 Storm Over Warlock by Andre Norton, Chapter 15. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by RJ Davis. Storm Over Warlock by Andre Norton, Chapter 15, Dragon Slayer. Hi! 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 unadults of tire to summon gang aid against outsiders. Forktail now crouched again for a spring, but that throat-cracking blast appeared to startle it. Shan, blade-ready, took a dancing step to the right. The thing was kale, perhaps as well armored against frontal attack as was the shell-creature he had fought with the aid of the Wolverine. He wished he had the Taren animals now, would tag him and his mate to tease and faint about the monster as he had done with the Thrawn 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 forks. Muscles tense beneath that scaled height. The Taren redded himself for a sideways leap. His knife-hand raised raked at those eyes, a brown shake with a V of lighter fur, banding his back across the far range of Shan's vision. He could not believe what he saw. Not even when a starving animal, slavering with rage, came at a lumbering gallop to stand beside him, a second animal on his heels. Uttering his own battle cry, Taggy attached. The Forktail's head swung, imitating the movements of the Wolverines as it had earlier mimic the swaying of the disc in the wyvern's hand. Taggy came in from the other side. They might have been hounds keeping a bull in place, and never had they shown such perfect teamwork, almost as if they could sense what Shan desired of them. The Forktail last 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 animal. Shan fell back, pawing with his free hand at his eyes. The Wolverine circled warily, trying for the attack they favored, the spring to the shoulder. They usually fatal assault on the spine behind the neck. But the armored head of the Forktail swung low, warmed them off. Again the tail lay, and this time Taggy was caught and hurled across the beach. Toge ordered a challenge, made a request day, and raked down the length of the Forktail's body, fastening on that tail, weighing it to earth with her poundage while the sea creature fought to dislodge her. Shan, his eyes watering from the sand, but able to see, watched that battle for a long second, judging that Forktail was completely engaged in trying to free his best weapon from the grip of the Wolverine. The latter clawed and bit with a fury, which agitated Taggy and tended to immobilize that weapon by carrying it to shred. Forktail wrenched his body, driving to reach its tornado with fangs or clawed feet, and in that struggle to achieve an impossible position, his head slew far about, uncovering the unprotected area behind the skull base, which usually lay under the spiny collar about its shoulders. Shan went in, with one hand he gripped the edge of that collar, his serrations tearing his flesh, and at the same time he drove his knife blade deep into the soft underfolds, ripping on towards the spinal cord. The blade nicked against bone as the Forktail's head slammed back, catching Shan's hand and knife together in a trap. The tearing was jerked from his feet, 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 Taggy's writing on the tail prevented Shan's being beaten to death. The armored snout pointed skyward as the creature ground the sharp edge of his collar down on the siren's arm. Shan, frantic with pain, drove his free fist into one of those eyes. Forktail jerked convulsively, his head snapped down again as Shan was free. The tearing drew himself back, keeping his feet with an effort. Forktail was writhing, turning up the sand in a cloud, but it could not rid himself of the knife Shan had planted with all his strength and which the blows of his own armored collar were now driving deeper and deeper into his back. It howled thinly with an abnormal shrilly. Shan, nursing his bleeding forearm against his chest, rolled free from the waves of sand it threw about, bringing up against one of his wrought 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 turned up that confilling cloud were growing more feeble. Then Shan heard the trumpet squall from Taggy, saw her brown body still on the torn tail just above the forking. The Wolverine used her claws to hit her way up the spine of the sea monster, heading for the mountain of blood spouting from behind the head. Forktail 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, tacked into the gaping mouth. How long had it taken? That frenzy of battle on the bloodstained beach, Shan could have set no limit in clock rule time. He pressed his wounded arm tighter to him, lurched past the still twitching sea thing to that splosive brown fur on the sand. Shaping the Wolverine's whistle with dry lips, Taggy was still busy with the kill, but Taggy lay with that murderer's tail had thrown him. Shan 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. Taggy? A slight quiver answered. Shan 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. Taggy? He called again, driving to bring that heavy head upon his knee. The third one is not dead. For a moment, Shan was not aware that those words had formed in his mind had not been heard by years. He looked up, eyes blazing at the Wolverine coming toward him in a grateful glide across the crimson sand. And in the space of heartbeats his thrust of anger cooled into his stubborn enmity. No thanks to you, he said deliberately aloud, yet the wavering wits wanted to understand him, let her make the effort. He did not try to touch her thoughts with his. Taggy stirred again and Shan glanced down quickly. The Wolverine gasped, opened his eyes, shook his miniature bare head, gathering pellets of sand. He sniffed at a dollop of blood. The dark alien blood splattered on Shan's breeches. And then his head came up with a reassuring alertness as he looked to where his mate was still worrying the now flat forked tail. With an effort, Taggy got to his feet. Shan ate him. The man ran his hand down over ribs, seeking any broken bones. Taggy growled a warning once when that examination brought pain in his way. But Shan 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. Taggy had been knocked out, but now he was able to navigate again. He pulled free from Shan'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. Four of all came directly to Shan. 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. Shan heard the words, and then made sense. But the instability of his surroundings was increasing, while four of all's handling set such stabs of pain up his arm and somehow into his head, where they ended in red burst 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 Shan'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 store of all children, centering their world weapon on him. Making a great effort, Shan got out the words, which he also shaped in his mind as he said them all out. You're not taking me over again. There were no emotions to be read in that dual-banded face or in her unblinking eyes. He caught four balls 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 four balls again. Did one of the wyverns have a disk focused on them? Were they being pulled into one of those white periods to awaken as prisoners once more? Say in the cavern of the Vale? The Terran fought with every ounce of willpower to escape unconsciousness, but he failed. This time he did not awaken half-grounding 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 sleek mat such as he had found in the cavern structure. Was he back in that web of rooms and quarters? Shan 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 his transparent service 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 the prisoner on the island. And there were no other furnishings save the mats on which he rested. Over him was a light cover netted of fibers resembling yarn with feathers nodding 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 wiggled 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 sheet unlike any bandage of his own world. Surely that had not come out of any survey aid pack. Shan gazed towards 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 brown level, which did not match his former experience with live urn accommodations. Back with us again? Thorbald, one hand lifting a door panel, came in. His ragged uniform was gone, and he wore only breaches of his slick green material and his own scuffed and battered boots. Shan settled back on the mat. Where are we? I think you might turn this to Capital City, Thorbald answered. In relation to the mainland, we're on an island well out to sea westward. How did we get here? That climbed in a slab, the stream underground. Had it been an interior river running under the bed of the sea, but Shan was not prepared for the other's reply. By whooshin'. By what? Thorbald nodded, his expression serious. They whooshed us here. Listen, Lanty, when you jumped down to mix it with that fork-tailed thing, did you wish you had the Wolverine's with you? Shan thought back. His memories of what had occurred before that battle were none too clear. But yes, he had whooshed Taggy and Toggy present at that moment to distract the enraged