Storm Over Warlock

A >> Andre Norton >> Storm Over Warlock

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"Now what?" Shann asked. They had made their trip about the slab and
were back again where the disk whirled with unceasing vigor in a shower
of emerald sparks.

Thorvald shook his head, scanning the rock face before them glumly. The
eagerness had gone out of his expression, a vast weariness replacing it.

"There must have been some purpose in coming here," he replied, but his
tone had lost the assurance of moments earlier.

"Well, if we strike away from here, we'll just get right back in again."
Shann waved a hand toward the mist, waiting as if with a hunter's watch
upon them. "And we certainly can't go down." He dug a boot toe into the
sand to demonstrate the folly of that. "So, what about up?"

He ducked under the spinning disk to lay his hands against the surface
of the giant slab. And in so doing he made a discovery, revealed to his
touch although hidden from sight. For his fingers, running aimlessly
across the cold, slightly uneven surface of the stone, slipped into a
hollow, quite a deep hollow.

Excited, half fearing that his sudden guess might be wrong, Shann slid
his hand higher in line with that hollow, to discover a second. The
first had been level with his chest, the second perhaps eighteen inches
or so above. He jumped, to draw his fingers down the rock, with damage
to his nails but getting his proof. There _was_ a third niche, deep
enough to hold more than just the toe of a boot, and a fourth above
that....

"We've a ladder of sorts here," he reported. Without waiting for any
answer from Thorvald, Shann began to climb. The holds were so well
matched in shape and size that he was sure they could not be natural;
they had been bored there for use--the use to which he was now putting
them--a ladder to the top of the slab. Though what he might find there
was beyond his power to imagine.

The disk did not rise. Shann passed that core of light, climbing above
it into the greater gloom. But the holes did not fail him; each was
waiting in a direct line with its companion. And to an active man the
scramble was not difficult. He reached the summit, glanced around, and
made a quick grab for a secure handhold.

Waiting for him was no level platform such as he had confidently
expected to find. The surface up which he had just made his way
fly-fashion was the outer wall of a well or chimney. He looked down now
into a pit where black nothingness began within a yard of the top, for
the radiance of the mist did not penetrate far into that descent.

Shann fought an attack of giddiness. It would be very easy to lose
control, to tumble over and be swallowed up in what might well be a
bottomless chasm. And what was the purpose of this well? Was it a trap
to entice a prisoner into an unwary climb and then let gravity drag him
over? The whole setup was meaningless. Perhaps meaningless only to him,
Shann conceded, with a flash of level thinking. The situation could be
quite different as far as the natives were concerned. This structure did
have a reason, or it would never have been erected in the first place.

"What's the matter?" Thorvald's voice was rough with impatience.

"This thing's a well." Shann edged about a fraction to call back. "The
inside is open and--as far as I can tell--goes clear to the planet's
core."

"Ladder on the inside too?"

Shann squirmed. That was, of course, a very obvious supposition. He kept
a tight hold with his left hand, and with the other, he did some
exploring. Yes, here was a hollow right enough, twin to those on the
outside. But to swing over that narrow edge of safety and begin a
descent into the black of the well was far harder than any action he had
taken since the morning the Throgs had raided the camp. The green mist
could hold no terrors greater than those with which his imagination
peopled the depths now waiting to engulf him. But Shann swung over,
fitted his boot into the first hollow, and started down.

The only encouragement he gained during that nightmare ordeal was that
those holes were regularly spaced. But somehow his confidence did not
feed on that fact. There always remained the nagging fear that when he
searched for the next it would not be there and he would cling to his
perch lacking the needful strength in aching arms and legs to reclimb
the inside ladder.

He was fast losing that sense of well being which had been his during
his travels through the fog; a fatigue tugged at his arms and weighed
leaden on his shoulders. Mechanically he prospected for the next hold,
and then the next. Above, the oblong of half-light grew smaller and
smaller, sometimes half blotted out by the movements of Thorvald's body
as the other followed him down that interior way.

How far _was_ down? Shann giggled lightheadedly at the humor of that, or
what seemed to be humor at the moment. He was certain that they were now
below the level of the sand floor outside the slab. And yet no end had
come to the well hollow.

