Having been cuffed and battered into submission more quickly than would
have been possible three weeks earlier, Murdock now stood sullenly
surveying the man who, though he dressed like a Beaker trader, persisted
in using a language Ross did not know.
"We do not play as children here." At last the man spoke words Ross
could understand. "You will answer me or else others shall ask the
questions, and less gently. I say to you now--who are you and from where
do you come?"
For a moment Ross glowered across the table at him, his inbred
antagonism to authority aroused by that contemptuous demand, but then
common sense cautioned. His initial introduction to this village had
left him bruised and with one of his headaches. There was no reason to
let them beat him until he was in no shape to make a break for freedom
when and if there was an opportunity.
"I am Rossa of the traders," he returned, eying the man with a carefully
measured stare. "I came into this land in search of my kinsmen who were
taken by raiders in the night."
The man, who sat on a stool by the table, smiled slowly. Again he spoke
in the strange tongue, and Ross merely stared stolidly back. His words
were short and explosive sounding, and the man's smile faded; his
annoyance grew as he continued to speak.
One of Ross's two guards ventured to interrupt, using the Beaker
language. "From where did you come?" He was a quiet-faced, slender man,
not like his companion, who had roped Murdock from behind and was of the
bully breed, able to subdue Ross's wildcat resistance in a very short
struggle.
"I came to this land from the south," Ross answered, "after the manner
of my people. This is a new land with furs and the golden tears of the
sun to be gathered and bartered. The traders move in peace, and their
hands are raised against no man. Yet in the darkness there came those
who would slay without profit, for what reason I have no knowing."
The quiet man continued the questioning and Ross answered fully with
details of the past of one Rossa, a Beaker merchant. Yes, he was from
the south. His father was Gurdi, who had a trading post in the warm
lands along the big river. This was Rossa's first trip to open new
territory. He had come with his father's blood brother, Assha, who was a
noted far voyager, and it was an honor to be chosen as donkey-leader for
such a one as Assha. With Assha had been Macna, one who was also a far
trader, though not as noted as Assha.
Of a certainty, Assha was of his own race! Ross blinked at that
question. One need only to look upon him to know that he was of trader
blood and no uncivilized woodsrunner. How long had he known Assha? Ross
shrugged. Assha had come to his father's post the winter before and had
stayed with them through the cold season. Gurdi and Assha had mingled
blood after he pulled Gurdi free from the river in flood. Assha had
lost his boat and trade goods in that rescue, so Gurdi had made good his
loss this year. Detail by detail he gave the story. In spite of the fact
that he provided these details glibly, sure that they were true, Ross
continued to be haunted by an odd feeling that he was indeed reciting a
tale of adventure which had happened long ago and to someone else.
Perhaps that pain in his head made him think of these events as very
colorless and far away.
"It would seem"--the quiet man turned to the one behind the table--"that
this is indeed one Rossa, a Beaker trader."
But the man looked impatient, angry. He made a sign to the other guard,
who turned Ross around roughly and sent him toward the door with a
shove. Once again the leader gave an order in his own language, adding a
few words more with a stinging snap that might have been a threat or a
warning.
Ross was thrust into a small room with a hard floor and not even a skin
rug to serve as a bed. Since the quiet man had ordered the removal of
the ropes from Ross's arms, he leaned against the wall, rubbing the pain
of returning circulation away from his wrists and trying to understand
what had happened to him and where he was. Having spied upon it from the
heights, he knew it wasn't an ordinary trading station, and he wanted to
know what they did here. Also, somewhere in this village he hoped to
find Assha and Macna.
At the end of the day his captors opened the door only long enough to
push inside a bowl and a small jug. He felt for those in the dusk,
dipping his fingers into a lukewarm mush of meal and drinking the water
from the jug avidly. His headache dulled, and from experience Ross knew
that this bout was almost over. If he slept, he would waken with a
clearer mind and no pain. Knowing he was very tired, he took the
precaution of curling up directly in front of the door so that no one
could enter without arousing him.