beast. You mean I whooshed him? The whole idea was probably a part of Wyvern's jargon of dreaming, and he had it. Or did I just dream everything? There was a bandage on his arm, the soreness under that bandage, but also there had been Logali's lash brand backed into a cavern, which had bitten into his flesh with the pain of a real blow. No, you weren't dreaming. You happened to be tuned in one of those hand-to-little gadgets our lady friends here use. And so tuned in, your desire for the Wolverine being pretty powerful just then, they came. Shan rimmed. This was unbelievable. Yet, there were his meetings with Logali and Traff. How could anyone actually explain that? And now had he, in the beginning, been jumped from the top of the cliff on the island of his marooning into the midst of an underground flood without any conscious memory of an intermediate journey. How does it work? Yes, simply. Thorbaugh left. You tell me. They had these discs, one to a Wyvern, and they controlled forces with them. Back there on the beach, we interrupted a class in such control. They were the novices learning their trade. We stumbled on something here which can't be defined or understood by any of our previous standards of comparison. It's frankly magic, judged by our terms. Are we prisoners? Shan wanted to know. Ask me something I'm sure of. I've been free to come and go within limits. No one's accepted any signs of hostility. Most of them simply ignore me. I've had two interviews via this mind reading act of theirs with a ruler or elder for chief sorceress. All three titles seem to apply. They asked questions I answer as best I can. But sometimes we appear to have no common meeting ground. Then I asked some questions they made gracefully or reply in a kind of unintelligible double talk. And that's as far as our communication has progressed so far. Taggy and Togie have a run of their own and as far as I can tell are better satisfied with life than I am. Oddly enough, they respond more quickly and more intelligently to orders. Perhaps this business of being shutted around by the disc has conditioned them in some way. What about these Wyverns? Are they all female? No, but their tribal system is strictly a major article, which follows a pattern even terror once then. The fertile earth mother and her priestess who became the witches when the gods overruled the goddesses. The males are few in number and lack the power to activate the disc. In fact, story will laugh fruitfully, one gathers that in this civilization, our offset numbers have more or less the status of pets at the best and necessary evils at the worst, which put us at a disadvantage from the start. You think that they won't take us seriously because we are male? Might just work out that way. I've tried to get through to them about the danger from the frogs, telling them what it would mean to them to have the beetle heads settle in here for good. They just brush your side the whole idea. You argue that the frogs are male too, or aren't they? The survey officer shook his head. That's the point no human can answer. We've been sparring with frogs for years and there have been libraries of reports written about them and their behavior patterns. All of which add up to about two paragraphs of proven facts and hundreds of surmises beginning with the probable and skimming out into the wild fantastic. You can claim anything about a frog and find a lot of very intelligent souls ready to believe you. But whether those beetle heads squatting over on the mainland are able to answer to he, she, or it, your solution is just as good as mine. We've always considered the ones we fight to be males, but they might just as possibly be Amazon's. Thankfully, these wyverns couldn't care less either. At least that's the impression they give. But anyway, Shan observed, it hasn't come to we're all girls together either. Thorbaugh laughed again, not so you can notice we're not the only unwilling visitor in the vicinity. Shan set up a frog, a something non-warlocked in or non-wise in, and perhaps trouble for us. You haven't seen this other? Thorbaugh sat down cross-legged. The amber light from the window made red gold of his hair, added readiness to his less-caught feature. No, I haven't. As far as I can tell, the stranger's not right here. I caught stray fought beings twice, surprised expressed by newly arrived wyverns who met me and apparently expected to be fronted by something quite physically different. Another tarant scalp? No, imagine that to the wyverns we must look a lot alike, just as we couldn't tell one of them from her sister if their body patterns didn't differ. Discovered one thing about those patterns, the more intricate they run, the higher the power, not of the immediate wearer, but of her ancestors. They're marked when they qualify for their disk and presented with the rating of the greatest witch in their family line as an inducement to live up to those deeds and surpass them if possible. Quite a bit of logic to that, given the right conditioning, such a system might even work in our service. That negative information was a stuff from which survey reports remain, but at the moment the information concerning the other captive was of more value to Shan. He shuddies his body against the wall with his good hand and got to his feet. Thorval washed him. I take it you have visions of action. Tell me, Lante, why did you take that header off the cliff to mix it with forktail? Shan wondered himself. He had no reason for that impulsive act. I don't know. Shiverly, fair wyvern in distress, the other prodded, or did the backslash from one of those disks drag you in? I don't know. And why did you use your knife instead of your stunner? Shan was startled. For the first time, he realized that he had fronted the greatest native menace they had discovered on Warlock with the more primitive of his weapons. Why had he not tried the stunner on the beast? He had just never thought of it when he had taken that leap into the role of dragon slayer. Not that it would have done you any good to try the race. It has no effect on forktail. You tried it? Naturally. But you didn't know that, or did you pick up that information earlier? No. Entered Shan slowly? No. I don't know why I used the knife. The stunner would have been more natural. Suddenly, he shivered, and the face he turned to Thorval was very sober. How much do they control us? He asked. His voice dropping to a half whisper as if the walls about them could pick up those words and relay them to other ears. What can they do? A good question, Thorval lost his light tone. Yes, what can they feed into our minds without our noise? Perhaps those disks are only wind-addressing, and they can work without them. A great deal would depend upon the impression we can make on these witches. He began to smile again, more widely. The name we gave this planet is certainly a misdenomer. A warlock is a male sorcerer, not a witch. But what are the chances of our becoming warlocks ourselves? Again, Thorval's smile faded, but he gave a curt little nod to Shan as if approving that thought. That is something we are going to look into, and now. If we have to convince some stubborn females, as well as fight drugs, well, we shrug. We'll have a busy, busy time. This concludes the reading of Chapter 15. Storm Over Warlock by Andre Norton. Chapter 16. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recording are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by RJ Davis. Storm Over Warlock by Andre Norton. Chapter 16. Third prisoner. Well, it worked as good as new. Shan held his hand and arm out into the full path of the sun. He had just stripped off the skin-taste bandage to show the raw seam of a half-heeled scarf. But as he flexed muscles, bent and twisted his arm, there was only a small residue of soreness left. Now what or where, he asked Thorvald with some eagerness. Several days in prisonment in this room had made him impatient for the outer world again. Like the officer, he now wore breeches of the green fabric, the only material known through the wyverns, and his own badly worn boots. Oddly enough, the Terran's weapons, stunner and knife, had been left to them. A point which made them uneasy, since it suggested that the wyverns believed they had nothing to fear from clumsy alien arms. Your guess is as good as mine, Thorvald answered that double question. But it is you they want to see, they insisted upon it, rather empathically in fact. The wyvern city existed as a series of cell-like hollows in the interior of a rock-walled island. Outside, there had been no tampering with the natural rugged features of the escarpment, and within, the silence was almost complete. For all the Terran's could learn, the population of the stone-walled hive might have been several thousand, or just the handful that they had seen with their own eyes, along the passages which had been declared open territory for them. Jan half-expected to find again a skull-walled chamber, for which he saw colored sticks to determine his future. But he came with Thorvald into an oval room, in which most of the outer wall was a window. And seeing what