Poul Anderson: The Day of Their Return

“Aycharaych, though—Telepathy of several kinds belongs to evolution on his planet. Do you remember the slinkers that the tinerans keep? I inquired, and he admitted they came originally from Chereion. No doubt their effect on men suggested his plan to him.

“He called Jaan down to where he laired in these labyrinths. He drugged him and … thought at him … in some way he knows, using that machine—until he had imprinted a set of false memories and an idiom to go with them. Then he released his victim.”

“Artificial schizophrenia. Split personality. A man who was sane, made to hear ‘voices.’ ” Ivar shuddered.

Erannath was harder-souled; or had he simply lived with the fact longer, in his prison? He went on: “Aycharaych departed, having other mischief to wreak. What he had done on Aeneas might or might not bear fruit; if not, he had lost nothing except his time.

“He returned lately, and found success indeed. Jaan was winning converts throughout the Orcan country. Rumors of the new message were spreading across a whole globe of natural apostles, always eager for anything that might nourish faith, and now starved for a word of hope.

“Events must be guided with craft and patience, of course, or the movement would most likely come to naught, produce not a revolution followed by a crusade, but merely another sect. Aycharaych settled down to watch, to plot, ever oftener to plant in Jaan, through his thought projector, a revelation from Caruith—”

The Ythrian chopped off. He hissed. His free hand raked the air. Ivar whirled on his heel, sprang to stand crouched.

The figure in the doorway, limned against unending night, smiled. He was more than half humanlike, tall and slender in a gray robe; but his bare feet ended in claws. The skin glowed golden, the crest on the otherwise naked head rose blue, the eyes were warm bronze. His face was ax-thin, superbly molded. In one delicate hand he aimed a blaster.

“Greeting,” he almost sang.

“You woke and sensed,” grated from Erannath.

“No,” said Aycharaych. “My dreams always listen. Afterward, however, yes, I waited out your conversation.”

“Now what?” asked Ivar from the middle of nightmare.

“Why, that depends on you, Firstling,” Aycharaych replied with unchanged gentleness. “May I in complete sincerity bid you welcome?”

“You—workin’ for Merseia—”

The energy gun never wavered; yet the words flowed serene: “True. Do you object? Your desire is freedom. The Roidhunate’s desire is that you should have it. This is the way.”

“T-t-treachery, murder, torture, invadin’ and twistin’ men’s bein’s—”

“Existence always begets regrettable necessities. Be not overly proud, Firstling. You are prepared to launch a revolutionary war if you can, wherein millions would perish, millions more be mutilated, starved, hounded, brought to sorrow. Are you not? I do no more than help you. Is that horrible? What happiness has Jaan lost that has not already been repaid him a thousandfold?”

“How about Erannath?”

“Heed him not,” croaked Ythrian to human. “Think why Merseia wants the Empire convulsed and shattered. Not for the liberty of Aeneans. No, to devour us piecemeal.”

“One would expect Erannath to talk thus.” Aycharaych’s tone bore the least hint of mirth. “After all, he serves the Empire.”

“What?” Ivar lurched where he stood. “Him? No!”

“Who else can logically have betrayed you, up on the river, once he felt certain of who you are?”

“He came along—”

“He had no means of preventing your escape, as it happened. Therefore his duty was to accompany you, in hopes of sending another message later, and meanwhile gather further information about native resistance movements. It was the same basic reason as, caused him earlier to help you get away from the village, before he had more than a suspicion of your identity.

“I knew his purpose—I have not perpetually lurked underground, I have moved to and fro in the world—and gave Jaan orders, who passed them on to Yakow.” Aycharaych sighed. “It was distasteful to all concerned. But my own duty has been to extract what I can from him.”

“Erannath,” Ivar begged, “it isn’t true!”

The Ythrian lifted his head and said haughtily, “Truth you must find in yourself, Ivar Frederiksen. What do you mean to do: become another creature of Aycharaych’s, or strike for the life of your people?”

“Have you a choice?” the Chereionite murmured. “I wish you no ill. Nevertheless, I too am at war and cannot stop to weigh out single lives. You will join us, fully and freely, or you will die.”

How can I tell what I want? Through dread and anguish, Ivar felt the roan eyes upon him. Behind them must be focused that intellect, watching, searching, reading. He’ll know what I’m about to do before I know myself. His knife clattered to the floor. Why not yield? It may well be right—for Aeneas—no matter what Erannath says. And elsewise—

Everything exploded. The Ythrian seized the knife. Balanced on one huge wing, he swept the other across Ivar, knocking the human back behind the shelter of it.

Aycharaych must not have been heeding what went on in the hunter’s head. Now he shot. The beam flared and seared. Ivar saw blinding blueness, smelled ozone and scorched flesh. He bent away from death.

Erannath surged forward. Behind him remained his chained hand. He had hacked it off at the wrist.

A second blaster bolt tore him asunder. His uncrippled wing smote. Cast back against the wall, Aycharaych sank stunned. The gun fell from him.

Ivar pounced to grab the weapon. Erannath stirred. Blood pumped from among blackened plumes. An eye was gone. Breath whistled and rattled.

Ivar dropped on his knees, to cradle his friend. The eye that remained sought for him. “Thus God … tracks me down … I would it had been under heaven,” Erannath coughed. “Eyan haa wharr, Hlirr talya—” The light in the eye went out.

A movement caught Ivar’s glance. He snatched after the gun. Aycharaych had recovered, was bound through the doorway.

For a heartbeat Ivar was about to yell, Stop, we’re allies! That stayed his hand long enough for Aycharaych to vanish. Then Ivar knew what the Chereionite had seen: that no alliance could ever be.

I’ve got to get out, or Erannath—everybody—has gone for naught. Ivar leaped to his feet and ran. Blood left a track behind him.

He noticed with vague surprise that at some instant he had recovered his flash. Its beam scythed. Can’t grieve yet. Can’t be afraid. Can’t do anything but run and think.

Is Aycharaych ahead of me? He’s left prints in both directions. No, I’m sure he’s not. He realizes I’ll head back aboveground; and I, whose forebears came from heavier world than his, would overhaul him. So he’s makin’ for his lair. Does it have line to outside? Probably not. And even if it does, would he call? That’d give his whole game away. No, he’ll have to follow after me, use his hell-machine to plant “intuition” in Jaan’s mind—

The room of revelations appeared. Ivar halted and spent a minute playing flame across the thing within. He couldn’t tell if he had disabled it or not, but he dared hope.

Onward. Out the door. Down the mountainside, through the sharp dust, athwart the wind which Erannath had died without feeling. To the aircar. Aloft.

The storm yelled and smote.

He burst above, into splendor. Below him rolled the blown dry clouds, full of silver and living shadow beneath Lavinia and hasty Creusa. Stars blazed uncountable. Ahead reared the heights of Ilion; down them glowed and thundered the Linn.

This world is ours. No stranger will shape its tomorrows.