No break of light down here; he might have been sightless. But just as
the blind develop an extra perceptive sense of unseen obstacles, so did
Shann now find that he was aware of a change in the nature of the space
about him. His weary arms and legs held him against the solidity of a
wall, yet the impression that there was no longer another wall at his
back grew stronger with every niche which swung him downward. And he was
as sure as if he could see it, that he was now in a wide-open space,
another cavern; perhaps, but this one totally dark.

Deprived of sight, he relied upon his ears. And there was a sound,
faint, distorted perhaps by the acoustics of this place, but keeping up
a continuous murmur. Water! Not the wash of waves with their persistent
beat, but rather the rippling of a running stream. Water must lie below!

And just as his weariness had grown with his leaving behind the fog, so
now did both hunger and thirst gnaw at Shann, all the sharper for the
delay. The Terran wanted to reach that water, could picture it in his
mind, putting away the possibility--the probability--that it might be
sea-born and salt, and so unfit to drink.

The upper opening to the cavern of the fog was now so far above him that
he had to strain to see it. And that warmth which had been there was
gone. A dank chill wrapped him here, dampened the holds to which he
clung until he was afraid of slipping. While the murmur of the water
grew louder, until its _slap-slap_ sounded within arms' distance. His
boot toe skidded from a niche. Shann fought to hold on with numbed
fingers. The other foot went. He swung by his hands, kicking vainly to
regain a measure of footing.

Then his arms could no longer support him, and he cried out as he fell.
Water closed about him with an icy shock which for a moment paralyzed
him. He flailed out, fighting the flood to get his head above the
surface where he could gasp in precious gulps of air.

There was a current here, a swiftly running one. Shann remembered the
one which had carried him into that cavern in which the Warlockians had
their strange dwelling. Although there were no clusters of crystals in
this tunnel to supply him with light, the Terran began to nourish a
faint hope that he was again in that same stream, that those light
crystals would appear, and that he might eventually return to the
starting point of this meaningless journey.

So he strove only to keep his head above water. Hearing a splashing
behind him, he called out: "Thorvald?"

"Lantee?" The answer came back at once; the splashing grew louder as the
other swam to catch up.

Shann swallowed a mouthful of the water lapping against his chin. The
taste was brackish, but not entirely salt, and though it stung his lips,
the liquid relieved a measure of his thirst.

Only no glowing crystals appeared to stud these walls, and Shann's hope
that they were on their way to the cavern of the island faded. The
current grew swifter, and he had to fight to keep his head above water,
his tired body reacting sluggishly to commands.

The murmur of the racing flood drummed louder in his ears, or was that
sound the same? He could no longer be sure. Shann only knew that it was
close to impossible to snatch the necessary breath as he was rolled over
and over in the hurrying flood.

In the end he was ejected into blazing, blinding light, into a
suffocation of wild water as the bullet in an ancient Terran rifle might
have been fired at no specific target. Gasping, beaten, more than
half-drowned, Shann was pummeled by waves, literally driven up on a
rocky surface which skinned his body cruelly. He lay there, his arms
moving feebly until he contrived to raise himself in time to be
wretchedly sick. Somehow he crawled on a few feet farther before he
subsided again, blinded by the light, flinching from the heat of the
rocks on which he lay, but unable to do more for himself.

His first coherent thought was that his speculation concerning the
reality of this experience was at last resolved. This could not possibly
be an hallucination; at least this particular sequence of events was
not. And he was still hazily considering that when a hand fell on his
shoulder, fingers biting into his raw flesh.

Shann snarled, rolled over on his side. Thorvald, water dripping from
his rags--or rather steaming from them--his shaggy hair plastered to his
skull, sat there.

"You all right?"

Shann sat up in turn, shielding his smarting eyes. He was bruised,
battered badly enough, but he could claim no major injuries.

"I think so. Where are we?"

Thorvald's lips stretched across his teeth in what was more a grimace
than a smile. "Right off the map, any map I know. Take a look."

They were on a scrap of beach--beach which was more like a reef, for it
lacked any covering comparable to sand except for some cupfuls of coarse
gravel locked in rock depressions. Rocks, red as the rust of dried
blood, rose in fantastic water-sculptured shapes around the small
semi-level space they had somehow won.

This space was V-shaped, washed by equal streams on either side of the
prong of rock by water which spouted from the face of a sheer cliff not
too far away, with force enough to spray several feet beyond its exit
point. Shann seeing that and guessing at its significance, drew a deep
breath, and heard the ghost of an answering chuckle from his companion.