lay framed in that, Shan halted, again uncertain as to whether he actually saw that, or whether he was willed into visualizing a scene by the choice of his hostesses. They were lower now than the room in which he had nursed his wounds, not far above water level. And this window faced the sea. Across a stretch of green water was his red-purple skull, the waves lapping his lower jaw, spreading their foam in between the gaping rock brim, which formed his teeth. And from the eye hollow, slapped the clack-clack of the sea coast, coming and going as if they carried to some imprisoned brain within that giant-boned-case message used from the outer world. My dream, Shan said. Your dream. Thorvald had not echoed that. The answer had come in his brain. Shan turned his head and surveyed the wyvern, awaiting them with a concentration which was close to the rudeness of an outright stare, a stare which held no friendship. For by her skin pattern, he knew her for the one who had led the trimer who had sent him into the cabin of the mist. And with her was a younger whip he had trapped on the night that all this baffling action had begun. We meet again, he said slowly, to what purpose? To our purpose and yours. I do not doubt that it is to your, the tariff's thought fell easily mount into a formal pattern. He would not have used with one of his own kind. But I do not expect any good to me. There was no readable expression on our face. He did not expect to see any. But in their uneven mind touch, he caught a fleeting suggestion of bewilderment on her part. As if he found his mental processes as hard to understand as a puzzle with you leading proof. We mean you no ill, Star Voyager. You are far more than we first thought you were. For you have dreamed false and have known. Now dream true and know is also. Yet me challenge, you would set me a task without my consent. We have a task for you, but already it was set in the pattern of your true grooming. And we do not set such pattern, Star Man, that is done by the greatest power of all. Each lives within her appointed pattern from the first awakening to the final dream. So we do not ask of you any more than that, which is already laid for your doing. She arose with that languid grace, which was a part of their delicate dual body, and came to stand beside him. A child in size, making his turn flesh and bones awkward, clawed like in contrast. She stressed out her four-digit hand, her slender arm ring with gym circles and bands. Measuring it against his own, bearing that leverage scar. We are different, Star Man, yet still are we both dreamers, and dreams hold power. Your dreams brought you across the dark with lies between sun and distant sun. Our dreams carry us on even stranger roads, and yonder, one of her fingers stiffened to a point indicating the skull, there is another who dreams of power. A power in which we'll destroy us all unless the pattern is broken speedily. And I must go to seek this dreamer. His vision accliming through that nose hole was to be realized then. You go. Thorvald stirred, and a wyvern turned her head to him. Alone, she added, for this is your dream only. As it had been from the beginning, there is for each his own dream, and another cannot walk through it to alter the pattern, even to save a life. Shan grinned crookedly without humor. It seemed that I'm elected, he said as much to himself as to Thorvald. But what do I do with this other dreamer? What's your pattern move you to do? Save that you do not slave him. Thorvald started forward. You can't just walk in on a Thorvald, bare handed, and be bound by orders such as that. The wyvern must have caught the sense of that vocal protest, for her communication touched them both. We cannot deal with that one as his mind is closer. Yet, he is an elder among his kind, and his people have been searching land and sea for him since his air rider broke upon the rock, and he entered into hiding over there. Make your peace with him if you can, and also take him him, for his dreams are not ours. And he raised confusion through the reachers when they retired to run the trials of seeking. Must be an important throw, Shan to do. They could have an officer of the Bezel hands on the wraps over there. Could we use him to bargain with the rest? Thorvald's frown did not like it. We've never been able to establish any form of contact in the past, though our best qualified mind, reinforced by training, have tried. Shan did not take fire at that rather delicate estimate of his own lack of preparation for the curing out of diplomatic negotiations with the enemy. He knew it was true. But there was one thing he could try, if the wyvern permitted. Would you give a disk of power to the star man, he pointed to Thorvald, for he is my elder one, and a reacher for knowledge. Which is a focus his dreams could mark with mine when I go to the throb, and perhaps that can aid in my doing what I could not accomplish alone. For that is a secret of my people, elder one. We link our powers together to make a shield against our enemies. A common tool for the work we must do. And so it is with us also Star Voyager. We are not someone like as the foolish might think. We learn much of you while you both wandered in the place of false dreams. But our power disks are our own and cannot be given to a stranger while their owners live. However, she turned again with an abrupt disform to the usual wyvern manner and faced the older terror. The officer might have been obeying an unvoiced order as he put out his hand and laid them palm to palm on those she held up to him, bending his head so gray eyes met golden one. The web of communication which had held all three of them fell. Thorvald and the wyvern were linked in a tight circuit which excluded sham. Then the matter became conscious of movement beside him. The younger wyvern had joined him to watch the clap-clap in their circling of the bare dome of the skull idol. Why do they fly so, sham asked her. Within they nest, care for their young. Also they hunt the rock creatures that swarm in the lower darkness. The rock creatures that the skull's interior was infested by some other native fauna, he learned to know it. By some method of her own, the young wyvern conveyed a strong impression of revulsion, which was her personal reaction to the rock creatures. Yet, you imprisoned the throng there, here in the rock. Not so, her denial was instantaneous and vehement. The other worlder fled into that place in spite of our calling. There he stays in hiding. Once we drew him out to the sea, but he broke the power and fled inside again. He broke free, sham pounced upon them from discontrol. But surely, her reply held something of wonder. Why do you ask, Starboarder, did you not also break free from the power of the disc when I led you by the underground waves, awaking in the river? Do you then rate this other one as less than your own breed that you think him incapable of the same action? A throbe I know as much as this. He held up his hand, measuring off a fraction of space between thumb and forefinger. Yet, you knew them before you came to this world. My people have known them for long. We have met and fought many times among the stars. And never have you talked mind to mind? Never. We have sought for that, but there has been no communication between us, neither of mind nor of voice. This one you named Throg was truly not as you, she ascended, and you are not as you, being alien and female. Yet, Starman, you and I have shared a dream. Transtared is her, startled, not so much by what she said as the humans chaining of those words in his mind, or had that also been eluded? In the veil, that creature which came to you on wings when you remembered that, a good dream, though it came out of the past, and so was false in the present. But I had gathered it into my own store, such a fine dream, one that you have cherished. Crab was to be cherished, he agreed soberly. I found her in a broken sleep cage at his spaceport when I was a child. We were both cold and hungry, alone and hurt. So I stole, and was glad that I stole, trap. For a little space, we both were very happy. Forcibly, he stifled them. So, though we are unlike in body and in mind, yet we find beauty together if only in a dream. Therefore, between your people and mine, there can be a common speech. And I may show you my dream store for your enjoyment, Star Warrior. A flickering of pictures, some weird, some beautiful, all a little distorted, not only by haste, but also by the haze of alien us, which was a part of her memory pattern, cross-chance mine. Such a sharing would be a rich feast, he agreed. All right, those crisp words in his own tongue brought sound around from the window to Thorvald. The survey officer was no longer locked hand-in-hand with the Wyvern rich, but his features were alive with a new eagerness. We are going to try your idea, Lanty. They'll provide me with a new unmarked disc, show me how to use it, and I'll do what I can to back you with it. But they insist that you go today. What did they really want me to do? Just ride out that frog or try to talk him into being a go-between with his people? That