worked into them before they had been frozen
into immobility and, far above, the water-clear stones were tinged with
a faint shade of violet which deepened into a rich purple.

The doorway drew him and he floated (for he was not aware of flying in
this dream) towards the entrance--only to be so sharply and suddenly
repelled that he was driven out of dream and sleep in the same instant.
He lay, gasping, his heart beating so fast that he felt it must be
shaking his whole body. For a space of time which could be measured only
by his hurried breaths he adjusted to the fact that he was in the cabin
and not before that burnished, gem-studded and open doorway.

Far in his mind something stirred as if a door long and securely locked
was shaken. He lay inert and strove to reach that door, only to have a
sickening whirling possess him utterly.

While he pressed his hands to his mouth to help control the rising
sickness in him, there came a signal from the wall of the cabin. They
were coming out of overdrive--if Krip's efforts had been successful, the
system they sought lay waiting for them.

Farree moved cautiously, levering himself up in the hammock. The
sickness was still with him, but so was that vivid and complete
dream--as much of a reality as if he had specifically sought out the
crystal door.

Chapter Seven
=============

There it is!" Krip pushed forward in the co-pilot seat to view what lay
on the vision screen.

Green, blue--a round ball rapidly approaching them was before their
eyes. For it seemed to Farree that that world was approaching them
rather than they were seeking for a landing place on it.

"Ah--" Zoror's hands were busy on the controls. A feeling of tension
spread from the Zacanthan to the rest of them. Just as in the dream the
crystal door--or something-- had warded Farree off--now the feeling
arose in him that danger waited--

Zoror's attention was all for the bank of buttons and levers before him,
but now he spoke to Vorlund: "Station for entrance--do you use the
controls also--" The Zacanthan's shoulders were braced as if he were
exerting force against more than buttons.

Vorlund's own hands flew down on the co-pilot's controls and his face
drew grim.

Did a flicker on the screen actually waver for a moment? Farree was
almost led to believe that it did. In that breath or two out of time it
might have been that their ship was warded off, held from entering the
inner skies of this unknown world. Then, if there had indeed been a
barrier, it was gone. They finned in with the same ease as if the
Zacanthan had held the ship in his hand to place it neatly on a solid
surface. Vorlund leaned forward to touch the level of the vision screen
which would turn slowly to give them a full view of the space where they
had landed.

There were wisps of smoke rising which veiled much; the landing rockets
must have found something to set alight. Maelen was reading symbols
which flashed on a smaller screen near her right hand. Those blazed up
in small green flashes, each one of which Farree knew stood to reassure
that beings such as themselves dared explore without wearing ponderous
equipment meant to battle hostile atmosphere.

The air, the light, all seemed well; there might not be a second warn
off. Farree wondered if any but him had felt the first. However, when
they prepared to down ramp and go to view this world he saw Vorlund
buckling on a stunner belt. Maelen flexed her fingers as if her bare
flesh was also a weapon.

That the Zacanthan was also reaching for a stunner was a surprise. So
respected were the Zacanthans across the star lanes that even a Guild
Veep might consider carefully any idea which included interfering with
one. In fact rumor had it that Hist-Techs' continued studies of the past
had included experimentation with outre weapons of the Forerunners and
that they were better left strictly alone. Farree had his knife in his
boottop but he doubted his own efficiency with that in spite of
Vorlund's careful schooling.

They came out on the ramp which was slung out over the strip of burnt
vegetation. Maelen paused, fingers lightly clasped and held out as she
slowly made a half arc turn, sweeping from one side of the country
before them to the other, Vorlund and Zoror pushing back a little to
give her full room.

Farree used his mind without any link to an instrument. Of a sudden he
took to the air, soaring up above the ship, winging out and away from
the circle of destruction its tail flames had caused as it rode those in
for their landing.

He headed for a point in the cup of valley in which they had landed--a
green-covered hump to the north of the ship. It was the first, he noted,
of a series of such which sprouted upward in a straight line. They
varied in size, however, some being taller even than Zoror afoot and
others so small their presence could be overlooked unless one was
searching for any rise in the vegetation.

The careful placement of the hummocks made Farree believe that they were
not the work of nature. Burial mounds? Ruins well concealed by years of
abandonment? He loosed his mind touch, but there was nothing, not even a
fraction of a hint as he earthed on the first one of the line.

This vegetation was thick, curling upward about his feet near to knee
height. Hidden by the many three-pointed leaves were small flowers of a
dim grey-white, as if the sun, so warm on his wings, never touched them.
The weight of his feet loosed scent, sweet-spicy, while from near the
patch where he had alighted there burst into the air pellets, some of
which struck against him and clung. Those, too, were the grey-white of
the flowerets. He pried one loose from his jerkin, finding it sticky,
holding now to his fingers. But the moment he took that into his hands
he had again a pain-edged flash from that inner part of his mind which
had been always sealed until he began this venture. He--he knew this!

Salenge! Ill-bane! It banished ills and made the heart light--only how
had he known that? "Salenge," he repeated aloud. His fingers closed of
their own accord on the tiny clove he held. It burst under pressure,
releasing another scent, sharper, making his nose tingle, the saliva
flow in his mouth. Again, without conscious thought, he raised his now
juice-coated hand to his mouth and licked the remnants of the burst
berry from his flesh. It was cool in his mouth and hot as he swallowed.

Farree flung back his head to look at the sky above the arch of his
wings. Salenge--that he knew--and also its use. Only he had never seen
this before--or had he? Impatiently he thrust at that barrier in his
memory and then swayed at a second bite of pain. No, do not push--Maelen
had told him this and she was right. There was nothing but emptiness
when he sought. Yet when he let his thoughts settle elsewhere there came
hints such as this.

He stooped and shook the plants gently. On his other hand and arm he
caught as many of the expelled balls as he could. Then he winged up, to
circle the ship in an outward swing, studying the ground below.

They had not landed in what could be thought a valley, rather in an odd
formation of ground. It was indeed cup-shaped, a perfectly round stretch
which was walled by cliffs and rises, with no sign of any break through
which one might depart without a climb. Through the lower of those
cliffs were partly masked in curtains of vegetation, as thick-matted as
the ground, with many entangled vines, the reaches higher up were of a
stone which was of a grey close to silver. Through that ran a pattern of
veins of a clear white which in places caught the sun and flashed as if
they were embedded with gems.

There were no trees or large shrubs--only the rippling of the salenge
which was thickest about that line of undulating mounds, then grew less
and less until on the other side of the finned-down ship, beyond the
black marks of its landing fires, there was a sprawling of what seemed
to be leafless vines across a grey-brown soil, hardly distinguishable
from what they rooted upon.

Farree climbed with strong beats of wing until he reached the level of
the sparkling stone. The air was clear and the scent of it was the scent
of growing things which he gulped, after the recycled atmosphere of the
ship, in mouthfuls, fairly drinking it down. The exultation which came
with free flight was like a heady draught. Almost he forgot all else
when he swung around over that space where the vines made odd ridges,
leafless against the ground.

For the first time he centered his attention completely on that. Its
contrast to the verdant growth at the other side of the space ship
became more and more apparent. He dropped to fly closer. There was
something about--

Again a sword of memory cut at him deeply.

Hagger--a hagger run. He could see in his mind a bloated brown body, a
thing which ran stomach down on six legs. Yet the shape of its head--!
Hagger!

That which controlled his flight did not wait for memory to grow any
clearer--it sent him climbing, heading for the gem rocks with wildly
beating wings. Then he fought free of that fear, turned back, coming
once more to his first perch on the mound. Again around him arose the
scent of trampled salenge, soothing--relaxing--

Hagger and salenge--where under the moons of Three did such ever come
together? The moons of Three! He dropped his harvest of burst berries
and held his head in both hands. Again a memory flash--why did such
torture him so?

"Farree!" Maelen's mind call brought him out of that haze of pain. "What
is it?"

He did not answer. Instead he took wing, flying back to the ramp
outsprung from the ship and there stood before the other three. Plucking
a salenge berry from the edge of his sleeve he held it into their full
sight.

"This is salenge--what they call also ill-bane for it heals _all ills_
and wounds if it can be used in time. And"--he gestured to the
ship--"behind that are the hunting lines of the hagger. Do not ask me
how I know this--I cannot tell." He shook his head slowly. The pain had
eased, yet he knew that it was lying just beyond--waiting--

"Where have we landed?" To Farree's surprise Zoror asked him nothing
concerning what he did know.

"Thus--" Quickly Farree replied with a picture of the cup in which they
had planeted.

It was Vorlund who broke the silence first when he had ended.

"No way out then?"

"Not unless you climb. But I have not had time to search thoroughly."

Maelen let her hands hang free. "No life registers--save our own party."

"Those mounds." The Zacanthan nodded to the humps Farree had first
sighted. "Grave barrows, ruins--" He spoke as if to himself. Then he
asked Farree the question for which the other had been waiting.
"Salenge--hagger--?" Repeating the words he made them an inquiry.

Farree shrugged. "I cannot tell you why," he repeated, "but that much I
know."

Vorlund sealed the lock with a word code they all repeated after him and
then they moved off, Zoror heading straight for the nearest one of those
hillocks. Vorlund stood eyeing the nearest wall, now hidden under that
thick coating of vegetation and Maelen held her head up, staring
straight northward, as if from a breeze now rising she had gathered a
message.

Farree's gaze followed hers. He actually staggered as the strongest hurt
from that hiding place of his memory struck home.

"Caer Vul-li-Wan--"

Not part of the barriers which closed them in now, no--rather a peak
upstanding like a narrow tower surmounting a keep. White against the sky
which was a rich green-blue-- Down its sides he thought he could see
flickers of glitter even as far away as it must be--perhaps the same gem
light as on the upper reaches of the cliffs about.

Almost as if his small flash of recognition had sent out some unknown
message to alert sentries, there was a gathering of haze about that
spire, a cover which might have been drawn from clouds too high to be
seen, and it was gone from view.

Zoror's thought struck with almost the same force as the memory touch
had given Farree. "Caer of the Seven Lords? So--it would appear that we
have indeed been caught up by legend, younger brother. But whose legend?
Have you come in summons by the 'Little People?'"

Farree paid him no attention; he thought only of the sight of that slim
uprise against the sky. No, he had never seen that before-- Then where
had he gotten that name, and known that it was truly the right one? The
haze which hid it now--the Breath of Merl-Math wafted in, to confuse any
not of the true blood. But not raised to confuse him.

No, there was other cause to wear the wind veil! Other causes--!

He was airborne once more, hardly aware that he had beat upwards with
what was near a leap. It did not matter that the Caer--that which called
him--lay elsewhere. Farree wheeled in the air, looking not to the north
where the peak was now hidden but to the west. At that moment the ship,
those from it, everything which made up the mystery of this new world
was wiped away. In him was a compelling call which only he might answer.

Already he had passed above the lip of the cliff which walled in the
cup. There was no stretch of green beneath him as he dropped a little
lower, skimming across a space filled with many pillars and wedges of
rock, where there blazed forth with force enough to make him squint and
strive to see _only_ through a narrow slit, flames of light, red, green,
blue, yellow, and also rainbows of many colors.

"Farree!"

He blocked that call out of his mind. Beside the compulsion which sent
him on it was but a fading whisper. He was needed--he, alone--not those
of other blood--those who plundered and took, killed and enslaved--

"I come!" He thought that with all his might, all the power he had
learned from Maelen and Zoror. It was as if his own thoughts broke and
tore as had that rough skin which had covered his wings, freeing him in
another way.

Even as that tatter of some other's wing skin had led him through the
crooked lanes of the portside town, so did that appeal, growing ever
louder, draw his mind. The stretch of country where the jewel fires
blazed fell away. He saw before him now a sloping into another valley
but one much wider and more uneven of shapes. There was the glint of
water there, and clumps of what might be trees. No bare soil showed the
crisscross of hagger ways. Yet there was life here. Across the valley a
number of dark animals were apparently grazing the short turf. One flung
up its head and pointed that in Farree's direction. On so low a thought
band that he almost missed it, he sensed part of what might be a
question. He had no desire to linger and answer. The creature reared,
flashing forelegs in the air, perhaps in challenge, while those others
about it bunched swiftly, before taking off first in a trot and then at
a rocking gallop.

Up from the copse of trees not too far from the river whirled a flock of
birds taking to wing with the speed of warriors summoned by a chief's
horn. They drew near to Farree and he saw that, though they appeared at
a distance to resemble birds, this close he could see no feathers. Their
brilliantly hued wings were more like his own and their bodies were
covered with scales which were as jeweled in this light as the cliff
rock he had crossed moments earlier. Their heads were long and narrow,
split near the beginning of their sinuous necks with gaping jaws which
showed teeth.

He eyed them warily and soared higher. There was a wind now which was
chill and had what could be a snow bite to it. Perhaps it had come from
the taller mountains to the north. For some reason the bird things did
not try to join him. Instead they wheeled as if on some shouted order
and headed north, leaving the sky clear.

The sight of this alien life had, in a strange way, dimmed the message
which drew him on. Now that was strong again. Suddenly he was looking
down at a disturbance of the turf and soil below. There was broken
earth, gouges and ruts. Surely those were of such a size as to make
certain they were no beast spoor left to be tracked by a hunter. Oddly
enough they had sprung from a point in the middle of a bare space of
ground as if whatever had left those marks had issued from beneath the
surface itself.

Farree flew on. Now he discovered that the call which drew him lay in
the same direction as that trail. He winged ahead to where a fringe of
small hills were a screen between any ground traveler and the land
beyond. But the ruts found a way among these barriers, weaving in and
out. Here the valley, which had appeared narrow in the beginning,
widened out, though even from the air he could not see what lay far
beyond. The same haze which had veiled Caer-Vul-li-Wan cloaked it as
fully as if a curtain, hung high in the heavens, lowered folds to hide
the earth.

For the first time Farree faltered. That plea which had brought him so
far had been cut off--as suddenly as if death itself had been the
portion of the one who uttered it. Also there was something about that
haze curtain which struck him with a greater chill than even the snow
breeze had raised.

He turned track and flew south--only to find there again the curtain in
place, while the call was not even a whisper of a whisper. The haze did
not hang to the north or across the eastern sky through which he had
flown. As he coasted along still a good way from its edge he tried to
search with mind call for the cry he must answer, only to shrink
backward--for it was as if his own thought, badly distorted, had been
thrown back at him. Nor was there anything in his treacherous memory to
match this.

To fly above was no answer for, as if it were indeed some weapon aimed
at him, the haze spiraled upward also, matching him. From it that
deadness reached outward. He was sickened, drained, having all he could
do to keep a-wing. The ebbing of energy brought him at last to ground
level where, once he felt the firmness of the sod under his feet, he
struggled to keep on those feet, unable to do more at first than to gasp
for breath.

The haze might have defeated him at this first encounter but that
certain stubbornness of spirit which had kept him going as a homeless
misshaped creature of the Limits held him now. His wings folded down
about his shoulders like a cloak as he crossed to a big rock which
showed a deep scoring, as if that thing which had made the road had
grated along it. There he sat on the stone, his hands on either side of
him, bracing his body as he strove to master the weakness assaulting him
in deep waves. His move raised the scent of salenge. There must have
been some of the seed globes still clinging to his clothing. He inclined
his head to draw that reviving odor into his lungs. A flicker of more
recent memory came uneasily-- He raised one juice-stained hand to the
front of his jerkin. There was no familiar bulge there.

Togger! It was the first time since he had first known the smux that he
had actually forgotten him entirely. Now, finding him gone was like
losing part of a wing--or a hand. The discovery shattered the spell of
compulsion that had kept him seeking westward. He viewed the haze
squarely. It appeared to be drifting in his direction. There was a curl
of it reaching out to where he perched. Without knowing why he put out
his hand and--felt actual pressure against his palm!

Instantly he jerked away. The Wall of the Carrion Wind! There was a
faint odor of corruption which flowed from his hand, where it had rested
against the unseen, up into him. Farree closed his eyes, and saw
darkness shot through with hard brilliant beams of light--light which
was as straight as a laser ray. Between those beams there were shadows,
some leaping forward as if to drag down a hunted creature for the kill,
others falling away because some flash of light touched them and slew.
In the midst of the whirl of light and dark someone stood. At first he
thought it might be Maelen or even Zoror.

Then he knew that it was neither but one who ruled the Carrion Wind and
set it as a barrier against which the living might beat in vain. Only he
could not see the one who labored so.

The brand about his wrist awoke to pain, almost as great as that which
had first struck him when it had been set upon his body. Farree opened
his eyes. He might even have whimpered aloud as the torment grew. He
looked down at the hand which he had raised against the force of the
haze. There was a blaze of color above the brand mark, hiding that with
a brilliance of gem radiance.

He raised his other hand to nurse his hurt, wavering to his feet,
feeling as if he burned in a fire from which there was no escape. Farree
cried out.

"Utsor vit--S'Lang." His voice seemed to slant outward--almost as if he
could see the words take shape and strike at the haze.

There was a curdling of the mist; it might have been stirred by some
great ladle. The barrier began to thin before him, first forming a
window of sorts through which he might look upon what had been hidden.
Then that slit lengthened into an open portal. Farree blinked, shut his
eyes. The vision of the darting lights was gone--

Carrion Wind: once more his lips shaped the naming. The stench from the
drifting filaments was strong enough to overcome the last trace of the
salenge which had revived him.

He did not take to wing again. Instead, with his pinion-cape furled
about him, he went forward on foot, picking a way with care because of
the deep ruts and holes in the surface of the strange road. The inner
call which had summoned him was alive again but very faint and
faltering, as if the one who formed it was near to the edge of strength.

Farree stumbled and kept his balance with difficulty. That which tripped
him was only half buried in the broken earth. He stooped and dragged it
free and stood staring at his find almost stupidly. He knew it--it was
out of the past which he well remembered--the hell hole of the Limits. A
pulse whip! His finger slid along the indentations in the butt. No
weaving of force answered him. Burnt out. Only to find this favorite
weapon of slavers here! He made to cast the evil thing from him and then
reconsidered. Zoror--the Zacanthan knew such disciplines; it might even
be that he could pull out of the torture weapon some idea of who had
wielded it last, advance an idea of what enemy they might be about to
face.

The haze was near dissipated. Farree had wondered what lay beyond the
portal his shouted words had opened. But there was only the churned-up
earth, which vanished when it reached a curve of height beyond.

That which had called him faded again and died. He still felt the
renewed pain in his wrist but he was no longer imbued with the drive to
fly ahead. Instead, with the whip thrust safely in his belt, Farree took
wing again, heading back towards the ship.

He half expected to see the haze rise again, to the east, shutting him
away from his shipmates. But there was no more clouding of the sky. The
sun was farther away--and the chill winds buffeted him. He looked to the
north, half expecting to be able to sight the spire of Caer Vu-li-Wan;
only it was as if that had been erased from the sky. There were similar
heights to be sighted--the one most important was gone.

Farree scowled. Now he could no longer trust his eyes-- That calling,
was it responsible for this blindness? There were too many questions and
no answers he could pick up for himself. What words had he shouted? Now
he could not remember. Maelen, Vorlund--to them things like this were
known. The Zacanthans closed no doors upon the hope of knowledge, even
though it was yet only a hope. What had he? Fragments of a tormenting
memory, but so little more.

He shook off his sudden self pity to look around, seeking some landmark.
There were the cliff tops ahead, not so alive with flashing colors now
that the sun was nearing setting. To him now all looked alike and he had
not even the sighting of Caer Vu-li-Wan to set him aright. He was
startled by a harsh call--one he heard with his ears and not his mind.

He was not alone in the sky. Above and beyond him a second pair of wings
beat, wings as large and wide-spread as his own. But they were not
mounted on anything which could in the least be thought his kin.

It was black, that elongated body, which twisted as easily through the
air as a snake would cover ground. The head was turned in his direction
and he saw a half open mouth, not unlike the ones he had seen on the
smaller thing which had flown ahead of him earlier.

It screamed again. Farree needed no other warning, and he flew with all
the speed he could summon. That thing also had great clawed feet. Those
talons now flexed as if ready to close on prey and as it was fast
overtaking him, a third cry sounded almost in his ears.

Chapter Eight
=============

He was over the cliff top now, streaking at the highest speed he could
muster to elude that flying thing. Its body twisted and turned as
lithely as that of a snake, matching speed with him, but keeping a
little above on a parallel course, while from its open jaws flashed what
could have been a tongue of flame. Still, though it hovered above him,
giving every indication that if it wished it could attack, it remained
two lengths of its own long body behind. Why it hesitated to pull him
down was a growing puzzle.

Farree's head jerked up and a lock of his hair flopped across his
forehead in answer to what did reach him.

He was meeting a stream of thought which wriggled back and forth as did
the body from which it sprung, its message now clear, now snapped just
short of fading out with the speed of a breath.

"Darthor, Darthor!" The words burst from him. The stab of memory did not
come so sharply this time.

He no longer strove to flee and at the same time somehow keep eye on
what had been a menace. Had been--? Of a surety it was so.

"Darthor, varge!" Surging in beat, his own wings carried him higher,
brought him around in a glide to face the monster.

The creature cut speed. It veered to the north, though it still kept its
large orange eyes fastened upon Farree.

"Darthor, varge!" He shouted as one who has mastered a captive horror
from some unknown world and impressed his will upon it.

It squawked, lashing the tail which was a good third of its body length.
A shaft of what certainly looked like real fire shot again from between
its jaws. It did not spiral away from him, only altered its line of
flight so that it flew tandem with him, matching its speed to his.

Farree switched from voice to mind send. "Darthor, servant one, hunting
lies not in my shadow." The words came to him in curious formal fashion
as he thought them slowly and with the emphasis of one who would be
obeyed. A dim picture hung behind that voiceless speech, Darthor a-wing
after something which fled in frenzy, while behind him was one who was
also winged, who carried a glittering rod in one hand. Himself! No, that
could not be-- Not him, but one who was his like, before whom Darthor
flew as a hunter. Yet Farree's first fear was not quite appeased. He was
no master of this creature. Still why did he know it and fear its
coming?

For the moment he could do nothing. Darthor was flying in odd spurts
even as a land-running thing might give sudden leaps, and always it kept
its eyes on Farree. There was a sly sullenness in that gaze, as if the
hold he had on it, keeping it from the leap which would tear him from
the sky, was only tenuous, that at one moment or the next he might lose
that unsteady control.

They were in sight of the edge of the cup valley now. Shadows had crept
from the heights to reach out toward the ship. Farree headed toward that
mound where he had first trod the earth of this world.

An air-splitting shriek which seemed able to rend the rocks themselves
startled him. Even as his feet met the mound he looked up. That creature
who had accompanied him was lashing its tail, its whole slender body,
back and forth through the air. It would attempt to fly in Farree's wake
only to be hurled, actually hurled, back in the air, wings beating
fenziedly, other shrieks following the first.

There was rage in every assault it made from the edge of the cliff top.
Its clawed forefeet reached out as if to tear the air itself into
shreds. Farree was aware of movement beside him. Vorlund came to a stop,
his stunner unleashed and ready for firing.

"No!" Farree cried out, striking at the other's stiffened arm as he took
aim.

"Darthor--guard--" He fitted together the small scraps of knowledge
which he had. "It fears--you!"

Saying that he knew he spoke the truth. The air creature was centering
that yellow-eyed stare on Vorlund while lashes of the seeming flame
burst from between its jaws. There was rage in it which was as strong a
weapon as the one the spacer now held.

"It cannot come here." That also was true Farree knew. There was no
billowing haze to present a wall and yet there existed a barrier,
unseen, unfelt by Farree in his flight--only set against other things.
At that moment there was released from the squirming, flapping thing
another kind of attack.

Vorlund cried out. Though the stunner wavered in his hold, he did not
drop it even as he fell to his knees. Farree had been on the edge of
that blow delivered mind to mind. But not from Darthor--that creature
had only released what was being fed to it.

"Fragon, Shadow commander, I name names." The pain in Farree's locked
mind nearly sent him sprawling beside Vorlund. "Name names," he thought
again. There was a mad whirl of color in his head, but he still held to
what was blanking out, or attempting to black out his mind, as a
blindfold might have cut off his sight.

"Fragon, Fragon--" He chanted that sing-song aloud as well as holding
firmly to what he directed toward the flyer.

"Fragon," he repeated. Then he was chanting: "By the sky hold, by the
throne, by the green, and by silver worn, I do call the name--thy name!"

The thing on the cliff top writhed, spinning as if some great fingers
had closed upon it to wring it like a rag. It was screaming again. But
pain had arisen to blot out what it had been transmitting. Vorlund was
shaking, his face strained unnaturally, but he was rising, though the
stunner now lay in the thick green growth about their feet.

A new power possessed Farree. He felt a surge of such strength as he had
never known. His wings spread wide and he held clenched fists above his
head.

"Take your Shadow one, Fragon!" His thought had somehow grown louder,
more demanding also. "Take the Darthor, Fragon. There is no meat for its
rending here!"

Abruptly the fading turmoil the creature broadcast ceased. It still hung
aloft there, its head lower than its coils of body. Farree knew, even
without being able to see at this distance, that it was closely
observing them, still a tool for another, but one who was wary, angered,
yet not ready as yet to take the lead into battle. Then the creature
whirled in the air and the steady beat of its wings carried it northward
where a thickening haze cloaked height after height, hiding well what
might await them there.

Farree caught at Vorlund's shoulder, steadied the taller spacer who
leaned forward to catch up the stunner, only to slap it deep into its
holster. Then he looked straight at Farree.

"What was it? It would have killed--"

Farree shook his head slowly, rubbing one hand across his forehead where
the cessation of that confrontation had ended for him in a dull headache
and a mistiness of thought.

He knew--knew what and why? He was unable to sort it out now. There had
been contact and now there was emptiness, total withdrawal.

"I--don't know--" he quavered. Within both his mind and his body there
was a sickening churning. Pain, which might have been there during the
attack but which he had not noticed there, bit deep.

"You named it," Vorlund countered. "There was a second name
also--Fragon--"

Farree shivered and then heard another voice, speaking, not intruding
into the place of growing torment in his mind.

"A mighty mental power is this Fragon." Zoror came up behind them. Now
he looked directly at Farree. "So, little brother, your mind barrier
still holds?" He reached out one hand and gently pulled Farree's fingers
away from his pain-wrinkled forehead, pressing his own to Farree's head
in their place.

It was like a draught of water to soothe a dry mouth and throat: from
that lightest of touches spread a cooling.

"I have never been here before," Farree answered in words, "yet I know!"

He felt Vorlund stir beside him, but it was Zoror who spoke: "Know what,
little brother?"

