Warlock by Andre Norton

“But anyway,” Shann observed, “it hasn’t come to ‘we’re all girls together’ either.”

Thorvald laughed again. “Not so you can notice. We’re not the only unwilling visitor in the vicinity.”

Shann sat up. “A Throg?”

“A something. Non-Warlockian, or non-Wyvern. And perhaps trouble for us.”

“You haven’t seen this other?”

Thorvald sat down cross-legged. The amber light from the window made red-gold of his hair, added ruddiness to his less-gaunt features.

“No, I haven’t. As far as I can tell, the stranger’s not right here. I caught stray thought beams twice—surprise expressed by newly arrived Wyverns who met me and apparently expected to be fronted by something quite physically different.”

“Another Terran scout?”

“No. I imagine that to the Wyverns we must look a lot alike. Just as we couldn’t tell one of them from her sister if their body patterns didn’t differ. Discovered one thing about those patterns—the more intricate they run, the higher the ‘power,’ not of the immediate wearer, but of her ancestors. They’re marked when they qualify for their disk and presented with the rating of the greatest witch in their family line as an inducement to live up to those deeds and surpass them if possible. Quite a bit of logic to that. Given the right conditioning, such a system might even work in our service.”

That nugget of information was the stuff from which Survey reports were made. But at the moment the information concerning the other captive was of more value to Shann. He steadied his body against the wall with his good hand and got to his feet. Thorvald watched him.

“I take it you have visions of action. Tell me, Lantee, why did you take that header off the cliff to mix it with the fork-tail?”

Shann wondered himself. He had no reason for that impulsive act. “I don’t know—”

“Chivalry? Fair Wyvern in distress?” the other prodded. “Or did the back lash from one of those disks draw you in?”

“I don’t know—”

“And why did you use your knife instead of your stunner?”

Shann was startled. For the first time he realized that he had fronted the greatest native menace they had discovered on Warlock with the more primitive of his weapons. Why had he not tried the stunner on the beast? He had just never thought of it when he had taken that leap into the role of dragon slayer.

“Not that it would have done you any good to try the ray; it has no effect on fork-tails.”

“You tried it?”

“Naturally. But you didn’t know that, or did you pick up that information earlier?”

“No,” answered Shann slowly. “No, I don’t know why I used the knife. The stunner would have been more natural.” Suddenly he shivered, and the face he turned to Thorvald was very sober.

“How much do they control us?” he asked, his voice dropping to a half whisper as if the walls about them could pick up those words and relay them to other ears. “What can they do?”

“A good question.” Thorvald lost his light tone. “Yes, what can they feed into our minds without our knowledge? Perhaps those disks are only window dressing, and they can work without them. A great deal will depend upon the impression we can make on these witches.” He began to smile again, more wryly. “The name we gave this planet is certainly a misnomer. A warlock is a male sorcerer, not a witch.”

“And what are the chances of our becoming warlocks ourselves?”

Again Thorvald’s smile faded, but he gave a curt little nod to Shann as if approving that thought. “That is something we are going to look into, and now! If we have to convince some stubborn females, as well as fight Throgs, well”—he shrugged—”we’ll have a busy, busy time.”

16 : THIRD PRISONER

“Well, it works as good as new.” Shann held his hand and arm out into the full path of the sun. He had just stripped off the skin-case bandage, to show the raw seam of a half-healed scar, but as he flexed muscles, bent and twisted his arm, there was only a small residue of soreness left.

“Now what, or where?” he asked Thorvald with some eagerness. Several days’ imprisonment in this room had made him impatient for the outer world again. Like the officer, he now wore breeches of the green fabric, the only material known to the Wyverns, and his own badly worn boots. Oddly enough, the Terrans’ weapons, stunner and knife, had been left to them, a point which made them uneasy, since it suggested that the Wyverns believed they had nothing to fear from clumsy alien arms.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Thorvald answered that double question. “But it is you they want to see; they insisted upon it, rather emphatically in fact.”

The Wyvern city existed as a series of cell-like hollows in the interior of a rock-walled island. Outside there had been no tampering with the natural rugged features of the escarpment, and within, the silence was almost complete. For all the Terrans could learn, the population of the stone-walled hive might have been several thousand, or just the handful that they had seen with their own eyes along the passages which had been declared open territory for them.

Shann half expected to find again a skull-walled chamber where witches tossed colored sticks to determine his future. But he came with Thorvald into an oval room in which most of the outer wall was a window. And seeing what lay framed in that, Shann halted, again uncertain as to whether he actually saw that, or whether he was willed into visualizing a scene by the choice of his hostesses.

They were lower now than the room in which he had nursed his wound, not far above water level. And this window faced the sea. Across a stretch of green water was his red-purple skull, the waves lapping its lower jaw, spreading their foam in between the gaping rock-fringe which formed its teeth. And from the eye hollows flapped the clak-claks of the sea coast, coming and going as if they carried to some brain imprisoned within that giant bone case messages from the outer world.

“My dream—” Shann said.

“Your dream.” Thorvald had not echoed that; the answer had come in his brain.

Shann turned his head and surveyed the Wyvern awaiting them with a concentration which was close to the rudeness of an outright stare, a stare which held no friendship. For by her skin patterns he knew her for the one who had led that trio who had sent him into the cavern of the mist. And with her was the younger witch he had trapped on the night that all this baffling action had begun.

“We meet again,” he said slowly. “To what purpose?”

“To our purpose . . . and yours—”

“I do not doubt that it is to yours.” The Terran’s thoughts fell easily now into a formal pattern he would not have used with one of his own kind. “But I do not expect any good to me . . .”

There was no readable expression on her face; he did not expect to see any. But in their uneven mind touch he caught a fleeting suggestion of bewilderment on her part, as if she found his mental processes as hard to understand as a puzzle with few leading clues.

“We mean you no ill, star voyager. You are far more than we first thought you, for you have dreamed false and have known. Now dream true, and know it also.”

“Yet,” he challenged, “you would set me a task without my consent.”

“We have a task for you, but already it was set in the pattern of your true dreaming. And we do not set such patterns, star man; that is done by the Greatest Power of all. Each lives within her appointed pattern from the First Awakening to the Final Dream. So we do not ask of you any more than that which is already laid for your doing.”

She arose with that languid grace which was a part of their delicate jeweled bodies and came to stand beside him, a child in size, making his Terran flesh and bones awkward, clodlike in contrast. She stretched out her four-digit hand, her slender arm ringed with gemmed circles and bands, measuring it beside his own, bearing that livid scar.

“We are different, star man, yet still are we both dreamers. And dreams hold power. Your dreams brought you across the dark which lies between sun and distant sun. Our dreams carry us on even stranger roads. And yonder”—one of her fingers stiffened to a point, indicating the skull—”there is another who dreams with power, a power which will destroy us all unless the pattern is broken speedily.”

“And I must go to seek this dreamer?” His vision of climbing through that nose hole was to be realized then.