"Yes, that's where we came out, boy. Like to make a return trip?"

Shann shook his head, and then wished that he had not so rashly made
that move, for the world swung in a dizzy whirl. Things had happened too
fast. For the moment it was enough that they were out of the underground
ways, back under the amber sky, feeling the bite of Warlock's sun.

Steadying his head with both hands, Shann turned slowly, to survey what
might lie at their backs. The water, pouring by on either side,
suggested that they were again on an island. Warlock, he thought
gloomily, seemed to be for Terrans a succession of islands, all hard to
escape.

The tangle of rocks did not encourage any exploration. Just gazing at
them added to his weariness. They rose, tier by tier, to a ragged crown
against the sky. Shann continued to sit staring at them.

"To climb that...." His voice trailed into the silence of complete
discouragement.

"You climb--or swim," Thorvald stated. But, Shann noted, the Survey
officer was not in a hurry to make either move.

Nowhere in that wilderness of rock was there the least relieving bit of
purple foliage. Nor did any clak-claks or leather-headed birds tour the
sky over their heads. Shann's thirst might have been partially assuaged,
but his hunger remained. And it was that need which forced him at last
into action. The barren heights promised nothing in the way of food,
but remembering the harvest the wolverines had taken from under the
rocks along the river, he got to his feet and lurched out on the reef
which had been their salvation, hunting some pool which might hold an
edible captive or two.

So it was that Shann made the discovery of a possible path consisting of
a ledge running toward the other end of the island, if this were an
island where they had taken refuge. The spray of the water drenched that
way, feeding small pools in the uneven surface, and strips of yellow
weed trailed in slimy ribbons back below the surface of the waves.

He called to Thorvald and gestured to his find. And then, close
together, linking hands when the going became hazardous, the men
followed the path. Twice they made finds in the pools, finned or clawed
grotesque creatures, which they killed and ate, wolfing down the few
fragments of odd-tasting flesh. Then, in a small crevice, which could
hardly be dignified by the designation of "cave," Thorvald chanced upon
a quite exciting discovery--a clutch of four greenish eggs, each as
large as his doubled fist.

Their outer covering was more like tough membrane than true shell, and
the Terrans worried it open with difficulty. Shann shut his eyes, trying
not to think of what he mouthed as he sucked his share dry. At least
that semi-liquid stayed put in his middle, though he expected disastrous
results from the experiment.

More than a little heartened by this piece of luck, they kept on, though
the ledge changed from a reasonably level surface to a series of rising,
unequal steps, drawing them away from the water. At long last they came
to the end of that path. Shann leaned back against a convenient spur of
rock.

"Company!" he alerted Thorvald.

The Survey officer joined him to share an outcrop of rock from which
they were provided with an excellent view of the scene below, and it
was a scene to hold their full attention.

That soft sweep of sand which had floored the cavern of the fog lay here
also, a gray-blue carpet sloping gently out of the sea. For Shann had no
doubt that the wide stretch of water before them was the western ocean.
Walling the beach on either side, and extending well out into the water
so that the farthest piles were awash except for their crowns, were
pillars of stone, shaped with the same finish as that slab which had
provided them a ladder of escape. And because of the regularity of their
spacing, Shann did not believe them works of nature.

Grouped between them now were the players of the drama. One of the
Warlockian witches, her gem body patterns glittering in the sunlight,
was walking backward out of the sea, her hands held palms together,
breast high, in a Terran attitude of prayer. And following her something
swam in the water, clearly not another of her own species. But her
actions suggested that by some invisible means she was drawing that
water dweller after her. Waiting on shore were two others of her kind,
viewing her actions with close attention, the attention of scholars for
an instructor.

"Wyverns!"

Shann looked inquiringly at his companion. Thorvald added a whisper of
explanation. "A legend of Terra--they were supposed to have a snake's
tail instead of hind legs, but the heads.... They're Wyverns!"

Wyverns. Shann liked the sound of that word; to his mind it well fitted
the Warlockian witches. And the one they were watching in action
continued her steady backward retreat, rolling her bemused captive out
of the water. What emerged into the blaze of sunlight was one of those
fork-tailed sea dwellers such as the Terrans had seen die after the
storm. The thing crawled out of the shallows, its eyes focused in a
blind stare on the praying hands of the Wyvern.

