"Ayeeee!" Sheer defiance, not only of the beast he fronted, but of the
Wyverns as well, brought that old rallying cry to his lips--the call
used on the Dumps of Tyr to summon gang aid against outsiders. Fork-tail
had crouched again for a spring, but that throat-crackling blast
appeared to startle it.
Shann, blade ready, took a dancing step to the right. The thing was
scaled, perhaps as well armored against frontal attack as was the
shell-creature he had fought with the aid of the wolverines. He wished
he had the Terran animals now--with Taggi and his mate to tease and
feint about the monster, as they had done with the Throg hound--for he
would have a better chance. If only the animals were here!
Those eyes--red-pitted eyes in a gargoyle head following his every
movement--perhaps those were the only vulnerable points.
Muscles tensed beneath that scaled hide. The Terran readied himself for
a sidewise leap, his knife hand raised to rake at those eyes. A brown
shape with a V of lighter fur banding its back crossed the far range of
Shann's vision. He could not believe what he saw, not even when a
snarling animal, slavering with rage, came at a lumbering gallop to
stand beside him, a second animal on its heels.
Uttering his own battle cry, Taggi attacked. The fork-tail's head swung,
imitating the movements of the wolverine as it had earlier mimicked the
swaying of the disk in the Wyvern's hand. Togi came in from the other
side. They might have been hounds keeping a bull in play. And never had
they shown such perfect team work, almost as if they could sense what
Shann desired of them.
That forked tail lashed viciously, a formidable weapon. Bone, muscles,
scaled flesh, half buried in the sand, swept up a cloud of grit into the
face of the man and the animals. Shann fell back, pawing with his free
hand at his eyes. The wolverines circled warily, trying for the attack
they favored--the spring to the shoulders, the usually fatal assault on
the spine behind the neck. But the armored head of the fork-tail, slung
low, warned them off. Again the tail lashed, and this time Taggi was
caught and hurled across the beach.
Togi uttered a challenge, made a reckless dash, and raked down the
length of the fork-tail's body, fastening on that tail, weighing it to
earth with her own poundage while the sea creature fought to dislodge
her. Shann, his eyes watering from the sand, but able to see, watched
that battle for a long second, judging that fork-tail was completely
engaged in trying to free its best weapon from the grip of the
wolverine. The latter clawed and bit with a fury which suggested Togi
intended to immobilize that weapon by tearing it to shreds.
Fork-tail wrenched its body, striving to reach its tormentor with fangs
or clawed feet. And in that struggle to achieve an impossible position,
its head slued far about, uncovering the unprotected area behind the
skull base which usually lay under the spiny collar about its shoulders.
Shann went in. With one hand he gripped the edge of that collar--its
serrations tearing his flesh--and at the same time he drove his knife
blade deep into the soft underfolds, ripping on toward the spinal
column. The blade nicked against bone as the fork-tail's head slammed
back, catching Shann's hand and knife together in a trap. The Terran was
jerked from his feet, and flung to one side with the force of the
beast's reaction.
Blood spurted up, his own blood mingled with that of the monster. Only
Togi's riding of the tail prevented Shann's being beaten to death. The
armored snout pointed skyward as the creature ground the sharp edge of
its collar down on the Terran's arm. Shann, frantic with pain, drove his
free fist into one of those eyes.
Fork-tail jerked convulsively; its head snapped down again and Shann was
free. The Terran threw himself back, keeping his feet with an effort.
Fork-tail was writhing, churning up the sand in a cloud. But it could
not rid itself of the knife Shann had planted with all his strength, and
which the blows of its own armored collar were now driving deeper and
deeper into its back.
It howled thinly, with an abnormal shrilling. Shann, nursing his
bleeding forearm against his chest, rolled free from the waves of sand
it threw about, bringing up against one of the rock pillars. With that
to steady him, he somehow found his feet, and stood weaving, trying to
see through the rain of dust.
The convulsions which churned up that concealing cloud were growing more
feeble. Then Shann heard the triumphant squall from Togi, saw her brown
body still on the torn tail just above the forking. The wolverine used
her claws to hitch her way up the spine of the sea monster, heading for
the mountain of blood spouting from behind the head. Fork-tail fought to
raise that head once more; then the massive jaw thudded into the sand,
teeth snapping fruitlessly as a flood of grit overrode the tongue,
packed into the gaping mouth.
How long had it taken--that frenzy of battle on the bloodstained beach?
Shann could have set no limit in clock-ruled time. He pressed his
wounded arm tighter to him, lurched past the still twitching sea thing
to that splotch of brown fur on the sand, shaping the wolverine's
whistle with dry lips. Togi was still busy with the kill, but Taggi lay
where that murderous tail had thrown him.