It was still dark when he awoke with a curious urgency remaining from a
dream he could not remember. Ross sat up, flexing his arms and shoulders
to combat the stiffness which had come with his cramped sleep. He could
not rid himself of a feeling that there was something to be done and
that time was his enemy.
Assha! Gratefully he seized on that. He must find Assha and Macna, for
the three of them could surely discover a way to get out of this
village. That was what was so important!
He had been handled none too gently, and they were holding him a
prisoner. But Ross believed that this was not the worst which could
happen to him here, and he must be free before the worst did come. The
question was, How could he escape? His bow and dagger were gone, and he
did not even have his long cloak pin for a weapon, since he had given
that to Frigga.
Running his hands over his body, Ross inventoried what remained of his
clothing and possessions. He unfastened the bronze chain-belt still
buckled in his kilt tunic, swinging the length speculatively in one
hand. A masterpiece of craftsmanship, it consisted of patterned plates
linked together with a series of five finely wrought chains and a front
buckle in the form of a lion's head, its protruding tongue serving as a
hook to support a dagger sheath. Its weight promised a weapon of sorts,
which when added to the element of surprise might free him.
By rights they would be expecting him to produce some opposition,
however. It was well known that only the best fighters, the shrewdest
minds, followed the traders' roads. It was a proud thing to be a trader
in the wilderness, a thought that warmed Ross now as he waited in the
dark for what luck and Ba-Bal of the Bright Horns would send. Were he
ever to return to Gurdi's post, Ba-Bal, whose boat rode across the sky
from dawn to dusk, would have a fine ox, jars of the first brewing, and
sweet-smelling amber laid upon his altar.
Ross had patience which he had learned from the mixed heritage of his
two pasts, the real and the false graft. He could wait as he had waited
many times before--quiet, and with outward ease--for the right moment to
come. It came now with footsteps ringing sharply, halting before his
cell door.
With the noiseless speed of a hunting cat, Ross flung himself from
behind the door to a wall, where he would be hidden from the newcomer
for that necessary instant or two. If his attack was to be successful,
it must occur inside the room. He heard the sound of a bar being slid
out of its brackets, and he poised himself, the belt rippling from his
right hand.
The door was opening inward, and a man stood silhouetted against the
outer light. He muttered, looking toward the corner where Ross had
thrown his single garment in a roll which might just resemble, for the
needed second or two, a man curled in slumber. The man in the doorway
took the bait, coming forward far enough for Ross to send the door
slamming shut as he himself sprang with the belt aimed for the other's
head.
There was a startled cry, cut off in the middle as the belt plates met
flesh and bone in a crushing force. Luck was with him! Ross caught up
his kilt and belted it around him after he had made a hurried
examination of the body now lying at his feet. He was not sure that the
man was dead, but at any rate he was completely unconscious. Ross
stripped off the man's cloak, located his dagger, freed it from the belt
hook, and snapped it on his own.
Then inch by inch Ross edged open the door, peering through the crack.
As far as he could see, the hall was empty, so he jerked the portal
open, and dagger in hand, sprang out, ready for attack. He closed the
door, slipping the bar back into its brackets. If the man inside revived
and pounded for attention, his own friends might think it was Ross and
delay investigating.
But the escape from the cell was the easiest part of what he planned to
do, as Ross well knew. To find Assha and Macna in this maze of rooms
occupied by the enemy was far more difficult. Although he had no idea in
which of the village buildings they might be confined, this one was the
largest and seemed to be the headquarters of the chief men, which meant
it could also serve as their prison.
Light came from a torch in a bracket halfway down the hall. The wood
burned smokily, giving off a resinous odor, and to Ross the glow was
sufficient illumination. He slipped along as close to the wall as he
could, ready to freeze at the slightest sound. But this portion of the
building might well have been deserted, for he saw or heard no one. He
tried the only two doors opening out of the hall, but they were secured
on the other side. Then he came to a bend in the corridor, and stopped
short, hearing a murmur of low voices.