"This country--or part of it!" Farree swung out his arms to indicate not
only the valley but what lay beyond. Then he looked around to see Zoror
still studying him. It was difficult to read expression on that scaled
face so different from a humanoid's, but he thought that the Zacanthan's
usual one of wide interest was now narrowed into a beam like the
Darthor's fiery tongue, reaching out to him with the same force that
flying creatures had used.

He closed his own eyes momentarily, in a hope to shut doors against the
other's unspoken probe. Farree could not rid himself of the feeling that
Zoror was willing an answer out of him.

"Where did you go, brother?" He had been too closely observant of the
Zacanthan to note that Maelen was now also here. Her fingers pointed to
Farree himself.

"Up," he answered dully, gesturing towards the gem-banded cliffs. Too
much had happened to him. He wanted a time of quiet, or the ability to
shut out the lingering tumult in his mind. "There is a large, very large
valley over there." Now he gestured westward. "Animals--I think they are
animals. Something like a road worn by heavy wagons--then"--he lifted
both hands in a hopeless gesture--"there was the fog--the wall--"

He strove to make plain the nature of that barrier but he had hardly
finished when it was Zoror's time to question.

"Why did you so leave us, little brother?"

Farree answered with the truth. "There was a call. I had to answer."

"And--" prompted Zoror.

"With the wall it was ended--that call."

"Ended so that this Darthor might take its place? Perhaps," suggested
Vorlund, "you did not answer quick enough. The impulse to incite you was
not strong--"

"No!" Farree interrupted sharply. He moved a little so he was facing to
the north, to that sky finger of a peak now completely hidden. "They are
not the same!"

"What are _they_?" Maelen's voice was soft and low, and she did not
strive to touch mind to mind. For that Farree was deeply thankful.

"There is--" He looked down at his hands and then was aware of a sharp
tug at his boot. The ill-bane grew in a thick mat but it was trampled
here and Togger was easily seen. He stooped and caught up the smux,
holding him tightly. In all this maze of wounded memories Togger
remained real, alive, and an anchor Farree could cling to.

He cradled the smux, taking pleasure in feeling the creature's body
pressed close to his own. "It comes only in bits. It hurts to think," he
said slowly. "But I believe that there are two forces here which do not
work together.

Fragon--and do not ask me to tell who or what that name is given
to--controls the haze--and has spies along the land. The Darthor
projects visions of what happens on the ground by cruising along the
haze. I think"--he was frowning and the smux wriggled a little as if he
were now grasped too tightly for even his tough skin to take--"I think
that there is something beyond the haze--that which or who summoned me.
And that other is in great peril and needful of aid."

"Which this Fragon would not allow to be given?" Vorlund wanted to know.

Farree nodded. "Only I could not go through the haze-- it was a wall.
And perhaps another exists here--for the Darthor could not come to us.
Two--two forces--" His voice trailed away.

Farree recognized the listening look Maelen wore. This was the Lady as
she appeared when in contact with one of the animals or birds which were
her lifelong other-being.

Zoror and Vorlund were quiet now, also watching the Moonsinger. Shadows
were swinging closer as the sun descended, reaching easily the cliffs
they could not climb. Her hands showed the beginning of a flush. Farree
guessed that she was taxing to the utmost one of the few defenses her
people had kept when they had destroyed a dangerous and contorted past
to become wanderers on the earth of the planet they once had ruled.

She began to hum, and that faint sound throbbed also in him as her flush
traveled over her skin and grew deeper.

Maelen opened her eyes. "There is something there. It does not yield to
any search my people know. But it is aware--of us. It--" She did not
complete what she would have said then but her hands no longer held
straight. Rather they tilted towards the mound on which they stood.

Farree caught his breath even as he heard a whisper of hiss from Zoror.
Then from beneath them as they stood--! It was as if something climbed
with ponderous movement up towards them, its passage setting the earth
to rock with warning.

Farree's hand swept out, knocked up Maelen's fingers. He knew that what
might now be awake and stirring was no friend to such as disturbed its
slumber.

He dared to shake Maelen hard, as if he could force her to throw off
bonds of a compulsion. Then she spoke directly to Farree.

"What comes to my call?"

A source outside his consciousness supplied an answer and as he gave it,
he was also entirely convinced of its truth.

"The Sixth Champion of Har-le-don. He who shall rise in the last days of
the Far hosting, no longer oath bound to any lord, but shadowed by the
binding--" He cried out then, and threw back his head to look up into
the evening sky. There was no flutter of wings there, no heart-rousing
song of battle to face.

"Come not the dark for our day is not yet dawning!" He knew the meaning
of the words he cried aloud, but he did not speak in the common language
of the trader tongue.

It was Zoror who moved first. A scaled arm wrapped about Maelen's
shoulder and she was swept from the mound top while Vorlund leaped
outward, putting a side distance between him and the hillock.

"Farree!" His voice and Zoror's rang together. However, it seemed to the
one they had left behind that the herb growing so profusely there
entangled his feet and would not free him. Still he sensed what stirred
beneath the ground. With that came something else, a thrust--though
weak--into his mind. Not painful this time, rather cold, diffused. What
or who might have aimed that might be only a little aroused--not yet
returned to--

Using all his strength Farree repelled, defended. His wings opened to
bear him aloft, but not toward the ship where he had thought to go:
rather as if he had received an order he could not disobey. Farree
landed on the next of the mounds, then after only a breath or two of
resting, he was aloft again. Once more gripped by compulsion he crossed
the open space, flying from one mound to the next, some large and some
small, until he came to the northern cliff wall. The hold on him was
broken there. He turned and flew back to the ramp of the ship. When he
touched down there he felt free, as he had not been since they had made
landing. What had forced him to make that flight he could not have told.
He clamped his wings down into folds and walked, for the first time
suspicious of the pinions he wore, back into the ship, trailing after
those who had already gone in that direction.

Nor did he wish to look over his shoulder, to see if the Great Mound
showed any of the disturbance which was troubling it from below.

He found the others in the pilot's cabin, Zoror holding a reader, his
large eyes fastened upon a screen smaller than the palm of his narrow
hand.

"'People of the Hills.'" His voice was half hiss as it was always when
he was excited. "That is the ancient name-- People of the Hills. And
their kingdoms, their places of refuge, were often said to lie under
mounds!"

"That was glamorie."

The three of them raised their heads to stare at Farree. Maelen and
Vorlund wore expressions of no comprehension but Zoror's eyes glowed.

"Ah, glamorie," he repeated.

"Do not ask me questions!" Farree threw at him. His hands again
bracketed his aching head. "I do not know where I find these words, or
why--"

"It is no question," Zoror continued. "Rather this is a part of the old
legend of the 'Little Men.' In many tales and fragments of tales, which
have been gathered from the planets where the old Terran breed settled,
there are such small scraps to be harvested. One of the stories which is
told over and over again consists of two main elements. First, that the
People of the Hills (and you were very right, younger brother, in giving
them that name) had a different reckoning of time. To be in their
presence for perhaps a night took a mortal man or woman away for a year
from the life they knew, to stay under the hills for a year meant
several centuries passing for the captive or guest from the outer world.

"The other strange gift they had was that of glamorie, of allowing those
of the upper and outer world to be deceived easily, thinking they saw
something very different from what was real. One of the People might pay
for service in coins of gold, the one paid only to discover in his
pocket not long after dried leaves or a twist of grass. The People could
produce a great dwelling worthy of a high noble and he who feasted there
with them would wake in the morning to find himself in a ruined and
deserted pen for the safe keeping of animals. Also it is said that if a
human was by some chance able to see through these webs they spread he
or she might be blasted sightless when this knowledge was betrayed."

"Then they were always avowed enemies of other races?" Vorlund wanted to
know.

Zoror's horny fingers rasped along his lower jaw. He shifted his stand a
little so he was facing directly north.

"They were, according to the old tales, ever changeable. Some that were
not of their race they would aid freely, making common cause with them
against danger. Others were for their sport and suffered from their
careless cruelty--"

"In other words," Vorlund said as the Zacanthan's voice trailed away,
"they were much like us after all--save they perhaps used weapons which
we could not wield."

"True," admitted Zoror. "What they would do with us now--for that we
must wait and see."

"See!" Maelen was not repeating Zoror's word, but rather summoning their
attention.

It was well into early evening. The sun had been cut off so that only
the fading of a deeply rose-blue swath across the sky marked it.
However, there was other light in the cup valley. Points of glimmer
touched the top of each of the mounds as a flame might spring from a
candle. They differed in shade or color from one another--here there was
a rose shading nearly into crimson, there was one which flared first
blue and then green; beyond was yellow, scarlet, even a deep rich
purple. Only that largest mound was different yet.

There the blossoming light was not a candle flame; rather it flowered
into a circle, from the rim of which shot spears of gemlike brilliance.
In color it was different also, being a frosty silver such as might
appear on a winter snow bank when a full moon stretched across ice
crystals. The points of each of those spears flashed also blue and
green.

"A crown," Maelen said softly.

Farree bit hard upon his lower lip and fought for control. Just as that
summons had taken him into the air and out over the unknown land, so now
was another compulsion gathering within him. Without knowing what he did
his hand stretched out--although the mound was far away from him in
reach-- his fingers crooked as if setting grip upon the crown. Then he
shook his head as one who strove to drive away some inner fog, and his
hand folded into a fist.

"Staver's Bane--" His voice was hardly above a whisper. "Take up that
and the world is one's for the having!" Then he raised his voice in a
shout which carried out over that display of jeweled flame. "I do not
trouble you, Old One! I want no power from you! Sleep again,
Havermut--your time has not come!" He was shivering, one hand clinging
to Togger who somehow provided an anchorage in a place of whirling
strengths rising to battle one another.

He leaned over the rail of the ramp, and then there came from his
twisted mouth those ugly obscenities which had studded the language of
the Limits. Farree cursed the crown of light, those night candles about
it, and fear fought anger in that cursing.

As if his words, expanding outward, possessed some visible power in
themselves, the flames flickered. But that which he had hailed as
Staver's Bane swelled larger and larger, embracing more and more of the
hillock on which it was the crest, the silvery radiance of it slipping
farther and farther down the rounded sides of the rise. No longer did it
resemble a crown--rather it was a wheel which began to spin, so that the
lights of its spear points became circles undistinguishable one from the
other.

Farree, hoarse from shouting, caught at the rail of the ramp. He had
only to-- No! another part of him shouted in his brain, drowning out the
first--it was truly a bane to him who would lay hand upon it. For this
was no crown of the blue moon, it was rather a trick, a trap, bait to
catch the foolish! Of that much he was sure.

The circle now had reached the ground level, forming a wall about the
mound. There was a haze arising from it--

Farree shuddered. With one hand still upon Togger to anchor him safely
to the here and now, he fumbled with the other in the air, jerking
fingers back and forth as if he were able to so erase what he saw. ,

High above the wall of the cup from where night had gathered with racing
speed, there came a shaft of light like the force of a laser beam. It
sped across the still gleaming candles and struck, full upon those who
stood at the top of the ramp. Zoror cried out and slumped down. A
rainbow of sparks shot from Maelen's fingers. Vorlund caught her as she
stumbled back, and held her against his own body. In that moment the
spacer appeared the strongest of them all. But Farree was held
motionless, as if pinned within the space he occupied by that needle of
light.

It came from the north, and, though he looked into the full glare of it,
unable to turn either head or eyes away, he saw not the blasting of the
light but behind and beyond. There was a balcony, set into a wall and on
that stood others--he could see no faces, no bodies clearly, yet he knew
them for what they were--these were the masters of this world and to
them, all who came in ships were dreaded enemies.

Chapter Nine
============

A moan sounded. Farree rubbed smarting eyes and turned his head. Vorlund
leaned against the wall of the door port to Farree's left, Maelen was
limp and motionless in the spacer's arms. Her eyes were closed and yet
she moaned again feebly and tried to raise one hand.

Zoror had reached that point of what might be temporary safety before
them. He was sitting up, his head clasped between his two hands, his
fanged mouth open as he panted, drawing in breaths as if he had been on
the point of being strangled. Still, as Farree glanced outward once
again, the light was there, yet stopped at the port through which they
had come as if some tangible force had cut it off. Zoror pulled himself
up on his knees. He was still breathing heavily, yet it would appear
that his condition did not keep him from the quest for knowledge which
was the ever-present employment laid on his species.

From his belt he drew the talon knife which was both an honor badge of
his people and, most times, his only weapon. He caught the tip between
the two fingers and tossed it out to clatter down the ramp towards the
ground.

What followed was like being caught near the tail of a ship taking off.
There was an explosion of searing light which again left Farree blinded.
Then-- Something which he had sensed--a compulsion, a stern
will--vanished. He pawed at his eyes with one hand--they were still
watering. However, that spear of light from the north was gone. The
weapon of fire might have failed; he was sure it had not willingly been
withdrawn. There remained--like a whisper in his head--
unease--counter-fear--astonishment--all. Then that, too, vanished and
there was nothing but dark and silence.

Those candles on the mounds had snapped out of existence as quickly as
had the weapon of light. There was only thick dark outside now, dark and
a rising wind which beat with an icy lash against Farree as he staggered
a step or two forward to look out into the valley. At first he had a
fraction of terror, the belief that he had been blinded by that last
shattering of flame. Then, as he turned his head frantically from side
to side, he saw that each of the mounds was still sending into the cold
of the night thin trails of faint luminescence--it might be the breath
of unseen monsters turned visible by the icy air.

There was no crown, no candle flame. Farree leaned against the side of
the door opening and he looked beyond-- toward the north from whence
that spear had come. His teeth caught hard upon his lower
lip--there--and there--and there--!

Not as bright as the mound candles, in fact tenuous enough to be only
ghosts of those flames, there were pale lights. As his eyes adjusted he
could count them--nine-- They were too faint in color to be camp fires,
and from each streamed a thread of grey unnatural mist. Outward to the
south they were reaching over the valley, waving as might banners. The
first of these now dipped down, as if to lap them out of their refuge,
but it came no farther than the foot of the ramp. There it wavered and
clung, sweeping back and forth, joined and fed by those other traces of
vapor, which made it more visible.

It was trying hard to get to them but it was walled away. Farree heard
an exclamation from behind him. A stunner clicked, aimed at that
wavering tongue of mist. It did not vanish, no, instead it appeared to
draw energy from the power sent against it, so that the tongue of mist
spread wider, its movements becoming more energetic and threatening,
though it still did not reach beyond the foot of the ramp.

"No--!" He heard Zoror's voice. "Cold iron--your boot knife--let that
feel iron!"

His cry might have been for Vorlund but it was Farree who heeded the
order first. He grabbed at his own boot top, caught the hilt of the
weapon which Vorlund had taught him to use, though he had never done so
except in practice. The hilt was warm in his hand, the warmth growing
into real heat as he raised it. Then, as the Zacanthan had done before
him, Farree threw, aiming at the tongue of mist. He saw the black spot
that was the speeding knife, and then the whip back of the mist. It
broke into tatters which waved wildly in the air. A moment later he was
aware that Vorlund had joined him loosing the infighting weapon of the
spacers.

That mist fluttered, a thing now of ragged, dissolving wisps. It drew
back to the mound which had been crowned, but no farther than that,
changing the direction of its advance, pointing rather to the ground
than to the ship beyond. Once more it was rebuilding in shape and
strength.

"Cold iron! That is truth then!" Zoror's hand fell upon Farree's right
shoulder. The Zacanthan may have yielded to the strike of the original
beam but now his voice was full and deep again. He was, to all
appearances, his old self as he leaned past Farree to blink out into the
night.

"Cold iron?" Vorlund demanded. "What do you mean?"

"Mean?" Zoror's voice carried all the force of one who has chanced upon
a long-hunted treasure. "That once more there is a kernel of truth lying
snug within legend, brother. It was said many times of the Little People
that the one weapon they could not circumvent nor withstand was iron
itself--iron which made man the master of the worlds where, one after
another, they disputed his lordship."

There was a moan which was closer to a sigh. Farree swung around.
Vorlund was down on his knees now, supporting Maelen. By the ship's
lights her face was pale and drawn. She might have lain for long in the
hold of some illness. Then her eyes opened and she looked up at the
Zacanthan.

"They have power--such as even a Singer cannot summon--"

Zoror nodded. "It was always said of them that they were not to be
easily overcome. There is something here, though, which we do not
know--why should they attack without warning when we mean no harm?"

"Because of me!" Farree said bitterly. "And I do not have the knowledge
to be able to discover the why of that either." Once more that ache in
his head strengthened. There was something--something to be done--and
the need for doing it gnawed within him; only he knew not what it was or
why he must do that unknown act.

"We are safe within here," Zoror glanced around at them, his gaze
lingering a moment on each as if he measured their strength and
abilities. "Let us rest the night in iron-governed safety and see what
the morning will bring."

Farree, half blind again from the pain in his head, lurched obediently
into the corridor beyond the port. Somehow he got down to the level of
his own cabin and there collapsed into his hammock, aware of nothing
more than that his body rested and perhaps his head might follow. One
hand moved restlessly. His palm felt sticky and not knowing nor caring
what he was doing he brought up his hand and licked at it, so gathering
into his mouth what was left of the bruised leaves and berries of
ill-bane. He chewed and swallowed that harvest. The pain which had been
a tight band about his head eased. He slid, as he might have on the ramp
had he lost his footing, down into darkness.

There was a great hall, and panels in its walls were a-glitter with
light, cold light, in spite of the fact that some of the colors were the
red and yellow of flames. The pavement underfoot was silver, perhaps
even true blocks of that metal. He did not tread there so much as waft
above it, yet he did not feel any expansion of his wings.

Between the glittering panels were others of the same silver as was
underfoot. Those were wrought with patterns in high relief. Some
depicted strange creatures such as the fire-breathing snake which had
hunted him back to the valley. Others were humanoid in form, yet
differed one from the other. There were bodies like his own, winged and
plainly traveling aloft. But there were also other things, grotesque,
some monstrously so, and more merely strange, exuding no menace, as did
a few.

There were no torches or lamps within the room--the radiance seemed to
flow from the flooring beneath. Then he became aware of swirls of a
milky mist which was coiling and recoiling, reaching every time farther
out into the middle of the chamber. From somewhere there sounded a
single trilling note. Two of the pictured wall blocks vanished sidewise
into the flanking wall and there entered two whose wings were furled
about them like colorful capes, even as he himself went where he trod
the earth.

One was slightly taller than the other; since the wings sprang from the
shoulders, they concealed most of the body, and were of a deep crimson
shading into a silver as glinting as the pavement. His head (for the
features on that calm and nearly expressionless face were ruggedly
masculine, with a seam of scar across one cheek) was held high and there
seemed to be flickers of fire in his large eyes.

His companion was just as plainly female. Her enclosing wings were the
delicate ivory of the ill-bane flower, but they were also touched with
silver which glinted gem-bright as she moved. Her long hair was braided
about her head and woven in among the pale yellow of those coils were
gem-set threads. Once in the room she loosed the tight covering of her
wings to show that she wore a short, form-clinging robe of pure silver,
girded by a wide belt of gold and brown gems. To the first glance she
might look like a girl only on the verge of womanhood, but when one saw
more closely, especially her eyes, there were signs of years of
knowledge.

The man moved on into the center of that hall, his wings, too, now
rising. While his body, even to arms and legs, was hidden in a glossy
red mesh, he wore about his narrow waist a wide belt of silver scales
which supported a weapon; Farree recognized it from pictures in Zoror's
collection: it was known as a sword. The man's hands played with the
buckle of the belt and he was frowning, his eyebrows near drawn together
by a scowl. Now he stood staring down at the pavement as if he might
find on the surface some answer to a problem which troubled him.

His companion did not come so far into the room. She held up her head as
might one who was searching the sky and it was plain that her attention
was caught by something which she sought aloft. Before either of them
moved farther or spoke, if they did speak aloud, there sounded another
note of summons, this time a double one which might come from within the
earth. Two more of the panels opened, but those who entered thus were
very different from the first comers.

They were small and they were wingless. Their shoulders were hunched a
little forward, almost as if they were used to walking ways where the
roofs pressed closer to the footing.

Both arms and legs to the knees were bare, showing rough brown skin,
wrinkled and pocked with small dark splotches. Their bodies were covered
with clothing almost the same shade as their flesh. And, far from being
beardless, the faces of both were covered from the cheek bones down with
mats of crinkled yellow-white hair, thatches of the same apparently
covering their heads, as tufts appeared under the edges of dingy,
rust-red caps. Their features--large hooked noses and deep-set
eyes--were nearly masked, and as they drew nearer together and came
forward a few steps, there was the air of suspicion about them, as if
they were far from easy in this place or with such company.

The winged man looked about and jerked his head in a nod which both the
gnarled creatures echoed. However, the woman continued to look aloft,
now turning her head as if so to view the whole of the large chamber.
She took no note of the newcomers.

A third sound followed speedily on those which had brought the bearded
ones. A last panel opened and there came through a masked figure who,
because of its muffling, could not be clearly named man or woman. The
mask has been made to cover the whole head, fastened at the shoulders on
either side of the throat with dull brown brooches. It had been
fashioned to resemble the head of a beast, even to a covering of
bristles, like needle spikes, planted along the large pointed ears and
across the back, as well as along the drooping jowls, which helped to
form the face (if one might term it that). There was no true nose, only
a snout above a half open mouth. Small eyes were dark pits on either
side of that snout, and there had been set in place within the jaw a
full showing of greenish-yellow teeth with a rounded fore-fang sprouting
out both to the right and the left.

The robe about the body of the newcomer was masklike also, falling in
many folds. In color it was red, and over its surface were black lines
which appeared to move with each step the creature took, sometimes
forming patterns, only to dissolve at the next forward movement.

As the masked one advanced, ponderously, as if the robe covered a large
bulk, the two capped men drew back hurriedly and shifted to one side so
that the winged man was between them and Beast Head. Again the woman
paid no attention to latest addition to their company, her head
remaining up, her eyes searching.

It was Beast Mask who broke the silence. He spoke gutturally, almost as
if he found speech difficult for his tongue and lips to shape. The words
he spoke were slurred into a monotone.

"Why the summons?"

It was the man who answered him, though somehow Farree was surprised
that he did so in audible speech:

"They have come in greater force. Also they have more bait--one who has
been turned to their service--"

"Where?" the Beast wanted to know.

"They have landed their hunting cage in the Valley of Vore," the woman
replied, never looking away from whatever she must be seeking.

One of the small men laughed and the sound was like a rusty bolt grating
in a long disused lock. "Ah, and them what sleep--they have stirred!"

There was a moment of silence. Farree believed that perhaps of them all
he could read the greatest surprise in the attitude of Beast Mask.

"There cannot be an answer." That voice came even more harshly. "The
dead have long since returned their substance to the earth. That which
was the real part of them fled upon the coming of the strokes which
separated them from life--"

"Ho." Again the dwarf laughed. "Good teaching that. So we can lie snug
and not think of old ill acts and the payment thereof. The earth hides
much--but its doors lie open to us!" He held his head back and as far
above his bowed shoulders as he might. "Bind the dead down with
wand--even with iron"--Farree noted the small start of the winged man at
that word--"and there comes a day when ties will break, for even iron is
eaten by rust. Do not think that you are rid of the Hunters and the
Shield men because they were planted with the best of your spelling.
Time may also wear that thin--"

He was interrupted by the woman. Her head had moved down and now it
seemed to Farree that she was looking directly at him: her eyes widened
with surprise and she held out one hand towards him, her fingers crooked
in what he guessed was a warning sign.

"There is one here!" Her words came as sharp as a knife thrust.

All the others stared in his direction now. The man had drawn the sword,
the blade of which looked like a flame stiffened into a slightly curving
length. Had Farree been able he would have fled. However, that which had
brought him here did not release its hold on him.

"Who?" the man demanded of the woman. Beast Mask had moved up beside
her, snout seeming to expand, as if its wearer could indeed pick up an
alien scent.

"Atra--" The gross voice within the mask pronounced that word as if it
were a loathsome oath.

The woman answered with a decided shake of her head. "Not her, no. They
may have made her their tool, but she would carry then the stench of
them with her. This one comes not in body--"

Beast Mask brought out of body wrappings a hand which was long and thin
in contrast to the rest. This was turned palm upward. Farree caught a
suggestion of gutter from a round disk which appeared fixed to the
hollow frame of flesh and bone.

A finger of color, or colors, for it was rainbow hued, corkscrewed
about, aiming in Farree's direction. The woman uttered a single word and
that hand shook, while Beast Mask gave a short cry as from pain. The man
was beside the woman with one stride, his wings fanning out so the tip
of one came near to buffeting Beast Mask.

"Fool!"

"Fool, thrice fool yourself!" spat back the masked one. "How do we know
what weapons the Hunters have made for themselves through the centuries
of time? Can it not be that they have projected a defense to cover the
incoming of a spy? What have we done? Gone behind our cloud walls,
sealed ourselves in as a way of escape. I tell you that this will never
rid us of these vermin who have trailed us on through space for more
than five lifetimes of the Star!"

The upward gesture of that muffled head drew Farree's sight even though
he felt as if he must be fastened there, easy food for the killing. The
ceiling of this great hall was again silver--but it was a setting for
something else. There depended a huge crystal on a single chain, as
Farree had seen in miniature made into amulets favored by those who
believed in the power of luck. This one was divided into three
points--the two on the sides jutting out from the middle one as branches
might grow from the trunk of a great tree.

Rainbows of light not unlike those imprisoned in Maelen's fingers played
along its surface, and there were flashes from the pointed tips of the
three branches. Inside Farree there was a sudden mighty surge of
feeling. What had filled him on the hillocks of the valley--that
sensation that he was a part of something he did not understand, that
ignorantly he might lose that which none could control, was back a
hundredfold.

"Atra!" He had certainly never spoken that. It was only a reaching
thought which made him try to raise hands pleadingly to that triune of
crystal.

"Here!" The woman's voice arose in what was close to a shout. "One of
the blood here!" She ran forward before Farree could attempt to move and
swung her hand as if she would seize him. He saw the flash of fingers
close to his eyes but he felt nothing. So real had this all seemed that
he could not believe for a moment that he was _NOT_ there.

"Not Atra--" The man joined her again. He had reversed the sword which
he held and was now prodding with the hilt, passing through the very
space Farree seemed to occupy.

"No." The woman's hand had fallen by her side. "If it is not Atra--then
who would be so spying? None else has been captured alive by the death
dwellers.