Shann fell on his knees, as the beach around him developed a curious
tendency to sway. He put his good hand to the ruffled back fur of the
motionless wolverine.
"Taggi!"
A slight quiver answered. Shann tried awkwardly to raise the animal's
head with his own hand. As far as he could see, there were no open
wounds; but there might be broken bones, internal injuries he did not
have the skill to heal.
"Taggi?" He called again gently, striving to bring that heavy head up on
his knee.
"The furred one is not dead."
For a moment Shann was not aware that those words had formed in his
mind, had not been heard by his ears. He looked up, eyes blazing at the
Wyvern coming toward him in a graceful glide across the crimsoned sand.
And in a space of heartbeats his thrust of anger cooled into a stubborn
enmity.
"No thanks to you," he said deliberately aloud. If the Wyvern witch
wanted to understand him, let her make the effort; he did not try to
touch her thoughts with his.
Taggi stirred again, and Shann glanced down quickly. The wolverine
gasped, opened his eyes, shook his miniature bear head, scattering
pellets of sand. He sniffed at a dollop of blood, the dark, alien blood,
spattered on Shann's breeches, and then his head came up with a
reassuring alertness as he looked to where his mate was still worrying
the now quiet fork-tail.
With an effort, Taggi got to his feet, Shann aiding him. The man ran his
hand down over ribs, seeking any broken bones. Taggi growled a warning
once when that examination brought pain in its wake, but Shann could
detect no real damage. As might a cat, the wolverine must have met the
shock of that whip-tail stroke relaxed enough to escape serious injury.
Taggi had been knocked out, but now he was able to navigate again. He
pulled free from Shann's grip, lumbering across the sand to the kill.
Someone else was crossing that strip of beach. Passing the Wyvern as if
he did not see them, Thorvald came directly to Shann. A few seconds
later he had the torn arm stretched across his own bent knee, examining
the still bleeding hurt.
"That's a nasty one," he commented.
Shann heard the words and they made sense, but the instability of his
surroundings was increasing, while Thorvald's handling sent sharp stabs
of pain up his arm and somehow into his head, where they ended in red
bursts to cloud his sight.
Out of the reddish mist which had fogged most of the landscape there
emerged a single object, a round white disk. And in Shann's clouded mind
a well-rooted apprehension stirred. He struck out with his one hand, and
through luck connected. The disk flew out of sight. His vision cleared
enough so he could sight the Wyvern who had been leaning over Thorvald's
shoulder centering her weird weapon on him. Making a great effort, Shann
got out the words, words which he also shaped in his mind as he said
them aloud: "You're not taking me over--again!"
There was no emotion to be read on that jewel-banded face or in her
unblinking eyes. He caught at Thorvald, determined to get across his
warning.
"Don't let them use those disks on us!"
"I'll do my best."
Only the haze had taken Thorvald again. Did one of the Wyverns have a
disk focused on them? Were they being pulled into one of those blank
periods, to awaken as prisoners once more--say, in the cavern of the
veil? The Terran fought with every ounce of will power to escape
unconsciousness, but he failed.
This time he did not awaken half-drowning in an underground stream or
facing a green mist. And there was an ache in his arm which was somehow
reassuring with the very insistence of pain. Before opening his eyes,
his fingers crossed the smooth slick of a bandage there, went on to
investigate by touch a sleep mat such as he had found in the cavern
structure. Was he back in that web of rooms and corridors?
Shann delayed opening his eyes until a kind of shame drove him to it. He
first saw an oval opening almost the length of his body as it was
stretched only a foot or two below the sill of that window. And through
its transparent surface came the golden light of the sun--no green mist,
no crystals mocking the stars.
The room in which he lay was small with smooth walls, much like that in
which he had been imprisoned on the island. And there were no other
furnishings save the mat on which he rested. Over him was a light cover
netted of fibers resembling yarn, with feathers knotted into it to
provide a downy upper surface. His clothing was gone, but the single
covering was too warm and he pushed it away from his shoulders and chest
as he wriggled up to see the view beyond the window.
His torn arm came into full view. From wrist to elbow it was encased in
an opaque skin sheath, unlike any bandage of his own world. Surely that
had not come out of any Survey aid pack. Shann gazed toward the window,
but beyond lay only a reach of sky. Except for a lemon cloud or two
ruffled high above the horizon, nothing broke that soft amber curtain.
He might be quartered in a tower well above ground level, which did not
match his former experience with Wyvern accommodations.
"Back with us again?" Thorvald, one hand lifting a door panel, came in.
His ragged uniform was gone, and he wore only breeches of a sleek green
material and his own scuffed-and-battered boots.