If he had used a hunter's tricks of silent tread and vigilant wariness
before, Ross was doubly on guard now as he wriggled to a point from
which he could see beyond that turn. Mere luck prevented him from giving
himself away a moment later.
Assha! Assha, alive, well, apparently under no restraint, was just
turning away from the same quiet man who had had a part in Ross's
interrogation. That was surely Assha's brown hair, his slender wiry body
draped with a Beaker's kilt. A familiar tilt of the head convinced Ross,
though he could not see the man's face. The quiet man went down the
hall, leaving Assha before a door. As he passed through it Ross sped
forward and followed him inside.
Assha had crossed the bare room and was standing on a glowing plate in
the floor. Ross, aroused to desperate action by some fear he did not
understand, leaped after him. His left hand fell upon Assha's shoulder,
turning the man half around as Ross, too, stepped upon the patch of
luminescence.
Murdock had only an instant to realize that he was staring into the face
of an astonished stranger. His hand flashed up in an edgewise blow which
caught the other on the side of the throat, and then the world came
apart about them. There was a churning, whirling sickness which griped
and bent Ross almost double across the crumpled body of his victim. He
held his head lest it be torn from his shoulders by the spinning thing
which seemed based behind his eyes.
The sickness endured only for a moment, and some buried part of Ross's
mind accepted it as a phenomenon he had experienced before. He came out
of it gasping, to focus his attention once more on the man at his feet.
The stranger was still breathing. Ross stooped to drag him from the
plate and began binding and gagging him with lengths torn from his kilt.
Only when his captive was secure did he begin looking about him
curiously.
The room was bare of any furnishings and now, as he glanced at the
floor, Ross saw that the plate had lost its glow. The Beaker trader
Rossa rubbed sweating palms on his kilt and thought fleetingly of forest
ghosts and other mysteries. Not that the traders bowed to those ghosts
which were the plague of lesser men and tribes, but anything which
suddenly appeared and then disappeared without any logical explanation,
needed thinking on. Murdock pulled the prisoner, who was now reviving,
to the far end of the room and then went back to the plate with the
persistence of a man who refused to treat with ghosts and wanted
something concrete to explain the unexplainable. Though he rubbed his
hands across the smooth surface of the plate, it did not light up
again.
His captive having writhed himself half out of the corner of the room,
Ross debated the wisdom of another silencing--say a tap on the skull
with the heavy hilt of his dagger. Deciding against it because he might
need a guide, he freed the victim's ankle bonds and pulled him to his
feet, holding the dagger ready where the man could see it. Were there
any more surprises to be encountered in this place, Assha's double would
test them first.
The door did not lead to the same corridor, or even the same kind of
corridor Ross had passed through moments earlier. Instead they entered a
short passage with walls of some smooth stuff which had almost the sheen
of polished metal and were sleek and cold to the touch. In fact, the
whole place was chill, chill as river water in the spring.
Still herding the prisoner before him, Ross came to the nearest door and
looked within, to be faced by incomprehensible frames of metal rods and
boxes. Rossa of the traders marveled and stared, but again, he realized
that what he saw was not altogether strange. Part of one wall was a
board on which small lights flashed and died, to flash again in winks of
bright color. A mysterious object made of wire and disks hung across the
back of a chair standing near-by.
The bound man lurched for the chair and fell, rolling toward the wall.
Ross pushed him on until he was hidden behind one of the metal boxes.
Then he made the rounds of the room, touching nothing, but studying what
he could not understand. Puffs of warm air came in through grills near
the floor, but the room had the same general chill as the hall outside.
Meanwhile the lights on the board had become more active, flashing on
and off in complex patterns. Ross now heard a buzzing, as if a swarm of
angry insects were gathered for an attack. Crouching beside his captive,
Ross watched the lights, trying to discover the source of the sound.
The buzz grew shriller, almost demanding. Ross heard the tramp of heavy
footgear in the corridor, and a man entered the room, crossing
purposefully to the chair. He sat down and drew the wire-and-disk frame
over his head. His hands moved under the lights, but Ross could not
guess what he was doing.