does come under the heading of dreaming. They want him out of there, back with his own kind as possible. Apparently, he's a disruptive influence for them. He causes some kind of a mental foul-up which interferes drastically with their power. They haven't been able to get him to make any contact with them. This elder one is firm about you being the one ordained for the job, and that you'll know what actions it takes when you get there. Must have thrown the sticks for me again, Sam commented. Well, they've definitely picked you to smoke out the frog and they can't be taught into changing their minds about that. I'll be the smoke-burner if he has a blaster. They say he's unarmed. What do they know about our weapons or a frog? The other one has no arms, why burn words in his mind again. This fact gives him great fear. That which he has depended upon is broken. And since he has no weapons, he is shut into the prison of his own parents. But an adult frog, even unarmed, but not to be considered easy meat, Sam thought, armored with honey skin, armed with claws and those crushing manacles of the beetle mouth. The third again is tall as he himself was. No, even unarmed, the frog had to be considered a venus. Sam was still thinking along that line as he splashed through the turf, which broke about the lower jaw of the Skull Island, climbed up one of the pointed rocks which masqueraded at the tooth and reached for a higher hole to lead him to the nose-slip, the gateway to the avian's hiding place. The clack-clack screamed and dived about him, highly resentful of his intrusion. And when they grew so bold as the buffet him with their wings, threatened him with their peering beaks, he was glad the reefs of broken rock edging his children's door and ducked inside. Once there, Sam looked back. There was no sighting in the cliff window where Thorvald stood, nor was he aware in any way of mental contact with the survey officer. There hoped that such a language might be sought. Sam was reluctant to venture further. His eyes had sufficiently adjusted to the limited supply of light and now the turn brought out the one aid to why Burns had been with him, a green crystal, such as those which had played the role of stars on the cairn roof. He put the simple loop setting to the front of the belt, leaving his hands free. Then, having filled his lungs for the last time, with clean sea-warped air, he started into the dome of the skull. There was a piece of thickness to this air only a few feet away from the outer world. The odor of clack-clack droppings and refuse from the nest was strong. But there was an avid staleness, as if no breeze ever scooped out the old atmosphere to replace it with new. Tragile bones crushed under sand flutes. But as he drew away from the entrance, the pale glow of the crystal increased its radiance, emitting a light not unlike that of the frost rest of Bruce's, so that he was not swallowed up by dark. The cave behind the nose-hole narrowed quickly into a cliff. A narrow cliff which pierced into the bowl of the skull. The cave proceeded with caulking, pausing every few steps. There came a murmur rising now and again to a street, issuing, he guessed, from the clack-clack recovery above. And the pound of sea-waves was also a vibration paring through the rock. He was listening for something else, at the same time testing the eel-smelling air for that recurring mustiness which fell through. When a swift and a narrow passage cut off the spot of daylight, scanned Bruce's tunnel. The strongest bolt from that could not build its road into complete parallel, but it would slow up any attempt. Ribs, pinpoints of ribs, were edging a break in the rock wall. They were gone in a flash. Eyes, perhaps of the rock, were alert with the wyvern's haters. More red dots further ahead. Shan listened for a sound he could identify. But the smell came before sound. That trace of eczema, which in force could stick in its hair, was his gown. The cleft ended in his face into which the limited gleam of the crystal could not provide a far wall. But that faint light did show him as far. The throg was not on his feet, ready for trouble, but hunched close to the wall. And the alien did not move that Shan was coming. Did the beetle head sight him? Shan wondered. He moved consciously, and the round head with his bull beside turned a fracture. The mandibles about the ugly mouth opened in quiver. Yes, the throg could see him. But still the alien made no move to rise out of his crown to come at the terror. Then Shan saw the fallen rock, the stone which pinned a double knee's leg to the floor. And in a circle around the prisoner was a small, crushed bird thing, which he'd come to pray on a helpless to be slain themselves by the well-aimed stone, which was the throg's only weapons of defense. Shan chased the stunner. He was playing the throg was helpless and could not reach him. He tried to concentrate mentally on a picture of the scene before him, hoping that Thorvald or one of the wyverns could pick it up. There was no answer nor direction. Choice of action remained solely his. The terror made the oldest friendly gesture of his time. His empty hands held up all mouth. There was no answering move from the throg. Neither of the others upper limbs stirred. The claws still gripping the small rocks and readiness for throwing. All Shan's knowledge of the alien's history argued against an unarmed advance. The throg's marksmanship, as borne out by the circle of small bodies, was excellent. And one of those rocks might well thud against his head with fatal results. Yet he had been set there to get the throg free and out of wyvern territory. So rank was the beetle smell of the other that Shan caught. What he needed now was the aid of the Wolverine. A diversion to keep the alien visit. But this time there was no disc working to produce taggy and toggy out of thin air. And he could not continue to just stand there staring at the throg. There remained a stunner. Life on the dump tended to make a man pass draw. A matter of survival for the fastest and most accurate marksman. And now one of Shan's hands swept down with his feed quick, learned early, but never really to be forgotten. He had to rod out and respring on tight beams straight at the throg's head before the first stone stuck his shoulder and his weapon fell from the numb's hand. But a second stone tumbled out of the throg's claw. The alien tried to respring it. His movement slowed on first. Shan, his arm dangling, went in fast, breaking his good shoulder against the boulder which pinned the throg. The alien aimed a blow at the throg's head, but again so slowly Shan had no difficulty innovating it. The boulder gazed, rolled, and Shan cleared out of range back through the opening of the cliff pausing only to scoop up his stomach. For a long moment the throg may don't move. His day's wish must have been working at very slow speed. Then the alien heaved up his body to stand the rest, favoring the leg which had been trapped. Shan tense, waiting for a rush. What now? Would the throg refuse to move? If so, what could he do about it? With the impact of a blow, the messy Shan had hoped for struck into his mind, but his initial joy at that contact was wiped out with the same speed. Throg's hip overhead. The throg stood away from the wall, limped out, heading for Shan, or perhaps only the cliff in which he stood. Bringing the stunner awkwardly and his left hand, the Taran retreated mentally trying to contact Thorvald once more. There was no answer. He was well up into the cliff, moving crab-wise, unwilling to turn his back on the throg. The alien was coming as steadily as his engine's limb would allow, trying for the exit to the outer world. A throg's hip overhead had to cast away, somehow managed to call his own time. And what if he, Shan Lanty, were to be trapped between the alien and the landing party from the flight? He did not expect any assistance from the wyverns, and what could Thorvald possibly do? From behind him, at the entrance of the nose slit, he heard a sound. A sound which is neither the sculpting of a clap-clap, nor the eternal growl of the sea. This concludes the reading of Chapter 16. Storm over Warlock by Andre Norton, Chapter 17. