Andre Norton - Web of the Witch World

“Do you now sail on?”

He studied her. “This may be only the first of their defenses and the least. But after what I have seen—aye—for now we sail on.”

“If there is trouble—call—”

Now there was a smile about his lips. “Be very sure of that, lady. A man does not hesitate to use a good weapon when it lies to hand. And we still have several skins of oil below.”

He left and she pillowed her head with a sigh of half content, too tired now to examine this new knowledge, to taste it, feel it warm about her like a cloak against the chill of a winter storm. She thought that her tie with Simon had been her new skill, but it would seem there was another—and there could be more to discover. Jaelithe stretched her aching body and fell asleep, smiling.

SIMON STOOD at the seaward window of his prison cell. Along the horizon now there was no night such as hung over the rock perch of the Kolder fortress, but a curtain of living fire reaching from the sea to heaven, as if the very substance of the ocean unnaturally fed that flame. Every nerve and muscle in him wanted action. Behind that wall of fire somewhere—Jaelithe! But there was no tie between them. He had only her last message, which was in part a cry for help. This was some Kolder trick. No wooden-walled Sulcar ship could dare push through that barrier.

Yet, there was a stir along the cliffs below, a buzz of activity at the seashore where those who served Kolder stood to watch the distant flames. And once Simon was sure that he had seen a true Kolder there, gray smock, capped head, as if what was happening out at sea had so much import that one of the masters must see for himself and not depend upon reports from inferiors.

There had been activity on the land side, too. More of the caterpillar vehicles crawled out into the wilderness of the tortured rock, now with broad beams of light fanning out before them to mark the safest path across the rough terrain. And Simon was sure that he could make out a haze of more light beyond, rising from behind the mesa some miles away.

The Kolder were in haste. But there could be no armada of Estcarp yet at sea. At least no fleet near enough to threaten this keep. And the fire would hold any off a while. So, why all this set up? No one had approached him since he had been sent here. He could only watch and guess. But only one answer fitted for Simon. The Kolder were under pressure—and time supplied that pressure. Whatever they did which was so important lay in the interior. And that could be their gate! Did they contemplate a return to their own world? No—the Kolder wanted power in this one, and they proposed to gain that by the aid of superior arms, though their numbers must be very few. So, did they wish to recruit from beyond that gate—or bring out new weapons?

But they had been driven out of their own world. Would they dare venture back? More likely they strove to bring out more of their own kind.

He bent his head to rest his forehead against the cool wall and tried again, vainly, to reach Jaelithe. The need for knowing how she fared was as great as his desire for action. But—Kolder blankness there . . .

Loyse! Where in this pile was Loyse? As he had not had any touch with the girl since he had been here he did not know. Now Simon fixed his mind on Loyse, called her.

“Here—“

Very faint, wavering, but still an answer. Simon concentrated until that effort became pain. Their contact had never been clear, it was like trying to clasp in his hands an elusive fog which weaved and ebbed, slipped between his fingers.

“What chances with you?”

“. . . room . . . rocks . . .” Contact faded, renewed, faded again.

“Jaelithe?” He asked without much hope.

“She comes!” Much stronger, carrying conviction.

Simon was startled. How did Loyse know that? Tentatively he tried again to reach Jaelithe; the barrier held. But Loyse had seemed so sure.

“How do you know?” He made a sharp demand of that.

“Aldis knows—”

Aldis! What part did the Kolder agent play in this? And how? A trap being set? Simon asked that.

“Yes!” Clear again, and forceful.

“The bait?”

“You, me . . .” Again an ebb and when Simon tried to pursue that farther, no answer at all.

Simon turned away from the window to look about the room. He had investigated its possibilities when he had been sent here. There was no change. But still he must do something—or go mad! Somewhere there had to be a way out of this room, a way to stop the Kolder trap.

The cupboards which had remained obstinately shut to his earlier search—Simon set himself to the task of remembering all he had learned concerning the Kolder headquarters in the heart of Sippar. He had found living quarters there also, hidden out in them after he had escaped the horrors of that laboratory where the possessed were fashioned from living but unconscious men. And there also had been cupboards and drawers which defied his opening.

But there had been one mechanical device within the fortress which the Estcarpian invaders had learned to use, first in awe, and then as matter-of-course: the elevator which ran on the power of thought direction. One designated the floor mentally and arrived there promptly. An engine may have supplied the power, mind supplied the directive. In fact, had not mental control existed throughout Sippar? That Kolder leader with the metal cap wired to the installations, whose death had meant the death of the hold in turn—he had been thinking life into the otherworld machines. So mind ran the Kolder installations.

And in Estcarp the witches’ power was really mental; they could control the forces of nature by thought—without the intermediary of the machines the Kolder depended upon. Which meant that witch power might be the stronger of the two!

Simon’s hands balled into fists. He could not face the Kolder with hands, he had no weapons, which left him only his mind. But he had never tried to fight in that fashion. Jaelithe said—even the Guardians had conceded—that he had strength in that way which no male of this world had ever displayed. But it was a pallid thing compared to the energy which the witches were able to foster, trim, turn, use—And he had had no training in its use, save that which conditions had forced upon him these past few months.

Simon looked from his useless hands to the cabinets in the wall. He might be battering his mind and will uselessly against an unbreakable barrier, but he had to do something!

So—he willed. He willed a door to open. If there was some mechanism within which would answer to thought, then he willed it to yield to him. He visualized a lock such as might exist in his own world, then he went through the steps of unlatching. Perhaps the alien mechanism was so unlike what he thought of that his efforts would have no effect. But Simon fought on, until he swayed dizzily on his feet, stumbled to the bunk and sat there. But never did he take his eyes from that door, from the movements of the lock which must answer his will!

He was trembling with effort when the panel moved and he looked into the interior of the cupboard. For a moment he sat where he was, hardly able to believe in his success. Then he went forward on his knees, ran his hands about the door frame. This was no self-deceiving hallucination—he had done it!

What lay inside could not provide him with either the means of escape or a weapon. A pile of small boxes, which when opened held narrow metal strips coiled into tight rolls, series of indentations along their surfaces making Simon believe them records of sorts. But it was the method of lock he wanted most to see. Lying on his back, putting his head into that cubby, using fingers to help his eyes, Simon gained some idea of the mechanism.