Warlock by Andre Norton

“You go.”

Thorvald stirred and the Wyvern turned her head to him. “Alone,” she added. “For this is your dream only, as it has been from the beginning. There is for each his own dream, and another cannot walk through it to alter the pattern, even to save a life.”

Shann grinned crookedly, without humor. “It seems that I’m elected,” he said as much to himself as to Thorvald. “But what do I do with this other dreamer?”

“What your pattern moves you to do. Save that you do not slay him—”

“Throg!” Thorvald started forward. “You can’t just walk in on a Throg barehanded and be bound by orders such as that!”

The Wyvern must have caught the sense of that vocal protest, for her communication touched them both. “We cannot deal with that one as his mind is closed to us. Yet he is an elder among his kind and his people have been searching land and sea for him since his air rider broke upon the rocks and he entered into hiding over there. Make your peace with him if you can, and also take him hence, for his dreams are not ours, and he brings confusion to the Reachers when they retire to run the Trails of Seeking.”

“Must be an important Throg,” Shann deduced. “They could have an officer of the beetle-heads under wraps over there. Could we use him to bargain with the rest?”

Thorvald’s frown did not lighten. “We’ve never been able to establish any form of contact in the past, though our best qualified minds, reinforced by training, have tried . . .”

Shann did not take fire at that rather delicate estimate of his own lack of preparation for the carrying out of diplomatic negotiations with the enemy; he knew it was true. But there was one thing he could try—if the Wyvern permitted.

“Will you give a disk of power to this star man?” He pointed to Thorvald. “For he is my Elder One and a Reacher for Knowledge. With such a focus his dream could march with mine when I go to the Throg, and perhaps that can aid in my doing what I could not accomplish alone. For that is the secret of my people, Elder One. We link our powers together to make a shield against our enemies, a common tool for the work we must do.”

“And so it is with us also, star voyager. We are not so unlike as the foolish might think. We learned much of you while you both wandered in the Place of False Dreams. But our power disks are our own and can not be given to a stranger while their owners live. However . . .” She turned again with an abruptness foreign to the usual Wyvern manner and faced the older Terran.

The officer might have been obeying an unvoiced order as he put out his hands and laid them palm to palm on those she held up to him, bending his head so gray eyes met golden ones. The web of communication which had held all three of them snapped. Thorvald and the Wyvern were linked in a tight circuit which excluded Shann.

Then the latter became conscious of movement beside him. The younger Wyvern had joined him to watch the clak-claks in their circling of the bare dome of the skull island.

“Why do they fly so?” Shann asked her.

“Within they nest, care for their young. Also they hunt the rock creatures that swarm in the lower darkness.”

“The rock creatures?” If the skull’s interior was infested by some other native fauna, he wanted to know it.

By some method of her own the young Wyvern conveyed a strong impression of revulsion, which was her personal reaction to the “rock creatures.”

“Yet you imprison the Throg there—” he remarked.

“Not so!” Her denial was instantaneous and vehement. “The other worlder fled into that place in spite of our calling. There he stays in hiding. Once we drew him out to the sea, but he broke the power and fled inside again.”

“Broke free—” Shann pounced upon that. “From disk control?”

“But surely.” Her reply held something of wonder. “Why do you ask, star voyager? Did you not also break free from the power of the disk when I led you by the underground ways, awaking in the river? Do you then rate this other one as less than your own breed that you think him incapable of the same action?”

“Of Throgs I know as much as this . . .” He held up his hand, measuring off a fraction of space between thumb and forefinger.

“Yet you knew them before you came to this world.”

“My people have known them for long. We have met and fought many times among the stars.”

“And never have you talked mind to mind?”

“Never. We have sought for that, but there has been no communication between us, neither of mind nor voice.”

“This one you name Throg is truly not as you,” she assented. “And we are not as you, being alien and female. Yet, star man, you and I have shared a dream.”

Shann stared at her, startled, not so much by what she said as the human shading of those words in his mind. Or had that also been illusion?

“In the veil . . . that creature which came to you on wings when you remembered that. A good dream, though it came out of the past and so was false in the present. But I have gathered it into my own store: such a fine dream, one that you have cherished.”

“Trav was to be cherished,” he agreed soberly. “I found her in a broken sleep cage at a spaceport when I was a child. We were both cold and hungry, alone and hurt. So I stole and was glad that I stole Trav. For a little space we both were very happy . . .” Forcibly he stifled memory.

“So, though we are unlike in body and in mind, yet we find beauty together if only in a dream. Therefore, between your people and mine there can be a common speech. And I may show you my dream store for your enjoyment, star voyager.”

A flickering of pictures, some weird, some beautiful, all a little distorted—not only by haste, but also by the haze of alienness which was a part of her memory pattern—crossed Shann’s mind.

“Such a sharing would be a rich feast,” he agreed.

“All right!” Those crisp words in his own tongue brought Shann away from the window to Thorvald. The Survey officer was no longer locked hand to hand with the Wyvern witch, but his features were alive with a new eagerness.

“We are going to try your idea, Lantee. They’ll provide me with a new, unmarked disk, show me how to use it. And I’ll do what I can to back you with it. But they insist that you go today.”

“What do they really want me to do? Just root out that Throg? Or try to talk him into being a go-between with his people? That does come under the heading of dreaming!”

“They want him out of there, back with his own kind if possible. Apparently he’s a disruptive influence for them; he causes some kind of a mental foul up which interferes drastically with their ‘power.’ They haven’t been able to get him to make any contact with them. This Elder One is firm about your being the one ordained for the job, and that you’ll know what action to take when you get here.”

“Must have thrown the sticks for me again,” Shann commented.

“Well, they’ve definitely picked you to smoke out the Throg, and they can’t be talked into changing their minds about that.”

“I’ll be the smoked one if he has a blaster.”

“They say he’s unarmed—”

“What do they know about our weapons or a Throg’s?”

“The other one has no arms.” Wyvern words in his mind again. “This fact gives him great fear. That which he has depended upon is broken. And since he has no weapon, he is shut into a prison of his own terrors.”

But an adult Throg, even unarmed, was not to be considered easy meat, Shann thought. Armored with horny skin, armed with claws and those crushing mandibles of the beetle mouth . . . a third again as tall as he himself was. No, even unarmed, the Throg had to be considered a menace.

Shann was still thinking along that line as he splashed through the surf which broke about the lower jaw of the skull island, climbed up one of the pointed rocks which masqueraded as a tooth, and reached for a higher hold to lead him to the nose slit, the gateway to the alien’s hiding place.

The clak-claks screamed and dived about him, highly resentful of his intrusion. And when they grew so bold as to buffet him with their wings, threaten him with their tearing beaks, he was glad to reach the broken rock edging his chosen door and duck inside. Once there, Shann looked back. There was no sighting the cliff window where Thorvald stood, nor was he aware in any way of mental contact with the Survey officer; their hope of such a linkage might be futile.