The captive at Murdock's side tried to stir, but Ross's hand pinned him
quiet. The shrill noise which had originally summoned the man at the
lights was interrupted by a sharp pattern of long-and-short sounds, and
his hands flew even more quickly while Ross took in every detail of the
other's clothing and equipment. He was neither a shaggy tribesman nor a
trader. He wore a dull-green outer garment cut in one piece to cover his
arms and legs as well as his body, and his hair was so short that his
round skull might have been shaven. Ross rubbed the back of his wrist
across his eyes, experiencing again that dim other memory. Odd as this
man looked, Murdock had seen his like before somewhere, yet the
background had not been Gurdi's post on the southern river. Where and
when had he, Rossa, ever been with such strange beings? And why could he
not remember it all more clearly?
Boots sounded once more in the hall, and another figure strode in. This
one wore furs, but he, too, was no woods hunter, Ross realized as he
studied the newcomer in detail. The loose overshirt of thick fur with
its hood thrown back, the high boots, and all the rest were not of any
primitive fashioning. And the man had four eyes! One pair were placed
normally on either side of his nose, and the other two, black-rimmed and
murky, were set above on his forehead.
The fur-clad man tapped the one seated at the board. He freed his head
partially from the wire cage so that they could talk together in a
strange language while lights continued to flash and the buzzing died
away. Ross's captive wriggled with renewed vigor and at last thrashed
free a foot to kick at one of the metal installations. The resulting
clang brought both men around. The one at the board tore his head cage
off as he jumped to his feet, while the other brought out a gun.
Gun? One little fraction of Ross's mind wondered at his recognition of
that black thing and of the danger it promised, even as he prepared for
battle. He pushed his captive across the path of the man in fur and
threw himself in the other direction. There was a blast to make a
torment in his head as he hurled toward the door.
So intent was Ross upon escape that he did not glance behind but skidded
out on his hands and knees, thus fortunately presenting a poor target to
the third man coming down the hall. Ross's shoulder hit the newcomer at
thigh level, and they tangled in a struggling mass which saved Ross's
life as the others burst out behind them.
Ross fought grimly, his hands and feet moving in blows he was not
conscious of planning. His opponent was no easy match and at last Ross
was flattened, in spite of his desperate efforts. He was whirled over,
his arms jerked behind him, and cold metal rings snapped about his
wrists. Then he was rolled back, to lie blinking up at his enemies.
All three men gathered over him, barking questions which he could not
understand. One of them disappeared and returned with Ross's former
captive, his mouth a straight line and a light in his eyes Ross
understood far better than words.
"You are the trader prisoner?" The man who looked like Assha leaned over
Murdock, patches of red on his tanned skin where the gag and wrist bonds
had been.
"I am Rossa, son of Gurdi, of the traders," Ross returned, meeting what
he read in the other's expression with a ready defiance. "I was a
prisoner, yes. But you did not keep me one for long then, nor shall you
now."
The man's thin upper lip lifted. "You have done yourself ill, my young
friend. We have a better prison here for you, one from which you shall
not escape."
He spoke to the other men, and there was the ring of an order in his
voice. They pulled Ross to his feet, pushing him ahead of them. During
the short march Ross used his eyes, noticing things he could not
identify in the rooms through which they passed. Men called questions
and at last they paused long enough, Ross firmly in the hold of the
fur-clad guard, for the other two to put on similar garments.
Ross had lost his cloak in the fight, but no fur shirt was given him. He
shivered more and more as the chill which clung to that warren of rooms
and halls bit into his half-clad body. He was certain of only one thing
about this place; he could not possibly be in the crude buildings of the
valley village. However, he was unable to guess where he was and how he
had come there.
Finally, they went down a narrow room filled with bulky metal objects of
bright scarlet or violet that gleamed weirdly and were equipped with
rods along which all the colors of the rainbow ringed. Here was a round
door, and when one of the guards used both hands to tug it open, the
cold that swept in at them was a frigid breath that burned as it touched
bare skin.