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Recording by R.J. Davis. Storm over Warlock by Andre Norton, Chapter 17. Throg Justice. He must have since was so strong that Shan could no longer fight the demands of the Outrage Summit. He rolled on his side, reaching violently until the sour smell of his illness fell the foul odor of the ship. His memories of how he had come into this place were vague. His body was a massive dull pain, as if he had been scorched. Scorched? Had the Throgs used one of the energy whips to subdue him? The last clear thing he could recall was that slow withdrawal down the cleft inside the Scorched Rock. The Throg, not too far away, the sound from the entrance. A Throg prisoner? Through the pain and the sickness, the horror of that bit doubly deep. Terror did not fall alive into Throg's hands. Not if they had the means of ending their existence within reach. But his hands and arms were caught behind him in an unbreakable lock. Some gadget not unlike the Terran four-star used to rescrain criminals. He decided gurgly. The cubby in which he lay was black-dark. But the quivering of the deck and the bulkheads about him told Shan that the ship was in flight. And there could be but two destinations. Either the camp where the Throgs' force had taken over the Terran insulations or the mothership of the raiders. If Thorvald's earlier surmise was true and the aliens were hunting a Terran to talk in the transport, then they were heading for the camp. And because a man who still lives and who is not yet broken can also hope, Shan begins to think ahead to the camp. The camp and the fate thin chance of escape. For on the surface of warlock there was a thin chance of escape for the Throgs none at all. Thorvald and the Wyverns. Could he hope for any help from them? Shan closed his eyes against the thick darkness and tried to reach out to touch somewhere Thorvald with his disc. Or perhaps the Wyvern who had talked to Trev and shared dreams. Shan focused his thoughts on the young Wyvern rich. Visualizing with all the detail of the young Wyvern out of memory the brilliant patterns about her slender arms her thin fragile wrists those other designs overlying her features. He could see her in his mind but she was only a puppet without life. Certainly without power. Thorvald Now Shan fought to build a metal picture of the survey officer making his stand at that window grasping his disc with the sun bringing gold to his hair and showing the bronze of his skin. Those grey eyes which could be ice that jaw with the tight set of a trap upon occasion. And Shan made contact. He touched something a flickering like a badly tuned trident. Far more fuzzy than the mind pictures the Wyvern had praded for him but he had touched and Thorvald too had been aware of his contact. Shan fought to find that thread of awareness again. Patiently once more created his vision of Thorvald adding every detail he could recall. Small things about the other which he had not known that he had noticed the tiny arrow shaped scar near the base of the officer's throat the way he was growing hair curled at the ends. The look of one eyebrow slanting abruptly toward his hairline when he was dubious about something. Shan strove to make a figure as vividly as Logali and Trav had been in the midst of the illusion. Where? This time Shan was prepared. He did not let that mind image dissolve in his excitement at recapturing the length. Throg ship he said the words aloud and over but still he held to his picture of Thorvald. Will only that one word the thread between them snapped again. Only then did Shan become conscious of a change in the ship's vibration. Were they shutting down? And where? Let it be at the camp. It must be the camp. There was no jar at that landing just that one second the vibration told him the ship was alive and airborne and the next to dead quiet testified that they had landed. Shan, this shore body stiff with tension waited for the next move on the part of his captors. He continued to lie in the dark still queasy from the stents of the sail to keyed up to try to reach Thorvald. There was a dull grating over his head and he looked up eagerly blinded by a strong beam of light. Claws hooked painfully under his arms and he was manhandled up and out dragged along a short passage and pitched free of the ship falling hard upon trodden earth and rolling over gasping as the seared skin of his body was rasped and abraded. The terror lay face up now and as his eyes adjusted to the light he saw a ring of heads blotting out the sky as they inspected their catch impassively. The mouth manned the both of one moves with a faint clicking. Again claws fastened in his armpits brought Shan to his feet holding him erect. Then the throbs who had given that order moved closer. His hand claws clasped a small metal plate surmounted by a hoop of thin wire over which were stretched a web of threads hanging in the sun. Holding that hoop on a level with his mouth the alien clicked his mandibles and those sounds became barely distinguishable basic galactic words. For a moment Shan wondered if the alien met that statement literally or was it a conventional expression for a prisoner among their lamp. Do as told. That was cleared up and for the moment the terror did not see that he had any choice in the matter. But Shan refused to make any sign of agreement to either of those two limited statements. Perhaps the beetle heads did not expect any. The alien who had pulled him to his feet continued to hold him erect. But the attention of the throg with the translators switched elsewhere. From the alien ship emerged the second party. The throg in their midst was unarmed and limping. Although to tear in eyes one alien was the exact counterpart of the other, Shan thought that this one was a prisoner in the skull cave. Yet the indications now suggested that he had only exchanged one captivity for another and was in disgrace among his kind. Why? The throg limped up to front the leader with the translator and his guards fell back. Again, Mandigo's click were answered though the sense of that exchange eluded Shan. At one point in the report, if reported was, he himself appeared to be under discussion. For the injured throg waved a hand claw in a tearing direction. But the end of the conference came quickly enough and in a manner which Shan found shocking. Two of the guards stepped forward, caught up to injured the throg's arms and drew him away. Leading him out into his face beyond the grounded ship. They dropped their hold on him, returning at a trough. The officer clicked in order, blasters were unholstered and the throg in the field shriveled under a vicious concentration of crossbowl. Shan gasped. He certainly had no liking for throgs but this execution carried overtones of a cold blooded porosity which Shan said that anything he had known. Even in the callous brutality of the domes. Limp and a more than a little sick again he once the throg's officer turned away and a moment later he was forced along in the other's way to the domes of the once tearing camp. Not just to the camp in general he discovered a minute later but to that structure which had housed a comm unit cruising the solar lane and with a patrol. So Thorwald had been right. They needed a turn to broadcast to cover their tracks here and lay a trap for the transport. Shan had no idea how much time he had passed among the wyverns. The transport with this load of unsuspecting settlers might already be in the system of seers plotting a landing over the round warlock broadcasting her recognition signal and a demand for a beam to ride her in. Only this time the throgs were out of luck. They had picked up one prisoner who could not help them even if he wanted to do so. The mysteries of the highly technical installation in the domes were just that to Shan Lantin complete mysteries. He had not the slightest idea of how to activate the machines along broadcast in the proper coast. The cold spot of terror gathered in his middle spreading outward through his smarty body. For he was certain that the throgs would not believe that. They would consider his protestations of ignorance as a stubborn refusal to cooperate. And what would happen to him then would be beyond human endurance. Could he bluff? Play for time? But what would that time by him accept to delay the inevitable? In the end, that small hope based on his momentary contact with Thorvald made him decide to try that bluff. There had been changes in the calm domes since the capture of the camp. They squat box on the floor sprouting their collection of tubes from its upper circus. Perhaps that was some throg equivalent of terror and equipment in place of the wide table facing the door. The throg leader clicked into his translator. You call ship. Shan was thrust down into the operator's chair. His found arms still twisted behind him so that he had to lean forward to keep on the seat at all. Then the throgs who had pushed him there roughly forced a set of calm earphones and speech mics onto his head. Call ship. Clicked the alien officer. So time was running out. Now was the moment to bluff. Shan shook his head hoping that the gesture of negation was common to both their species. I don't know the code he said aloud. The throgs pulled your eyes gauged at his moving lips. Then the translator was held before the parent's mouth. Shan repeated his words heard them reuse you as a series of click and waiters. So much depended now on the reaction of the beetle head officer. Would he summarily apply pressure to enforce his order or would he realize that it was possible that all terrorists did not know that code and so could not produce in a captive's head any knowledge that had never been there with or without physical coercion. Apparently the ladder logic prevailed for the present. The throgs were the translator back to his medical. When chip call you answer make lip talk your words. Say bad sickness here need help. Code man dead. You talk in his place. I listen. You say wrong. You die. You die a long time. Hurt bad all that time. Clear