Wizards’ Worlds (48 page)

“These inland men know no difference between Saludian silk and the weaving of the
looms in our own Kormonian quarter.” He shrugged in scorn at such ignorance. “Why
should we offer Salud when we can get Salud prices for Kormon lengths and the buyer
is satisfied? Maybe—if these lords ever finish their private quarrels and live at
peace so that there is more travel and they themselves come to visit in Larud or the
other cities of the Children of Noe, then shall we not make a profit on lesser goods.”

“Do these Lords never try to raid your caravans?”

Kaluf laughed. “They tried that once or twice. Certainly they saw there was the profit
in seizing a train and paying nothing. But we purchased trail rights from the Black
Hoods, and there was no more trouble. How is it with you, Ka-rak? Have you lords in
your land who dare to stand against the power of the Hooded Ones?”

Craike, taking a chance, nodded. And knew he had been right when some reserve in Kaluf
vanished.

“That explains much, perhaps even why such a man of power as you should be adrift
in the wilderness. But you need not fear in this country, your brothers hold complete
rule—”

A colony of Espers! Craike tensed. Had he, through some weird chance, found here the
long-hoped-for refuge of his kind. But where
was
here? His old bewilderment was lost in a shout from the fore of the train.

“The outpost has sighted us and raised the trade banner.” Kaluf quickened pace. “Within
the hour we’ll be at the walls of Sampur. Illif!”

Craike made for the head of the line. Sampur, by the reckoning of the train, was a
city of respectable size, the domain of a Lord Ludicar with whom Kaluf had had mutually
satisfactory dealings for some time. And the
Master anticipated a profitable stay. But the man who had ridden out to greet them
was full of news.

Racially he was unlike the traders, taller, longer of arm. His bare chest was a thatch
of blond-red hair as thick as a bear’s pelt, long braids swung across his shoulders.
A leather cap, reinforced with sewn rings of metal, was crammed down over his wealth
of hair, and he carried a shield slung from his saddle pad. In addition to sword and
knife, he nursed a spear in the crook of his arm, from the point of which trailed
a banner strip of blue stuff.

“You come in good time, Master. The Hooded Ones have proclaimed a horning, and all
the outbounders have gathered as witnesses. This is a good day for your trading, the
Cloudy Ones have indeed favored you. But hurry, the Lord Ludicar is now riding in
and soon there will be no good place from which to watch—”

Craike fell back. Punishment? An execution? No, not quite that. He wished he dared
ask questions. Certainly the picture which had leaped into Kaluf’s mind at the mention
of “horning” could not be true!

Caution kept the Esper aloof. Sooner or later his alien origin must be noted, though
Kaluf had supplied him with a fur cap, leather jerkin, and boots from the caravan
surplus.

The ceremony was to take place just outside the main gate of the stockade, which formed
the outer rampart of the town. A group of braided, ring-helmed warriors hemmed in
a more imposing figure with a feather plume and a blue cloak, doubtless Lord Ludicar.
Thronging at a respectful distance were the townfolk. But they were merely audience;
the actors stood apart.

Craike’s hands went to his head. The emotion which beat at him from that party brought
the metallic taste of fear to his mouth, aroused his own memories. Then he steadied,
probed. There was terror there, broadcast from two figures under guard. Just as an
impact of Esper power
came from the three black-hooded men who walked behind the captives.

He used his own talent carefully, dreading to attract the attention of the men in
black. The townsfolk opened an aisle in their ranks, giving free passage to the open
moorland and the green stretch of forest not too far away.

Fear—in one of those bound, stumbling prisoners it was abject, the same panic which
had hounded Craike into the desert. But, though the other captive had no hope, there
was a thick core of defiance, a desperate desire to strike back. And something in
Craike arose to answer that.

Other men, wearing black jerkins and no hoods, crowded about the prisoners. When they
stepped back Craike saw that the drab clothing of the two had been torn away. Shame,
blotting out fear, came from the smaller captive. And there was no mistaking the sex
of the curves that white body displayed. A girl, and very young. A violent shake of
her head loosened her hair to flow, black and long, clothing her nakedness. Craike
drew a deep breath as he had before that plunge into the canyon. Moving quickly he
crouched behind a bush.