She halted, well up on the sand, when the body of her victim or
prisoner--Shann was certain that the fork-tail was one or the
other--was completely out of the water. Then, with lightning speed, she
dropped her hands.

Instantly fork-tail came to life. Fanged jaws snapped. Aroused, the
beast was the incarnation of evil rage, a rage which had a measure of
intelligence to direct it into deadly action. And facing it, seemingly
unarmed and defenseless, were the slender, fragile Wyverns.

Yet none of the small group of natives made any attempt to escape. Shann
thought them suicidal in their indifference as fork-tail, short legs
sending the fine sand flying in a dust cloud, made a rush toward its
enemies.

The Wyvern who had led the beast ashore did not move. But one of her
companions swung up a hand, as if negligently waving the monster to a
stop. Between her first two digits was a disk. Thorvald caught at
Shann's arm.

"See that! It's a copy of the one I had; it must be!"

They were too far away to be sure it was a duplicate, but It was
coin-shaped and bone-white. And now the Wyvern swung it back and forth
in a metronome sweep. Fork-tail skidded to a stop, its head
beginning--reluctantly at first, and then, with increasing speed--to
echo that left-right sweep. This Wyvern had the sea beast under control,
even as her companion had earlier held it.

Chance dictated what happened next. As had her sister charmer, the
Wyvern began a backward withdrawal up the length of the beach, drawing
the sea thing in her wake. They were very close to the foot of the drop
above which the Terrans stood, fascinated, when the sand betrayed the
witch. Her foot slipped into a hole and she was thrown backward, her
control disk spinning out of her fingers.

At once the monster she had charmed shot forth its head, snapped at that
spinning trifle--and swallowed it. Then the fork-tail hunched in a
posture Shann had seen the wolverines use when they were about to
spring. The weaponless Wyvern was the prey, and both her companions were
too far away to interfere.

Why he moved he could not have explained. There was no reason for him
to go to the aid of the Warlockian, one of the same breed who had ruled
him against his will. But Shann sprang, landing in the sand on his hands
and knees.

The sea thing whipped around, undecided between two possible victims.
Shann had his knife free, was on his feet, his eyes on the beast's,
knowing that he had appointed himself dragon slayer for no good reason.

15. DRAGON SLAYER

"Ayeeee!" Sheer defiance, not only of the beast he fronted, but of the
Wyverns as well, brought that old rallying cry to his lips--the call
used on the Dumps of Tyr to summon gang aid against outsiders. Fork-tail
had crouched again for a spring, but that throat-crackling blast
appeared to startle it.

Shann, blade ready, took a dancing step to the right. The thing was
scaled, perhaps as well armored against frontal attack as was the
shell-creature he had fought with the aid of the wolverines. He wished
he had the Terran animals now--with Taggi and his mate to tease and
feint about the monster, as they had done with the Throg hound--for he
would have a better chance. If only the animals were here!

Those eyes--red-pitted eyes in a gargoyle head following his every
movement--perhaps those were the only vulnerable points.

Muscles tensed beneath that scaled hide. The Terran readied himself for
a sidewise leap, his knife hand raised to rake at those eyes. A brown
shape with a V of lighter fur banding its back crossed the far range of
Shann's vision. He could not believe what he saw, not even when a
snarling animal, slavering with rage, came at a lumbering gallop to
stand beside him, a second animal on its heels.

Uttering his own battle cry, Taggi attacked. The fork-tail's head swung,
imitating the movements of the wolverine as it had earlier mimicked the
swaying of the disk in the Wyvern's hand. Togi came in from the other
side. They might have been hounds keeping a bull in play. And never had
they shown such perfect team work, almost as if they could sense what
Shann desired of them.

That forked tail lashed viciously, a formidable weapon. Bone, muscles,
scaled flesh, half buried in the sand, swept up a cloud of grit into the
face of the man and the animals. Shann fell back, pawing with his free
hand at his eyes. The wolverines circled warily, trying for the attack
they favored--the spring to the shoulders, the usually fatal assault on
the spine behind the neck. But the armored head of the fork-tail, slung
low, warned them off. Again the tail lashed, and this time Taggi was
caught and hurled across the beach.