enough so he's been able to buy a little time. But how soon before the incoming ship would call the throgs seem to expect it. Shan licked his blistered lips. He was sure that the throg officer met exactly what he said in that last recently threat. Only would anyone frog or human live very long in this camp if Shan got his warning through the ship. The transport would have been accompanied on the big jump by a patrol cruiser. It's basically now with throgs littering deep space the way they were in his sector. That Shan alerted the ship and the cruiser would know. Swift community action would be visited on the camp. Throgs would begin to make their helpless prisoner regret his righteousness then all of them when the cruiser came in. If that was his last chance he'd play it that way. The throgs would kill him anyway. He hadn't to leased out of that. They kept him long term tearing prisoners and never had. And at least he could take this nest of devil beetles along with him. Not that the thought did anything to dampen the fear which made him weak and dizzy. Shan land team might be tough enough to find his way out of the dumps but to stand up and the five throgs face to face like a video hero or something else. He knew that he could not do any spectacular act. If he could hold out to the end without cracking he would be satisfied. Two more throgs entered the dump. They stopped to the far end of the table which held the calm equipment and frequently pausing to consult a Terran work tape set in a rear they made adjustments to the spotter beam broadcaster. They worked slowly but confidently testing each circuit preparing to draw in the Terran transport holding the large ship until they had help us on the ground. The Terran began to wonder how they proposed to take the ship over once they did have it on the planet. They were armed for ground fighting although they rode in on a beam broadcast from a camp they were prepared for unpleasant surprises on a planet surface just were certainly not unknown in the history of survey. Which meant that the throgs had in turn some assault weapon they believed superior for they radiated confidence now but could they handle a patrol cruiser ready to fight? The technicians made their last check of the beam reporting in clicks to the officer. The alien gave an order to Sham's guard before following them out. A loop of wire rope dropped over the Terran's head tightened about his chest dragging him back against his chair until he grunted with pain. Two more loops made him secure in a most uncomfortable posture and then he was left alone and a boardy struggle against the wire rope caught him the folly of such an effort. He was in deep freeze as far as any bodily movement was concerned. Sham closed his eyes settled to that same concentration he had labored to acquire on the throgs ship. If there was any chance of the wyvern communication working again here and now was the time for it. Again he built his metal picture of Thorvald that detailed once he had made it in the throgs ship. And with that to the forefront of his mind, Sham strove to pick up the thread which could link them. But the distance between this camp and the secret city of the wyvern too great did the throgs unconsciously dampen out that metal reaching as the wyverns had said they did when they had sent him to free the captive in the skull. Drops gathered in the unkept tight curls on his head trickled down to sting on his tender skin. He was bathed in the moisture summoned by an effort that prolonged and severe as if he labored physically under a hot sun at the top speed of which his body was capable. Thorvald but not standing by the window in the wyvern stronghold. Thorvald with the amethyst of heavy warlocking and foliage at his back. So clear was the new picture that Sham could have stood only a few feet away. Thorvald there with the Wolverine to decide and behind him sun glimmered on the dim patterned skin of more than one wyvern. Where? That demand from the survey officer Kurt clear so perfect the word might have run audibly through the dome. The camp, Sham hurled back, frantic with fear that once again their contact might fail. They want me to call in the transport he added that. How soon? Don't know. They had the guide beam set. I'm to say there's illness here. They know I can't code. All they could see now was Thorvald's face in temp. The officer's eyes cold sparked the steel bearing the impress of a will as applicable as a thrall. Sham added his own decision. I'll warn the ship all. They'll send in the patrol. There's no change in Thorvald's expression. Hold out as long as you can. Cold enough. No promise of help. Nothing on which to build hope. Yet the fact that Thorvald was on the move away from the wyvern city meant something. And Sham was sure that thick vegetation could be found only on the mainland. He was Thorvald's shore but there were wyverns with him. Could the officer have persuaded the witches of Warlock to forsake their hands off policy and join him in an attack on the Throg camp? No promise. Not even a suggestion that the party Sham had envisioned was moving in his direction. Yet somehow he believed that they were. There was a sound from the doorway of the dome. As our eyes, there were Throgs entering, one to go to the guide beam, two heading for his chair. He closed his eyes again in a last attempt, backed by every remaining ounce of his energy and will. Ships in range. Throgs here. Thorvald's face dimmer now snapped out while a blow to Sham's jaw rocked his head cruelly. Made his ears sing his eyes water. Throgs only. And one held the translator. You talk. They tried to join his arm reached across his shoulder. Triggered it a level, pressed it back. The headset cramping his ear let out a sudden growl of sound. The calm was activated. A claw jammed a mic closer to Sham's lip but also slid in range the wed loop of the translator. Sham shook his head at the incoming rattle of code. The Throg with the translator was holding the other headset close to his own earpick and the claws of the guard came down on Sham's shoulder in a cruel grip. A threat of future brutality. The rattle of code continued while Sham thought furiously. This was it. He had to give a warning that then the aliens would do to him just what the author had threatened. It seemed to think clearly. It was as if in his effort to contact Thorvald he had exhausted some part of his brain so that now he was dazed just what he needed quick with the most. The whole scene had a weird unreality. He had seen as like a thousand times on fiction tapes. The terror and hero menaced by aliens intent on saving, saving was it out of one of those fiction tapes he had devoured in a past that can recall that scrap of almost forgotten information. The terror began to speak into the mic for there had come a pause in the rattle of code. He used terror, not basic, and he shaped the word slowly. Warlock calling. Trouble. Sickness here. Calm officer death. He was interrupted by another burst of code. The claws of his guard twisted into the neck and flesh of his shoulders in vicious warning. Warlock calling. He repeated, need help. Who are you? For the man came in basis. I'm bored to trust Perth they would have a list of every member of the survey team. Lamb teeth. Chan gave a deep breath. He was so conscious of those claws on his shoulders, of what would follow. This is May Day. He said distinctly, hoping desperately that someone in the control cabin of the ship now in orbit would catch the true meaning of that ancient call of complete disaster. May Day. Beatles. Over and out. This concludes the reading of Chapter 17. Storm over Warlock by Andre Norton. Chapter 18. The final chapter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by R.J. Davis. Storm over Warlock by Andre Norton. Chapter 18. Storm's ending. Chan had no answer from the transport. Only the continuing hum of the contact still open between the dome and the control cabin miles above Warlock. The Terran breathed slowly, deeply, felt the claws of the frog bite his flesh as his chest expanded. Then, as if a knife sliced, the hum of that contact was gone. He had time to know a small flash of triumph. He had done it. He had aroused suspicion in the transport. When the frog officer clicked to the alien manning the landing beam, Chan's exhalation was grew. The beetle head must have accepted that cut in communication as normal. He was still expected the Terran's ship to drop neatly into his claws. But Chan's respite was to be short, only timed by a few breaths. The frog at the riding beam was watching the indicators. Now he reported to his superior, who swung back to face the prisoner. Although Chan could read no expression on the beetle's face, he did not need any clue to the other's probable emotions. Knowing that his captive had somehow tricked him, the alien would now proceed relentlessly to put into effect the measures he had threatened. How long before the patrol cruiser would blend it? That crew was used to the lungs and their speed was three or four times greater than that of the bulkier transport. If the frog didn't scatter now before they could