The Black Hoods went about their business with dispatch, each drawing in turn certain
designs and lines in the dust of the road until they had created an intricate pattern
about the feet of the prisoners.

A chant began in which the townspeople joined. The fear of the male captive was an
almost visible cloud. But the outrage and anger of his feminine companion grew in
relation to the chant, and Craike could sense her will battling against that of the
assembly.

The watching Esper gasped. He could not be seeing what his eyes reported to his brain!
The man was down on all fours, his legs and arms stretched, a mist clung to them,
changed to red-brown hide. His head lengthened oddly, horns sprouted. No man, but
an antlered stag stood there.

And the girl—?

Her transformation came more slowly. It began and then faded. The power of the Black
Hoods held her, fastening on her the form they visualized. She fought. But in the
end a white doe sprang down the path to the forest, the stag leaping before her. They
whipped past the bush where Craike had gone to earth, and he was able to see through
the illusion. Not a red stag and a white doe, but a man and woman running for their
lives, yet already knowing in their hearts there was no hope in their flight.

Craike, hardly knowing why he did it or who he could aid, followed, sure that mind
touch would provide him with a guide.

He had reached the murky shadow of the trees when a sound rang from the town. At its
summoning he missed a step before he realized it was directed against those he trailed
and not himself. A hunting horn! So this world also had its hunted and its hunters.
More than ever he determined to aid those who fled.

But it was not enough to just run blindly on the track of stag and doe. He lacked
weapons. And his wits had not sufficed to save him in his own world. But there he
had been conditioned against turning on his hunters, hampered, cruelly designed from
birth to accept the quarry role. That was not true here.

Esper power—Craike licked dry lips. Illusions so well done they had almost enthralled
him. Could illusion undo what illusion had done? Again the call of the horn, ominous
in its clear tone, rang in his ears, set his pulses to pounding. The fear of those
who fled was a cord, drawing him on.

But as he trotted among the trees Craike concentrated on his own illusion. It was
not a white doe he pursued but the slim, young figure he had seen when they stripped
away the clumsy stuff which had cloaked her, before she had shaken loose her hair
veil. No doe, but a woman. She was not racing on four hooved feet, but running free
on two, her hair blowing behind her. No doe, but a maid!

And in that moment, as he constructed that picture clearly, he contacted her in thought.
It was like being dashed by sea-spray, cool, remote, very clean. And, as spray, the
contact vanished in an instant, only to return.

“Who are you?”

“One who follows,” he answered, holding to his picture of the running girl.

“Follow no more, you have done what was needful!” There was a burst of joy, so overwhelming
a release from terror that it halted him. Then the cord between them broke.

Frantically Craike cast about seeking contact. There was only a dead wall. Lost, he
put out a hand to the rough bark of the nearest tree. Wood things lurked here, them
only did his mind touch. What did he do now?

His decision was made for him. He picked up a wave of panic again—spreading terror.
But this was the fear of feathered and furred things. It came to him as ripples might
run on a pool.

Fire! He caught the thought distorted by bird and beast mind. Fire which leaped from
tree crown to tree crown, cutting a gash across the forest. Craike started on, taking
the way west, away from the menace.

Once he called out as a deer flashed by him, only to know in the same moment that
this was no illusion but an animal. Small creatures tunnelled through the grass. A
dog fox trotted, spared him a measuring gaze from slit eyes. Birds whirred, and behind
them was the scent of smoke.

A mountain of flesh, muscle and fur snarled, reared to face him. But Craike had nothing
to fear from any animal. He confronted the great red bear until it whined, shuffled
its feet and plodded on. More and more creatures crossed his path or ran beside him
for a space.

It was their instinct which brought them, and Craike, to a river. Wolves, red deer,
bears, great cats, foxes and all the rest came down to the saving water. A cat spat
at the flood, but leaped in to swim. Craike lingered on the bank.
The smoke was thicker, more animals broke from the wood to take to the water. But
the doe—where was she?