Togi uttered a challenge, made a reckless dash, and raked down the
length of the fork-tail's body, fastening on that tail, weighing it to
earth with her own poundage while the sea creature fought to dislodge
her. Shann, his eyes watering from the sand, but able to see, watched
that battle for a long second, judging that fork-tail was completely
engaged in trying to free its best weapon from the grip of the
wolverine. The latter clawed and bit with a fury which suggested Togi
intended to immobilize that weapon by tearing it to shreds.

Fork-tail wrenched its body, striving to reach its tormentor with fangs
or clawed feet. And in that struggle to achieve an impossible position,
its head slued far about, uncovering the unprotected area behind the
skull base which usually lay under the spiny collar about its shoulders.

Shann went in. With one hand he gripped the edge of that collar--its
serrations tearing his flesh--and at the same time he drove his knife
blade deep into the soft underfolds, ripping on toward the spinal
column. The blade nicked against bone as the fork-tail's head slammed
back, catching Shann's hand and knife together in a trap. The Terran was
jerked from his feet, and flung to one side with the force of the
beast's reaction.

Blood spurted up, his own blood mingled with that of the monster. Only
Togi's riding of the tail prevented Shann's being beaten to death. The
armored snout pointed skyward as the creature ground the sharp edge of
its collar down on the Terran's arm. Shann, frantic with pain, drove his
free fist into one of those eyes.

Fork-tail jerked convulsively; its head snapped down again and Shann was
free. The Terran threw himself back, keeping his feet with an effort.
Fork-tail was writhing, churning up the sand in a cloud. But it could
not rid itself of the knife Shann had planted with all his strength, and
which the blows of its own armored collar were now driving deeper and
deeper into its back.

It howled thinly, with an abnormal shrilling. Shann, nursing his
bleeding forearm against his chest, rolled free from the waves of sand
it threw about, bringing up against one of the rock pillars. With that
to steady him, he somehow found his feet, and stood weaving, trying to
see through the rain of dust.

The convulsions which churned up that concealing cloud were growing more
feeble. Then Shann heard the triumphant squall from Togi, saw her brown
body still on the torn tail just above the forking. The wolverine used
her claws to hitch her way up the spine of the sea monster, heading for
the mountain of blood spouting from behind the head. Fork-tail fought to
raise that head once more; then the massive jaw thudded into the sand,
teeth snapping fruitlessly as a flood of grit overrode the tongue,
packed into the gaping mouth.

How long had it taken--that frenzy of battle on the bloodstained beach?
Shann could have set no limit in clock-ruled time. He pressed his
wounded arm tighter to him, lurched past the still twitching sea thing
to that splotch of brown fur on the sand, shaping the wolverine's
whistle with dry lips. Togi was still busy with the kill, but Taggi lay
where that murderous tail had thrown him.

Shann fell on his knees, as the beach around him developed a curious
tendency to sway. He put his good hand to the ruffled back fur of the
motionless wolverine.

"Taggi!"

A slight quiver answered. Shann tried awkwardly to raise the animal's
head with his own hand. As far as he could see, there were no open
wounds; but there might be broken bones, internal injuries he did not
have the skill to heal.

"Taggi?" He called again gently, striving to bring that heavy head up on
his knee.

"The furred one is not dead."

For a moment Shann was not aware that those words had formed in his
mind, had not been heard by his ears. He looked up, eyes blazing at the
Wyvern coming toward him in a graceful glide across the crimsoned sand.
And in a space of heartbeats his thrust of anger cooled into a stubborn
enmity.

"No thanks to you," he said deliberately aloud. If the Wyvern witch
wanted to understand him, let her make the effort; he did not try to
touch her thoughts with his.

Taggi stirred again, and Shann glanced down quickly. The wolverine
gasped, opened his eyes, shook his miniature bear head, scattering
pellets of sand. He sniffed at a dollop of blood, the dark, alien blood,
spattered on Shann's breeches, and then his head came up with a
reassuring alertness as he looked to where his mate was still worrying
the now quiet fork-tail.

With an effort, Taggi got to his feet, Shann aiding him. The man ran his
hand down over ribs, seeking any broken bones. Taggi growled a warning
once when that examination brought pain in its wake, but Shann could
detect no real damage. As might a cat, the wolverine must have met the
shock of that whip-tail stroke relaxed enough to escape serious injury.
Taggi had been knocked out, but now he was able to navigate again. He
pulled free from Shann's grip, lumbering across the sand to the kill.

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