"And none of those has the inner power to enable them to come here!" the
woman added. "Who else or"--now her expression changed from one of
astonishment and wonder to a smooth mask in which only her eyes seemed
alive. Yellow those were like the ones which Farree faced when
confronting a mirror--"has there perhaps been some greater folly--some
attempt to bring forth Atra? Someone of the Icarkin may have gone
against the oath. A second capture--"

"So oaths do not hold you flutterers--" one of the small men growled.
"Are you then foresworn?"

"Aye," his mate echoed. "Is not Atra of the High Blood? Mighty close do
you stick together, you flitterers! Did they not set the trap with her
as bait as speedily as she fell into their hands? These 'men' are not
fools and they are all sick with greed. If they have caught another such
as Atra and set him or her to watching-- Did not Sorwin here say that
they may have new weapons to bring against us? You!" He swung his head
toward Farree or towards where Farree would be if he _had_ invaded this
centermost defense in person. "By rock and rap, by thunderclap, by sword
and stone, and voice alone--"

"By heart and eye," intoned his fellow, "earth and sky."

"Show you must!" Beast Mask's voice, more than half snarl, ended the
chant.

It was as if he were one of the candles' flames on the crests of the
hummocks back in the valley; Farree felt a pull from one side to
another. He might be clasped in giant hands and so shaken back and
forth--

Shaken back and forth. There was no more hall of silver and crystal--no
more winged ones, no dwarfish workers of spells, no beast-headed
monstrosity. Instead it was as dark as if a cloak had been flung over
him. Then Farree opened his eyes.

He lay on his hammock in the ship and he was blinking into the eyes of
Maelen, who was regarding him with concern. Behind her stood Vorlund,
and the taller Zacanthan was in the doorway of the cabin. Under one of
Farree's hands there was movement and he felt the well-known contour of
Togger's spiky body. Dreaming--he must have been dreaming! Only the
memory of all he had seen and heard remained as clear as the ceiling
crystals of his vision.

"You have been--elsewhere." It was Maelen who spoke, and she did not ask
a question, she stated a fact.

Farree licked dry lips. Part of him was still Farree the outcast of the
Limits who had been given new life and hope, but another part was
stirring into wakefulness, an awareness which was born in the familiar
pain within his skull.

"Under the crystal--" That part of the memory suddenly seemed the most
important. "They--they have fear--of us-- No," he corrected himself, "of
men." For the first time another thought came into his mind and with it
a spurt of excitement. "Great One," he spoke directly to the Zacanthan,
"are we--men?"

Zoror blinked. "Each of us has a name for our own kind, a measurement
against which we rank others. 'Men-- women'--to a fellow of my blood I
am 'man.' To other Thassa"--now he nodded to Maelen--"she is 'woman.' To
Thassa and perhaps Terran also, because he held once Terran identity to
come by chance and fate within a Thassa body, Krip here is 'man' to
those two species. Yes, to ourselves, our kind are 'man--woman.' What we
may be to others--" He stroked his jaw with a taloned finger. "To those
others we may be different. Extees is one word that is used. We have
intelligence in common, and perhaps some extra natural gifts of mind or
body--but we are not 'man--woman' in one meaning of the word with each
other and his or her kin."

He was right, Farree knew. Here was a Zacanthan, two of the Thassa, and
he who really did not know what he was. They were working for a common
purpose but they were not a common species--'men--women' by some
measurements-- that used by those who pioneered in space.

"They fear, I think," he said slowly, "some like those of the Limits.
But perhaps we can find an understanding--"

"With whom?" asked Maelen. "Little brother, where have you traveled this
night?"

Chapter Ten
===========

Trying hard to make with words a picture of what he had seen, Farree
outlined all which had happened in that dream that was not a dream; but
he knew not what else to call it.

"Ah." Zoror was the first to break silence when he had finished. "Here
then also are several different races. There are the winged ones, the
small ones without those pinions, and this one who wears a beast head.
Tell me again, little brother, the manner of the mask that one wore."

Once more Farree repeated his description of that figure. Maelen and
Vorlund were looking at him intently as if they hoped in some way to
enter his memory and view that scene for themselves. But Zoror was
nodding as if some bit of unexpected knowledge had suddenly fallen into
his hands.

"Swine--" He said when Farree was finished. "Another of the legends come
into life for us. You speak of an animal which was known to the People
we seek--one the keeping of such they reckoned part of material wealth.
Perhaps this masked one was a--" Then he frowned. "But Zargo said in his
twin worlds research that this was a matter of women's religion and that
a priestess would play herder--though his authorities were few and very
obscure."

Farree thought again of the masked figure. A woman--or anyway female?
That one's voice had sounded harsh and low pitched. However, it was also
certain that the masked one was not of the same blood as those whom he
might call kin--it, or he or she, was wingless.

"We can take it," Vorlund said sharply when Zoror's words trailed into
silence, "that there is another ship downed here somewhere. And that the
crew or owner has captured one of the winged people and is using her as
bait."

"Also," Farree broke in, "her people are not trying to rescue her--
Ah--" Now it was his turn to lapse into silence. Then he added in a rush
of words-- "She--it must have been she who called!" Even as he said that
he experienced some of the force of the compulsion which had carried him
from their landing place off across the mountains until he was stopped
by the haze.

The haze! Was that a barrier which the winged ones were using to cut off
any of their people who would try to answer the captive's call? To him
that instantly seemed possible.

Maelen read his thought. She reached for the far end of his hammock
where his head had rested such a short time before. It was faintly
alight with green and she clasped it tightly, her eyes once more on
Farree's as if she willed him into some action. However, it was Vorlund
who asked a question.

"You remember nothing else--nothing of these winged ones? Of how you
went from here into the Limits?"

"If he came from here--" Zoror corrected. "There may be more than one
world where such dwell. If it is true that they must have a world like
to that which those of the old Terran blood required for settlement--
Well, are there not numerous planets with such attributes, and not all
of them settled, or, if so, only thinly. Our records report that these
People have shared many different abiding places with those whom we well
know. But there always came a time when the People of the Hills were
forced to withdraw, to take flight again for the search for a place of
their own, for they never lived in peace long with the human kind.
Another planet may be such a home also--"

Farree rubbed one palm across his forehead. The ache was beginning
again, becoming a dull torment behind his eyes.

"Guesses." Vorlund shrugged. "That Farree has found those like him may
be the only answer. If we could only get behind that mind block which
weighs upon you so, little brother!"

Maelen had leaned forward a little and now her fingertips touched
Farree's forehead directly between his large eyes. That contact was
almost as if he had taken a drink of water when he had been long parched
with thirst. He saw that her eyes were closed and now her thought came
into him.

"Loose--loose your thoughts, little brother. Do not try to raise any
barrier--"

He struggled to do as she asked; the need of his own to find answers
made him eager.

Farree whirled around and stumbled back until he half fell over the
hammock he had just climbed out of. About him streamed colors and those
colors were pain which he could not subdue. He clung to the hammock,
feeling as if that flood of color strove to carry him away. Then it
winked out and he was once more in the dark, shivering and weak.

"It is a lock which I do not understand." He heard Maelen's voice but it
sounded very far off.

"My lady, it is a death lock!" That was surely Zoror. "You must not try
that again. Such a lock is unknown to us--even to our records--"

"But perhaps not unknown to the Guild," Vorlund cut in crisply. "Is it
not well understood that they have secrets in advance of much of ours?
Perhaps they held and lost him, and then only found him again when we
battled on Yiktor and he came into his power of flight?"

"Possibly--" Zoror was saying, but Farree had his eyes open though there
were tears wet on his cheeks. The ache behind his eyes seemed likely to
blind him.

"Little brother--" Maelen touched his cheek, then smoothed his tumbled,
sweat-slick hair. "There will be no more, this I promise you."

He was still shaky and weak when he joined the others on the bridge of
the ship from which by the landing screens they could view the world
about them as they ate ship's rations and watched the sweep of the outer
mirrors. The ship itself was locked against any invasion and as an added
precaution Maelen had alerted Bojor and Yazz, saying that their minds,
being different from those who were seeking knowledge, might stand
sentry into the bargain.

Those candles of light had disappeared from the mounds attendant on the
large one, but every time the mirrors' report flashed on the last they
could all see that there was still a pulsing circlet about it--no longer
in the form of that wondrous crown, yet visible as a pale ring.

The ramp had been run out again for a short time, long enough for Bojor
to shamble down, his thick-furred pelt, having been grown for the season
of chill on Yiktor, making him look twice the size that he really was.
But the bartles were never to go unmarked by anyone invading their
native mountains. Although Bojor had been captured as a yearling, he
still retained inherent in him the strength and cunning of a nasty
fighter were he to be aroused. As all those Maelen called her "little
ones" (which was a misnomer in the case of Bojor, for his breed was
notorious for their handling of any would-be trapper and also stood
taller than Vorlund when he rose to his full fighting stance on his
sturdy hind legs), the mighty beast was able to thought meld with the
Moonsinger to an astonishing degree, and had welcomed the chance to be a
part of the active forces from the ship.

He melted into the dark as they tried to follow him with the ship's
sighting equipment. However, he had been given directions to stay away
from the hillocks and to head directly for the cliffs, prowling along
the foot of those. Suddenly, as they sought to watch him, there appeared
to burst from the ground itself a number of light dots. As if those,
too, were under orders, they clustered, outlining the body of Bojor. He
squatted back on his haunches, one of his huge paws, meant to deliver
crushing blows, waving through the air. Yet he was unable to beat them
off. They flashed so quickly that it was apparent he could make no
contact with them. As length he went again to four feet and moved on,
still revealed by the light dots so that now he could be easily watched
by those within the ship as well as by anyone who might have summoned
that form of illumination to keep spy sight on the ship and those within
it.

Twice Maelen communicated with Bojor, only to report that the bartle had
not been attacked, that the sparks of strange fire only hung about him.
Yazz, who had come up into the cabin to watch the mission of her furred
companion, whined deep in her throat, her attention all for the screen.
She raised a forepaw suddenly as if she could scrape the surface of the
view plate and so release Bojor from his strange escort. Even Farree,
who had only limited rapport with her compared to Maelen's ability, felt
her uneasiness, a kind of foreboding. Though the bevy of lights had made
no really hostile move, it was plain that Yazz did not trust them.

The bartle's speed was deceptive. Though he appeared to amble along at
hardly more than a strolling pace, he had almost finished a quarter of
the wall's length. He had passed well beyond the carpet growth of
ill-bane and was into the withered land overlaid with the pattern of the
hagger web.

Yazz once more whined. Farree dropped a piece of leather-tough dried
fruit on which he had been chewing.

"Back!" he cried out. The advancing lights gave only a partial sight of
Bojor, not clear to ground level. Farree had felt through his body, as
clearly as if he stood out there beside the bartle, that beginning of a
stir; not what had moved earlier beneath the hillock but something of
the here and now. It was like an evil stench projected to his mind
instead of assaulting his nostrils.

Yazz threw back her head and gave voice to a growling which was her own
battle cry. She turned swiftly and pawed at the door of the control
cabin, at the same time looking over her shoulder to Maelen, her whole
attitude expressing her need to be loosed to join Bojor. In the days
they had spent together these two, so different in species and early
training, had thought themselves into a team, a team which had drawn
Farree, too, into its being.

Farree had pushed past Vorlund and was busy with the door latch, Yazz
crowding in beside him, ready to leap when that portal opened.

It must have been their united fear which reached Bojor. For the bartle
had halted and was standing now, back to the cliffs, from facing outward
to where that webbing lay across bare earth. Maelen accepted the warning
of them both. With no questions asked she pointed directly to the screen
where Bojor was to be seen.

The light sparks shifted as the bartle settled back, again on his
haunches, a favorite stance to await attack. His paws hung down before
his barrel of body and, though Farree could not see them clearly in the
minute flashes of light, he knew that the bartle was extending to their
fullest length those broad punishing claws which could tear apart any
attacker who got too close.

"What--" Vorlund moved, planting one booted foot over the fastening of
the trap door in a stride so swift that Farree had only an instant to
get his fingers out of the way. "What are you doing?"

"The hagger-- Underground!" Farree returned impatiently. "They can
attack, never coming into sight, from below! Lady, call him back!"

Maelen's fingers blazed, building up, as Farree knew, power for her mind
sending. But if she reached Bojor, the bartle gave no sign of having
received any such orders. His mouth was a little open and they could see
his head more clearly, for the sparks were now clustering tighter there
about. Though those within the ship could not pick up the sound, Farree
knew that the bartle was roaring a challenge. He grasped a fleeting mind
picture of a dark tunnel in the earth and things moving along it. Had he
or had he not also glimpsed for just a second just such a figure as
those small men he had seen in his "dream"?

He thrust his shoulder against Vorlund's leg, the suddenness of his move
pushing the spacer off the door even as he struck a fast blow with the
side of his hand against the latch. With his other hand he jerked up the
plate which formed that barrier and Yazz, snuffling and whimpering
beside him, leaped down, not touching the steps of the ladder.

Farree swung, folding his wings as tightly as he could. But it was
always difficult to struggle through such passages with what he bore on
his back.

Vorlund was following, but he could move no faster than Farree lest he
push before him, perhaps disastrously, the smaller, hunched body. He
asked no more questions and Farree would have had few answers for him if
he had. There was only one thing true--that Bojor was about to face such
an attack as none of his kind had ever known and against which all his
strength and native knowledge would provide no defense.

They were in the lower corridor now and Yazz was on her hind feet
against the wall, pawing at the controls of the ramp.

Farree reached up also and snatched from the rack mounted there a
stunner kepi for just such emergencies when trouble awaited outside.

He brought the butt of that against the ramp controls just as Vorlund
caught him by folded wing edge. Farree glared at the spacer.

"Out!" he said between gritted teeth. "Bojor will be taken else."

The ramp had answered; the hum of its expansion vibrated through the
ship and the scent of ill-bane was wafted in to them by a brisk breeze.
Yazz had already taken the lead and was riding the ramp out and down,
her formidable rows of teeth locked around one of the railings to steady
her as she was swung by the motion of her footing.

Vorlund loosed his hold on Farree. "What and from where?" he snapped.

"Hagger and from underground! Their webs already lie out there. But
those are old. Now they are being led!"

Farree leaped ahead, free of the ship port. His wings expanded and he
was airborne in the night, wheeling about to face that part of the cliff
where Bojor waited at bay.

The spots of light were larger and brighter here, making a beacon easy
to see. Farree shook his head a fraction; having left the interior of
the ship, he could feel better and stronger that warning of the coming
of the attackers. Beating his wings against a strong flow of air he
headed toward the splotch of light. A moment later and he himself
gathered up attendants. For the same sparks of fire which had hailed
Bojor sprang to life around about him, outlining his body, gathering in
a tight cluster over his head.

At the same time his wings faltered in their beat. He was nearly sent
earthward as their power failed for the pace of a heartbeat of two,
while in his mind the old ache steadied into an ever-growing pain. He
forced himself on but it was as if he were trying to beat his way
through some viscous invisible flood in which his wings were being
tangled and slowed until he was brought down so low he was skimming
across the ground, the toes of his space boots caught now and again by
some higher tangle of growth.

Yet he refused to answer a compulsion and go a-foot, for there grew in
him the strong feeling that as long as he continued to fight so he was
free of another entanglement, this one ready to grip his mind. He was
able to pick up Bojor's rage now. Not since the bartle had helped to
retake their ship, captured by the Guild fighters on Yiktor, rescuing
Maelen and Vorlund from imprisonment, had Farree known such anger to
fill the brain of the huge furred one. However, threaded through that
anger was puzzlement, for Bojor as yet faced no visible foe, only
sensed, as did Farree himself, the threat growing ever stronger.

Those sparks of light which clustered over his head and followed the
likeness of his suddenly too-heavy wings were glowing brighter. Pressing
against him was the power which attempted to bring him to earth, perhaps
to render him useless in any confrontation to come.

As Farree fought on, throwing all his strength into the struggle with
the pressure, he was suddenly shocked by such a spear of thought as he
had not felt even from Maelen, the acknowledged leader in their own
communication.

"Come--die! Traitor, losstreek, demni--"

Loud and firm as that rang in his mind, he could not pick up, save as a
wavering and faceless shadow, who thought that. But that opponent had
erred for, by the very storm he so loosed, he gave Farree himself a goal
for a counterattack.

At the very edge of that part of the valley floor which was crisscrossed
by the web lines, Farree settled, though he kept his wings spread, and
kept so little of his weight on the ground that he hardly crushed the
last straggle of ill-bane.

Instead of concentrating on keeping aloft, he now bent all of his
strength on a mind thrust--dragging out of the depths of himself anger
engrossed by fear--a fear he projected on that other. Because he had no
other clue and very much needed a target, he pictured his opponent
firmly--one such small man as he had seen in the hall of the
crystal--giving that vision all the details he could summon.

Above and around him the points of light blazed--no longer white, but
green as if the ill-bane itself had become a fire and he had wound the
flames about him as he might a cloak. The green motes swirled now, all
gathering above his head and moving so fast that they appeared to form a
ring. But Farree was more aware that his mind touch had vanquished a
shield. It was not a shield like any he had met before--either the
science-produced ones the Guildsmen had worn on Yiktor, or those he had
encountered with Maelen, Vorlund and the Zacanthan when they had tested
him in hope of finding some answer to the barrier which he found so
crippling.

Having damaged it, Farree now threw strength against it. At his second
raging attempt the barrier went completely down. He was caught up in a
chaos of thoughts but the greatest and clearest was intelligible enough.
The one who broadcast was afraid, yes, but under the spur of that fear
was determination to act. It was true that the broadcast came from
underground and the general direction showed that he who was coming into
attack was heading toward Bojor. Only the mind Farree was now reading in
part did not see the attacker to be physically engaged in any battle.

There ran before this other mind and under his control, others, perhaps
for their size the most dangerous entities Farree had ever known--and
since he only had a half knowledge of them sifted through another mind
it could well be that they were even more dangerous than he believed.
Hagger!

The picture was clear in his mind, sharply clear so that he saw in only
an instant or two of holding it a horror which made him shiver. Oddly
enough in shape it was not unlike Togger, save the pulpy, fattish body
was covered with mud-streaked hair. Like the smux, the foremost pair of
feet were equipped with great claws, the inner side of which were
saw-toothed, a visible threat to any likely to be caught by those. The
heads were round, bearing to the fore flexible antennae on the tips of
which were balls which he knew, from the thoughts of the enemy who had
herded them ahead, served as eyes and had an astounding range of sight
in the dark of the tunnel through which they traveled at a speed which
was seemingly foreign to the fact that they crawled on three pair of
legs, the armed ones held aloft as if ready for battle at any moment.

Farree quested ahead, seeing in a strange way through the eyes of the
herder. The underground traveler was aware of him now, but unable to
push him out and away, though his increasingly frantic attempts made him
strive to read Farree as Farree had already reached him.

Farree struck. The command which he thrust deep into that other mind was
already aimed at the grotesque army scuttling under the surface of the
ground. But with the necessity of keeping hold on the herder, and,
through him, trying to reach the other creatures, Farree had to
sacrifice sight of the burrowers. Whether his push reached them, or
whether they surrendered to his unvoiced command he could not tell.
Something hit the ground before him with a thud. For an instant that
broke his concentration. Togger had lurched out of Farree's jerkin to
leap to the ground between two of the crossing web lines. The smux flung
himself, with a powerful thrust of his strong hind feet, at the nearest
of those lines. His foreclaws whipped out, cutting into the earth, and
when he brought them together with an audible click there was a
crinkling in the dry soil as if, freed from a very taut hold, the web
lines had snapped away from that break, carrying part of the earth with
them.

"Bad--" Farree caught that but he did not catch the smux whom he tried
to snatch up again. Togger was running over the webbed earth in the
general direction of that glow which marked Bojor's choice of
battleground. Time and again the smux stopped for only an instant or two
to snap the lines just under the surface of the soil, though for what
purpose Farree could not understand.

However, that thickening of the air, or what had seemed that, which had
kept him from speedy flight, was gone. He soared up and out across the
web Togger was so effectively destroying, heading toward Bojor at the
foot of the cliff.

Over his head the circle of lights had broken apart and now fell behind
him like a headscarf blown by the wind. Twice he bent all the strength
he could muster into trying once again to take command of the
underground party, only now he encountered the blankness of a new
shield, one strong enough to stand firm against his probing. Thus he
concentrated on reaching the cliff, the ship stunner in his hand.

"Bad--come--" Not Togger this time. He had already flown past the smux,
could no longer see him. That was Bojor. And if the bartle had assessed
the enemy enough to add come, then indeed the attack would be a
formidable one.

Farree reached the edge of the webbed country. Bojor squatted almost
directly before him, the crest of longer and stiffer hair between his
ears standing up. The light which had marked Bojor when they had watched
him from the ship was now plastered against the cliff side some distance
away from the stout body. Bojor's eyes were red and opened to their
farthest extent. He looked up to Farree but did not hold that glance
very long; his attention dropped quickly to the ground immediately
before him. Farree winged a fraction closer and lit, not folding his
wings, but feeling the security of the ground beneath his feet. He had
the stunner in a tight grip and now dared once more to mind search.

Almost he leaped into the air as he met a surge of what was not thought
as he knew such, but rather a great hunger, a need which came from many
minds. He tried to separate one of those threads from another, to trace
it back to the mind which gave it birth, but they were so entangled
there was no hope of that; and they were very close.

"Togger--come--now--" There was that sending and he saw in the dim light
sent off by the motes a blotch of shadow which sped in closer to one of
the bartle's legs. Once there, crowded in against the bartle, the smux
turned around, claws up and ready in something of the same stance that
Bojor had taken in defense. Outdistancing the smux was Yazz; she was not
running, but weaving a pattern with short jumps from one clear patch of
ground to another. It was manifest Yazz sensed some danger which was
inherent there.

Chapter Eleven
==============

Their only source of light were the motes hovering in the air, a patch
over the head of each. When Farree, in one wing-aided bound, joined the
other three by the wall of the cliff, only to whirl around and stand
ready, waiting for the charge he was sure was coming, his attention was
all for the ground. There was a swirl of light which whipped about him
as the lash of a whip might have cut at his body. He gasped and choked.
The lights were lower, circling about him at throat level, drawing in
closer.

He flung up an arm to beat them off and small pains stung his skin as if
they were in truth sparks from a fire. Nor could he so win free of them.
The circle was at chest level now. Unconsciously he had furled his wings
as the fire sparks flicked along their surfaces.

His left arm was pinned to his body by the sparks, but the right one
still held the stunner. There was no way he could spray those strange
attackers. Nor had he any belief that they were even insects ready to
sting him into submission, for his mind did not pick up the slightest
hint of life as he knew it in those minute flashes.

Farree tried to expand his wings again, to perhaps rise above the
attackers. At that moment, as his struggles grew stronger, the ground
itself burst outward, spraying earth and stones into the air as there
boiled out of a crumbling hole the first of those things he had mind
seen in the tunnel. He had already set the stunner to full strength and
part of its beam, though his arm was unable to hold steady as he was
being jerked back and forth, chopped across the first two of the ground
runners. Yazz showed her teeth and made a rush at the third to climb out
of the runway below.

Above her head the sparks which had accompanied her formed a ball aimed
at her. However, like all of her species, her movements in attack were
delivered so swiftly that her body became slightly blurred to the sight.
Though the ball swooped, Yazz was gone, only her hind legs and thrashing
tail visible, the whole forepart of her body now within the hole.

Farree kicked and twisted his body. At last there was an instant when he
could bring the stunner to bear on part of the star ring about him.
There was a winking and he felt a relaxation of the pressure which had
been squeezing him. Bojor roared, that vast surge of sound echoed from
the cliffs about. Farree stumbled back, one of his furled wings striking
against the bartle's bulk. A vast paw fell heavy on his shoulder drawing
him farther on toward the cliff. The lights, which had surrounded the
bartle and brought him to bay here, divided into two clusters, one of
which struck at each paw.

Yazz drew back from the entrance to the burrow. Her jaws were fast set
upon a thick round body, just behind the head of the creature. It was
beating its forefeet against the ground in a vain effort to win free.

Its efforts merely broke loose clods which the claws showered through
the hole from which it had been so unceremoniously ripped. Yazz gave a
quick snap and threw her captive to the other side of the hole. It
landed on its back, kicked feebly, then was still, while its killer was
already heading back into the hole after more prey.

As Farree was swept against the cliff, those sparks of light which had
snared him before formed a new ball, drawing back several paces. He
gasped air into lungs which had been compressed, took aim at that ball.

He never fired. Instead he gave a cry as the balled lights sped at his
head. A solid mass, it struck an instant later with a force which
snapped his head back. The sparks wheeled endlessly before his eyes.
Then, on the tail of that strike there followed pain so intense he could
neither hear, nor see, nor understand anything, save that the world was
a place of torture. The brilliant, eye-searing white which had followed
on the stroke of the sparks darkened and then even the pain, at last,
also was gone.

As he had been in his dream he was somewhere else, not in his body,
though he searched frantically for awareness of flesh and bone and could
not find it. Yet he was able to sense that he was not alone.
Bojor--Yazz--he tried to hail them--

Nothing of the warm sense of friendship, which should follow on his
thinking those names, came to him. He tried to advance the mind search.
As it had been when he met the haze he could not pierce the unseen
envelope which appeared to hold him.

No, he could not reach out--but he could be aware-- aware that he was
not alone in this nothingness. Farree drew back into himself with a
rush. For a moment he wanted to cower in hiding as he had in the Limits
when some drunken and sadistic inhabitant of that hell was seeking him
to afford amusement, for that which was without him projected a feeling
of strength and ruthless purpose. Only he was no longer Dung, the
outcast of the Limits; he was Farree, winged and--free? No, not free; he
was caught in a trap, held to await the pleasure of those who had set
it.

"--Langrone? But none of the guards survived!"

Thoughts, not voices. Only he could not send any reply. He was mind-dumb
but not deaf.

"They were found--" Farree was granted an instant or two of a picture of
a green hillside and on it lay forms sprawled. The nearest lay face down
and dribbling down a bare back, from twin pools of raw flesh, was blood.
Wing! The wings had been cut from the dead!

"--dead--" He had been so intent upon that picture which one mind
broadcast that he had missed part of the sentence.

"Langrone," repeated the first mind voice emphatically. "Doubtless
poisoned like Atra--bait!" There was contempt in that. Through the
darkness there came a thrust of pain but it seemed far
away--accompanying the body which he could no longer feel for himself.

"Blind!" The mind voice was very sharp, cutting into him as a knife
could have cut his flesh--it was undoubtedly an order delivered to him.
"Prisoner with no hope!" a second contemptuously delivered.

If he had for some reason accepted the fate the first comment had laid
upon him there was still resistance in him against the second. Prisoner
he might be--somehow dead-alive--but that core of him which had awakened
with his wings, had been nurtured by Maelen and Vorlund, remained strong
enough to refuse to surrender.

