Hiero probed the star- and moonlit night, using all the new power of his own mind. The inchoate force continued to approach steadily, and at last, just before dawn, he too was able to pinpoint its direction, the same as that which the bear had found. With the coming of daylight, he guessed what he would see. The familiar “feel” of the enemy, even masked and hidden, was unmistakable.
Quietly, he gave his instructions to the others, not even excluding Klootz.
Luchare stared at him, wide-eyed. “Must we die, beloved? Is there no way out, no other hope?”
“I see none, dearest. They took me alive before, and they will make no mistakes this time. From my brain, from all our living brains, they could force knowledge, a knowledge which would probably ensure their ultimate triumph. The ancient weapons I seek would be an irresistible force in their hands, plus whatever the bear knows and my own new skills in mind-fighting.” He smiled sadly down at the dark, haunting face, ringed by its tight, black curls. “I have two death pills,” he went on. “Here is one. Klootz will not be taken alive.” Gorm, can you die fighting? Will you?
If necessary, was the answer. My Old Ones laid that on me, just as yours did. When you give the word, that is enough. Still, let us wait for the dawn.
Luchare understood him. “A false dawn,” she said bitterly. “And one which means only night and death.”
Hiero mastered his grief for her, so young and lovely, and spoke calmly, concealing what it cost him. “Gorm is right. Let’s not die before our time. Who knows what may happen?”
His arm over her shoulder, they stood on the highest knoll of the islet and waited for the morning light. The two animals waited patiently by their sides, the giant morse “snoofing” loudly at intervals as he tested the dawn breeze. The phosphorescent glow of their enemies’ bodies faded as the east grew pale and the sun rose. Their ring of reed skiffs and slimy, white shapes still covered the water, however, and they gave no sign of moving.
For the last time, the four now heard the awful wail which for them had come to symbolize the city.
“Aaaough, aaaooough, aaaooough,” it rang out, from all about, its source as mysterious as ever. Far over the ruined towers it sounded, seeming to defy the very day itself. At last it fell silent, and the red disc of the sun appeared down one of the distant avenues of far-off buildings.
And those who had hunted the four so long also came with the morning. Out of the opening in the south came the hated black shape of that strange vessel which had caught Hiero. Perhaps, the priest thought, it was another like it, but it made no difference. In that black hull lay their destruction, sure and inescapable.
The pallid Leemutes, their slippery, pale forms gleaming in the morning light, paddled and swam away from the prow of the oncoming ship. A channel formed in their ranks, and the black vessel came slowly through it until, its speed diminishing, it coasted slowly toward the island. The guardian circle of monsters re-formed behind it. And all the other frog creatures followed, drawing in from all sides until they occupied only one, massed in deathly white on the side in which the black vessel lay and a hundred yards beyond it.
Hiero had never ceased sending mental darts at the ship, indeed had continually done so, even before it actually appeared. Now, as it came to a halt only a few hundred feet offshore, he ceased and merely held his own defense ready, waiting on the faint off chance that the Unclean might drop their barrier. He knew well the chance was infinitesimal. He could feel Luchare’s body trembling, but he shot a sideways glance and noted proudly that her high-cheekboned face was impassive.
The adept who stood on the open bridge, surrounded by human aides and several Hairy Howlers, spoke aloud in batwah. He was not S’duna, but again the physical resemblance was uncanny. Yet Hiero was not fooled by the shaven head and the close approximation.
“Priest, we have you fast and your grimy crew as well, including your wench. Are you ready to yield without a struggle?” The voice, like S’nerg’s and S’duna’s, was resonant, ironic, and powerful. Its purpose was to intimidate, to weaken confidence, to inspire fear. It succeeded in none of its purposes. Instead, Hiero laughed.
“Still want my brain, eh, Baldy?” he said. The distance was so close that he hardly needed to raise his voice. With relish, he saw the pale skin of the other redden, while the Howlers started to chatter angrily. Hiero spared a glance at the foredeck. He frankly hoped the lightning gun he saw there would be used on them. The silver amulet which had guarded him before was no longer in place, and that had been a million-to-one chance anyway. It would be a quick end, and they would feel nothing.
But the two hooded men who manned the contrivance were well-disciplined. They simply stood at its controls, waiting for an order from their master.
The adept waved a hand negligently, and the noisy Howlers fell silent. The shining head inclined gracefully toward Hiero, and the priest was surprised.
“You are bold, priest of a forgotten god, courageous too. Qualities the Brotherhood values. We have you in our grip, but we need not close our hand. What if we still offered alliance? I confess it freely, we could indeed use your mind, one of power and indomitable will. S’duna sent me, S’carn, one of scarcely less authority, to reason with you, though why you still cling to the animals, especially that stupid bear, I utterly fail to see.” There was genuine puzzlement in this last.
The Metz hesitated not a second. “You lie, S’carn, and so do all your dirty tribe! S’duna even now fears me, or else he would have come himself, to see my capture or to watch my doom. You have a machine in your ship to keep my mind from slaying all of you. Well, come and try with your weapons! I defy your Unclean crew, your filthy, perverted Brotherhood, and above all, you, shave-pated master of foulness. If you have us fast, come and take us!”
For a second, staring over the calm water at the ship, only a stone’s throw distant, Hiero thought he had succeeded. S’carn’s face became a livid mask of horrid rage, and his hands twitched on the rail of the bridge. But, to Hiero’s intense regret, the adept controlled himself and did not order the instant death the priest sought for himself and his friends. His voice was now low and grating, filled with venom and hatred.
“You seek a speedy death, priest, and when we have you on Manoon, you will pray to your foolish, nonexistent god for it. And it will not come, no, it will not come!” He turned to his swarming followers, who had stood in silent obedience behind him. “Put the ship’s bow on the beach and take them! Take them alive!”
Hiero freed his right arm and raised his crossbow, which had hung from the left, a new-made, bronze-tipped quarrel in its slot, the bow cocked. He drew aim on S’carn, who with his head turned saw nothing of his doom. But he never loosed.
“Peace!” The new voice speaking in batwah was so strong and vibrant that, by comparison, that of the evil adept seemed weak and sickly, With one word, the voice took the whole situation under its control.
Hiero lowered his bow and frankly gaped, amazed at what he saw.
Around a corner of the islet, unseen by anyone, there had come a small wooden canoe. In its stern there sat an aged man, a paddle in his lap, his long, white beard and hair flowing over his plain dress of brown cloth shirt, pants, and soft boots, He seemed quite unarmed, save for a small belt knife. His skin was very dark, as dark as Luchare’s, and his long, snowy-white hair was also just as much a mass of tight curls as hers.