be caught in one attack, the wire rope which held Chan clamped to the chair was loosened and he set his teeth against the pain of restored circulation. This was nothing compared to what he faced. He knew that. They jerked him to his feet facing towards the outer door and propelled him through it with a speed and roughness indicating other feelings. The hour was close to dusk and Chan glanced wistfully at promising shadows, though he had given up hope of rescue by now. If he could just get free of his guards, he could at least give the beetle heads a good run. He saw that the camp was deserted. There was no sign about the domes that any frog sheltered there. In fact, Chan saw no aliens at all except those who had come from the calm dome with him. Of course, the rest must be in ambush waiting for the transport to planet. What about the frog's ship or ships? Those must have been hidden also and the only hiding place for them would be a loft. There was a chance that the frogs had soaked along the way the chance for any quick retreat. Yes, the aliens could scatter over the countryside and so escape the first blast from the cruiser, but they would simply maroon themselves to be hunted down by patrol landing parties who would calm the territory. The beetles would so prolong their lives for a few hours, maybe a few days, but they were really ended at that moment when the transport cut communication. Chan was sure that the officer at least understood that. The terror would dragged away from the dome towards the river down which he and Thorvault had once escaped. Moving through the dusk in parallel lines, he caught sight of other frog's squads, well-armed, marching in order to suggest that they were not yet alarmed. However, he had been right about the ships. There were no flyers grounded on the improvised field. Chan made himself as much of a burden as he could. At the best he could so delay the guards entrusted with his safe peeping. At the worst, he could earn for himself a quick ending by blaster, which would be better than the one they had for him. He went limp, falling forward into the trampled grass. There was exasperated click from the throb who had been hurting him, and the Terran tried not to flinch from the sharp kick delivered by Claude Foot. Painting unconsciousness, the Terran listened to the unintelligible clicks exchanged by throb standing over him. His future defended now on how deeply the alien officers angered. If the beetle had wanted to carry out his earlier threats, he would have to order Chan's transportation by the fleeing force. Otherwise, his life might well end here and now. Claude Foot's once more on Chan. He was boosted up on the cartopus of a guard. The bonds on his arms taken off and his numb hands brought forward to be held by his captor so that he lay helpless a cloak over the other's hunched shoulders. The ghost flares of bushes and plants blooming in the gathering twilight gave a limited light to the scene. There was no way of counting the number of throbs on the move. But Chan was sure that all the enemy ships must have been except for Skelton Cruz and perhaps others had been buried in from their hidden base somewhere in Sears' system. He could only see a little from his position on the throb's back. But ahead, a ripple of beetle bodies slipped over the bank of the river cut. The aliens were working their way into cover, fitting into the dappled shadows with a skill which argued a long practice in situasic maneuvers. Did the plan to try to fight off a cruiser attack? That was pure madness. Or Chan wondered didn't he intend to have the Terrans met by one of their own major ships somewhere well above the surface of Warlock. His bear turned away from the stream cut, carrying Chan out into the field which had first served the Terrans as a landing strip, then offered the same surface to the throbs. They passed two more potties of aliens on the move, manhandling with them Bucky objects the Terran could not identify. Then he was dumped on ceremony's fleet to the hard earth. On his lie there a few seconds before he was flopped over on a framework which grated unpleasantly against his raw shoulders. His wrists and ankles being made fast so that his body was spreadigled. There was a click of orders, the frame was raised and dropped with a drawing movement into a base. Chan held erect, once more facing the throg with the translator. This was it. Chan began to regret every small chance he had had to end more cleanly. If he had attacked one of the guards, even with his hands bound, he might have flustered the throg into retaliatory blaster fire. Fear made a thicker fog about him and the green mist of the illusion. Only this would no illusion. Chan was the throg officer with thick eyes, knowing that no one ever quite believes that a last evil will strike at him, that he had clung to a hope which had no existence. Lan-T, the call burst in his head with a painful force. His day's attention was outwardly on the alien with the translator, but that inner demand had given him a shock. Here, Thor vaults, where? Again with an urgent demand singing through Chan's brain. Here is a fixed point, away from camp but not too far, quick. A fixed point? What did the service officer mean? A fixed point? For some reason, Chan thought of the ledge on which he had lain to watch the first throg attack, and the picture of it was just on his mind as clearly as memory could paint it. Thor vaults? Again, his voice and his mind call were echoes of each other, but this time he had no answer. Had that demand meant Thor vault and the Y-verns were moving in, putting to use the strange distance to racing power the witches of Warlock could use by desire? But why had they not come sooner? And what would they hope to accomplish against the now scattered but certainly unbroken enemy forces? The Y-verns had not been able to turn their power against one injured throg. By their own accounting, how could they possibly cope with will arms and alert aliens in the field? You die slow, the throg officer clicked, and the emotionless, toneless translation was all the more daunting for that lack of color. Your people come, see. So that was the reason they had brought him to the landing field. He was to furnish a grisly warning to the crew of the cruiser. However, there the throgs were making a bad mistake if they believed that his death by any ingenious method would scare off Taren retaliation. I die, you follow. Shan tried to make that promise empathic. Did the throg officer expect to Taren to beg for his life or a quick death? Again, he may just threat straight into the web, hearing it split into clicks. Perhaps the throg returned, but you die for the first. Yet to it, Shan's voice scaled up. He was close to the ragged edge, and the last push towards the breaking point had not been the throg's feet, but that message from Thorbolg. If the survey officer was going to make any move in the model dusk, he would have to be sent. Model dusk, the throgs had moved a little away from him. Shan looked beyond them to the perimeter of the cleared field, not really because he expected to see any rescuers break from cover there, and when he did see a change, Shan thought his own sight was at fault. Those sploshes of laxie light which marked certain trees, bushes, and scrubby ground-hugging plants were spreading, running together in pools, and from those center cores of concentrated glow, tindrils of mist lazily curled out, as a many-armed creature of the sea might allow its appended use to float in the water which supported it. Tindrils crossed, met, and thickened. There was a growing river of eerie light which spread, again resembling a sea wave licking out onto the field, and where it touched, unlike the wave, it did not retreat, but laughed on. Was he actually seeing that? Shan could not be sure. Only the gray light continued to build. Faster now, its speed of advance matching its increase in bulk. Shan somehow connected it with the veil of illusion. If it was real, there was a purpose behind it. There was an aroused clicking from the throbs. A blaster bolt cracked, its spiteful, sickly yellow slicing into the nearest but that luminous fog engulfed the blast and was not dispelled. Shan forced his head around against the support which held him. The mist crept across the field from all quarters, walling them in. Running at the ungainly slope, which was their best effort at speed, were happy dust and throbs emerging from the river section. Their attitude suggested panic stricken flight, and when one tripped on some unseen obstruction to fall beneath a descending tongue of fluorescence, he uttered a strange high-fit squeal thin and faint, but still a note of complete mindless terror. The throbs surrounding Shan were firing at the fog, burst with precision then regularly, as their bolts did nothing to cut that opaque curtain drawing in about them. From inside that mist came other sounds, noises, calls and cries all alien to him, and perhaps also to the throbs. There were shapes barely to be discerned through the swirls. Perhaps some were throbs in fight, but certainly others were non-throg in that line, and