Norton, Andre - Brother To Shadows

Her eyes opened and focused on him. There was the faintest trace of a frown troubling the mask of her face.

"Draw—" He spoke that single word as an order.

The flow was continuing, not as heavy as it had been before, but steady. Then her hand jerked away from the Jat, breaking the chain.

"Who—what are you?" She demanded that sharply, straightening her shoulders, pulling herself away from the rock support.

"Issha feeds issha when there is need," he returned, drawing his hand away from his girdle. Why would he not share the secret of his find with her? He could not tell except there seemed to be a guard on his tongue, a shutter in his mind when he thought of it.

"It is well." Once more she showed him the mask. "It seems I am too far, too long from the Lair." He thought he could detect a measure of resentment in her speech and she was using the language of the Lair which had many inflections and subtle shadings. Yes, she could well resent the fact that she had displayed signs of fatigue.

"It is always well to give." He used the formal speech of an instructor. "Is it not written so in the Laws of Kak?"

What answer she might have made to that he was not to know, for Zurzal roused from the studying of his flimsy map and there was the clatter of feet on gravel as their mounts headed back upstream in their direction.

Remounted, their leader swung them on along the stream for a space and then there was a scramble up a slope and for the first time the dim marks of a true trail—which turned and twisted up into the heights beyond. This was far harder riding than even the gully wandering had been and the holds they must keep on the horns of their mounts in order not to slip from their seats crooked their fingers with aching cramps. Jofre concentrated on looking only at those horns and making sure that his hold was the best he could grip. To look out into the empty air, down, or even at the length of the slope ahead was disheartening.

They hit at last what seemed to be a pass and on either side the rock walls towered. There was a searching wind, as chill as the tundra plain had been hot. Yet there was life of a sort clinging here, for both walls were festooned with weblike binding and Jofre, daring for the moment to look beyond his hands, saw a shaking of those lines. Climbing down was a ball-like body, hardly to be distinguished from the rocks in color, legs as thin and apparently as supple as the webbing sprouting from under the round of its body.

Jofre caught the sudden action of the Skrem bestriding the lead mount. Both he and I'On, seated behind, made throwing gestures. The ball thing gave a convulsive leap which left it dangling from the webbing by only two of its legs, the rest jerking frenziedly in the air. Protruding from the round back Jofre sighted two small shafts. Then the ball lost its last hold, fell squashily and was sent farther on by a kick from his own mount which nearly unseated him.

There appeared to be no further danger as they won through the pass to the northern end. There their line of mounts halted, only those bearing riders gathering closer to the downward grade as if they consciously wished those they carried to see what lay ahead.

What did was such a frozen convulsion of nature that Jofre, though he had somewhat been prepared for such a sight by the tapes, thought could hardly exist on any world.

They called this the Shattered Land and they were very right in that description. It was all sharp ridges of rock, looking knife-sharp from above, with dark drops between. As if one of the Storm Gods of the old days had taken a sword half as wide as the sky and deliberately cut and recut the earth, turning soil where that weapon touched into the traps of blade-edged lava.

How could any man find a way through such a country? The expedition which had come to grief here had been borne by flitter—though Jofre wondered about the downdrafts and wind changes over such a territory. But on foot? This was one of those impossible tasks given to the Older Heroes in order for them to achieve immortality. One could perhaps achieve a measure of that, to be sure, in another way, by simply dying here, Jofre thought.

The mount bearing 1'On as one rider had edged up beside the Zacathan.

"Here is the country you seek, stranger. Now what do you seek in it?"

Zurzal was busy with one of the belongings taken from his belt, a small oval into which he now most carefully inserted a pellet. He held it out towards that riven world.

A moment later, to be heard even above the strange echoing cries of the wind through those broken vales below, came a small sharp sound. The Zacathan turned his hand slowly, with infinite care, and the signal strengthened.

"What we seek lies there." He pointed to the north.

Though they could not see the Skrem's eyes, Jofre thought that the alien might be staring at Zurzal's instrument with surprise. He chittered and was answered by his fellow rider. Then he turned to Zurzal with another question.

"How far?"

"That we must learn for ourselves," the Zacathan replied, "but the signal is strong. We cannot be too far."

One of the Deves joined them now, having dismounted. The wind whipped his cloak about, fluttering his head comb.

"No one enters this." He spoke the trade tongue but so heavily accented that it was difficult to understand.

The Skrem shifted around on his mount. It seemed that the heavy head covering kept him from turning his head easily.

He chittered and Zurzal's com picked up his speech even though that was not directed to the off-worlders.

"The Skrem ride where they will. We would see what this one seeks. If it is of value—so shall it be valued."

And without another word the rider seated before 1'On pressed down on the horns of his beast and the creature took the first step down the line of broken ledges leading into the Shattered Land.

WHAT MIGHT BE THE NATURE OF ZURZAL'S GUIDE Jofre could not guess but certainly the attitude of the Zacathan would lead anyone to believe that he trusted in it implicitly. The guard thought back to that meeting with the dying man on Asborgan. Had what he had passed to Zurzal then come to lead them now?

However, this was no country into which to venture as that night was drawing in. The broken, knife-edged lava remains formed a constant threat. From what Jofre could see bubbles must have formed in the molten rock, to burst, leaving jagged teeth to threaten any unwary step.

Apparently the Skrem were well aware of this danger. Once they had reached the end of the downslope, they clustered on a semilevel space, making no move to enter the broken maze even though the signal Zurzal carried sent forth its constant assertion that what was to be sought did lie ahead.

It was a cramped and uncomfortable camp they set up. The rugged lava flow provided some small shelter and once again the party separated naturally into three. While the off-worlders worked at getting their gear free from the baggage beasts they were left alone, each animal as it was unloaded moving away to join its fellows. The Skrem hunkered down without looking to their mounts, gathering in a knot about a spot of fire the Zacathan could have covered with his two hands.

Between the Skrem and the off-worlders the two Deves found a resting place. They made no move toward any fire, only bundled their robes more tightly about them, and Jofre noted that they drew hoods from the folds of those robes over their heads as they settled back-to-back, one facing the Skrem gathering, one Zurzal's party, as if they fully intended to keep full watch on all those they companied with.

Zurzal himself moved around restlessly for a space, the instrument in his hand not only clicking in a broken rhythm as he turned this way and that, but giving forth a glow which grew the brighter as the daylight failed.