Authors: Marion Z. Bradley
Eduin and Rannan were engaged nearby-he heard then: swords clashing and
battering behind him. He felt his arm snap forward in a feint-he knew it was a
feint because his feet did not move. The curved claw-sword whistled down; Dom
Esteban's sword dropped out of its path, whirling back and up, and came down
between the tufted ears.
He jerked his sword from the bloody skull with an expert tug and ran to where
Rannan, his shirt ripped and wet with blood, was falling back before one of the
whirling blades. His own blade whirled and danced, raining cut after cut at the
creature's head. He jumped back from a great whistling stroke that could have
sliced him in half at the waist, felt the blade coming around in an enormous
circling cut that he thought was another head cut, until he felt his wrist drop
and the long, thin blade sliced through the cat-creature's knee. His arm jerked
again and as the squalling creature fell forward the point jabbed into its
throat. Eduin and Rannan were standing over the lifeless body of the last of the
guards and again, for an instant, Damon felt that same strange baseless surge of
Dom Esteban's anger.
Damon shook his head. He felt oddly dizzy, as if he were drunk. What was he
doing? He opened his eyes and sheathed his sword, aware as he did so of aching
muscles at the base of his thumb and in his wrist: muscles he'd never known he
had. Swaying a little, he turned his back on the grisly heaps of bloody fur
lying on the ground, and tottered toward the cave-mouth, motioning to Eduin and
Rannan to follow. As he ran, he saw a strange man's form before him, clad in
thin, gray unfamiliar clothing. It was a moment before he recognized Andrew
Carr. and as the realization of who it was came into Damon's mind, Andrew was
back in his own mind again, standing a few feet away from Damon and motioning
him forward.
It seemed a little strange to Andrew to be able to see Damon when Damon was not
in the overworld, but after all, he, "down there," had seen Callista. He stepped
ahead of him into the entrance of the cave. It was a great dark chamber, and for
a moment, even in the overlight, it was hard to see. Damon was through the
doorway now and was motioning, impatiently, for his swordsmen to follow; they
seemed to be pressing against some barrier invisible to Andrew-and evidently
invisible to Damon, too.
For a moment the Darkovan looked puzzled, then-and neither then nor later did
Andrew know whether Damon spoke aloud or whether he heard him thinking-Damon
said, "Oh, of course. There's a first-level barrier across the entrance, which
means no one can get in and out unless either he's carrying a matrix, or the
operator lets him in or out." Of course. It was just what the Great Cat would
do. But it might mean an extra vulnerability. He couldn't be everywhere at once,
even with a matrix. But if they were lucky, he might not know that yet.
Slowly, Damon moved through the huge vaulted chamber which was the entrance to
the caves. Somewhere at the back he heard water dripping, and his eyes saw only
the little bit of daylight admitted from the cave-mouth, which faded as he went
farther. The cold terror of the dark was on him, and he hesitated, remembering,
When I came here as a boy, there were torches, there were lights mounted by
which we could see the walls and the pathways. Then he saw, seemingly emerging
from the very wall itself, the spectral figure of Andrew. The Earthman's figure
seemed to glow with faint blue light, and between his hands he bore what looked
like a great sparkling blue torch. The matrix, of course. Will it alert that
cat-thing? If I must go into the overworld, to find my way, will he see my
starstone?
Now he seemed to hear a droning, humming sound, like some gigantic hive of bees.
Out of the dim chambers of memory, he recognized it now: a powerful, unshielded
matrix. A cold spasm of fear squeezed his heart in an iron band that was almost
physical pain. That cat-thing must be mad! Mad or more powerful than any man or
any Keeper! It would take a Circle of at least four minds to handle a
matrix-screen that size!
They never came that way in nature. They had made them artificially, in the
heyday of starstone technology. Had he found this one, a freak, or could he have
made it? How in Zandru's nine hells does he handle the thing? I wouldn't touch
it for my life! Damon thought.
Again he saw Andrew's figure, beckoning dimly in the bluish glow. By the light
of his starstone, he saw massive crystalline pillars, great stony spikes that
jutted from floor to ceiling or down from ceiling to floor. Everywhere was the
dark dampness and the sound of falling water, and the terrifying drone of the
matrix. Damon thought he could find his way down to it by sound alone. But that
would come later. Right now he had to find Callista and get her out of here
before the cat-thing knew he was here and sent one of his henchmen to cut her
throat.