"--Selrena." Again he had missed part of the thought speech.

"We cannot carry-- Ha--what is that thing?"

"What? Where?"

"It moved over there!"

There came a time of quiet and then the first of his captors spoke
again: "It is one with the beasts that these death givers have brought
to serve them. A rock finished it off. Now--we cannot carry him. Let
Selrena lift him if she wishes. Or let him lie; he will be true dead
soon enough. The winged people do not take well to the dark ways. If he
is Langrone he is really of no matter to us."

"Say you that to Vaspret's face?"

"Langrone!" The other repeated the word as if he were spitting it out in
a gob. "Air Dancers! What does it matter that they are being hunted?"

"Remember that which the death dealer from the other ship found? Do you
think that they will let go of any of this world now that they have laid
hands on that? Roxcit's lying place they are going to search for. With
what they have in their ways of strange knowledge they are going to find
the second cache soon. That they hunt the winged people--yes, there is
no real harm for us in that. But that they break the guard we are set
to--"

"Well enough, well enough! Remember, if this Langrone is one with Atra
he has been blinded by those others. He will be able to draw them--"

"Not so. For them perhaps he shall be bait now." There was satisfaction
in that.

The darkness in which Farree was closed drew tighter about him as if to
force the air from his lungs, even as the lights had earlier done. He
was aware of that frightening increase of pressure even if he was no
longer aware of his body. Then--there was nothing.

Farree opened his eyes. There were no longer folds of black choking
him--rather what he saw was grey--like the light of very early morning
or the haze which had turned him back from his first scouting on this
world. He rested on his side but a small attempt at movement told him
that he was still the prisoner the mind voice had claimed him to be.

However, the haze of grey seemed to sway sluggishly in an odd way which
made him feel ill. He was entirely aware of his body again but the ills
of that were of less importance than what the swaying of haze revealed
or obscured.

There was a chair which towered above him as he lay not too far away
from it on a floor covered with a pavement of alternate green and brown
blocks of stone, the brown blocks veined with threads of green. The
chair was white and the legs, arms, and the frame of the back were
heavily and intricately carved, the arms ending in balls as clear as if
they had been solidified from fresh stream water. The chair had a padded
back and seat of heavily patterned stuff, green leaves, flowers of every
shade and here and there a band of what appeared to be such runes as
Zoror had once shown him, saying that it was believed that the People he
sought once preserved knowledge by such markings.

Before the chair was a footstool and on this sat a small creature which
he could not immediately determine as a sentient being or a lower
animal.

The small body was covered with spotted scales, golden in shade, but its
contours were humanoid. A head which was round in the back and narrowed
to a point in front crowned a long and sinuous neck. It had four limbs,
stick thin, the upper pair of which ended in webbed six-fingered paws;
the back ones ended in broad pads. Between the forepaws it rolled back
and forth a tube of white which was patterned by a series of holes.
Putting one end of that to the sharp snout mouth and fingering along the
length, it now produced a series of notes which sounded like trickling
water. The eyes were very large and were glowing like green flames, if
such could exist.

Those eyes were regarding Farree and he knew that the creature was
perfectly aware of him. Cautiously he tried mind touch--but was
astounded to find that he had apparently been deprived of that sense--it
was like the haze he had faced before. He met a wall.

The tinkling notes of the pipe grew louder and the room haze was
thinning, disappearing. He could see more of the room now--the sturdy
legs and lower surface of a long table, the color of walls where ran the
runic patterns of the chair cushions; but these were clear, unhidden by
any other designs.

Farree licked dry lips, preparing to use his voice as he was unable to
mind touch. But he never got a chance to see if the creature with the
flute would be able to understand vocal communication. There was
movement beyond the table and he then saw fully the figure who came
around the end of it.

To his first glance the newcomer looked like many of the spacers he had
seen--tall, humanoid--perhaps taller even than Zoror. He wore tight
covering on his legs and feet as if foot gear and clothing were
one--above that a laced jerkin clasped in to a narrow waist with a broad
belt which glimmered and flashed with a silvery radiance. His head was
covered with hair which was mingled red and gold. The skin of his face
and his uncovered hands was pale--there was no space tan to darken it.

There was something set and remote in his expression. Heavy-lidded eyes
were half shut in a face which was as perfect as if it had been
carefully carven out of a substance as white as the chair he now sought
and settled in. Remote that expression might be, but he was regarding
Farree closely, and there was that about him which suggested that he was
in complete command here.

"So--" Though Farree had not been able to pierce the interference
resisting his own thought, the barrier did not exist for this stranger.
"Who may you be?" The feeling that question suggested was a cold
curiosity. Again Farree strove to answer but for him the barrier held.

On the footstool the flute player leaned forward. It no longer played
that instrument, but flopped down to its pad feet and advanced a step or
so. As if it controlled Farree's body it leaned forward and tapped the
captive's lips with the tip of its flute, clearly an invitation or
perhaps an order to use vocal speech. Having done so it padded back to
the footstool and once more resumed its seat.

The man in the chair had watched that action and now he nodded. "So--"
He once more turned his gaze on Farree. "Who?" He made of that single
word a sharp order.

"Farree--" To his own ears that hoarse sound was extremely loud as if he
might be shouting--there was even a murmur of echo to follow.

"There is no mistake that you are that." The questioner's speech sped
smoothly into his mind. "What name have you or _had_ you in Langrone
ranks? Or have they taken that away from you, cripple, along with all
the rest?"

"I am called Farree." He did not understand what the other meant.

There was a faint frown on the man's face. Then Farree shook as a spear
of mind send invaded him. He was no longer aware of the room, the man,
the flutist--only of the same torture which engulfed him when Maelen and
the rest had attempted to break the barrier which existed between him
and much of his own past. He could not defend himself against the power
this other projected, but neither could that one penetrate the shield
which someone or something had used upon his captive. The pain became
darkness and he was only aware of weak relief that the force was gone.

Breathing fast as might one who had nearly gone beyond the ability to
breathe at all, Farree was again aware of the room and those two
watching him. That frown had grown the darker on the face of his
interrogator and the creature on the footstool had drawn arms and legs
back against its body, shivering, as if it also had been the target of
sudden assault.

"How did you escape?" The send did not ravage him now, rather it was
softer. In the great chair the man was leaning forward, his hands on his
knees, his eyes no longer lazy.

"They freed me--" Farree tried to summon up pictures of Maelen and
Vorlund as he had seen them first, when they had rescued Togger, and
incidentally himself, from the filth of the Limits.

"No--" The man straightened in his chair to eye Farree with open
surprise. He pointed a finger at Farree as if flesh and bone were a
weapon. "No, you cannot be made to hold a lie such as that! Then there
are two parties here!" He was out of the chair in one movement, walking
at a swift pace away from Farree, out of the captive's range of sight.

Farree began to test whatever it was which held him so tightly prisoner.
He looked along his own body and could see no sign of any bonds. The
light particles which had entrapped him were gone, but still he could
not move.

Move, repeated his aching mind, still weak from the force which had been
used to try to pluck his past from him. What had Zoror said about
glamorie--that it was a weapon, or a trick, which could be used to
entice or deceive those who did not understand it? It was true that he
could not transmit to another, but did that barrier also keep him from
working on himself? There was certainly no reason not to try.

The flutist on the footstool was playing again. Farree moved his head
slowly, trying to shut that music out by concentration, for it seemed to
him that the tune filled that very part of his mind that he must use,
lulling what was left of its power into uselessness.

His hands--in his mind he pictured his two hands as he had seen them
last--not stiff and straight against his body but free to move in any
direction he willed for them. Fingers-- curving so! Yes, he could
picture that in spite of the drone of the flute.

Move slow-- He had a sudden small rise of triumph. One finger had indeed
arched away from tight contact with the rest. Farree fought the euphoria
of that triumph and held tightly to his mental picture. He felt the
trickle of moisture, summoned by his effort, across his skin. Two
fingers now--a hand! He shifted his hand and felt it move against his
side.

Two hands-- A snatch of thought--had the flutist noted this? Was he a
guard sent to do sentry duty and summon help if it was needed?

While patches of sweat plastered his clothes to him Farree fought on.
The flutist had made no move. But that did not mean that he would allow
Farree to win this battle. Feet-- Farree rolled over on his stomach and
used his hands to lever himself up. He looked over his shoulder as he
managed to rise to his knees.

The sentry no longer played, merely slipped the flute back and forth
through its webbed hands, its head cocked a little to one side as it
watched Farree's floundering fight to get to his feet. He expected any
moment to see the man rushing in to put him once more under
restraint--still that had not occurred.

He was up at last, though his wings were still folded into the narrowest
possible bulk. The flutist continued to watch. Farree moved quickly,
putting the table between him and the other. From the size of the table
as well as that of the now empty chair Farree believed that the room was
intended for the use of the large man's own race or species, since all
was clearly too big to be easily accepted by one of his own stature.

The top of the table was crowded with a variety of objects, including a
mirror. He hooked his fingers over its edge to study himself in the
surface. Near him there were flasks, some of them transparent, so that
one could see either liquid or powders inside. These were as
rainbow-hued as the flashes from crystals, which were present also. Two
had been carven into balls and were positioned on stands--one of them
white and carven intricately, the other dark and plain; the ball resting
on the latter was also murky in shade. Other crystals remained in their
natural forms, holding jagged surfaces aloft. There was also a roll of
greyish leather (which resembled those records Zoror consulted from time
to time). This had been flattened out and was kept so by smaller chunks
of crystal of a greenish shade. A little farther away was a second sheet
of the stuff, and a pot of dark color with a pen made of a stiff feather
lying beside it.

A brazier occupied the middle of the board. From its pierced lid there
curled a faint coil of smoke, bearing with it the scent of spice.
Plainly this was a work place for someone whose interests lay along the
same path as those of the Zacanthan. Thinking of Zoror now brought
Farree back to the matter at hand.

He tried to expand his wings, centering in his mind his vivid memories
of free flight. However, though he might have freed his body, he was not
successful with his wings. They remained cramped, as tightly furled as
bones and flesh would allow.

Still holding onto the table Farree surveyed the room carefully. The
haze which he remembered had now vanished, although all the corners of
the chamber were dark and shadowy. Walls were cloaked with stiff panels
which bore both dim pictures and lines of runes. There was another chair
and a smaller table by the far wall, and, beyond the large table, a
piece of furniture which he also had seen in Zoror's rooms: This was a
tall standing rack, each shelf divided into a number of small cubbies,
many holding rolls which matched that one outspread upon the table.
Zoror had very ancient rolls fashioned from the skins of beasts (from
many worlds and scores of years) which he stored so. Farree had seen
some of them--those the Zacanthan had consulted in his search for the
People.

To his left there was one wall bare of any drapery and broken by a large
window, now curtained, though that curtain stirred as if wind plucked at
it. Here was a bench fitted into place. Farree drew away from the table,
testing his ability to walk alone. He staggered, grasped again at the
table, and then, taking steps with care, he made for that promise of an
opening beyond. If there was a door to the room it was hidden somewhere
behind those lengths of stiff folds.

He reached the bench, ever listening for any cry of alarm from the
flutist. However, when he edged partly around to see, the creature had
not stirred, though it was watching him. The sill of the window was
high, again not suited to one of Farree's small stature. He pulled
himself up on the bench and then got to his feet, one hand to the wall
to steady himself while with the other he tugged at the curtain,
dragging it a little aside.

There was darkness beyond, the gloom of night, perhaps even a
storm-summoning one. In spite of the fact he could not see much or
clearly, Farree believed that this room was well above the ground and
that there was no way out. For upon the moving of the curtains he
sighted a barrier which was a web of silvery metal patterned in the form
of entwined vines, the leaves of which glimmered as if drawing some
light from beyond.

He shook the web, or tried to, but none of the metal shifted, being too
well rooted in the stone about it. Then he flinched back, nearly falling
from his perch. For driving straight at the window was one of the flying
lizards such as had escorted him back to the valley where his ship had
finned in. It uttered a grating cry and swerved just as it appeared that
it was going to hurl itself against the bars of the vine. At its
full-lunged screech Farree hurriedly loosed his hold on the curtain and
dropped back to the bench.

The fluttering notes of the flute sounded. But the creature had left its
perch upon the footstool and was moving in a queer way which was not a
walk but a skittering kind of dance.

It was not coming towards him but rather was headed toward the wall
behind the chair. And before it quite reached that goal it shimmered,
its outlines becoming unclear. Then it was gone. Farree rubbed his hand
across his eyes and drew a deep breath.

Of course this might all be a dream, as his other venture among these
people had been. Perhaps they had indeed taken over his mind and he saw
only what they desired to show him. Had he fought that battle which had
freed him from what he believed was a trance--or had they only allowed
him to do so in order to test him in some way? Was he waking or asleep?

He hunkered down on the bench, leaning well forward to accommodate his
furled wings. Could one dream such reality? He clipped a good pinch of
skin on one wrist between his fingers and applied full pressure. Pain--

Still Farree huddled where he was and fear such as he had never known,
even in the worst days in the Limits, stirred within him. Who was he?
Was he here at all or had some other mind taken over, putting all this
into his mind? Perhaps he was even back at the ship bodily--and here in
another form, no matter how real this seemed!

Sliding down from the bench he once more approached that crowded table.
Deliberately he leaned forward and cupped his hands about the clouded
globe, which was nearest. He had to draw closer to the edge in order to
hold it.

There was an answer to his touch. Within the globe there burst a fiery
circle. Then the flames died. He was looking straight at Zoror, but
companied with the Zacanthan was the Lady Maelen. Her eyes widened and
Zoror blinked. Farree was sure that even as he viewed them they could
also see him. Then the Zacanthan edged aside, and only Maelen stood
there. She raised a hand and from each fingertip there flashed a light
which darted straight toward Farree. The globe trembled in his hold and
such a heat seared him that he had to jerk back. But the flames
continued to coil about in the crystal globe, slipping along the inner
surface as if that fire fought for a way to reach him.

Chapter Twelve
==============

There was a burst of the flame within the globe, and all sight of Maelen
was seared away. From somewhere sounded a piercing note, sharp and
jarring, bearing no resemblance to the tinkling music of the flute; this
was an alarm. The globe moved in Farree's hold, seeming almost to twist
itself into freedom. It forced itself between his fingers and fell, not
to the top of the table but to the floor beneath.

A thunderous sound followed. The ball had splintered at impact, shards
flying. The light it had held vanished and the pieces on the floor
turned a dull black as if a real fire had burned within it. Only for a
moment or two they lay so, then crumbled, becoming a pile of dust. There
puffed from those last remains a strong odor of burnt meat. Then that,
too, was gone. Farree stood, his smarting hands to his mouth as he blew
upon them, trying to abate the pain, though there was no sign of any
burns on his flesh.

Suddenly there was more light, this time snapping into life in the clear
crystal which had accompanied the murky one. This pulsed irregularly as
once more sounded that piercing note. Farree dared not try to take the
other one into his hands, but he leaned forward, staring into its
flutter of light, striving with all his might somehow to summon again
Maelen or the Zacanthan--to no avail.

However, the light began to take on form. He was again looking into
eyes, but, though they were in a woman's face, they were not Maelen's.
There was no age to her; she might have been young or old, for her skin
was as fair as it was unmarked. What he could see of her hair was part
of a dull brown braid which formed a crown above her wide brow. Her eyes
were dark, so dark Farree could not have named their true color, while
her lips were a brown-red, thin and tight at the corners. There was no
brightness of welcome in her, only something of a faint expression which
spoke of cold curiosity. Inwardly, Farree shivered. Even if he could not
read her thoughts, there was a strangeness there. She was so alien he
could not even think of a meeting mind to mind.

Still that was what followed, shaking him as if each word was a blow
aimed at rocking him. Once more he saw only through a haze which clouded
sight, and even cloaked his mind.

"You are not Langrone--" It was not a question but a statement.
"Throstle?" That was a question but he had no time to answer it if
indeed he could. Instead he felt as if he had been gathered up bodily
and hurled through time and space in an instant.

Again he crouched in all his filth and rags against the wall in an alley
of the Limits, suffering the hurt of Togger as the smux was disciplined
by the master of that unsavory show of pitiful wild things beaten into
submission. Once more Maelen and Vorlund came to him. Memory spun on--he
was reliving in a series of flashes his life with those to whom
compassion of the heart was abiding. He was in Yiktor seeking out some
needful thing. There was Maelen about to fall from the mountain trail.
His hand went forth once more, just as it had on that real moment in the
past. He felt the split of that thick growth on his shoulders which had
pressed him forward through all the time he could remember as one who
went hump backed. He had a flashing moment of wonder once again, as that
tightened, itching skin broke, releasing the wings he had never known he
carried.

Once more he crouched in the stinking alley and now he was shot
backwards from his meeting with the space people into the days before.
He endured blows, starvation, all the evils one who was small and
handicapped might know in the Limits. Now he arrived with a rush at the
earliest memory of all--of looking out from his hiding place in Land's
tent to watch the renegade spacer killed, which freed him from the first
of his bonds.

Perhaps he screamed then--if so he did not hear his own cries. It was as
if a great force was pushing him back against a wall which would not
give, that he was about to be crushed, flattened against that hard
surface. The force which inexorably thrust him so hard was crushing-- He
screamed again as pain burst in his head. Then, mercifully, he was in
the dark--he was nothing within nothing and there was nothing--

"--Throstle?" Far away that sounded. "Selrena--"

"Tricks again. Do you doubt he should be dragon meat? Where is the globe
of storms?"

Memory stirred, willing him back once again. There was an urgency to the
attack upon him.

"He is empty--gone. It is of these others we must think now. In him
there is no thought of harm--"

"You grow simple, Vestrum. Thoughts can be erased; they might also be
inspired to confuse. We have learned much; through the same generations
they have also. He is of the blood, yes. That could not be faked. But of
what clan-- Langrone? We can account for all of that kin."

"Atra has been brought to serve them. Why could this one not be shaped
anew as she was?"

"His memories say that is not so. But you are right. Many things have
been learned by those, our ancient enemies. We cannot count this one as
any but a danger.

"He can be taken by the Hoads--"

There came a sense of outrage or strong denial.

"We do not waste the blood. What has come to you, Vestrum, that you
would suggest that? Is it that the old blood _has_ run so thin that we
can think even as those do--to slay for safety? Do we not know of old
that that would be a deed to break us forever apart?

"Are we then so great again that we can move mountains and roll up seas
to confuse our enemies? If they have learned through the centuries, have
we been in exchange dull of mind? Should he be their proposed key to our
gate, then since he is in our hands let us study how they would use him.
But he is not part of those in Dakar's Valley."

"True. So what do you make of this other ship?"

"Have you not read the answer to that, wrung out of this one?"

"They trouble the inner sight. There is among them such power as we have
not found in the enemy for ages. They seek him now, their thoughts
running here and there until they are a torment to all Listeners. It is
true that they are not openly akin to the dark ones, and so far they
remain a puzzle. It may be they who placed this one among us--"

"And he broke the Globe of Ummar."

There was a pause. In vain Farree tried to trace the thought pattern
back to the last speaker, only to face a wall once more. There was a
coldness in these words which shifted through to him--mind words. If
they realized he could hear them, they did not care.

"You think then that that is what he was ordered to do?"

The asking came to him again, growing easier and easier to understand
with every mind touch.

"There is no shadow of the Restless One on him. It might have been
chance only--"

"If there is only a small doubt that it was not-- Yes, you are right.
Let him be prisoned--near the Hoad Ways. If he receives enough of their
probing he will be weakened, the better for our purpose. Let it be
done!"

That last was a sharp command. Farree expected some action on it, only
he was aware of nothing at all. The darkness held him as tightly as if
he were the meat within an uncracked nut shell. He was, however, gaining
some strength of mind and that he hoarded. He could not understand the
nature of the bonds which they had laid upon him. Yet it was plain he
was again a helpless captive.

He was once more able to see by physical means, but dark first met his
eyes. About him was a sourish smell, combined with that of fresh turned
earth. For one moment of heart-thumping fear he thought he had been
buried. Then, putting his body to the test, he strove to sit up and was
able to do so. His upper wing curves scraped painfully along a rough
surface and soil shifted down on his face from the hands he had put out
to judge the size of his cell--if cell this was.

When the fingers of his left hand rubbed an uneven surface, he used that
point as an anchorage, drawing near to it. It marked a wall right
enough. Sweeps along that surface told him it was of stone, but
sometimes he felt the ridges of what could be bunches of roots depending
from above. The smell became foul once as his nails scraped across
something slimy. From that spread a faint glimmer of light, enough for
him to see a tuber clinging with hairlike roots to the stone--now oozing
viscid stuff from a hole his fingertip had punched in it. He wriggled
the tuber back and forth until the hair-thick supports were torn free,
so he could carry it with him as he went on--though the light was very
dim, showing him no more than the patch of wail immediately around his
improvised candle.

It was twenty strides from the place where he had awakened to a corner
where wall met wall. Halfway up the new barrier was a dark hole and from
that trickled some liquid, which coursed down the stones to collect in a
runnel at the wall's foot.

Seeing this suddenly awoke in him a raging thirst. How long it had been
since he had eaten or drunk he had no way of knowing. Did he dare to
touch this oily-appearing streamlet? He was not sure. Debating the
safety of that he turned and edged along the side of the stream, using
that now for a better guide.

In the end that disappeared in a round hole in the floor. His torch was
failing him and he tried to find another such. Only here the growth from
above looked more like ends of stout vines. There came a sudden sound.
The stream had flowed silently, and the silence itself had pressed in
upon him. He had not realized the full depth of that quiet until it was
broken.

There was a kind of flutter, as if the roots from above swayed. He
looked up. Overhead was nothing but the thick dark. Cautiously Farree
tried to open his wings. Once more the edges scraped over his head. The
passage was low of roof. He pulled his wings into as tight folds as he
could manage.

The thirst which he had tried to put out of his mind was joined now by
hunger. He longed for the pack of emergency supplies still back in the
ship.

The ship! The Lady Maelen--what had happened to her when the murky globe
had broken in his hands? What had those who had put him here done? Had
they in some manner moved into that bowl valley and tried to fetter
those on board as they had him? He had great respect and awe for
Maelen's powers--even more for those of the Zacanthan. Through
unreckoned time Zoror's people had collected knowledge, had developed
latent talents. Not all of them had followed the same paths--he knew
that Zoror had experimented with mind speech and mind control. But
Farree did not know the scope of the historian's talent. He paused for a
moment to put his own mind send to the test once more--only to strike
that barrier.

Well, they might have bound his mind, but they had not fettered his body
this time. During his brief halt those roots above seemed longer. For
some reason that awoke a dread in him. Being under the earth was
difficult enough; he had to fight an ever-present fear of being shut
in--encased in this evil-smelling pocket of soil. The light from the
tuber continued to ebb. Farree faced around to look back, although all
there was blind dark.

Not quite. He sighted a small spark of light--fiery orange-red, like a
minute, awakening flame. Two--close together-- another pair slightly
behind the first. At the same time an effluvium, a stench strong enough
to churn his empty stomach, puffed in his face. He gagged and fought to
control the nausea that awoke in him.

At the same moment his mind was touched. He was in contact with one of
the things which had run the dark ways underground back in the valley.
What he could read was ravening hunger, and a picture of this foul thing
hurrying to seize upon his flesh.

The odor grew stronger, and the lights which marked their eyes brighter
and larger. Hunger drove them and he was the food.

Moving backward, Farree edged as close as his folded wings would allow
him to the wall at his right. His hand groped for the knife and then he
remembered his sheath was empty. He had no defense except his two hands.
Still he backed and the creatures followed. Now and again he gave a
hurried glance over his shoulder to make sure that there were no other
eye lights showing ahead, that he was not being driven into a trap.

He expected them to charge, but it seemed that something kept them from
making that last run which would bear him down. They were coming up on
him to be sure, but not as swiftly as he expected. The tuber in his hand
lost its light. But he could still see the eyes.

As Farree went he was careful to test each step with his heel, making
sure that he was not about to lose his balance. Then he kicked something
and there was the sound of metal striking stone. He dared to stoop and
seek to feel what he had stumbled upon. His hand closed about a chain.

Part of it was loose and yielded easily to his jerk but the other end
appeared to be fixed. He pulled again and was answered by a glow of
light. Again where his fingers pulled he saw a glimmer. The hunters had
paused-- Raw hatred and purpose still filled them but there was now
caution, he believed, in their halt, as if he had chanced upon something
in which they foresaw trouble. At the same time the links gathered into
his hand began to warm, to burn as had the globe; but he refused to drop
his find. The fact that the very picking up of the thing had slowed the
others' advance made him cling to it the tighter.

Light sped from the links in his hand out along the rest of its length.
This was a far better light than the tuber had given. He gathered the
metal linkage up in both hands now to give a strong pull.

There was no give. Only more of the chain was alight, so that his eyes,
already accustomed to the dark, could follow it to a wall. There it had
been fastened to a loop apparently deep set in one of the stone blocks.
Farree followed it up to that anchorage. He had to divide his attention
between what he was doing and those menacing eyes. But the latter had
stopped their advance.

Farree's fingers found a loop set in the stone. From his touch there
came a stab of agony as great as if he had put his hand into real
flames. He drew back but he did not drop hold of the chain. Unlike the
links he held the loop did not shine. Pull having achieved nothing, he
tried twist, winding the chain as swiftly as he could to the left, its
links clinging together and its length becoming less as he wound it into
two strands together. Once more he jerked.

There was a clang and the link locking the chain to the loop gave way so
quickly he stumbled back, his wings brushing painfully against the other
wall. Now he held several arm's lengths of glowing chain free from its
anchorage. Though it remained fully in his hand it did not sear his
flesh as had the single stone-set loop. Winding a fair portion about his
right hand he swung the rest back and forth as one would swing a lash.
With a clank of metal against rock it met the pavement behind him. Only
then did its light reveal something else--a skull, teeth a-grin, as it
rested in the midst of a pile of bones. What manner of creature had been
left to die here Farree could not tell, but to his eyes the skull looked
as if it were humanoid in shape.

He took a stride across that mass of bones, striking the skull without
intention with the toe of his boot. It rolled back along his trail,
toward the waiting eyes. Farree shivered and began once more to edge
along the right hand wall of this place, which changed quickly into a
narrowed passage. The glow from the chain remained constant and he swung
it back and forth now--not only as a warning to those who followed him,
but as a method of seeing a little ahead on his own path.