the Terran was sure that at least three of those shapes, all different, had been in pursuit of one fleeing throbs, heading him off from that small open area still holding about Shan. For the throbs were being herded in from all sides, the handful who had come from the river, the others who had brought Shan there, and the action of the mist was pushing them into a tight knot. Would they eventually turn on him, wanting to make sure of their prisoner before they made a last stand against whatever lurked in the fog? To Shan's continued relief, the alien seemed to have forgotten him, even when one cowered back against the very edge of the frame on which the Terran was bound, the beetle head did not look at this helpless prey. They were firing wildly with desperation in every heavy thrust of both. Then one throg threw down his blaster, raised his arms over his head, and voicing the same high wail uttered by his comrade in arms earlier, he went straight into the mist for a shape materialized, closed in about him, cutting him off from his fellows. That break demoralized the others. The throg commander burned down two of his company with his blaster, but three more broke past him to the fog. One of the remaining party reversed his blaster, swung the stalk against the officer's carapace, feeding him to his knees before the attacker raced on into the bellows of the mist. Another threw himself on the ground and lay there pounding his claws against the baked dirt. While the remaining two continued with solid precision to fire at the lurking shapes which could only be half seen, and a third helped the officer to his feet. The throg commander reeled back against the frame, his musky body filling Shan's nostrils. But he too paid no attention to the terror, though his horny arms scraped against Shan's, holding both of his claws to his head he staggered on to be engulfed by a new arm of the fog. Then as if the swallowing of the officer had given the mist a fresh appetite, the wind light waved in a last fast bellow over the clear area about the frame. Shan felt his substance cold slimy on his skin. This was a deadly breath of unlife. He was weakened, sapped to strength, so that he hung in his balance. His head lowling forward on his breast, warmth pressed against him, a warm wet touch on his cold skin, a sensation of friendly concern in his mind. Shan gasped, found that he was no longer filling his lungs with that chill staleness which was the breath of the fog. He opened his eyes struggling to raise his head. The gray light had retreated, but though Baster lay close to his feet, another only a yard beyond, there was no sign of the aliens. Instead standing on their hind feet to press against him in a demand for his attention were the Wolverines. And seeing them, Shan dared to believe that the impossible could be true. Somehow he was safe. He spoke, and Taggy and Taggy answered with eager whines. The mist was withdrawing more slowly than it had come. Here and there things lay very still on the ground. Lanteed. This time the call came not into his mind, but out of the air. Shan made an effort every fly which was close to a croak. Over here. A new shape in the fog was moving with purpose toward him. Thorval strode into the open, sighted Shan, and began to run. What did they? He began. Shan wanted to laugh. But the sound which issued from his dry throat was very little like mirth. He struggled helplessly until he managed to get out some words which made sense. Hadn't started in on me yet. You were just in time. Thorval loosened the wires which held the younger man to the frame as stood ready to catch him as he slumped forward. And the officers hold wiped away the last climy residue of the mist. Though he did not seem able to keep on his feet, Shan's mind was clear. What happened, he demanded. The power. Thorval was examining him hastily, but with attention for every cut and bruise. The beetle heads didn't really get to work on you. Told you that, Shan said impatiently. But what brought that fog and got the thralls? Thorval smiled grimly. The ghostly light was fading as the fog retreated, but Shan could see well enough to note that around the other's neck hung one of the wyvern's discs. It was a variation of the veil of illusion. You faced your memories under the influence of that, so did I. But it would seem that the frogs had ones worse than either of us could produce. You can't play the role of thug over the galaxy and not store up in the subconscious a fine line of private fears and remembered enemies. We provided the means for releasing those, and they simply raised their own devils to order. Needless justice ever rendered. It seems that the power had a big kick in a different way when a tyrant will manage you to spark it. And you did? I made a small beginning. Also I had the full backing of the elders and a general staff of wyverns in support. In a way I helped to provide a channel for their concentration. Alone they can work magic. With us they can spread out into new fields. Tonight we hunted throgs as a united team most successfully. But they wouldn't go after the one in the skull. No, direct contact with the throbbed mine appears to be a circuit cell. I did the contacting. They fed me what I needed. We have the answer to the throbs now. One answer. Thorvald looked back over the field where those bodies lay so still. We can kill throbs. Maybe someday we can learn another trick how to live with them. He returned abruptly to the present. You did contact the transport. Shan explained what has happened in the calm dome. I think when the ship broke contact that way they understood. We'll take it that they did and be on the move. Thorvald helped Shan to his feet. If a cruiser bursts here shortly I don't propose to be under his tail frames when it sets down. The cruiser came and a moth up squad were trolled outwards from the reclaimed camp. Ficked up two living throbs both wandering witlessly. But Shan only heard of that later. He slept so deep and dreamlessly that when he aroused he was momentarily dazed. They served a uniform with a cadets badges. They crossed the wall seat facing his bunk and the barracks he had left. How many days or weeks before? The garment spitted well enough but he removed the insignia to which he was not entitled. When he turned out he saw a half a dozen troopers of the patrol together with Thorvald watching the cruiser lift again into the morning sky. Taggy and Toggy trailing leashes galloped out of nowhere to hurl themselves at him in a ferocious welcome. And Thorvald must have heard their eager whines even through the blast of the ship for he turned and waved Shan to join him. Where's the cruiser going? They threw a base out of the system Thorvald entered. They located it on which. But we're staying on here? Thorvald glanced at him oddly. There won't be any settlement now but we have to establish a conditional embassy post and a patrol has left a guard. Embassy post? Shan digested that. Yes, of course. Thorvald because of his close contact with the Wyverns would be left here for the present to act as liest an officer in charge. We don't propose, the other was continuing, to allow to laugh to any contact with the one intelligent alien race we have discovered who can furnish us with full time partnership to our mutual benefit. And there mustn't be any bungling here. Shan nodded. That made sense. As soon as possible Warlock would witness the arrival of another team. One slanted this time to the cultivation of an alien friendship and alliance rather than preparation for Terran columnist. Would they keep him on? He supposed not. The Wolverines usefulness was no longer apparent. Don't you know your regulations? There was a snap in Thorvald's demand which startled Shan. He glanced up, discovered the other surveying him critically. You're not in uniform. No sir, he admitted. I couldn't find my own kit. Where are your badges? Shan's hand went up to the mark left where he had so carefully ripped off the Assygnus. My badges? I have no rank. He replied bewildered. Every team carries at least one cadet on strength. Shan plies. There has been one cadet on this team. Why did Thorvald want to remember that? Also, the other's voice sounded remote. There can be appointments made in the field for cause. Those appointments are left to the discretion of the officer in charge and they are never questioned. I repeat, you're not in uniform, Lanthee. You will make the necessary alteration and report to me at headquarters as sole representatives of Terra here. We have the matter of protocol to be discussed with our witches and they have the right to expect punctuality from a pair of warlocks. So get going. Shan still stood staring incredulously at the officer. Then Thorvald's official severity vanished in a smile which was warm and real. Get going, he ordered once more to log you for inattention to orders. Shan turned, nearly stumbling over Taghi and then ran back to the barracks and quested some very important bits of raid he hoped he could find in a hurry. This concludes the reading of Chapter 18, the final chapter of Storm Over Warlock by Andre Norton. Narrated by R.J. Davis.