At the back of the chamber two passages ran back into darkness and dim far-off
glimmers. He paused a moment, irresolute, before seeing, far down the left hand
passage, the form of Andrew Carr. He followed the dim spectral figure, and after
stumbling twice on the rocky floor-of course, Andrew in the overworld couldn't
stub his toes- he focused on his own starstone, warm and heavy and naked against
his throat, to focus a ball of witchlight in front of him. It was hard and
sluggish and Damon suspected that its power was being damped by proximity to the
enormous one nearby, but he did manage to focus enough power to make a little
light. Damn good thing too. How could I fight my way through, in case I have to,
and hold a torch in my other hand?
Andrew's figure had vanished again, going far ahead. Yes, that was right. He
should find Callista. Tell her help's on the way, Damon reasoned.
In the shadow beyond the faint witchlight something moved, and a voice spoke in
the mewing speech of the cat-men. The voice changed to a sudden snarl. Damon saw
one of the curved blades flash outside the circle of light. The droning in his
head was maddening, painful. He drew out his sword, raised it, but it seemed a
dead, awkward weight in his hand. Dom Esteban . he reached frantically for that
contact, but there was nothing, only that droning, blurring sound, that pain.
The curved blade came whistling down. Somehow he got the inert metal thing in
his hand aloft, into the path of the cut, a barrier of steel. Fear choked him as
he forced his weary body into stance, parrying automatically, not daring to
expose himself to attack. He was alone, fighting with only his own meager skill!
The barrier at the cave-mouth! Dom Esteban couldn't reach him through it! And he
thought, I'm dead!
In a split second he remembered years of tedious lessons-always the worst
swordsman in his age-group, the clumsy boy, the one never meant for the arts of
war. The coward. Feeling sluggish with terror, feeling as if his sword dragged
through thick syrup, he parried the skilled, circling strokes. He was doomed. He
could not defend himself adequately against men fighting in the style to which
he was trained. How then could he stand against these masters of a wholly alien
technique? He backed away frantically, seeing out of the corner of his eye that
a second guard was running to join the first, and in a moment he would face two
of them-if he lived that long. He saw the terrible scythe-blade spinning in a
blow he could never have caught, even though he knew how Esteban would have
blocked it.
The blade came up in the deft block he had pictured, and, with a wild thrill of
relief he saw the weakness in the cat-man's position, and at the same instant
drove his sword into it. The second guard ran up just as Damon, gasping, pulled
his sword free. He turned to face it, knowing perfectly well how Esteban would
attack this one, and as the thought formed in his mind his arm jabbed out, back;
the claw-sword whirred down in that circling guard they all seemed to use; Damon
launched himself in a long lunge, piercing the furred throat even as the
sickle-sword reversed, striking his blade weakly in a feeble attempt to guard.
He whipped the sword free, and the third cat-guard stopped crouching warily, and
began to back away across the cave floor, its down-curved blade poised beside
its head, ready to sweep down in that strange, spinning defense. Damon stepped
toward it, warily, and waited.
Seconds crawled by, and his body did nothing he didn't tell it to. He focused on
the link. nothing. Only the pulsing, throbbing overload from the giant matrix,
somewhere down deep in the cave, out of sight, almost out of knowledge, but
there, present, dreadful. Dom Esteban could not reach him here. Had not reached
him here. Damon nearly dropped his sword as realization shocked him. He had not
been in touch with Esteban at all, yet he had killed two of the cat-men.
And he would kill a third. Now.
Why not? He had always understood all the tricks, he had been taught by master
swordsmen, even though the practice eluded him. perhaps that was the problem. He
had thought about life more than he had lived it, always his body and his mind
had been separated; perhaps the contact with Esteban had taught his nerves and
muscles directly how to react.
The cat-man snarled and launched itself at him, and he hurled himself down,
sword extended before him, catching himself with his other hand on the floor.
The claw-sword hissed above his head, a clean miss, and something wet and sticky
gushed over his arm. He pulled his own sword free with a sharp tug and raised
himself. Now which way to Callista? Quickly, before the Great Cat finds.
He looked around for Andrew, and saw him, a split second flash at the far end of
the passage, and then Andrew was gone.