The dim light picked up a heap of something and for the second time he
viewed a pile of bones. But the method of securing this unfortunate
prisoner to the wall had been different. The upward swing of the chain
showed a small cage of metal secured to the stone about as high as a man
such as Vorlund would stand. In that cage a second skull rested, with
the bones piled below. Farree hurried on.

He passed two more chains looped to the wall but neither of these
contained a prisoner held to his or her death. Then he came to the end
of the way he followed to be faced by a flight of steps and a matching
rise overhead to give that flight room.

It was at that moment that the hunters attacked. Farree must have been
about to pass out of their territory and they would not allow that. He
got up four of the worn steps and stood ready to face them, the chain
dangling ready. They came and he lashed out. He struck solidly the one
in advance of the other, then hit at the second with less chance to aim.
For the first time the things gave voice--a shrilling so high and
piercing that it hurt his ears. Twice more one leaped at him only to be
caught by the lash. The first one he had struck lay struggling where the
first blow had thrown it. Now its fellow joined it. One pair of eyes
lost their light, and Farree thought that perhaps the creature was dead.
Now it seemed that if not at that last state yet the second was badly
injured, for it did not attack again, only lay near its fellow eyeing
Farree with a hate near great enough to cancel out pain.

He watched it narrowly before at last turning away and beginning to
climb. Farree still glanced back every step or two to see if he were
again being followed. The heightened color of the chain dimmed to a
light glow. He wound it about his forearm and held it out before him to
light as much of the way ahead as it could.

Once started on that climb the upward path seemed endless. Twice he made
his way through an opening overhead to come out upon another dark
passageway. He was not tempted to explore, keeping rather to the stairs
still reaching upward.

Used to the subdued radiance of the chain he was not aware at first of a
faint light up ahead. At length the shape of a grey square drew his
attention and he found by means of this some remnants of his decreasing
strength to hurry on to the head of the stairs. This left him in a room
of some size. There was a furnace at one end, and hanging on the walls
at intervals were objects he had no desire to examine closer, for in
this place there was such a residue of pain and fear as to make him
shudder. Farree opened and flexed his wings--there was room here. At the
far end of this chamber was another stair, while far above the reach of
any one standing here, there was a row of barred windows, square cut
along one wall. From them the mist-light of the grim place came.

Underfoot was a layer of dust in which Farree's tracks were very plain.
The bitter cold here was that of a place which had been deserted. Farree
wove the chain end once more about his hand as he fanned the cramps out
of his wings and stood looking about. Here the glow of the chain was
subdued, but Farree thought it looked like well-burnished silver.
Certainly it did not show any rust, as had the anchorage loop and the
cage of the skull, both of which had red flakes falling from them. He
wound the length more tightly about his arm and started up the second
flight of stairs. As had the one in front of the earth ways, there was a
second flight beyond a first landing. A corridor ran off to his right
but to his left there was a window--narrow enough that he had again to
fold down his wings, and high enough that he had to loosen the chain
from around his skin to catch the bars with both hands and pull himself
up to look out.

He was staring into open air as he had done in that chamber of his first
waking. The bars prevented him from leaning far enough forward to see
what lay to either side. In the center crossing of those bars there was
a plate of metal which was a dull red in color. Rust from the bars
sifted off on his hands and his fingers jerked in pattern with twinges
of pain until he loosed his hold again. The center plate had a deeply
incised pattern, and there was no mistaking the picture it bore. He had
seen in it some of Zoror's prized records--the ancient hand weapon known
as a sword--longer than a knife and more difficult, he thought, to
handle. The point and half the blade of this had been driven, point
down, through the representation of a humanoid skull a-grin with teeth
as long as fangs. Just as the room below had brought him the ache of
pain and ancient fear so did this tug at him--but in a different way--as
if there was an important meaning in it which he could almost guess.

Hunger and thirst drove him on, up the next length of the stair, and he
came out at the far end of a hall which stretched before him as had the
hall of his dream except there was no crystal brightness here. The walls
were hung with tatters of woven stuff which were now rags, and most of
them had fallen to the floor, lying at the foot of the walls in
mouldering lengths. Down the center of this huge chamber was a table.
Dust had reduced its vivid colors, but here and there some chance had
brushed away the fall of years to show that the board was of a deep red
stone veined with black and glittering. There were benches on both sides
of the board, their supports carved of shining black, the seat hidden by
the dust. At intervals down the table were set large footed goblets and
these had a shadow of sheen. Perhaps if they were burnished they would
show the glow as that chain which was his weapon.

There was a backed chair at one end of the table, also of the black
glittering stuff. The top of the back was a mask of a skull, bone white
and thus vivid against its setting despite the dust, pierced by a black
sword. Along the left wall as he started down the length of the chamber,
rotten rags had fallen from covering large windows, each barred and
centered with the sword and skull device. Through these came air which
was so fresh and sweet after the burrows beneath that Farree made his
way to the nearest.

These were quite large and he found them closer to the floor than any of
the others--as if they had been fashioned to accommodate inhabitants of
his own size. Also, when he leaned forward he was able for the first
time to see something besides sky.

Judging by the sun it must be after middle day, a clear day. The
frightening gloom of the building through which he wandered was
forgotten when he looked down. Below there were indeed walls. It was
what was still lingered within the wall which made him gasp. For this
was like a sea of green, although after a first incredulous glimpse it
sorted itself out into a tangled mass of shrub and tree, with an inner
core of what could only be a pool. A bird of clearest yellow arose from
one of the trees with a burst of song.

Farree could see a terrace farther on, a stairway leading down into that
miniature wilderness. He stumbled in the general direction now, trying
to find the door which would give upon this freedom. He shuffled through
a large mound of rags which became dust at his touch, puffing up to set
him coughing and blinking his eyes against the flying particles. Then he
found his door--closed. He jerked down on a time-fretted latch and came
out on the terrace.

He was staggering, and had to make his way down the stairs crab fashion,
holding on with both hands to the banister, the chain now looped around
his neck. The water drew him--to find that pool locked within the green
and drink from it--that was the only thing important now.

Chapter Thirteen
================

Yellow birds were screeching over his head, expressing their anger at
his plundering fruit from a tree they must consider their own. There was
no sign here that any but the birds and a small furred creature who had
scrambled out of his way, its teeth firmly fixed in one of the same pale
green balls as the one on which he feasted now, had been here for a long
time. He had dared to drink from the pool and to cram the fruit into his
mouth, taking the chance that neither carried any seeds of death for
off-worlders.

Only--he was not an off-worlder, Farree thought, as he reached for
another of the fruits. There were those like him here. Also there were
those odd small flashes which managed to work past the memory block
which cursed him, letting him know that his kind were not strangers
here, though this castle might be utterly strange to the Farree within
its walls now.

His hunger for the moment satisfied, he climbed back to the terrace
where there were no trees or bushes to impede the full spread of his
wings. From there he launched himself into the air, the better to see
the nature of this lodging which chance had brought him to.

The walled garden became a single bright green square as he spiraled
upward, while the dark mass of the building looked all the more sinister
from this height. It was not the height of the walls and towers alone
which rendered it so for him. The fact that it crowned what might be a
high-set plateau, with lower heights crowding about it, made it all more
impressive. There were three towers, one large one springing from the
bulk of the building through which he had come into the garden, two
smaller and of less bulk to one side. The building was unique in that
the pile of masonry rose sheer from the very lip of the level on which
it had been built--as if it had sprung directly from the native rock.

He wheeled down closer to those two towers and the small open stretch
before them. It was now plain that they guarded a gateway--one where a
massive portal was firmly closed upon the outer world. However, from an
open space there led downward a way which had been cut into the
rock--steep enough in places to turn into steps of stone.

That was also closed he saw as he swooped downward, for not too far down
that stepped path was abruptly cut off. There was only the rock of the
mount on which the castle stood, though some distance below there were
signs that broken traces of it still lingered.

Below at ground level there was a trace which might once have been a
road, and that pushed between ranks of oddly twisted trees bare of any
leaf or sign of life. Farree swooped lower again until he was near
skimming the top of a dead forest. Limbs of all these trees were twisted
as if they had been deliberately wrung and left contorted. There were
splotches here and there of a sickly yellow and a disturbing red-brown,
masses which clung to the trunks or to the spindly branches. As he had
felt in the unpleasant chamber within the castle, so did the same faint
fear touch him here. There had been evil here, strong enough to utterly
defeat all that was of life and hope.

The dead forest spread out and away from the foot of the plateau on
which the castle was rooted. There was no sign of green no matter how
high he flew. And at the end of that stretch of tormented woodland there
were again mountains such as stood between the ship and that other
mountain hold which went veiled in haze.

He circled back and flew along the wall of the two towers, seeking again
the garden with the food he needed. Between the towers on that gate
which was so firmly set there appeared in high relief that device he had
seen elsewhere in the castle--though this time the skull was red and the
black sword had lost its hilt.

Farree's flitting was joined suddenly, as he passed the second tower, by
a flight of birds, not the yellow ones of the inner garden but larger
and more aggressive looking. If they were birds--Farree wondered as they
circled in a wheel formation around him, taking turns to fly closer
until he feared one of those curved beaks would strike at one wing or
the other.

In color they were almost the same yellow as the growths on the dead
trees, and, although their bodies were feathered, their wings appeared
with patches of what looked like dirty grey skin exposed. Their eyes
were always turned toward him--they might well have been examining a
suspected enemy before they ventured an attack.

So wary did the sight of them make Farree that he almost sheered away
from the castle, to wing out across the dead forest. Only the need for
food and water kept him on his way toward the overgrown garden. He was
above the bulk of the castle, the tallest of the towers to his left when
the birds, which had flown in silence, suddenly voiced a series of harsh
screams. The encircling flight broke apart.

Out of the uppermost slit window of the tower there shot a beam of
light. It had not been aimed at him, but rather at one of the birds.
That one screamed again and veered, flapping its ragged wings with
frenzied haste, yet losing altitude.

The others were already on their way back toward the gate tower from
which they must have first come, while that one which had fallen afoul
of the light shaft landed on the roof below where it lurched along, one
wing dragging, as if it could no longer be folded against its body.

Farree kept out of what he believed to be the line of fire. Who still
defended a place which had seemed deserted for generations by all the
signs he had so far seen?

The slit window through which that light had come was deep as well as
narrow and he caught no sight of anything--or anyone--within, although
he now discovered the sensation of peace within the garden disturbed.
Certainly he had no wish to go exploring in the dark pile again.
However, he selected a place where he could fit himself under the cover
of a tree if he remembered to keep his wings well folded. There Farree
busied himself with some tall grass he had wrenched out of a bed at the
foot of the terrace. He began to knot the lengths together into a kind
of net, with a care which seemed to draw into his fingers skills he did
not know he had.

Sunset was already just ahead as he tied the last knot. He allowed
himself a long drink at the pool and established a rude nest of leaves
he had scooped up from under the largest tree. To sleep here was perhaps
rank folly, but his flight outside had showed him no place better and he
was very wary of ever entering the castle again. Having nearly gorged
himself he settled down, not to sleep as yet, though the sun was lost
behind the heights, but rather to test once more his ability to search
by mind sense.

Surely it reached farther now! He fastened upon the far end of the
tangled garden as his goal and went slowly, ready at any moment to snap
back into hiding within himself if any danger arose. There were flutters
of life, birds, and perhaps the small creatures that had raided the
fallen fruit. Neither of those showed any trace of another purpose. He
thought of trying to reach the tower and then decided quickly that there
would be little profit in perhaps drawing upon himself once more the
notice of the various owners of those voices he had not been able to
answer.

Once he started up as a cry of one of the ragged birds sounded near, was
even echoed back by the walls. His body was tired and longed for rest
but his mind was like another creature, alert, prying a little here and
a fraction there. He found another life form, ground dwelling, which was
a night ranter and fastened a thread of search upon that.

As the thread spun out, he grew excited. The barrier about him must be
either gone at last or worn thin. This creature he so accompanied
scuttled along what could only be one of the inside hallways of the dark
deserted bulk behind him. If only Togger were here! It was hard to keep
in touch with a small mind which seemed to wander in and out at the
lowest range he himself knew.

It was in the castle--and it was hunting, though what other life form
could be discovered there he had no idea. The stone-set walls were too
bare--there would be none of the possibly edible refuse which might be
available if the castle were inhabited. Up--the creature was going up
and the runway was a tight one. It managed to squeeze through places
where it must flatten its body to half size in order to pass.

There was nothing in its mind but hunger and the anticipation of finding
food. Also it was very sure that there was that food only waiting to
become prey. As a fisherman might play some sea life larger than
himself, allowing it to run fruitlessly, keeping only the thinness of a
line upon it, so Farree followed where that night hunter went. There was
excitement in the creature now; it was nearing its favored place for
finding what it sought. He did not have Maelen's power or Vorlund's; he
could not see through the hunter's eyes or even gain a picture of what
it pursued.

It was slowing, showing more caution, advancing by short spurts which
carried it apparently from one spot of cover to the next. Then--

Farree loosed his touch, whipped it back, hoping that he had not been
detected. There had been another mind--not that of any of the creature's
kind--powerful, overwhelmingly so, though Farree had only brushed
lightly against it. Someone was on watch. He pulled himself to his feet,
his wings compressed as tightly as he could hold them, and strove to
look inward to the east--toward the tower which was only the faintest of
shadows in the swiftly fallen darkness. Were there any windows on this
side? He could not remember. His mouth was dry, and he felt his hands
sticky on the heavy branches he had pulled into place before him. This
was fear again, perhaps the stronger because the object from which it
spread was unknown. He forced the barrier of mind nothingness on himself
and waited--for what he could not tell.

Time passed. The throb he had fully expected to feel did not come. Still
he dared not try such a search again. Togger-- he longed fiercely for
the smux. They had played games before, those which took the two of them
for the playing. Still he waited for an assault, although there had been
no light in the tower, no sign that anything but the creature was there.

At last Farree settled down once again in his leaf nest. His only
defense could be to keep strictly away from any more such experiments.
Scent from newly opened night flowers was heavy and there were insects
in plenty which gathered around each of the large blooms now giving off
a pale glow.

Glamorie--that strange word which Zoror had used. Farree thought he
detected a new softness in the night air, a kind of defense against the
harshness of the stone which walled in this place. Slowly he studied
what lay around him, half expecting to see some change strike this spot.

His initial wariness was fading and with a start he recognized what
danger might lie in that. He might be under the edge of some control
which had not alerted him as it came. He loosed the mind send because he
had to know--

He could sense the small lives of the garden, and there was no fear, no
uneasiness in those. If something was striving to move him now, it was
narrow-beamed to touch him alone. He looked up once more, sweeping aside
a flower-studded branch to try and see again the tallest tower, for he
was sure that all he sensed as intelligence must be located there.

Then he saw a round coin of blue, the same blue as had marked that beam
which had swept the bird from the sky. This was not fixed, for, even as
he watched, it swung a little to the right. Not an eye in reality, of
course, it was too large. But that it performed for someone that
function, yes, of that he was sure.

Now it had circled so far to the right that he could sight only the edge
of it. Again it must have moved on for there was nothing suddenly. Could
he, during the time it might be turned away, wing to the west and away?
It might be possible but to him at that moment the chance was too thin.
Instead he watched as now the eye appeared to his left and moved on
until once more he could see the disc in its entirety. Then it did not
shift any longer but remained fixed in the blackness of the night sky.

That it could look down to where he hid well below its level was another
thing he could only guess at. Any moment he expected to be caught in
some unknown trap. His presence here could have been sensed from the
first moment that he had climbed out of the depths of the earth into
that foul lower chamber. Surely he _had_ been at least noted when he had
taken wing out over the dead forest--

He had--What he had expected so long came--not with the force of a
blow--but rather of a greeting. There was no danger--

Farree slipped out of his nest and reached the terrace before he took to
wing--then as he arose above the scent of the night flowers a picture
came full envisioned in his mind as to where he had been summoned. It
was there--that landing place firm and square on a roof at the tall
tower's base.

Furling wings again he went to a door which was a little ajar as if to
greet him. He was only aware that there was need that he do this and as
time passed that need grew more demanding. Once more he mounted stairs
that wound around within the tower, the treads just wide enough to give
him foot room, his furled wings brushing against each wall.

He hurried faster, a kind of breathlessness plaguing him. The need--he
was needed! Time was so short--

Time for what? queried a deep-buried part of his mind. He was
unconscious of the desire for any answer.

Light spilled down the last part of the stair--not the red-yellow of
flame nor the glow from ship's walls, nor any other he could call to
mind. Blue--as the watching eye. He stepped out into the room which must
form the whole of the tower at top level.

She sat there in a chair of brilliant crystal which caught and reflected
the light until it seemed that her resting place was formed of gems. Her
full sleeves had fallen back from hands which were together so that her
forefingers touched her lips, the arms braced with elbows on the arms of
the chair.

Farree's wings trembled, half spread. He stared and met her stare eye to
eye. She was certainly as tall as Maelen, and she wore no wings. Hair,
which in this light was palely blue, must be really silver, fine spun.
It lay loose on her shoulders, rippling down until it formed a shoulder
cape above her robe.

Jewels as brilliant as the flashing throne on which she sat glittered
here and there among the strands as if they had been threaded on her
hair itself. And there was a device on the breast of her robe--wide
wings of glitter outspread.

Farree stared. One hand went uncertainly to his head where the pain once
more built up swiftly. His sight clouded and his other hand went out in
protest.

"So--the wheel has indeed turned." The words dripped through the pain
into him. "What went down to defeat in darkness struggles to arise
again. But not wholly, is that not so, small one? Fragon's seal is not
easily broken. Tell me now--who am I?"

Farree's mouth felt as dry as if it had been scrubbed with desert sand.
He whispered:

"Selrena--"

She moved her hands so that those forefingers no longer stayed at lip
level but pointed straight at him as if to impale his body on their
pointed nails.

"So--" She nodded and the jewels spun into her hair danced to dazzle
him. But the pain was lessening, and he could see her clearly once more.
"And what am I, little one?"

For that he had no answer. The wall within his head was as intact as
ever.

"I--I do not know."

She did not frown but he sensed a momentary impatience in her.

"Fragon!" She spat that word and then appeared to school herself into
patience. "At least you are Langrone. Look!"

So impetuous was that command, the pointing of her finger, that he
immediately stared floorward to see that between them was a circle of
the blue shining surface. The eye--but--?

She appeared to catch his thought. "Eye? Yes, it is something of an eye.
However, we must make sure--"

He was invaded. There shot before and about him fleeting pictures. Once
more he relived what he knew of his life. Then, feeling as if he had
been caught up and sucked so that most of the strength in him was
stolen, he stood again, swaying, at the edge of the blue disc.

Selrena had not moved out of her chair but she had placed her hands on
its arms and for the first time there was real expression in her calm
face.

"From off-world"--it was as if she mused to herself-- "and those with
you--What is planned can be changed when there are new strands for the
weaving. Now--" There was the same force in her voice as had been in the
command which had been given for that brief return to the past.
"Look--reach--"

He went down on his knees, mainly because he could no longer stand
erect, and he leaned over to stare down into the disc even as he had
stared at her upon their meeting.

There was nothing to herald the scene which flashed instantly into
sight. He was almost as much a part of what he saw as if he did stand in
the control cabin of the ship. Zoror sat in the pilot's place, but
Maelen and Vorlund were on their feet and now both their heads swung
around and they looked in his direction, but their expressions were
puzzled. There was another will uncoiling inside of him. Even as he had
used the creature from the garden for a chance to seek out what might be
of danger, so now he was being used in the same way.

Vorlund continued to look puzzled, but Maelen held up her hand and the
fingers moved. Farree was shaken by a sense of surprise--that which was
using him did not expect such a response. Beneath the surprise was now a
thread of uncertainty.

Farree's mind sense was commandeered, thrust at Maelen, and flattened so
against a wall. Then he was hurled against Vorlund and found entrance,
but only momentarily. There came a wry twisting and he was once more
outside. The Zacanthan then--

Again the defense was too much for him to hold.

"Farree!" Maelen had returned the sense. "Farree-- where--" She did not
complete that question.

Between his eyes and the disc a white hand passed, fingertips brushing
the surface. The scene which had been so sharply clear was erased.
Slowly he lifted his head to look again to Selrena. She was one of the
Darda and they were always set to keep their own council. To them the
winged ones were as children: this was another weight of knowledge from
the past.

She was standing now, towering above him, no longer looking down but at
a narrow opening in the wall to the west. Her lower lip was sucked in
between her teeth, and a lesser person might have been thought to be in
a state of indecision.

He felt as tired as if he had gone for days without any rest, and he had
to fight to keep his eyes open.

"New one--with power!" Selrena said slowly. "And not come against us
but--for you!" She swept her robe about her and went to a small table
which stood a short distance away. Picking up a bowl which she cupped in
the palm of one hand she shook into that the contents of two small boxes
and added liquid from a tall bottle. In her two hands she tilted the
bowl slowly from side to side and then brought it to Farree, stepping
around the side of the disc.

"Drink!" she ordered sharply.

He found that he could do nothing else then but obey. The contents were
thick but fluid, and the taste was tart, nearly fiery, so that he
swallowed hurriedly to get it out of his mouth. Heat sped down his
throat and suddenly he realized that the grim walls about had forced a
chill not only on the room but into him so that he had been tense
against it, whereas now he relaxed.

Selrena had reseated herself in the crystal chair and sat watching him
with the expression of one striving to solve some problem. As he put
aside the bowl she gestured again to the disc on the floor. He leaned
forward a little, wondering if he were again to face his companions. The
fatigue which had ridden him ever since he had come upward from the ways
beneath had somehow vanished; neither did he feel as if he were under
any compulsion. Perhaps this was more of Zoror's glamorie, but he had no
desire to fight it.

"Who are these friends of yours?" She was direct and to the point.

Though she must have learned from her mind hold the major parts of his
story Farree retold it again, partly by mind picture, partly in speech.
Though he used the universal trade talk of the star lanes it would seem
that she had no difficulty in understanding him any more than he found
her words untranslatable.

When he talked of their adventures on Yiktor she stopped him several
times, mainly to ask that he repeat something he had said concerning
Maelen or those of the Thassa whom he had encountered.

"From whence did they come?" she again asked abruptly, "these who share
thoughts not only with each other but also with the animals and other
life of their present world?"

Farree shook his head. "I do not know--only that they are an old, old
people who once lived in cities but who now travel over their world,
having no true homes."

"Yet they have power." The hand resting on her knee clasped itself into
a fist. "Now"--she switched to another subject--"tell me more of this
Zacanthan--from whence did he come and why does he comb old legends?
Does he hunt treasure as seems to be the goal of many races and
species?"

"The Zacanthans hunt knowledge. In their own world they store all that
they can learn--"

"For what reason?" she pushed him.

"I do not know, except that they find knowledge itself treasure.
Sometimes they go off-world as Zoror has done-- either to stay, as he
does, on another world where many ships planet and where he can gather
the news from many far places--or sometimes they explore ancient ruins
to hunt there some clues as to who built them and when and why--"

"And it was this Zoror who told you of the People--who came with you
seeking them--merely for the knowledge he could add to his gleanings? Or
had he some other reason-- perhaps to hunt for the Doomland? Only death
comes to those seeking there for any treasure. There are many stories of
what can be discovered, but those are rightly distrusted. Death guards
its own.

"However, that the People are still remembered and that someone seeks
them"--again she was looking over Farree's head toward the wall of the
round chamber--"that is something to think on."

"He does not hunt treasure--" Farree began and she laughed, though there
was nothing but chill in that sound.

"No, he comes to return you to your kin. Is that his boast then?"

"He does not boast. Yes, he wished to follow the need which brought me
here. And the Lady Maelen and her lord--they were of a like mind."

"A pretty tale." She laughed again. "So here you now sit in the hold
which was once Fragon's and give me puzzles to be solved. I am always
one needing answers, wingling. However, there is"--she tilted her head a
fraction and eyed him intently--"this is just-- Yes!" She brought her
hands together with a clap of sound. "How better can you all play our
purposes, wingling? Since you are here, be sure I shall make good use of
you. Come--" She had arisen from her chair and beckoned. He got to his
feet.

She waited for him to draw level with her and then laid one hand firmly
on his shoulder, compelling him to walk with her. They were facing the
wall when she halted to set her other hand to the stone. What she did
there he could not tell, but a large portion of the wall fell outwards,
providing a ledge open on three sides to the night.

Swiftly Selrena lifted the hand on his shoulder to touch his forehead
between his eyes.

Farree lunged outward onto the platform. There had come a question--one
only he could answer and that he must--now! His wings expanded and he
leaped out and up into the night.

Chapter Fourteen
================

This was the same call which had drawn him earlier from the ship, and he
could not do anything else but answer it. Under him the earth was dark;
an evil greenish glimmer from the dead forest provided all the light
except the very distant stars. No birds arose to fly with him or harass
him during his flight. Farree tried to reach ahead, to pinpoint the
source of the call but he could only learn that it lay to the west.
While to the east--He thought fleetingly of the ship and those waiting
for him there, but there was no way he could escape the urge which kept
him flying directly away from what might be safety and help.

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.

One 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 ungiving
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 unfitted 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.

For a moment he thought his wings were not going to support him. The
heaviness which had weighed him down before was again a burden. He could
not make it to the cliff top. Nor had he any intention of following
behind that strange entourage which had already passed his ledge,
skimming serenely along, as if they had nothing to fear from laser
flashes which cut below, above, before and behind them, but never
touched them.

There was one way he might go while those others took the attention from
him--and that was out over the camp, heading still farther west. He
began to believe that such a maneuver might well be a good choice. To go
west and then circle north and east--

Thus he chose a path which carried him over the heads of the ship men,
fighting for altitude. Their full attention was still centered on the
group in the light.

Selrena broke her calm, tempest-riding stance to point to the ground
with the rod she held. Farree had just time to see that her escorts were
aiming their weapons downward in obedience when a strong blast against
him brought him to the ground. He was angry at his own folly in trying
such a reckless ploy. On wing he stood out to be picked off by any who
sighted him.

He expected to be either burned or jumped when his feet touched earth.
It was darker here. All the light was gathered near where the other air
invaders were traveling.

Out of the dark span a loop snaked about his body at waist level and
then set off tendrils to bind his arms tightly to his body. A tangler!
He was indeed trapped, forced to yield to the will of the trapper as he
was snapped back, losing his feet, and then dragged face down across the
ground where the vegetation had been worn away. Those portions of his
hands and knees which had been skinned by his cliff landing were rasped
raw for the second time.

