Close to drowning, he clung to the thought of Iftsiga, its centuries-withstanding strength, its healing, its sheltering. Iftsiga’s sap had fed him only a few days ago. He was one with the Great Crowns, the Forest, not with these who would and did despoil that beauty.
As one who stumbles through smoke murk into clear air, so did Ayyar emerge, by strength of will, from Naill who would betray him into the hands of That. He dared delay no longer, for every moment of time he marched with this company locked him more securely to the purpose that animated them.
Deliberately he moved his feet to break step. He did not try again to weaken their hold upon his body, but once more he set to studying the ground ahead. He decided upon one of the dried skeleton bushes—for lack of anything better. Half of it had been driven into the soil by the track of the loader. But to the left of that rut projected a stub of the center stem that looked as if it might hook a man at shin level. Exerting pressure slowly, Ayyar began to move his captors inch by wearying inch into the position where the stub could trip Hanfors.
So small a thing on which to build any hope! But he had not fought their grip for a while. They might have relaxed a little when they no longer had to brace themselves to defeat his pull.
So—just a little more— Ah, it looked as if he had planned better than he knew. Hanfors was walking in the depression of the left loader track, Steffney, on the other side, in the matching rut. This left Ayyar a little above them on the uncut ground in the middle, making their hold on him harder to maintain. He waited to see if they would adjust that to defeat his purpose, but they did not. Now if Hanfors would only trip on the broken bush— Ayyar made ready to take any advantage.
Three steps—two— Now!
The broken stub caught Hanfors on his shin. Fortune favored Ayyar, for the stub was stoutly enough bedded not to yield. The man staggered, tumbled forward, and at the same moment Ayyar jerked back with all his might.
He broke the hold the young pilot had on him. Steffney still kept his lock grip on the right, but Ayyar swung around, struck the other’s undefended face as hard as he could. Steffney went down in turn, and Ayyar staggered back a step or two. Then he turned and ran, expecting any moment to hear them pounding after him. But perhaps the fall and the blow had slowed their reflexes, for after a few tense moments, he knew that they were not following.
Which way? Toward the river where the garthmen had gathered on the opposite shore? North to the Mirror? Or south to the sea? At least in the south were those of his own kind, and perhaps Jarvas and Rizak had escaped there also.
Ayyar had covered perhaps a third of the way back, angling southward, when movement before him sent him into cover. He tried to see or scent what waited there. Did the false Iftin and the wytes now patrol the shore? There was no baying.
“No!” He cried that aloud. Another company of marchers from the world beyond the Waste. Garthmen these were, carrying axes, any sharp-edged tool that could serve as a weapon. But they moved with the same thudding lock-step as had the earlier group. And with them—Iftin! False Iftin herding captives?
Then Ayyar caught sight of the face of the nearest guard—Jarvas! Was he caught by that compulsion? Had he reverted to Pate Sissions, and so was susceptible to whatever influence stirred all the rest of them? Beyond him was Lokatath who should have been scouting beyond the river. Jarvas was the nearer.
Ayyar skulked close to that line of marchers, crouched behind a tangle of dead and dried brush. Then he leaped, his hands closing on the taller Ift, bringing the other down under his weight on the ground. If Jarvas had been under the influence of That, it was now broken. He heaved under Ayyar, caught him in an immobilizing infighting hold that was of Pate’s knowledge, not Jarvas’. Then their faces were near together, and Jarvas’ slitted eyes widened.
He loosed his captive and sat up, Ayyar beside him. Coming at a swift stride was Lokatath. They were truly Iftin then, not controlled. Ayyar said as much in his joy, and Jarvas nodded.
“What compels them does not affect us—”
“Unless,” corrected Lokatath, “we allow ourselves to remember that we were once as they. But what happens anyway? These—they were on the track of a raiding party—suddenly they became as you see them—marching as if to order, swimming the river with only the purpose of reaching this shore in their minds— What would That do?”
“Marshal an army, I think.” Swiftly Ayyar told what he himself had witnessed.
“Machines, men—?” wondered Lokatath.
“It has given up more subtle tactics such as the false Iftin and now It moves to open warfare—” Jarvas got to his feet, stood looking after the marching garthmen. “It is gathering all the servants and tools It can garner—to prepare—”
“For what? To root out the Forest tree by tree?” Ayyar asked. “Already those from the port and the garths were doing that for It. To fight us? We are but six on this side of the ocean. It need not forge an axe to destroy a blade of grass. Why then?”
“Yes, why?” Jarvas gazed now not after the marchers, but north to that shadow of the Mirror’s setting. “There is another power, another opponent It would consider far more worthy of Its full attention than us. Months ago that power struck, and perhaps that blow—or blows—was what aroused in turn this desperate need for retaliation. No, I do not think that these march against us, nor against the Forest any longer. Just as That once sent the Larsh to defeat Iftcan, so now It will send what tools It may gather to defeat the central point of all that opposes It here—the Mirror of Thanth!”
Ayyar memory quailed from even considering such sacrilege. Always there had been the power invested in the Mirror or focused by it. And by that power had seed grown, Iftin-kind lived, Iftcan tossed great branches to greet seasons’ winds throughout centuries of life. And, likewise by the will of That, had death and decay and desert crept, always threatening that life, ever held at bay. Now when they were so few, and That so strong because of the many It could summon to Its banner, there was a chance that the final overturn of all was before them. And even to think of that sent a man’s brain close to the edge of madness.
Words out of the long past were on his tongue now. He had no sword any longer, but his hand went up as if it held such a blade—point out.
“This is Iftin answer then—any tribute will be bought at sword point.”
He heard a high excited laugh from Lokatath. “Well said, brother! It is better to die fighting than to give over-lord’s salute to That!”
“Better still,” Jarvas cut in sternly, “to live and ask what our swords can do for Thanth. We go crippled into any battle, for we have not the powers nor the knowledge of those we replace, while That has all memories open to It. But whatever we can do, we shall. And in this hour we must not be divided. Rizak is hiding by the river; his wound is not such that he cannot join with us. But Illylle, above all, we must have with us!”
“My journey that,” claimed Lokatath. “Though”—he glanced at the sky—”day comes and it is That’s time. I will not risk too great speed.”
“You must not!” Jarvas agreed. “It is in my mind that That will take no chances, even though the weight of advantage is now Its. Forget not that the false Iftin still prowl, and the wytes. Also perhaps That pulls more Settlers. Run a broken course through this land of danger.”
“Perhaps two of us—” began Ayyar.
“Not so! We must not separate too widely. For you and me and Rizak, the Mirror and the burden of waiting there.”
They did not seek the river end of that road which led to the Mirror, but struck directly cross country, passing from the shriveled part of the Waste at a steady lope into that part where clean greenery had begun to find root, though this was now winter dried. The wall of the way, which grew taller the nearer one drew to the Mirror stair, was about shoulder high at the place they elected to cross it. Once that had been an effective barrier between the brooding menace of the Waste and the sanctuary of the road. For Ayyar, now, there was a difference on this side of that barrier. In the slot of the road he had had no sense of peace, nor of refuge, rather of withdrawal as if some hunter was hiding to watch and wait.