He probed, only to meet that blank. Then a spurt of flame ran up a dead sapling, advance
scout of the furnace. He yelped as a floating cinder stung his skin and took to the
water. But he did not cross, rather did he swim upstream, hoping to pass the flank
of the fire and pick up the missing trail again.

S
MOKE
cleared as Craike trod water. He was beyond the path of the fire, but not out of
danger. For the current against which he had fought his way beat here through an archway
of masonry. Flanking that arch were two squat towers. As an erection it was far more
ambitious than anything he had seen during his brief glimpse of Sampur. Yet, as he
eyed it more closely, he could see it was a ruin. There were gaps in the narrow span
across the river, a green bush sprouted from the summit of the far tower.

Craike came ashore, winning his way up the steep bank by handholds of vine and bush
no alert castellan would have allowed to grow. As he reached a terrace of cobbles
stippled with bunches of coarse grass, a sweetish scent of decay drew him around the
base of the tower to look down at a broad ledge extending into the river. Piled on
it were small baskets and bowls, some so rotted that only outlines were visible. Others
new and all filled with mouldering food stuffs. But those who left such offerings
must have known that the tower was deserted.

Puzzled Craike went back to the building. The stone was undressed, yet the huge blocks
which formed its base were fitted together with such precision that he suspected he
could not force the thin blade of a pocket knife into any crack. There had been no
effort at ornamentation, at any lighting of the impression of sullen, brute force.

Wood, split and insect bored, formed a door. As he put his hand to it Craike discovered
the guardian the long-ago owners of the fortress had left in possession. His hands
went to his head, the blow he felt might have been physical. Out of the stronghold
before him came such a wave of utter terror and dark promise as to force him back.
But no farther than the edge of the paved square about the building’s foundation.

Grimly he faced that challenge, knowing it for stored emotion and not the weapon of
an active will. He had his own defense against such a formless enemy. Breaking a dead
branch from a bush, he twisted about it whisps of the sun-bleached grass until he
had a torch of sorts. A piece of smoldering tinder blown from the fire gave him a
light.

Craike put his shoulder to the powdery remnants of the door, bursting it wide. Light
against dark. What lurked there was nourished by dark, fed upon the night fears of
his species.

A round room, bare except for some crumbling sticks of wood, a series of steps jutting
out from the wall to curl about and vanish above. Craike made no move toward further
exploration, holding up the torch, seeking to see the real, not the threat of this
place.

Those who had built it possessed Esper talents. And they had used that power for twisted
purposes. He read terror and despair trapped here by the castellans’ art, horror,
an abiding fog of what his race considered evil.

Tentatively Craike began to fight. With the torch he brought light and heat into the
dark and cold. Now he struggled to offer peace. Just as he had pictured a girl in
flight in place of the doe, so did he now force upon those invisible clouds of stored
suffering calm and hope. The gray window slits in the stone were uncurtained to the
streaming sunlight.

Those who had set that guardian had not intended it to hold against an Esper. Once
he began the task, Craike found the opposition melting. The terror seeped as if it
sank into the floor wave by wave. He stood in a room which smelt of damp and, more
faintly, of the rotting food piled below its window slits; but now it was only an
empty shell.

Craike was tired, drained by his effort. And he was puzzled. Why had he fought for
this? Of what importance to him was the cleansing of a ruined tower?

Though to stay here had certain advantages. It had been erected to control river traffic.
Though that did not matter for the present, just now he needed food more—

He went back to the rock of offerings, treading a wary path through the disintegrating
stuff. Close to the edge he came upon a clay bowl containing coarsely ground grain
and, beside it, a basket of wilted leaves filled with overripe berries. He ate in
gulps.

Grass made him a matted bed in the tower, and he kindled a fire. As he squatted before
its flames, he sent out a questing thought. A big cat drank from the river. Craike
shuddered away from that contract with blood lust. A night-hunting bird provided a
trace of awareness. There were small rovers and hunters. But nothing human.