He blinked. That drag had brought him up beside one of the bubble
shelters and the flap curtain closing that had been pulled aside. Out of
the shadows came his captor. He was a tall man, matching one of the
Darda in size, but there was nothing about him which suggested those
cool and distant ones. He wore the clothing of a spacer and that was
stained, grimy. From him as he moved there came an animallike smell
which was like that of one of the drifters in the Limits. His skin was
nearly black from space tan and he had a wide mouth which now gaped as
he grinned, showing spaces of missing teeth.

Now he reached down and caught Farree by his hair and dragged him up and
into the shelter with one strong pull.

"How'ya, lady? Got you a friend for now."

Farree, helpless in that hold, looked to one who was not only more
helpless than he but who had suffered from her fate.

She huddled on the ground, her thin body seemingly drained of substance,
curiously flat, showing bones beneath the skin, for her clothing
consisted only of a few rags, and those left enough openings to display
old lash marks and new. Her hair was a matted tangle and her small hands
and feet nearer to claws than normal appendages. She did not lift her
head nor look at the man and Farree.

The spacer took from one of the loops of his belt a thin tube. Crowding
past Farree he held that over her head. She stirred and lifted a face so
twisted in torment that Farree struggled vainly in sympathy and fear.

"Come on, you. Give us an invite now," her captor ordered.

She stared past Farree as if she did not sight him or understand his
presence, if she did. If his mind broke full voice, filled with pain,
the cry he had heard before.

"Come--come!" Around him he sensed a strange eddy, as if there were more
than words in the mind plea. She moaned a little, her hands going to her
head. The tall man laughed.

"You got your wish, lady. Here's a friend come to you. Not that it's
going to do either of you any good."

Chapter Fifteen
===============

The jailer stood aside from the girl, but she did not show any more
awareness of him nor of Farree then she had before. Her wings were
fastened together and over them was a near transparent film packaging
them so. They were the same color as those Farree wore--shades of
green--but the sheen of the furlike covering was masked by that which
imprisoned them. The guard stepped closer to Farree now and tapped one
finger against the wings tangled in the cord which kept him prisoner.

"Prime!" The man licked his lips. "Prime stock. Vass will like this.
You've brought him luck, flying boy. At auction these will fetch a good
round of credits and Vass, he don't forget them as has done a good job.
Yessss--a prime pair."

Now he ran his fingers along the edge of the near wing and Farree
shivered. There was something in that touch which promised worse than he
had expected. There came a clacking noise and the guard hurriedly
unhooked a disc from his belt, listening to staccato speech Farree could
not identify.

The off-worlder barked an assent into the disc and stowed it away again.
For a moment he stood looking at the two of them, a leering grin on his
face. Then he spoke to the girl.

"You, little lady, don't you think as how you can get out of here with
him." He stabbed a thumb in Farree's direction. "You want th' silencer?"

Something in that question pierced through the daze which held her. She
gave a little moan and shook her head. The guard laughed.

"No, I thought as how you wouldn't want that! As for you"--now he looked
to Farree--"don't you go threshing about. Because there ain't anyway you
can get yourself out of that tie up!" With that as a parting shot he
left the shelter and dropped the outside curtain behind him.

Farree already knew that there was no way he was going to get out of a
tangler. Only fire might shrivel those bonds away--unless the proper
signal was thumbed on the stock which had spun it. He looked to the
girl. She crouched as if she wanted to bury herself in the earth under
their feet, her head bent and her attention all on her balled hands.

Then she spoke and there was a sharpness in the quality of her voice--as
if she were thoroughly aware and unmarked by any ill handling, but knew
exactly what she would do. Only the words she voiced in a thin croon,
hardly above a whisper, meant nothing to Farree. It was not the
universal trade tongue with which he was the most familiar--rather it
sounded almost like a song.

"I do not understand." He curbed his own voice until it was hardly
louder than hers. Perhaps there was no hope that she would understand
him in return. He guessed that to use mind touch here might be the worst
of all.

She did not raise her head but glanced up at him through the sweat-wet
tangle of hair which fell across her forehead. The dazed stare was gone
out of her eyes, replaced by inquiry which was as wary as if he were
about to add to the wounds and scars which patterned her body.

Now her fingers stretched apart from the tight fists into which she had
curled them. She pointed a forefinger at him and her lips shaped a word
which again had no meaning for him, but he took a guess at the question.

"Farree," he answered with his name.

The girl looked impatient, started to shake her head, and then winced as
if at the bite from one of her hurts. Again she pointed, stabbing the
air as if to emphasize the seriousness of what that question was.

He could shake his head only a fraction in the bindings of the web which
held him fast. If she did not want his name, but rather his reason for
being there, he was unable to satisfy her.

She had settled back a little and was eyeing him intently. Then she held
out both hands. Her fingers slowly moved as if they wrote on the air.

Farree sucked in his breath. Just so had he seen Maelen gesture once or
twice in the past; yet the prisoner was plainly no Thassa. He could not
lift his own arms, which were bound tightly by the tangler. If he could
what might he do--only copy her own gesture?

Maelen! He built up a mind picture of her without thinking.

The girl threw herself forward, her one hand out to his head, one
emphatic shake warning him.

But that came too late. Skittering in and out of his thought bands was
the touch he knew well--Togger! In spite of the continued emphatic
warning the girl pantomimed, Farree deliberately pictured the smux, down
to the last curve of the poison-feeding claws. Once done he held to
that--not trying to reach any other of their company. It might be that
his call for the smux was on so different a band of mind sense that it
would not be detected by any of the sensors, mental or mechanical, which
these killers used.

He put into his own call all the force of his frustration.

"Friend--friend!" Togger had made contact! Where was the smux--how far
away? Farree forced all such speculation from his mind and continued to
hold only on the picture of Togger, and to keep in touch with the smux.
From the clearness of the touch, and the fact it grew continually
sharper, he believed that by some freak of chance fortune was with
him--Togger!

The girl was on her knees before him, staring straight into his eyes as
if she could see through those into what stood in his mind--the squat
body of his first and closest ally.

She brushed aside the locks of hair dangling about her face and then she
held out both hands, touching his body between the loops of the cord
which held him so motionless. Into him streamed a flow of strength.
There was amazement in her expression, a recoil that almost caused an
involuntary withdrawal from contact with him. Manifestly she had not
expected what her touch was accomplishing.

"Togger--" He strained his mind touch as far out on the scale as he
could. And touched now another--!

That these two had managed to reach him, and yet he had not felt any
call from the Zacanthan, Maelen, or Vorlund, was surprising to him.
Perhaps some device activated by his captors prevented this. But the
party from his own ship must not be allowed to come within range of
these who had established camp here. They in turn could be swept into
captivity.

The near witless look that the girl had worn while the guard was with
them was swept away by her continued attitude and expression of
wariness. Her touch on Farree changed. Now she gripped each of his
hands, even pinned as they were against his sides by the tangler, in one
of hers and a stronger force flowed between them.

"Bad--bad in the air--" Togger broadcast. And repeated even more firmly,
"In air, bad."

Still keeping touch with the smux Farree listened. There were more
shouts and he could hear the crackle of lasers. Did that mean invaders
were still trying to shoot down Selrena and her black-winged escort? Or
were the three of his own comrades riding the flitter of their own ship
and now taking a part in the battle?

His back was to the door of the shelter but he saw the girl's eyes
widen, felt a small added pressure in her hands. Someone was there. Then
Farree caught a whiff of the acrid odor given forth by Togger when he
was aroused and his claws were ready to deliver poison to an enemy.
There was another smell, too.

"Yazz!"

A furred body pressed against his back for an instant and then rounded
into his sight. Mounted on the back of the slender hunter rode Togger,
holding on to a strip which had been fastened around Yazz's body just
behind her forelegs.

"Togger, Yazz!" Farree would have liked to have shouted aloud, but he
remembered to keep his voice down. Yazz raised her slender nose, sniffed
in direction of the girl, who stared wide-eyed at the pair of newcomers.

"Friends!" Farree, unable to even point because of his bound hands,
nodded to the two newcomers.

She dropped her hold on his hands, edging back into the position in
which he had first seen her. Still she looked from one to another of the
three of them with wonder in her face. Yazz moved in closer and opened a
mouth well equipped with teeth, ready to snap at Farree's bonds.

Hurriedly he sent a thrust of danger at Yazz. To touch those might well
entangle her in turn. He must have his freedom--but how long they might
have before the guard returned Farree had no way of telling. Fire--but
there was no fire to shrivel the tangler cords into black strings as he
had seen done before. Nor was the whip stock which controlled the spread
of the sticky cords here. How then--?

It was Togger who answered that. The smux dropped from Yazz's back and
scuttled forward, his large foreclaws slightly raised. There was the
shine of poison showing on those, even one or two drops falling as he
came to Farree.

Was that the answer? Could the caustic defense of the smux work to burn
in another way? Farree clutched at that thought. Togger might not be
able to nod in agreement as he squatted momentarily before his friend,
but Farree was certain that that caustic burning was just what he
proposed to try.

He clicked his claws and Yazz came to him. Using a dangling end of the
strap by which he could ride on the larger animal's back Togger pulled
himself up to that place he had occupied before. Yazz turned sidewise
and with small, cautious movements she drew as near as she could to
Farree without touching one of those white cords. Togger held on with
his back legs and his small claws, and reached out to Farree, straining
his whole body as far as he could to reach the prisoner.

Despite the growing stench of the poison and the threat of those claws
should Togger aim badly, Farree stood as still as he could hold himself.
Selecting a length of the bonds which was as far from any bare skin as
he could find, Togger clasped it with a light grip.

There came an even stronger whiff of the poison. But the touch of the
smux had not tied him into captivity, too. Instead there was a black
ring where the claw had clutched as the smux loosed it. That blackness
spread, in both ways, from the ring.

The cord loosed suddenly, fell down, while the black spread up the
surface of each end of the cutting. Farree started once as part of the
blackened stuff which touched his own skin gave him a sharp thrust of
pain, as if he had held his arm in an open flame. His hands were free
and the darkened portions were falling away. In moments he could shake
himself and the last of the smoking tangler loops dropped from him.

He kicked those away and stood steady as Togger now leaped from his
perch on Yazz to his favorite riding place in the front of Farree's
jerkin. The girl's hand was at her mouth as if she were chewing on her
knuckles.

Farree held out his hand to urge her to her feet. He might have very
little hope of winning free from this camp but that was no reason not to
try. Then she shook her head vehemently and pointed to what lay along
the floor, which he had not noticed before. She was tethered to the
large support in the middle of the shelter by a chain and a ring about
one slender ankle; her ankle was much darkened by bruises, as if she had
tried for freedom on her own.

The anklet was of the same silvery metal he had found in the deeps below
Selrena's castle. But the chain itself was darker in hue and looked as
if it might be steel. The end which was clasped around the support was
even darker in color.

He reached for the nearest of the chain links to test the hold. She
caught at his hand and shook her head sharply. He drew as gently as he
could of her clutches and knelt, taking the chain up between his hands.
The links were warm, even hot to the touch, but it seemed to him that
when he jerked the loop around the support, it gave a little. Togger's
acid poison had bitten through the tangler cord; could it also act on
this?

Farree threaded the chain through his hands, until his fingers were near
that other ring about her ankle. The longer he held onto the length of
metal the hotter it became, until he had to push himself to touch it.
But he straightened it out against the trodden earth and mind sent to
the smux.

"Cut!"

Togger slid down from Yazz once more and scuttled in his half side-wise
advance to study the chain. His eyes shot out on their stalks to the
greatest length, nearly touching the chain, and for a long moment he did
not move.

"Back--" The order reached Farree. Obediently he hunkered back on his
knees. His smarting hands had gone to his belt pouch to bring out some
wilted ill-bane, near crushed into a wet mess. Catching this up between
his palms he turned it around and around. The first hurt of moving the
reddened skin across his fingers was swallowed up with the healing
coolness of the herb. Togger meanwhile squatted down and closed claw
about the chain.

How much venom remained in the claw pockets? Could it corrode metal as
easily as it had disposed of the tangler cords?

Togger closed both claws on the same link and held it tightly. The smart
of his hands reduced, Farree leaned forward to set fingers to the chain
on either side of the link the smux held. He pulled at that with all the
strength that he had.

There was no change; the chain held. The effects of the ill-bane were
wearing off, and Farree's hands felt the scorch of the strange heat
rising again. Togger sat back, supported by his hind legs. It was plain
that he, too, was bringing all his strength to bear.

The smux dropped the chain out of his claws.

"Hurt--" his complaint reached Farree. There were no more bubbles
arising along the edges of the claws. It was plain that the venom
pockets were empty. Perhaps half a day--or night--might lapse before
they would be filled once again. Farree himself gave a last defiant
jerk, in spite of the pain in his hands, to the chain.

The link snapped. Farree looked at the two ends for a moment and then he
caught the girl by the shoulder and dragged her to the entrance of the
shelter. Unfortunately, it was also apparent that she was in a very
weakened condition, and had to hold to Farree or fall face downward.
Yazz crowded in upon his right side, Togger once more in place on her
back. The girl caught hold of a roll of the loose skin immediately
around Yazz's neck and used that hold to balance herself, while Farree,
making sure she could stand erect for a few moments, carefully pushed
back the shelter curtain a slit to look out. They could hear the crackle
of lasers and the night sky was lit by constant flashes--but the main
part of the disturbance was some distance away. He wondered if Selrena
or any of her winged crew had been caught in the vicious and deadly
darting of the beams.

How had Togger and Yazz gotten there? Had they tracked him somehow clear
across this country of which he himself was not sure? How had he gotten
into the depths of Selrena's castle, by the way?

"Not here! Them Darda will claim anything, 'tis truth enough. But Fragon
never built nothing for no one but his own self--"

The words in Farree's mind gave the impression of guttural sneering.
Involuntarily his gaze fell from above to below. Beyond the next shelter
bubble there was what seemed to be a well-like opening of dull black
lying flat, only to be noted for a second or two when the firing above
came near. A figure hunched on the lip of that and Farree was aware that
the send came from there.

"Go!" Togger's urging was sharp enough nearly to touch another level of
mind send.

Though he might be journeying from one trap into another Farree did not
hesitate, but turned to pull the girl through the curtain. She was
plucking at the transparent substance which covered her wings, without
achieving any freedom. Grabbing her hand Farree propelled her toward
that disc of darkness. The hunched figure arose to full height, proving
as tall as Farree if one did not count the arch of wings overhead. From
the glimpse Farree caught of him this was like the leader of that pack
which had been traveling underground to attack Bojor. He longed for the
strange rod he had lost when he had been captured, for any weapon to
hand. From the shadow came a grate of what might be laughter but did not
sound like honest mirth.

"Gonna get outta here, wingling? You gonna try up through that?" The
underground dweller flung a hand high to indicate the sky, though the
light was such that Farree could not tell how many of the flyers were
still engaged. To rise into the midst of that Farree knew would be the
same if not worse than going back into the shelter to wait spiritlessly
whatever fate the enemy planned. He tried to see deeper into the hole,
distrusting its size when he had to count on the folding of his wings.

Again that cackle of laughter while mind speech accompanied it. "Not
winging will you be this time, wingling! Nor she neither, 'less she puts
those flappers of hers down."

The girl was pulling once more at the edge of the transparent covering
which held her wings pressed as tightly together as hands palm against
palm.

There was little of the night left, Farree noted. Instead a distant
greying of black sky suggested that dawn was close upon them. They must
waste no time.

Though his hands were stiff and painful after his ordeal with the chain,
Farree tried to help her tear off that covering. Then he caught up
Togger. There might not be any more venom--nor could the smux have used
it here--but his foreclaws still had their sawlike inner surfaces and
these Farree put to use, holding Togger while the smux moved to open a
hole in that tightly fastened length. Once that was breached it was easy
enough to strip off the stuff in lengths, hurling it away from them.

"Make it quick, winglings!" The underground dweller had popped down into
the hole but his mind speech still reached them. "We ain't gonna wait
around for any of them Big Folk to come-a-lookin'. Get in here with
you!"

Farree dropped Togger back with Yazz and steadied the girl beside him.
He still dared not try mind send--with her; Yazz and Togger "talked" in
another level of communication, at the very edge of what he could pick
up. Maelen was better at communication with all those she called "those
little people in fur," but his long connection with Togger made Farree
able to pick up the smux easily enough. The fact that somehow the people
of this ship were able to force the girl to talk to their purposes kept
him from attempting other channels--though the send of the earth
dwellers appeared much like Togger's on a lower level.

He touched the girl's nearest wing even though the pain in his now very
stiff fingers made that a difficult gesture, pushing gently at the edge
to attempt the suggestion that she fold them back. Perhaps she picked up
the earth dweller's order, she was flexing her wings, stiff from their
long imprisonment, though she jerked and shook as if every move caused
her pain. But at length she got them as furled as Farree had brought
down his and, as she was ready to enter the hole, he held her by the
wrists to lower her. Yazz and Togger had already gone in.

There was something of a drop; Farree had to lie belly down until he
felt her come to a stop and her fingers moved to free themselves. Then
he swung over hurriedly, having to let himself fall until he plopped
down on earth and smelled the sour and musty odor which seemed to hang
in these underground ways. There was a dull light some distance away
towards his left and Togger's send reached him again:

"Come--"

The passage was none too large and it must have been recently dug, for
his wings, as tightly folded as they were, brushed clods of earth from
both overhead and from the walls, until he feared that the whole way
might collapse on him. The light was not stationary but ran ahead as he
followed and he guessed it to be some kind of a mobile torch in the
hands of one of their party.

Then he passed by a hollow in the side of the tunnel and heard a whisper
of stir there. He chilled. Though he was nor sure how he could be so
sure of it, he was certain that in that hollow, well within reach of him
as he pushed hurriedly past, were the furred, leggy creatures who had
opened the other way in order to attack Bojor in the valley of his ship.

There was a rustling behind and he called on his sense as strongly as he
could. Yes, it was the burrow lurkers, but they were not trailing him as
he had feared, rather scuttling back toward the hole which led to the
camp. Surely they would be a surprise to any who would come after them,
but also they might now be engaged in filling the entrance to this
escape route.

Farree quickened his pace as best he could, his arm up and ahead of him
to feel out anything which might catch on his wings. But he did not
touch any of the tubers which had hung from the roof in that other way.

Twice the passage took an abrupt turn, and on the second one he caught
up with the rest of the party, hardly more than shadows in the very weak
light which came from a crooked stick carried by the one who had
overseen all this rescue. His head, in that dim light, looked nearly too
large for his body, and his forearms and legs, which were incompletely
covered by dull grey-brown, skintight clothing, were nearer stick thin.
The rest of his body was haired with coarse black and thick clumps of
bristles. His nose was nearly a snout, for his mouth was very large and
he had no visible chin. In some ways he looked rather like the
animal-masked one Farree had seen in his dream. His ears were pointed
and placed well up a naked skull, the ends of them curved over a little.
Farree, who had seen many strange wayfarers during his days in the
Limits and a-travel thereafter, thought that his ugliness well passed
the common.

Having once made the escapees free of this secret way he paid no more
attention to them, but stamped ahead flatfootedly, leaving them to
follow or not as they would.

The girl was behind Yazz, and she kept hold on Yazz's waving tail as if
she needed touch with some creature less disagreeable than their guide.
There was no room here to push up closer, so Farree continued to bring
up the rear. They passed walls now where the soil rained down and there
were streaks of moisture showing. The earth dweller hastened by those
spots and they had to hurry, Farree very uneasy at those signs of
possible disintegration.

One more turn and their path was much brighter. Unconsciously they all
speeded up once more toward that and so they came out into a place so
different from the cramped ways down which they had come that Farree
stopped short, once he was through a break in the wall, just to stare
about him.

Chapter Sixteen
===============

The light was as brilliant as the full day's shine but not steady. As
the lasers had flashed in the air earlier, here also shot shafts of
rainbow glitter. He might have been back in that crystal castle of his
first dreaming.

Only here the crystals were untamed. They had not been quarried or
shaped by any will save their own. Great, sharp-pointed spikes stood
taller than Farree, sprouting from the rock as if they had grown like
trees. Some were as clear as mountain water save that they cut the light
into rainbows. Others were footed in color--amethyst, clear yellow,
smoke-silver. In the midst of this vast cave or hall there were many of
grey but these were murky, not silver, resembling the ball, the Globe of
Ummar, which had splintered.

These alone showed that they had been worked upon for a purpose. They
were packed together, flat sides uppermost, a wall of high points at the
back of a level stretch on which someone was seated.

The earth dweller who had led them here forged ahead, but those he had
guided remained just within the entrance of this place of colored light,
dazzled by its brilliance. Their guide shambled on, to stand at the foot
of the piled crystals which had been fitted to serve as a seat--or a
throne--

He bowed low and then looked up into a face--

Not a face, Farree thought, the chill once more upon him, but rather a
countenance close to a skull, even if there was yellowish skin laid
across the thrusting bone. The eye holes were not empty; there were
tightly drawn lids across their sharp edges. And the skin on the two
hands resting on flanking crystals was deeply wrinkled, showing long
nails, curved beyond the ends of the fingers as might claws, all
emblazoned by a bright scarlet which the play of the crystal light could
not disguise.

The rest of the figure was muffled in a grey robe which did not look as
if it were of material substance, but rather as if an armful of haze had
been pulled about a skeleton body. Between the knees of the enthroned
one was the massive hilt of a sword and at the hidden feet lay a skull,
this one far larger than that of any man Farree had ever seen. Struck
well into the dome of bone was the point of the sword--the device which
had been so plainly displayed in the castle where Selrena had had her
lurking place.

At the same time he noted that, Farree was aware of what might be the
first stroke of a very strange battle--the throb of an invading mind
send.

"Glasrant." That one word pierced his head as the sword pierced the
skull before the seated one. There was a stirring, a pushing--such pain
as he could not have imagined before strove to split his head open.
Through the tears gathering in his eyes and running down his cheeks
Farree saw that those tightly drawn eyelids were no longer flat and
closed. Somehow they had vanished and, as he staggered forward to answer
an unvoiced command his gaze was caught and tight held by what lay in
the dark pits so uncovered: cores of flame, red, yellow, near
white-hot-- They reached into his head, hunted, sought, appraised,
dropped aside as without value, summoned what the mist-robed one wanted
and formed that into something which could think, and thinking, hear
again.

"You were dead," observed the robed one.

"I was not dead." Farree felt as if some other had taken over his body,
his mind. "Your earth grubbers were not thorough, Fragon. Then there was
Malor--you were not well served, Fragon."

He kept his feet by sheer will; there was a burning hell of released
thought and memory, which strove to carve more room that it might fill
its proper place again.

"Ah, yes, Malor. One must often be reduced to using tools which are
flawed." Now the skeleton's red-nailed hands met and bore down on the
sword hilt. If that gesture measured some emotion it was not echoed on
the skin-and-bone face in which only the fire of the eyes was alive.

"So Malor did not gain by his treachery?" There was a face in Farree's
mind--sculptured to resemble his own, so much so he might have been the
other's son--or brother?

"For a season he profited," Fragon said indifferently. "As a quas fruit
he had that much. Then there was a naming and challenge; he thought
himself invincible. The learning otherwise took but a short space.
Quaffer had the better of a yield flight."

"And what then happened to Quaffer?" Farree asked as in his mind a
second face formed, one for which he held no liking.

"Quaffer was a fool!" That answer had not come from the dead-alive Darda
on his smoky crystal throne, but from one Farree had forgotten, the
girl.

She must have followed him, for now she drew level with him, her eyes
also on the Dark Darda.

"Quaffer was a fool." Agreement rang in Farree's mind.

"Fools and knaves, they rise like scum on a meat pot when it is set
boiling. Quaffer made a pact with those of the Cursed Ones who had
discovered this world. It was he who bought their aid with an
offering--you, Glasrant. They sought you the world around. After that
star ship rose from the earth, Quaffer swore you dead of the Cursed
Ones' malice when the Bright Lady and the Sword Lord threatened him with
a coat of iron.

"Yes, youngling, there was a blooding of many shields and a tramping of
feet after that. For that the Cursed Ones would return, as was their
fashion, all knew; and this time it had been sworn by Light and Dark,
Night and Day, Sun and Moon, that we of the Folk, Darda, Winglings,
Hodlins, Wisser, Thorm, and Wend, would swear a pact to hold, though
there be bad blood 'twixt clan and clan, folk and folk. Still that would
be forgot until our time of the last trial would come. Thus we have
wrought what we could since the Cursed Ones did come again. Now you
appear, Glasrant, and from a star ship with Cursed Ones--" There was a
pause.

Farree found himself thinking of Maelen and Vorlund, of Zoror, and of
what they had meant to him since his escape from the Limits. His other
memories, those that almost vicious unlocking had doomed him to, he
pushed away.

Fragon leaned forward a little, his hands on the sword hilt supporting
him.

"They know--" He shaped those two words as if he chewed upon something
which he found as bitter as the poison of Togger's claws. "These know!"

It was the girl who swung half around to stare at Farree. Her fine
greenish skin did not disguise a flush, even as her anger burned him
along the send between them.

"You--" she began when Fragon's heavier and clearer send cut over to
drown hers out.

"No, Atra, Glasrant has not played your role. You who have been the
Cursed Ones' bait can lay no such guilt on him."

Her flush grew deeper and then faded, leaving her cheeks so pallid that
Farree guessed she was deep stricken. Then her head drooped and all
touch with her was gone.

However, Fragon was not yet done with her. "So, sky dancer, you wish to
deal a blow with what you believe to be truth but cannot face such
yourself? It seems that Glasrant has found something anew--that there
are those of the Cursed Kind which court our trust. The one who is
scaled, even as the wisser, the two might be Darda, they have brought
you here. But the treasure they have come seeking is not to be ripped
from our earth, strained from our rivers, lakes, and seas; instead it is
found within skulls!" The hilt of the sword moved in his hands and
appeared to dig even farther into the skull.

"There is a very old saying which has come out of the far mists of even
our time, which is very long as the Cursed Ones reckon it. And that
is--we who share an enemy may stand together without hindrance, even
though not all of us are of one race, one species. These who have come
with you, Glasrant, perhaps are part of some such a pact."

The girl's head rose again. "Those from the stars all carry the curse."

"Say you so? Now let us see." On the rack of bones which under the mist
robe marked his shoulders Fragon's head swung a fraction; he was looking
beyond her to the opposite side of the carven hall.

Selrena strode between the up-pointing crystals. There was a reddened
line along her arm, and on the tight silvery garment, which covered near
all her body except for her arms, were blotches of dull black. Behind
her came two others, a little taller than she, one the man Vestrum, who
had faced Farree in the room of the crystals, and the other that cloaked
one who wore a bristle-rooted mask--the face hiding the one of Farree's
dream.