Andrew, wrapped up, sharing the battle with Damon, suddenly heard something like
a cry, and in a flash he saw Callista. It seemed that she was lying on the floor
at his feet-and he realized abruptly that he had moved far down, into a deeper
level of the caves, where the walls glowed faintly with pale greenish
phosphoresence. Callista was lying in the darkness, but as she opened terrified
eyes, Andrew saw, sneaking toward her and only a dim shadowy form in the
darkness, the form of one of the cat-creatures. Callista scrambled to her feet
and backed away, helplessly defending herself with her outthrust arms. The
cat-thing had a curved dagger in its paws, and Andrew ran toward it helplessly,
struggling.
I need my body, I cannot defend her from the overworld. For an instant he
wavered between the cave where Callista blindly fled from the cat-man's knife,
between the upper room at Armida where his body lay guarded by Ellemir, back and
forth, struggling, torn. I cannot go back, I must stay, with Callista. Then
there was a blue flash and a painful, dazzling electrical shock, and Andrew felt
himself drop hard on his feet in the cave, in pitch-dark except for the glow of
fungus, his ankle twisting as he came down.
He yelled a warning, ran blindly toward the cat-thing. (How did I get here? How?
Am I really here at all?) He stumbled, his toes agonizingly banged on loose
rock. He scooped up the rock; the cat-man whirled, snarling, but Andrew raised
the rock and brought it down hard against the thing's temple. It fell heavily,
with an ear-splitting yowl, twitched feebly, and lay still. The force of the
blow had spilled its brains all over the floor; Andrew found himself slipping in
them and almost falling.
He said, idiotically, "I guess that settles that, I really am here." Then he ran
toward Callista, who was crouched against the wall, staring up at him in wonder
and terror.
"Darling," he cried out. "Callista-darling-are you all right? Have they hurt
you?" He caught her in his arms, and she fell heavily against him. She was solid
and real and warm in his arms, and he held her hard, feeling her whole body
shake with deep, terrifying sobs.
"Andrew-Andrew-it's really you," she repeated.
He pressed his mouth to her wet cheek and repeated again, "It's me, and you're
safe now, beloved. We'll have you out of here in a few minutes-can you walk?"
"I can walk," she said, recovering a little of her composure. "I don't know my
way out, but I have heard there are ropes along the walls; we can feel our way
along and come at last to the entrance. If you will give me the starstone, I can
make a light," she said, remembering it at last, and Andrew gently took it out
and handed it to her. She cupped it almost tenderly between her palms. In the
pale blue light of the stone, paler than the overworld light but still enough to
show him quite clearly in its radiance, her lovely delicate features were
contorted with fear.
"Damon," she whispered. "Oh, no-Andrew! Andrew, help me-" and in a single moment
her fingers reached out for his hand and her thoughts were linked with his as
they had been before.
Then, with another of those harsh, painful electric shocks, he was standing on
the floor of a great, partially lighted cave chamber, at the far end of which
glowed, with a painful radiance, a jewel like the starstone-but a huge one,
glowing and sparkling like an arclight, hurting his eyes. Damon, looking very
small, was striding toward it, and then Andrew's mind flowed into Damon's again,
and he saw, through Damon's eyes, the crouching figure kneeling behind the great
stone. Its paws were blackened, and its whiskers scorched away, and huge patches
of fur had been singed from its hide. Damon raised his blade-
And found himself in the overworld, while before him, towering in majesty and
menace, the Great Cat, taller than a tree, glared down at him, with great red
eyes like giant coals, and snarled, a great space-filling roar. It raised one
paw and Damon flinched, feeling how the stroke of that paw would fling him aside
like a feeble mouse.
At that moment Callista cried out, and two giant dogs-one huge and
bull-throated, the other slender and whippet-quick-with great gleaming fangs,
leaped at the cat-thing's throat and began worrying it, snarling. Andrew and
Callista! Without stopping to think, Damon dropped back into his body and ran
forward, whipping up his sword. He lunged down on the prone, crouching
cat-creature, feeling the droning rise to a scream, to wild snarling howls, to
confused yelps and spitting hisses that filled all space. The sword wobbled as
Damon, holding it steady with all his might, his hands scorching and seared, ran
Dom Esteban's sword through the body of the cat-thing.