Simon pushed open the cabin door and waited, still in the pilot’s seat. Loyse—again that stir under the surface within him, but less now, more easily pushed aside. She was staring at him, her eyes wide and wild, but she was under control, they would have no trouble with her. Already she had settled as ordered in the seat behind him. Now that other—Aldis. Aldis?
“To sea.”
He did not need that order from her. Simon was pricked by irritation. He knew as well as she where they must fly. They spiralled into the air.
Odd. Mist growing thicker. Aldis leaned forward from beside her charge, eying that gathering cloud outside the cabin as if in fear. And she was right—this was some devilment of those hags. But they could not control the flyer, nor turn him from his course, even though they could bewilder his eyes . . . his eyes . . .
Simon stared. Something white moving on the course of the flyer, keeping pace effortlessly, a little above and ahead. Of course, that was his guide—just keep with that and he need not worry about the mist. They flew on but there seemed no end to the fog which enclosed them. The hags fought hard, only they could not control the flyer. Men they might bend to their purposes but not machines, never the machines! With machines one could be sure—be safe!
The mist was more than blinding, it was confusing, too. Perhaps it was not wise to stare into its eddying mass. But if he did not he would lose sight of that white guide . . . What was it? Simon could not make it out clearly, always some tendril of the mist blurred its outline when he stared intently.
On and on. In the mist time was distorted, too. Some more of their so-called “magic.” Ah, they were artful in deceit all those witches!
“What are you doing?” Aldis leaned forward, her gaze now on one of the dials among the controls. “Where are we going?” Her voice was louder and shriller with that second demand.
“What is ordered.” Simon was again irritated by the necessity for answering her. She had done good work, this female, but that was not to say that she had any right to question him, his competence, his actions.
“But this is not the course!”
Of course it was! He was obeying orders, following his guide. How dared she say that?
Simon looked down at the dial. Then his hand went to his head. Dizzy—he was dizzy. No need to look at the dials—just follow the white guide, that would make all right. “Be quiet!” he flung at the woman behind him.
But she would not. Now she pulled at bis arm. “This is not the way!” She screeched that until her voice hurt his ears. His seat behind the controls was too cramped to let him turn far. But he thrust at her with his right hand pushing her back and away.
She fought back, striving to get at him, her nails raking at the flesh across the back of his hand, and he feared to lose course, have the white guide hidden by the thick enclosure of the mist. A backhand push made her gasp and flinch and Simon’s attention was again for that half-seen thing ahead.
Only now he did see it fully—just for an instant. A bird—a great white bird! A white bird! He had known a white bird before—and the mist left his mind. The white hawk, that trained messenger they had carried into Kars—into Kars . . .
Simon twisted, a small choked cry forced out of him. Kolder! Kolder influenced thoughts, leading him—He stared down at his hands on the controls, totally ignorant now of what they must do, of how to keep the flyer aloft. Panic was a sharp, sick taste in his mouth. Somehow he had been used. His left hand groped down hunting—hunting what? Fascinated Simon watched that movement he had not consciously willed. The fingers touched Fulk’s belt, slipped swiftly along to that entwined knot of green metal which did not match the other bosses. That!
Now he did use his will to pull his hand away—a struggle which left him sweating. He turned his head. Aldis’ hands were tight to her breast, she eyed him with a dark hate, but under that—was it fear?
Simon caught one of her slim wrists, pulled her hand away from what it sought to conceal. Her other hand clung the tighter, but he caught a glimpse of glinting green. Whatever strange talisman had been Fulk’s, Aldis wore its match. His own hand jerked, twitched, he could hardly keep it away from the belt ornament.
Under them the flyer lurched, dived through the mist. If he did not replace his hand he would not be able to pilot them safely, that much Simon guessed. But he would also return to the bondage which had made him serve Kolder. To crash might mean all their deaths. To accept Kolder control at least postponed that for a space, and time might fight on his side. Simon no longer resisted. His fingers flashed to the intricately carved bit of metal, traced its pattern.
He was—where? What had happened? Tricks, the hag tricks—they had befuddled him. No more, no more of those!
A scream—not from any human throat. Coming straight at the cabin window, as if to fly into his face, that bird, its cruel beak open. Simon’s hands flew to the controls in reflex action, striving to pull under that determined attack. Out of the curls of mist a shadow—a red shadow which took on too much substance. The flyer sideswiped that, the machine spinning from impact. Aldis’ screams were louder and shriller than the hawk’s. Simon cursed as he fought for control. They were still airborne but he could not bring them up, gain any altitude. Sooner or later they were going to land and the best he could do was to try to touch down under power.
Simon fought the stubborn machine for that slim chance. They struck, a surface still hidden in a blinding mist—bounced—set down again. Simon’s head hit the cabin wall and he was not truly aware when they were still, the flyer tilted at an angle, nose down. Mist pushed exploring fingers through the door, now cracked open. And with it came a rank stench, the smell of swamp, overpowering with stagnant water and rotting vegetation. Aldis pulled herself up, looked about, drew a deep, explorative breath of that exhalation of decay. Her head turned as if impelled by some impulse and her hand stirred on the Kolder token.
She leaned forward, but quickly halted that as the flyer rocked. Her hand caught at Simon, pulled off his helm. With a tight finger hold in his thick hair she dragged his lolling head back.
There was a trickle of blood on his left temple, his eyes were closed. But the fact that he must be unconscious seemed to make no difference to the woman. Her grasp on his hair held his head as close to her lips as she could manage. And now she spoke—no words of Karsten, nor of the older dialect of Estcarp—but a series of clicking sounds, more the beat of metal against metal than any human speech.
Though his eyes did not open, his head moved. He pulled feebly against her hold, but she did not yield to his struggle. For the second time she repeated her message. Then she waited. But he did not rouse. When Aldis released her grip his head fell forward on his chest.
The woman gave an exclamation of irritation. She strove for a view outside and was rewarded by sighting the twisted skeleton of a long dead tree, its broken branches hung with wisps of pallid moss swaying in the wind. The wind was also driving out the mist, clearing a view which did not lead one to optimism.
Green-scummed water in pools, from which a wood of dead trees protruded, as might skeleton hands raised in threat to the sky, bloated growths anchored to the trees. As she watched, one of those came to life, an obscene lizard-like thing of splotched skin and toothed jaws crawling towards the flyer.
Aldis’ hand pressed tight against her mouth. She was trying to think. Where could they be? This country was beyond her knowledge and the knowledge of those she served. Yet, her head again turned to the right—they were here—or one who served them was. And that meant help. Her hands cupped about the token, she bent all her forces into a summons.
* * *
* * *
9 TORMAN’S LAND
SIMON OPENED his eyes. The pain in his head seemed one with the greenish light about him. He moved and what supported him responded by rocking in a way which was a warning even his dimmed consciousness could understand. He looked up—to face nightmare!