Behind these three there was a gathering of others, each keeping with
those of a like kind. Here was a winged lord who had wings of red, and
those whose pinions were as dusky as twilight on a starless night.
Behind the masked one shambled creatures such as the earth dweller who
had brought them here, and others varying in size; four at least were
tall enough that they had continually to duck to escape from striking
down-pointing crystals. Vestrum had two of the small flutists capering
behind him, piping as if to set all dancing, and three ladies, tall as
Selrena, their flowing hair red-gold, and their robes girdled and looped
with wreaths of flowers no wider than ribbons.

"You called." It was the Beast Mask's harsh voice which rang out, as he
was the first by a few steps to find a place before the crystal throne.
And he made no obeisance to Fragon, though those of his hideous and
motley following all bowed to the Dark One.

"And you have chosen to come." Fragon did not speak-- he thought that.
However, it would seem that Beast Mask did not choose to follow that
form of communication, for he spoke again. Farree did not feel it queer
that he could understand. He was assured by Fragon's very presence, by
his own, that here he had once a place, and tatters of memory which
might never reweave gave him power he had not yet tried to understand.

"You are free--" Selrena spoke, not to Farree but directly to the girl.
"There is"--she held the fingers on her right hand wide and came up to
Atra, setting her hand so on the crown of the winged girl's head--"is,
however, something of _Them_ about you." Her fingers burrowed into the
girl's matted hair and Atra gave a small cry of pain, wavering where she
stood. Farree turned, caught and held her. Out of her hair Selrena had
drawn what looked like a very loosely woven cap of thin wire. It was
held tight knotted and she had to tear it free, each tug of her fingers
bringing a gasp from Atra. Selrena threw it from her with the gesture of
one who had held foulness.

It struck the pavement and Fragon studied it for a long moment. He
nodded to the earth dweller who had been their guide. The creature aimed
a kick with one of his outsize feet, setting the circlet spinning until
it brought up against one of the smoky crystals which helped to support
Fragon's throne. There was a flash of light bright enough to be seen
even in this place of many lights. Nothing was left of the cap but a wad
of smoking metal.

"Ahhhhh--" Atra's hands threaded through her hair back and forth. She
might have been seeking some other bond which held her. Her wings
expanded, brushing Farree back and away. They swelled and small silvery
designs were visible along them as they moved. Head held high she looked
to Selrena.

"Thanks to you, Lady. What debt does Langrone now owe you--or is there
still any Langrone kin to offer such? I saw many fall to the mutilating
knife and their blood guilt rests on me--for some I called to their
torment, being captive to _Them_!"

"True enough." Beast Mask faced her, and there was nothing but coldness
in his or her harsh voice. "There is more than one debt, Daughter of
Langrone, since it was Noper here who had you go forth--"

The creature who had led them showed a row of yellow fangs in what might
be a smile.

"Not so!" That was the lord of the red wings. "Come the inner ways
perhaps she did, but it was this one of her own kind who had her go
forth." He nodded to Farree who noted that the winged people were edging
away from any contact with the strange beings who followed Beast Mask.

"Have done!" It was not a roar of a voice but one which cut through the
mind like a blow, and Farree was sure he was not the only one to receive
the force of that order. "This is no time to remember old troubles
between our people. Glasrant brought her forth from the first bondage.
Sharp Nose sent to him those who served him well. It was a thing done
together. It is of more importance that Glasrant tell us what may come
from this other ship which brought him-- Who are these slave dealers,
Son of Langrone? And what new injuries do they think to deliver here?"

Farree shook his head violently. "No injuries--they brought me--"

"For bait!" hissed someone among Beast Mask's company.

"No." It was Farree's turn to sweep his hands across his aching head.
That wall within his mind may have been shaken, shattered in places, but
still all he could remember came in faded bits and patches as if he
looked upon some chronicle in Zoror's collection which had been half
destroyed by damp and the nibbling of insects. He knew that it was true
he was of the winged people who stood in companies here, and that he had
been handed over to smugglers by one of his own people who wished the
power Farree, once an adult, might claim. He had an instinctive dislike
for Fragon, as if he sniffed now and then some foul odor which puffed
from the mist robe. Also he was wary of Selrena and the black-winged
ones which made up her escort. But even now he could remember so
little--

Selrena must have been following his thoughts. "What you remember--do!"

That was an order Farree discovered he must obey. He began with the
misty half life he had led in the Limits, coming into clarity only with
the death of the spacer who had kept him in bondage and his own escape.
The dangerous days which followed were so much alike in the constant
peril which they offered that they were a single blur of misery, in
which only his tie with Togger made one small patch of light. Then there
was the coming of Maelen and Vorlund and the seeming miracle that they
cared enough to lift him out of the foul mud of the Limits and admit him
into the tight circle of their friendship.

There came the voyage to Yiktor and the meeting with the Thassa after
the Guild had made its move to take them over. When he thought of the
Thassa and of Maelen's people there was, for the first time, a stir
among those who listened, who read from the pictures in his memory. It
was Vestrum who broke through what was nearly a trance in which Farree
spilled out the past.

"These Thassa--of what world are they? From whence do they come? And
what powers have they?"

"Why not ask that of they themselves?" Selrena countered. Those who
followed her broke apart to form a pathway and down that came Maelen,
the flickering lights of the crystals seeming to center about her
slender body in the sober-colored space covering, making it resemble the
robe of one who was equal to Selrena or perhaps more than the Darda. At
her shoulder walked Vorlund and he, too, appeared kin to the Darda, as
powerful in his way as Vestrum. While behind the two was Zoror looking
eagerly from right to left as if to crowd into memory every small detail
of the scene.

Maelen and the two with her made a small gesture to Fragon, no more than
they would have used in greeting one of their own kind with whom they
had little to share. But Maelen smiled at Selrena and raised her two
hands before her, her fingers moving in intricate patterns as if she
wrote some message on the air.

For the first time Farree saw an odd expression on the Darda's face--a
trace of confusion. Vestrum stepped to her side and his eyes were intent
on the off-worlder. One of his small flute-playing creatures made a
sudden quick movement, squatting down before his feet between him and
Maelen.

From its pipe there arose a thread, thin, sweet-noted air. Maelen
listened for a breath or two. Then from her own lips there came a song
without words, note matching the note of the player. Wonderment was on
Vestrum's face. Selrena's hands moved of themselves, her fingers lifting
and falling to the measure of that wordless song.

Among those who were winged there was a stirring, a fanning of pinions
as if they would take off to the spaces above Fragon's seat, though none
of them did. In Farree there was also an answer--a lightness of heart
such as he had not felt since they had started this venture. He found a
hand slipping into his and he knew that Atra also was making her own
answer to the weaving of this spell. Only Fragon, the beast-masked one,
and his crooked company did not move. The faces of some of them were
screwed up into masks as ugly as that their leader wore.

"You are--of the Blood!" Vestrum spoke first when the piper was finished
and Maelen's own song died away. "Of the lost ones, the far travelers
who are apart!"

"I am Thassa," she answered him. "My people are so old that we have
forgotten our far past. Long ago we put aside what we had held
to--settled homes, land, save for riding over it, possessions, all which
had weighed down our spirits. We cut ties with the past--seeking only
that which would give us life with the Little Ones--knowledge which
brought good, not harm--"

"You are of the Blood!" Vestrum repeated. "And of the Lost Ones! We are
few here. There only half a hundred of us left. And of those many have
withdrawn into worlds they have created where they choose to be gods, or
heroes, or"--he looked to Fragon and then away again--"devils. We age
with weariness and the knowledge that wherever we go _They_ will follow
to bring their deaths and their ills, and, at last, all destruction of
what we know. Do you now take to the stars and seek distant kin? If so,
you have succeeded--I will say that you are of the Blood!"

"Of the Blood," Selrena echoed him, "but, I think of a different path.
You have power but never have you used it to the full--" Her head was up
and her dark eyes seemed to grow ever the larger. "You have chosen
another way. And"--she hesitated--"perhaps your choice has brought
greater content than we have known. What do you with _Them_ when they
come?"

"We live apart, and because we have no treasure and because we walk
another road, we have lived without darkness for long and long. Now
there are others who have set up laws that none may be troubled if they
live in peace." Maelen looked to Fragon. "What is your peace, my lord?
Rule by your order alone? And you"--she turned her head slowly that her
gaze could go around the half circle--"until those from off-world came
was there peace here?"

Farree remembered the skeletons of the dark ways and that room of
shadowy horror through which he had gone.

"We have had our disputes." Fragon made answer first. "Of such ploys
there always comes an end. One tires even of power. This I shall say
first, I of whom much ill has been said and perhaps with truth. There
comes a time when one has fulfilled every wish, answered every desire.
Then"--his grasp of the skull-piercing sword must have shaken a fraction
for there was a clatter from it--"one is as nothing." Now he
deliberately rattled the skull by twisting the hilt of the sword back
and forth. "_They_ have found us and with us they have played
games--setting one against another as they have done countless times
before. There are old hatreds which they aroused on their coming. Why
not"--it was plain that he spoke to the others behind Maelen--"give them
what they want--we are done--"

"That is not the truth." Zoror's slightly lower mind band came alive.
"Never yet has one door been closed that another does not wait the
unlocking--"

"So?" Fragon asked. "You are not of them, nor of the Blood, or else our
records are not complete. What part of this do your people play?"

"We gather knowledge, hunt for the beginnings--"

"On the belief that the ends may be better marked?" Vestrum locked eyes
with the Zacanthan and stood still as if they were now bound together.
Then he added: "What are you that you can see so far into others? You
are--"

"A Zacanthan."

Farree knew that these were claiming him, and that perhaps those he had
been comrades with were acknowledging that claim. However, at this
moment, he felt no comradeship with those others with wings, though he
had sought such ever since his own had broken out of their casing.

"We search for knowledge."

"Knowledge can cut two ways--" began Selrena when, for the first time,
Fragon loosed hold on the sword hilt. His talon-fingered hand arose to
make a small gesture which ended Selrena's speech almost in midword.
"Knowledge is never to be neglected. Tell us, hunter of the lost, what
do we face now? For out of past roots grow present troubles."

"What you and your kin have faced before." Zoror nodded. "You have said
here that, though you have not been friends in the past, you have now
drawn together--"

"Drawn together?" Atra said, her voice high, almost shrill, as she
interrupted. "Ask those who winged out of Burdenholm at a sending for an
ingathering how that drawing followed! Well did the Earlier Ones name
you in-cursed, Fragon!"

"You see"--the ancient Darda did not reply to her challenge, rather he
continued to speak to the Zacanthan-- "there is little upon which we may
build anything which approaches true comradeship. The Langrone are near
wiped from our history as we make it now. It is true that there was
treachery and ill dealing which began that. This one"--now that free
hand pointed to Farree himself--"can be witness to that, even though the
memory was near burned from his mind. He is in truth Glasrant and right
lord to those same Langrone who are near gone. All happened to him
because there was a settling of blood between two who held false honor
above the good of all. And Atra who speaks so plainly now, she also has
been used as a weapon against her own kind--but not by any will of ours,
wingling, earthling, or Darda.

"These Cursed Sky-Riding Ones who have made near a quarter of our world
a place of blood and killing--always have they followed after us from
world to world. They turn against us the metal which burns and various
powers of their own, born in turn of artifacts they make of that same
iron. Our wits they can rift from us--Atra can witness that. They fight
with fire and all we can do is to call on skills such as we have long
known and make what defenses we can. At this hour we do stand together,
power with power, that we may not be mown down apart and have no defense
at all.

"Now you come also from the star ways and you are not as _They_, for you
have that in you which is far nearer kin to us. You brought hither
Glasrant and him we have read--to know that in you is found none of the
poison that _They_ use to besoil all they touch. There are three of you
and you are of different races-- You, Lady"--he spoke now to
Maelen--"are of a people we can call kin after a fashion. And he"--now
Vorlund was indicated--"is also of a mind with you, though he is not
born of your blood, and within might be one of _Them_. And you,
Zacanthan, have no malice in you toward us, only wonder and pleasure at
finding our kind. So we are not enemies, though we may not be friends--"

Vestrum shifted a little. "Words upon words, Fragon! You summoned us
hither for deeds. We had Selrena and her winglings go up against these
enemies by mind will alone, impressing upon _These_ who slay without
mercy the phantoms which can be summoned by mind--"

"True," Selrena cut in. "Have we not spent too long a time on words?
While Atra was with them we had no chance to attack, for she would have
known and by their trickery must have given us away. So when that
one"--she nodded at Farree--"was near within our hands we had no trouble
closing fingers upon him, and using him as a key to open Atra's
prison--as he did very well. Now what do we next? Once more summon up
ghosts of ourselves to ride the sky? There is little ghosts can do and
already we know that _They_ have doubts about us. So, I say again,
Fragon, Vestrum, and also"--she indicated the Beast Mask,"what do we
do?"

Fragon spoke directly now to Maelen. "What do we do?" He repeated the
question.

Chapter Seventeen
=================

What do we do?" Fragon had asked of Maelen. Perhaps he had not expected
her to produce an answer, but she did.

Farree--he could not yet think of himself under that other name they had
called him, nor even wholly accept that he was a part of their race--lay
belly down on a rock ledge. His outspread wings were the same color as
the lichen which grew in patches among the stones here, and now served
him as disguise. Togger squatted just under the edge of the right wing.
The smux's sight could not reach as far as his own, but Farree was aware
that Togger was using all his own senses to the highest alertness.

Behind the two were others of the winglings whose natural pinions were
of a color to blend in with the rocks-- there grey patched with silver,
and the darker ones who had accompanied Selrena. What they spied upon
was the off-world ship and the small temporary settlement by its fins.

It was well into afternoon and there had been a great deal of activity
down there to be observed. Three days ago several of the spacers had
tried to take the path underground in search of their freed captives,
only to discover that most of it had fallen in; after a few feet not
even its course could be traced.

They had taken to the air also. The repairs on their flitter had been
speeded up so that it could continue to carry laser-armed patrols out
over the surrounding country in a gradually widening circle. Twice those
Farree had met in the crystal cavern had summoned up the haze which was
their most constant defense, only to have the flitter bore directly
through it, seemingly unaware that there had been any blinding fog
projected. They had not attempted another mass hallucination such as
they had used to cover Atra's rescue.

It was plain from the probing Fragon and Maelen, two unlikely
partners-in-arms, had used, that those in the camp were well guarded by
devices which protected against either mind search or lasting
illusions--the two ancient and tolerably efficient weapons of the
People.

Nor could they compete physically. Swords and force-charged wands, the
other arms which were theirs and had been for untold generations, could
not stand against lasers, tanglers, even discordant sound. When the
latter had blasted out of the camp earlier that day most of the
winglings, the Darda, and several others of the old stock had been
rendered helpless for awhile. Only those born of the earth who had
immediately retreated underground kept their full senses. Then Zoror had
loosed a small shape like a winged tube. That, arching up above the
waiting ship and its camp, had blasted back, as a mirror might return a
reflection, the same ear-piercing sound, drawing it up the scale as if
each note were threaded on a cord and jerked out of reach.

In answer they had seen the men spill out into the opening, staggering
here and there, hands pressed over their ears, some stumbling to their
knees and then falling forward to roll across the ground, plainly in
agony. At length some one of the enemy regained sense long enough to
shut off their own broadcast and the ensuing silence was like that of
death, so complete was it.

The spying party, in hiding along the upper reaches of the great valley
in which the ship had set down, revived sooner than the opposition.
While Farree and his companions stirred and came back to themselves, at
least three limp bodies had been toted into the largest of the ground
shelters and several others had made a difficult business of getting
back to the ship itself.

It was not much later that the flitter had taken off and began to fly
its spy circles around and around, each one farther than the one before.
That the invader might be equipped with detectors was a point Farree
considered when he had witnessed the first flight. They had had Atra
long enough to run a sensor on her, set her pattern as part of the
"memory" of such a machine. Thus any of her own species could be
instantly detected when caught on the flitter screen. That the enemy did
not coast down the wind and spray them all with laser fire as they lay
in hiding was something which Farree himself could not understand. He
cringed flatter to the ground--his fingers digging deep into the soil as
if he were an earthling used to disappearing quickly from sight into
that sanctuary.

Atra herself was up in the heights with Maelen and Fragon, submitting to
their examination of her mind sense as they sought any traces of future
attack which might have been placed within her, as a buried and
unpleasant form of weapon, providing she did execute an impossible
escape. Farree did not envy her that; he had too many times in the past
undergone such delving into what was a sealed portion of his own mind.

If the invaders had taken a reading of Atra, it must have been too
closely turned to her own personality to serve now to locate any of her
own species. The flitter was already on a much farther circling out and
had not slackened flight speed when it had crossed the place of
concealment where his own party lay in wait.

Those three giants who had come into the crystal cave in the company of
Beast Mask had left hours ago to tramp back with Vorlund to his ship,
their supply of strength meant to transport certain equipment which both
Krip and Zoror had selected for this voyage. Nothing had been chosen
which would not be permitted for use on a primitive world--if this,
which the first comers had named Elothian, might be termed primitive.
The People had long ago set up their own defenses, recalled lessons from
their history, to make as secure as possible this new world. Their
inability to handle heavy metals, especially iron (Farree need only look
at the bandages on his own hands covering burns the chain of Atra's
captivity had left to understand what damage even that could cause) had
handicapped them always when facing off-worlders.

The crystals of the caverns they had uncovered here had provided an
array of weapons as deadly as lasers. Only lasers could kill at a
distance far beyond that which any of the people could send elfshot,
small needle-shaped and sharp fragments of the dusky spikes, which
buried themselves within flesh, eventually causing clouded and diseased
minds. There were other weapons, mostly mind linked. Those again
required a careful assessing of the mental strength of the enemy; but
Atra had been under such control while in the off-worlders' hands that
now she brought her people a clear picture of their powers.

Zoror was prowling the upper heights--a good distance away. Equipped
with a beamer suited to a Zacanthan's greater strength, he was busy
sealing up any way through which the People's own holdings could be
invaded, except from the air.

The Zacanthan might be so engaged physically but Farree was sure that
mentally Zoror was busy in a different direction, that of searching his
vast memory for anything of the past which could be turned into good use
in this present. As for Farree himself--

He stared at the scene below, now so familiar with it from hours of
observation that he was sure he would never forget so much as the curve
of each and every one of the shelters. There had been lookouts before
him and what they had learned from this intent study of the territory
was little enough.

That the beacon which had lighted the scene at his first coming was a
recent addition to the scene he understood quickly. This ship was, in
the opinion of Vorlund and Zoror, but a scout for a larger force. The
nose beam from the ship was set each night as a guide to lead that force
in.

To have the invaders thus reinforced would be the end of any successful
defense--that was already understood. Thus-- the beacon would have to be
taken care of, and that was Farree's part. His answer to that pillar of
light in the night rested now just under the curve of his wing--a flat
box slightly larger than one of his bandaged hands.

Vorlund had spent nearly the whole of a day fashioning what was inside,
helped by a pair of misshapen earth dwellers who worked metal in fire
with the ease of those who were master smiths. They had looked at the
pictures the spacer had drawn, listened intently to a jabber of firm
instruction from Beast Mask, leader of those dark dwellers--who were of
a devious and often treacherous turn of mind. Metal had gone into it,
but that was silver poured from clay ladles, and thin streams of gold
fed into narrow tubes of clay, to be later hammered and twisted into
wire near as thin and supple as thread.

Months ago, the winged race among the People had discovered, at a bitter
price, that to approach the camp by air was folly. There were various
disturbances invisibly cutting the air about the ship able to paralyze
wings, dashing the flyers to their deaths; or else, if those wings were
to be harvested, bringing them immobile and helpless to the ground where
another form of death waited. However, all such flights-- and there had
been very few of them after their end was witnessed--had occurred only
when the winglings had recklessly soared out over the shelters or that
part of the ship which was open at a high altitude.

Farree's body now was fitted with two wide belts. On each were seamed
pockets into which Vorlund had fitted more small devices he had urged
the smiths to make in haste. In the seven days since their meeting in
the hall of crystals, they had all been driven by that need for haste.
For how long would it be before that beacon would lead in larger forces?

Their one bid for victory depended on so many ifs--_if_ Farree could
indeed penetrate the air above the enemy encampment successfully
undiscovered, _if_ he could affix the device he carried to the proper
place on the ship, _if_ it would really work. All was founded on hope
and the best that memory could supply from the observations and lore of
the People, the encyclopedic recall of Zoror, the ship knowledge of
Vorlund, born to be a star rover, and of Maelen and the Dardas, who had
drawn together as they never had in the history of their colony on
Elothian. So many _ifs_, Farree thought, but perhaps their only chance
now. He watched the slow coming of sunset and his body ached with the
strain of waiting.

The flitter swung back at the coming of the dark, landed in the twilight
not far from the ramp of the ship. Those who manned the smaller ship,
four of them, clambered out--three heading for the shelters and a single
one trotting up the ramp into the ship. Farree rose to his knees and
Togger gave a short leap, to burrow in beneath his jerkin. Farree sensed
the tension of those who remained in hiding about him. There had been
neither the time nor the proper material to equip the rest of them with
the hereto untried method of defense he wore. However, they had their
own duties and were already taking wing, to establish the trap which
would be the next defense.

Between two of the night-winged leaders hung a netted bag and what
weighed it down was bait. Piled in it were vessels and ornaments of gold
and silver wrought by smiths who delighted in setting crystals where
they made the bravest show. They had already learned from Atra, as well
as from reports of some of the groundlings who had gone spying on their
own, that the invaders equated the People not only as raw material for
their trade (when they could rip free the wings of the dying) but also
with a strong tradition that all the People were guardians of treasure.
To this Zoror gave credence, saying that such stories were an integral
part of many tales he had ferreted out.

There was a place where a bank overcurbed a stream, the flood waters of
which had cut away a large bite of soil. There the "treasure" was to be
half hidden, a piece or two dropped into the shallows of the water
itself, waiting for the invaders to spot. Selrena had overseen this part
of their preparations and would be moving now into place at the foot of
the rise where Farree was poised for take off. She had reports from the
groundlings as to the invaders who slept outside the ship. Two such she
had selected her own prey. They would have dreams this night, for she
had been testing her ability to sow hallucinations by subtle mental
touch. As she had led the supposed entry of the airborne attack wholly
by projected images, so she could reach any of these below by a dream.
The "reality" of the dream would enforce itself most strongly on certain
temperaments, and both Vorlund and Maelen believed that such
temperaments were to be found here. Two down there would dream vividly
tonight, so vividly that they would be swept into action with the coming
of the morning. Also, they might strive to conceal that action, being
who and what they were.

Farree was airborne now, the device he was to plant on the ship clasped
tightly against his breast with both hands (Togger crept up to cling
just beneath Farree's chin) as he climbed steadily into the cold of the
upper night air and moved out towards that beam of light which had
already burst from the nose of the ship, spear-straight up through
gathering clouds. He winged forward in desperation, not knowing if he
would be beaten from the air by some silent defense. Even though that
attack did not come in the first few moments when he was out in the open
over the edge of the camp, still he could not be sure that his flight
was not being recorded by some intricate device below.

He must come up against the outer shell of the ship well below where
that beacon sprang. Now he held firm in mind the information Vorlund had
drilled into him. The spacer who had voyaged in star ships almost since
birth knew well the danger spots and where a ship could best be
assaulted.

Farree's fingers caught in the rim of a small port used for the workmen
during an overhaul. There was no hope of his gaining entrance here. All
such places must be under spy screen since the night of the escape. But
this was the guide for him and he had reached it with no sign that he
had been sighted by any of the sentries the invaders must have on duty
here. If he could have dared mind send he would have been better
content--touching any foreign thought patterns would have been warning.
Only he must go blind.

He pulled himself up with one hand and now his toes found a small
resting place on the nearly invisible seam which marked the door. One of
those discs on his belt gave a sudden jerk forward and planted itself
tightly to the surface of the closed port.

There were small surges of heat about his bare feet. The fabric of the
ship was indeed not cold iron, that deadly metal, but there was enough
of it in the alloy forming the surface to make itself felt. He forced
the pain to the back of his mind and brought out the case he carried,
slipping the cord about its top between his teeth so he could use both
hands.

At the same instant the warning came that he was indeed being picked up
by some alarm. A trickle of jumbled thought whipped across his mind.
Farree clung to the almost invisible seam of the hatch and frantically
edged upward as that questing picked and prodded the natural thought
defense he had developed.

He slapped the narrow box against the surface of the ship, perhaps the
length of his body below its nose. It instantly became so closely a part
of the surface that nothing could free it--or not without a lengthy
period of careful work with tools, which time those here did not have.
Even as the box welded itself to the wall, a touch of Farree's
forefinger activated what lay within. Farree pushed back and away, his
wings beating almost frantically as he tried to put distance between him
and that which he had brought.

He was away from the ship, even past the circle of shelters, when the
device Vorlund had labored on blew. Flame torched through the sky,
rising to join with the beam of the beacon. That went out abruptly, and
Farree heard a roar. There followed a second outburst which might have
singed one wing had he not, in his dread, flipped sidewise, no longer in
a direct pattern of flight outward from the camp.

Below there arose a clamor. Two laser spears cut the air, which made his
body quiver so he near lost the firm beat of the wings which bore him.
However, the lasers lanced the air far enough off that Farree believed
that he had not been detected, that they had been unaimed, fired only as
the result of fear.

He was away, flying with desperate wing beats in the direction of the
place where he had hidden during the day. He passed over that, to flash
on into a place of broken rock pillars which guarded one cave entrance
to the lower ways in which there lay the hall of crystal, their
agreed-upon meeting place when this piece of action lay behind. Farree
alighted at the mouth of that cave and smelt the mouldy stench which
told him at least one of the underground people was present. He did not
go forward, but wheeled about to look out toward the ship.

The beacon might be gone but there was still light about the nose, hazy
as if there were clouds of fire roiling about. Still he could catch now
and then clear sight of a splotch of true incandescence which must be
cutting itself into the ship's skin immediately below the level of the
control cabin.

Such vagabond and wandering spacers as this company carried with them
means for some repairs, but Farree believed that the hurt this ship had
taken could not be mended by any improvised work as the crew was trained
to do. Vorlund himself had learned by default--helping to keep other
lone ships flightworthy--just what would do the most harm, which also
could be delivered by the materials as were at his disposal.

There was a far-off sound which could have been caused by the hungry
flame, or perhaps by the voices of a number of men raised in wild
shouts. As if in answer, the dark clouds overhead, which bore a
reflection of the fire, massed the tighter and then released such a
pelting of rain and earth-tearing force of wind that Farree pushed back
into the cave, knowing that with wings wet through he could not hope to
fly, however much he wanted to join with those winglings who had gone to
set the trap, or else beat an air path to where Maelen and the ancient
Darda had gone, to an almost forgotten lookout within the body of a
mountain.

There came a snarl out of the dark behind him and the stench grew
stronger.

"Wingling"--the word was spat like a curse--"get you out of the path--we
are not afraid of wind and wet even though you may be."

Farree folded his wings as tightly as he could and edged against the
wall to his left. His eyes, still somewhat dazzled, took time to adjust
and twice he was prodded by a sharp elbow as a groundling crowded by. He
did not count them but he was sure that there were quite a number, and
he wondered what was taking them out into the storm. That some of the
Darda were supposed to be weatherworkers, that much he did know. But
there was purpose in this gathering he did not understand--not that more
than the bare skeleton of what was to be done this night _had_ been told
him. What had been important for him to know was his own part and that
seemed now to be over.

In the dark there was no sighting where the groudlings went, nor did he,
he decided, have any particular desire to learn. He hated invading their
odorous hole any further but he was bound for the appointed place of
assembly so he went slowly along a way which sloped inward. Here and
there one of the tubers gave light which revealed hardly more than the
area immediately around it. As long as he could see those pallid spots
ahead he was more willing to walk a way his whole nature detested.

Togger's head wriggled from the front of his jerkin and the stalked eyes
of the smux were advanced to their greatest length, revolving slowly as
if to make very sure of their surroundings.

Farree rubbed his hands together. The pain of the iron burns lingered on
though ill-bane salve had been lavishly applied under the adhesive leaf
bandages Selrena used. He thought of the Darda--three only of that race
had he seen, unless whoever hid behind the beast mask was also of that
company. Fragon had commented that they were very few.

How many of his own kind--winglings--still existed? Those who were of
his clan, or the clan claimed for him, had apparently been near wiped
out by the invaders. The other clans had not been so devastated, for the
fate of the Langrones had come upon them soon after the enemy had finned
down. Since the winged race were widespread over territories they
claimed, most of their co-species had managed to escape, save for a few
surprised when they returned to their territories by crossing the
ravaged land of their sometime kin.

It had been easy enough to understand that the People had been divided
among themselves when the off-world danger had struck. He himself had
been of some importance, not for himself but because of the state of
kinship he could claim. However, he had, at the same time, been
practically defenseless, condemned to the ground until his wings were
fully grown. While he was so helpless, Farree gathered from the scraps
Fragon, Selrena, and Atra gave him, he had been a victim of jealousy
among his own people. His father, who had led the Langrone, had been
brought down during the clan-species dispute which had flared between
his people and the groundlings (due to some incitement on Fragon's part
for what reason Farree could not guess). He, Farree, had then been taken
into captivity by the Museyons, night dwellers and hunters of the dark,
answerable--sometimes--to Beast Mask but mainly going their own crooked
ways.

From them he had been freed temporarily by a traitor-- brother kin to
his father and sour-blooded because the rule had not passed to him.
Naively the traitor had attempted to bind the star invaders to his cause
and had delivered Farree in turn into their hands, hoping so to remove
him in such fashion that his trail could not be traced.

Those of the ship Farree had just attacked had not been the first to fin
in here--there had been earlier ships. The first one had had none of the
defenses which had rendered this one and its crew so formidable. That
earlier crew had been made free of some treasure; in fact a "safe-hole"
of groundlings who were considered Langrone enemies had been betrayed.
But that treasure had been hardly won. Star-based men had died, and, in
turn, burrows of groundlings had been stormed, their owners trapped and
slain. So that at last, having in turn suffered a loss of nearly half
the crew, the ship rose again, with its hard-won cargo, determined to
return better equipped for the tearing of the last scrap of precious
metal or new-found gem from one-time owners.

How he, Farree, had come into the Limits with Lanti, reduced by drink
and graz chewing to a sodden wreck unable to get another berth, was part
of the memory which still eluded him. Not that any of that mattered.
This was history as far removed from him as Yiktor from the earth into
which he was advancing steadily downward. There had been another visit
here of an off-world ship, and that had stayed for some time. Traps had
been set--they had gathered captives--even one of the Darda. What they
did with those they took none could discover, for their ship was blank
to all mind probing. In fact the use of this talent could and had led to
more captures-- the invaders seemed able to home in on any trace of mind
search.

Thus, unable to use what they had come to depend upon as one of their
most important weapons--the power to contact mentally and even overcome
the wills of others--they had realized that once more they had been
overtaken by the old, old enemy and against off-worlders they no longer
had much chance to win. They had been on Elothian for centuries, so free
from the ancient menace that they had no longer had the knowledge nor
the materials to prepare for another flitting. Here they must stay and
face a losing fight. Furthermore they were not of one mind, for the
groundlings considered that the invasion could not move against
them--they had their ability to burrow and hide in places too remote for
the invaders to follow, unless they were willing to creep or wriggle on
their bellies through the dark, unable to stand against ambush. It was
easier to battle winglings and the Darda castles. It had taken the fall
of one of their cave cities, its inhabitants overcome by fumes from
smoke released from balls of metal which had been brought back by some
of the smiths, to bring the under-surface ones out against the enemy
which thus became a common one.

That ship, too, had vanished in time. But the Darda had not released
watch, nor had the winglings and the others. Their history was too
plain--with the coming of such invaders their day of defeat was upon
them, and there was nothing to do but wait for that to arrive.

Except this time there were other players. Farree thought of Maelen, of
Vorlund, of the Zacanthan, who had the results of centuries of learning
behind him. What of himself also? He was Langrone but more beside.
Having survived the horrors of the Limits he had proven that there was a
good measure of strength in him, while his journeying with Maelen and
Vorlund had brought him knowledge his kind might never have gained
before. Yes, he might not be Darda but neither was he pure wingling.

Before him burst the great light. He now moved more quickly into the
chamber of crystals, eager to learn what he might of what the others had
done.

Chapter Eighteen
================

Fragon again occupied the throne of dusky crystal. He might not have
moved since Farree had last seen him. There were others gathered about,
some finding perches among the lighter crystal outgrowth. He saw Selrena
seated so. Her head was upheld but her eyes were closed. On one side of
her Maelen was also seated and she held one of the Darda's slim hands
between the two of hers. Her eyes were open but there was a remoteness
about her face which suggested that she had fastened thought elsewhere.

At their feet was Atra, so removed from the others of her race; they
were clustered in a burst of color apart from the center of the cave
chamber, their wings folded, their attention on the three they did not
approach.

Well to the other side of Fragon's chosen seat stood the Beast Mask, but
for the first time Farree saw that mask thrown back, to lie along the
shoulders as a limp hood. The features so disclosed were not entirely
unlike those of the Darda, save that the skin was dark--greyish--like
unto Fragon's, and this was no skull head. That dark skin was puffed and
so distended on the cheeks that the eyes seemed very small and near
hidden by the rolls of the unpleasant-looking flesh. There was no hair
on the puffy ball of the head. Male or female? Farree could not be sure.
He felt an instant disgust and beyond that--fear. This one was as
powerful as Fragon in his or her own way.

The other Darda, Vestrum, and his flutist were missing. However, even as
Farree stepped into the crystal lighting, so did Zoror enter from
another angle. He laid down the power conductor which he had carried up
the slopes and, doing so, noticed Farree first, beckoning to him. Of
Vorlund there was no sign; perhaps his mission to their own ship was not
yet finished.

Atra opened her eyes, meeting Farree's with a strong compelling stare as
if she had been waiting for him. Farree paused. She edged away from
Maelen and Selrena, to cross the cavern toward Farree and the Zacanthan.
Her torn and filthy clothing had long since been changed for a short
robe of creamy white, girdled with a mesh belt of silver into which had
been set small gems of green-blue. A circlet of the same material held
her hair in place at the nape of her slender neck.

Farree noted that in her coming to him she made a short detour which
took her away from close contact with the other winglings, those whose
wings pulsed, rose or blue or yellow. Nor did he escape picking up a
flash of thought--just as he had found himself aloof from their company
so, it would seem, she, too, had been placed in exile. That she had been
released from any enemy mind bond, he was sure, or she would not have
been here. However, the shadow of what had been done to her, and through
her unto others, still wrapped her in.

There was a small flare of anger in Farree. He moved out from beside the
Zacanthan and held out both his hands in a welcome he had not
consciously meant until that moment. Her delicate hands, still dark with
bruises and rent by seams of scratches, lay palm downward for a moment,
resting on his, and into his mind sang words.

"Welcome. Greater than the Seven Deeds of Malfor has been yours! We
thought that the days of the Thrice Named were gone." For the first time
she glanced away, her eyes sweeping over those of the company which were
the closest. "Tallen can we of the Langrone claim, and Asdir, Tullusa,
and Rond. You have joined a high and fair company, kinsman!"

At those names, very faint and broken memories stirred in him. He shook
his head.

"You do me too much honor, kinswoman. It was not my own powers that I
used." His hands dropped from hers and went to his belt to indicate what
the smiths and Vorlund had made for him. "The Langrone--" He hesitated.
What would it be to her that that word did not mean kin to him--that it
was but a name?

"A name, yes." The words were in his mind. "And perhaps only a name--for
the clan is gone. See?" She nodded towards the winglings in their ranks.
Then her hand went up and smoothed the edge of one of her own wings and
he caught her meaning. That color was not to be seen among the others
gathered here, save in his own pinions.

"Lanquar and Lis, Lystal and Loyn." When she beamed him those names he
knew them even as he would have known something long set in his mind.
"But Langrone have no more to answer, unless those by the Far Rim
scattered in time. And of those how many were there?" She held up one
hand between them and extended the very slender fingers, once and then
again.

In his mind he saw what she had willed--a threatening mountain, rock
bare and radiating from it a gloom which was a leaden weight upon the
heart. If any of the kin had been driven or had fled despairingly
there--

"They have not answered the call--"

Farree was startled by that other mind voice breaking in almost harshly
upon his thoughts. It was a wingling who wore red-white wings, and he
had left his own people to come to them. Farree could sense no
congratulation, nothing but a forbidding chill in his words.

"If they come not at the Great Summons, then they are either dead or
overshadowed by thought far and faint. You have no true kin, Glasrant."

"So do you wish it!" flashed Atra. "Who closed the upper flight to
Amassa when she was heavy with child? Who sent forth the Doom Singers in
that hour?"

"What had to be done, was done. Sometimes one dies for many--"

"That I have heard before." This roused Farree. "Was it not that very
thought which this kin-sister"--his hand touched Atra's shoulder and
almost he gasped, for that touch had united him with a source of warmth
he had not known could exist: it had nothing of the burn of fire but was
rather a caressing, a healing--"Was it not that same thought which held
you all," he began again, "when this sister lay in the hands of _Them_?"

"As bait--" the other returned. "Better she had taken up the fire metal
and wreathed around--"

Farree moved. He stood between Atra now and the chief of Lystal, another
scrap of memory supplying him with a use for that name.

"Do you speak now, Qua, for all?" he asked, narrow-eyed. Though he still
felt apart from these who appeared so like himself, he was also aroused
that they seemed so uneager to welcome him either. That denial angered
him even more. Granted that he was mind blind, so he could not remember
when he had been gathered close into the circle of kinship, warmed and
sustained by this whole world. Yet that was a loss which he pushed
aside. Nor could he fit into any other clan!

But that was it, he knew suddenly. There were the Lanquar and Lis,
Lystal and Lyon-- He saw them standing there. However, save for Qua,
none had approached, nor was there any welcome mind send from them. Only
Atra--

His hand slid down her arm to the wrist and there his fingers closed as
if it were a matter of utmost importance that he keep her here. As it
had been on the ship when he had depended on Vorlund's device, here was
it now--she only was his anchorage and that which he had sought could be
found only with and by her.

"I speak--" Qua hesitated and there was a shadow of a frown on his
handsome face; his folded wings stirred a fraction as if he would expand
them and so employ all the stature he could command. "Yes, I speak for
all. You have both been within the shadow, the very hold of _Them. They_
have blinded and bound you--therefore shall we not always wonder whether
there can be any trust placed with you henceforth?"

"You speak well, Qua." Atra smiled coldly. "Have you in truth matched
words with Slitha of Lis, Usern of Lystal, and Cambar of the Loyn?"

All the gathering of winglings was watching them now. Farree knew that
those others had been following all which was said by mind touch. There
was a stir among them at Atra's naming of names. Again his remnants of
memory gave him what he needed. He did not wait for Qua to answer that,
but instead took the lead for himself.

"If you speak with one voice for all, Qua," he returned, "then put your
fears to rest. This is not the first time Langrone has stood alone.
Valfor bore green wings--and went to his brave ending because of that.
However, we intend no ending. Langrone lives, under the ancient rule, as
long as either of us flies--" He drew Atra a little closer. "If you
covet our Two Plains and the river land, then take it, Qua. We shall not
dispute you for them. But neither shall we be forgotten when the Great
Summons goes forth at Year's Ending. Remember that, Qua!" Farree now
looked beyond the Lanquar to the others who were waiting. "And you,
Slitha,"--he looked toward a slender wingling with a queen's proud
stance and wings of gold--"and Usern,"--blue wings quivered as his
thought struck home--"and Cambar." The pinions of that leader were grey
shading to white and he was much darker of countenance, thicker of body,
than the others.

"Remember!" Atra's reinforcement of his speech was more than a warning,
it was an order.

Qua stared at the girl and then he smiled as coldly as she had done
earlier. "There is now a common enemy; we fly no direction but that."
He, too, might be only giving a reminder, but Farree was certain that
there was also a warning to be read there.

"As Glasrant has already done!" she flashed. What more the spokesman for
the winglings might have said was never uttered, for Maelen opened her
eyes, and the skin tightly covering the eye caverns in Fragon's face
quivered and also showed a slit break.

"It is done!" Both voice and thought came from Maelen. "_Their_ beacon
has been quenched, and even more, many of those traps and defenses set
up by _Them_ are gone. And the dream holds those two we need to make
trouble for each other in thrall!"

Selrena spoke to the unmasked one.

"Loose your followers now, Sorwin!"

The robed one raised both hands to mouth and with them shaped a hollow
like a horn. The puffed cheeks expanded even more and from that horn
there pulsed a cry which echoed through Farree's head. It had savagery
in it, a lust and a hunger which was like a call of doom. Groundlings
growled and left with a rush and a slapping of huge bare feet, and after
them came a following of things whose very bodies, swinging and swaying,
seemed to alter as they went--and always the forms they wore, forms
which slipped from one to another and then another, were those of the
blackest terrors any night might know. Ironically it was true that those
who were fashioned as entirely threatening to each other marched now
against a single enemy.

They were gone, and it seemed to Farree that the whole of the crystal
cavern was the lighter for their going. He wondered what harm they might
wreak on the invaders, for many of those who had swept on seemed hardly
more solid than a cloud of that haze which could spring into being at
command of the Darda.

The Zacanthan moved for the first time, turning his sharp-jawed head to
watch their going. Farree knew that Zoror was filing in his head all
which chanced here. What names would he give to those who had just gone?
How many more were there that had long ago been listed in the records he
thought he knew so well?

However, if there was an exit of a force there was also an entrance.
Farree heard the now-familiar tinkle of flute notes. So heralded came
Vestrum. Gone was the clothing he had worn before. In its place he wore
silver fashioned in small supple rings so that it moved even at his
breathing. He carried a length of crystal rod which was headed by a hilt
much like that of the sword which was never far from Fragon's hands. The
flutist scampered back and forth as might an eager hound only waiting to
be dispatched against some quarry, while the two women who walked a pace
of so behind had laid aside their filmy robes and flower ribbons. They,
too, wore chain mail and on the out-held right wrist of each there sat a
flying lizard, smaller than that which had accompanied Farree on his
first trip across this land, but manifestly of the same breed.

Neither was this all of the party, for Vorlund followed but a little
behind the Darda and, with him, two of the giant folk, bending heads as
they strode ponderously, striving to avoid and painful meeting with
down-pointing crystals.

Vestrum spoke, but he did not seem to address any particular one of them
but rather the whole company, from Fragon to the smallest of the
winglings.

"This one"--he indicated Vorlund, but as if there was nothing in truth
between them but what might be a distant enmity--"has done as he swore
that he would--he has launched forth his messenger."

"And you, Vestrum, how has it been with you?" Selrena was the first to
break the silence on the tail of that message.

"I made sure that there was no treachery in what was wrought!" returned
the Darda coldly. Now his eye caught on Farree for the first time, and
with a lightning-swift gesture the hiked rod swung up, its end aimed for
Farree's head. Along the length of that sped a dot of rainbow light.
More memory moved in Farree. He took two steps forward and his bandaged
hand swung up, his fingers caught and held the end of the rod. It was
chill, seeming to generate a cold which bit into his flesh, but he did
not loose it for ten long-drawn breaths. Then his hand dropped and he
met the measuring stare of Vestrum with as level and probing a gaze.

Was there a faint trace of disappointment in the Darda's tight held eye
to eye measurement? Farree could not be sure, he only held a suspicion.

"Well and now, Vestrum." This time it was Atra who broke thought silence
just as the capering flutist settled down at the Darda's feet and made
the instrument it carried give forth a trill of notes. "Do you believe?
Or is it your claim next that Glasrant has power to hide the cast of all
his thoughts from you?"

"Have done!" For the first time Farree saw Fragon rise to his feet.
Standing, he was near as tall as he was spare, almost shoulder to
shoulder with the giants who had come with Vorlund. "What may have been
in these two--it is gone. This night Glasrant has done what Valfor in
his day might have lifted hand to--save that, mighty as our Elders were
in their own time, they had not the knowledge of _Them_. We have been
given that which we have not held to us since the days of incoming upon
this world. We have lived, we have built, we dwindle, we earth dwell or
keep jealous council with one race, even one kin, only our kind. We have
lost much and now we are too old and few even to defend ourselves
against _Them_. How many more times must their star ships come--each
adding death to death? _They_ are as many as a hundred times the number
of sand grains now under our feet. There will always be more to come and
less of us at their going, _If_ they go, for their signal was set to
guide others this time. Look to your delving in the ancient knowledge,
Vestrum. What discoveries have you made? Small things, things of half
life-- Can you bring forth that which is no larger than your hand but
can rock a star ship?"

The trickle of notes from the flute ascended higher and higher--until
they sounded almost like a cry for help. The Darda in his coat of mail
stood frowning, his two hands sliding back and forth along his hiked
rod.

"And you, Sorwin." Fragon thrust his head a bit forward, his now widely
open eyes seeking out the unmasked one. "Well for you--yes, that has
been your thought for a long time. Your groundlings and your
wraiths--they have little to fear from _Them_. You and yours think to go
into such hiding that no off-world mind or body can scoop you forth! We
already know that is less true than you would like. And I say to you
that _They_ have always sought knowledge, more and more of it along
paths which we do not or cannot follow. We can summon a storm, set
against them the land itself. Only we cannot hold--there are too few of
us and we are too wearied with time. What other secrets have _They_
uncovered? Do not think you can lie safe hidden."

Sorwin did not reply but Fragon was plainly not through. He gestured
with one hand while with the other he still kept his fingers in tight
hold on the hilt of the skull-piercing sword. It was a summons and one
they had no thought to disobey.

The Zacanthan came, and Maelen, and Vorlund, edged by his giant helpers,
and Farree reluctantly dropped his hold on Atra's hand to stand with the
other three. Fragon moved again, down from his dusky throne. He came to
wait on a level for their coming to him.

They did not approach him too closely for he was now swinging the sword
back and forth and the skull was smoothing out a patch of the sand. When
that seemed leveled to his liking, the Dark Darda fumbled at the breast
of his hazy robe and tossed out upon the patch of readied sand a ball of
the same clouded crystal as Farree had taken up in Vestrum's chamber,
though this did not break when it landed. Instead light spread from it.
Then it was as if they were all a-wing, looking down upon a scene of
constant, almost frenzied change. The star ship no longer stood tall but
was canted, and its nose was oddly concave at one side. Hail and wind
beat at both the ship and the ground about it. The wreck of the shelters
flapped forward and back in the wind. Of any men there were no sign.

Then there appeared to burst out of the troubled air itself a flight of
such winged snakes as those Farree had seen before. Only these were
four, six times the size of those, and they whirled in a mad circle
about the canted ship, one after another in turn darting down to skim
the wreckage on the ground.

Then night and storm vanished, and with them the disabled ship and what
was left of the shelters. What they were looking at now was a stream
swollen with storm water, and it was day. A knot of men gathered on the
bank of that stream. Several were on their knees digging into the soil
with their bare hands. One jerked free from dark clay a swinging length
of shining metal. The one nearest him snatched at it. Their mouths were
open and they might have been shouting at one another. In moments a
frenzy seemed to grip them all, and then there was the flash of a laser
which itself banished the scene.

"These will not trouble us again--" Vestrum's thought came, and there
was satisfaction in it and triumph.

"There will be others." Selrena broke that thread of satisfaction.
"Always there will be others! It is as Fragon has said, they are as many
as the grains of sand. Short-lived they are but they breed and breed and
among us the young are very few. Long have we fled before them--now we
stand with our backs to tall mountains and even the star roads are lost
to us. We are already dead though still we struggle--"

"That is not quite the truth."

They all turned to look to Vorlund.

"You have wrought with your own strengths." He gestured to the ball now
lying quietly on the sand, no longer beaming forth pictures. "We have
wrought with ours. Not only as we have done these days and nights just
passed, but for the future. You have been long apart--do not believe
that now you are standing alone. You have your rites and customs, your
laws and punishments for the breaking of them. There are also laws and
punishments beyond this world. You believe that I have brought from our
ship that which will serve you now. Yes, in truth that is so. Only we
have more to offer--"

"Look you at us!" The command came with clear force from Maelen. She
held out a hand and it was taken by the Zacanthan. In turn his other
hand went to close upon one of Vorlund's while the spacer's second hand
was with Farree in hold. "As you differ to the eye and yet decide on a
single purpose, so it is with us among the stars. There are those
darklings whom you know as enemies: not as many as your sand grains are
they. And there are powers known to us which can destroy them, can bring
you a defense that no ship of theirs can crack."

"That also is the truth." The Zacanthan's mind send was heavier but as
clear. "There are other worlds where those who live upon their lands and
within their seas can be easy prey to those of evil. Only there is no
fear there--"

"Why?" Vestrum crowded a little closer to make his demand, his chin
thrust forward, about him the sharpness of hostility.

"Because in the space about those worlds there are protectors. Not ones
who live and breathe and are of our form of life. No, these are like
small, very small, ships set to travel in patterns. If a star-roving
ship comes near, these sweep swiftly to match its path and loose a
warning. If that is not heeded then that ship will speedily become,
while still aloft, like this invader that you have just seen. Only those
who know and can think the proper words can pass unharmed. Once each
four years one of these who know the signal will come here and land
where you yourselves shall appoint and there you and the people of that
ship may meet. So through the years to come you will learn of us and we
of you and when the time comes we can share peace."

"Thinker and Rememberer," Fragon made answer. "We know that what you say
is truth, as you see it. But truth wears many faces when it abides with
different peoples. Truth also changes as lives change and what may be
right at one time is wrong at another. However, we have little choice.
If we are not to be meat for any strange ship which lands here we must
accept what you promise. Still, how do you bring this forth? You have a
ship and can run to other stars. We are earth-bound, and, in the time we
must wait for this you promise, we may attract more spoilers."

"Not so." Vorlund shook his head to emphasize his thought. "There has
been set up among your mountains a defense--like that of the ship which
was trying to beam in their fellow thieves, there goes forth now another
beam. All may fear death, a death which cannot be withstood or treated
with any ill-bane. There are certain worlds--your people were star
travelers once, perhaps you can remember--where death awaits any who
dare to land there. On such worlds the law keepers have set up that
which will warn off any ship approaching a landing orbit. You need only
tend well this warning and you shall be free of those who discover your
world by chance. This will serve until we can come again with the more
certain defense I have spoken of--"

It was Sorwin's harsh-pitched thought which interrupted him. "So we wait
for the coming of those who will set up rule, a rule of those unlike us.
They well hold us in a new bondage--"

"No." Zoror answered that. "I hope to come again, for there is much I
would learn. Am I one to put the searing iron on you? There may be
others like unto me--like these--" He nodded toward Maelen and Vorlund.
"Ask of your own." Now he indicated Farree. "Can we be trusted, are we
rulers with orders?"

"They are in their way kin," Farree answered. "Me they brought out of
the Deep Dark and they call me friend. Even as I am friends with this
one." He freed the smux from his jerkin. "It does not matter the form,
only that which lies within it. Also "--he put his thoughts into
order--"I swear this by my body after the Great Memory--I shall be with
you here where you can do with me as you please if you believe I have
twisted truth."

Vorlund laid hand on Farree's shoulder. "This one has been much to us,
more and more each passing day. We shall give to him all the knowledge
needed to keep you free. He is kin-friend and will always be."

Sorwin grunted but Fragon was nodding slowly. "There is no falseness in
what you have said. You believe it. If we are minded to accept slowly it
is because we have known it to be otherwise many times over. Glasrant
has been beyond the stars as one of you. Indeed we can learn from him.
Therefore we accept this much, that you will leave with him such
knowledge as you are willing to trade. But to you we offer nothing
now--save our thanks for what is already done. Let time prove whether
you are right."

Farree stood where his wings had borne him at dawn. He was looking down
into the cup valley. They were already aboard. All except two-- He
glanced down for a moment at what he held, felt the familiar pinch of
the legs upon his arm and wrist.

"Cold--" That plaint was familiar too. Togger did not relish the kind of
wind about them here in the heights.

"Lady Maelen?" A thought swift sent, an answer.

"Lord One Krip?" A second hail and farewell.

"Lord Zoror--?"

"Only until we come again." The Zacanthan's thought was swift to answer.

Farree watched the flame of the jets, the rise of the ship up and up,
out of the cup which had held it, back to the stars.

"Do you truly wish yourself there?"

She had alighted on the grassy surface of the cliff top just too far
away for him to be aware of her until the thought wove with his.

"I do not know-- Here I am one."

"Here you are kin." Her send was clear and strangely soft. She had
folded her wings and now she walked towards him. In her hands was a
gathering of ill-bane flowers, and the scent of them was also hers.

"Kin, Kin," she chanted aloud now and each word was like the scented and
healing breath of the plant.

Farree threw back his head to the dawn-colored sky. He could only see a
very distant trail. Then it was gone.

"Kin!" Atra was beside him and the scent of the flowers brought with it
a softening of all sadness.

He no longer searched the sky for the past but looked into the face of
the future, and his smile was eager.

Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We dare not go a-hunting
For fear of little men -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(William Allingham)
...................






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