They had chosen, to the best of their ability, that temporary fortress, and, it would seem, with luck they had chosen well. The off-worlders were backed by rocks, and nothing could come at them from that side, while—before the sword-armed Iftin—the passage was narrow. Not more than two of the wytes could storm them at a time. There could be no pack maneuver there to drag them down. Only—perhaps servants of another species followed. Would it be this day that the true Iftin faced the false?
Ayyar listened until it seemed to him that his whole body was one giant ear. For a long moment now the wyte had not given tongue. He could hear the murmur of the river, other sounds all normal. Why were the Enemy running mute?
Then he drew a sharp breath. From here they could see the flitter. Something slim, white, narrow of head, long and bony of leg, pattered into the open and rounded the flyer to sniff at the open cabin door, thrusting its head and shoulders into the interior in search. The wyte withdrew to nose the ground over which the off-worlders had stumbled. Now it swung around to stare at the rocks and sighted the waiting Iftin. Its jaws opened; a thin, pale tongue showed. The creature flung back its head, voiced one of the shrill howls that hurt Iftin ears and rang inside Iftin minds.
So having summoned, it trotted forward to hunker down well beyond the range of any prudent sword. A movement beside Ayyar caught his eye. Rizak fumbled at the belt of the off-worlder he had guided. His hand moved jerkily, force of will tensing his body until his fingers closed about the butt of the blaster holstered there. With strained, clumsy movements, he brought that hand around, as though the light weapon in his grip was an almost intolerable weight. The barrel rested on a rock top, pointing at the wyte. Rizak fired.
Fire sped to dazzle and hurt their eyes, their goggles notwithstanding. There was no cry from the wyte—the beam had been too swift. It left death behind in a twisted thing resembling the gnarled roots of a long dead tree. Ayyar rubbed his smarting eyes, goggles pushed up. As he snapped them back into place he waited, tense, for some answer to the summons the wyte had voiced. Rizak had finished off the pack scout, but it was only one of many. And could blasters deal as well with robot Iftin?
"Riverside—to the south—" Jarvas ordered suddenly.
Ayyar was dismayed. To leave this shelter, small as it was, for the open was rank folly. But—perhaps to wait for untold odds could be stupid too.
"Come!" Jarvas spoke in Basic to the off-worlder of the police. He raised the other's limp arm, placed its hand upon his own shoulder. But now Ayyar saw the eyes in that slack face move, fasten on Jarvas. And surely there was dawning intelligence—awareness in them!
With each of them guiding one of the off-worlders, the Iftin went down slope to the ice-packed gravel of the water's edge.
"Look!" Ayyar whirled, knocking his charge back and down. But Rizak needed no warning. He sprayed the beam of the blaster, and the things that had moved in upon them from the south twisted in its flame. Wytes—three of them—running mute.
"What—what— Who—are—you?"
The voice speaking halting Basic startled Ayyar. He had come, even in that short time, to think of the off-worlders as semi-inanimate, without any claim to a share in this, mere burdens for the Iftin. Now he looked at the man he had knocked to the ground. He was older than the flyer and his face was no longer blank. He raised a hand, reaching for a weapon; Jarvas spoke first.
"Get on your feet, if you can. Here they come again!"
No warning bay from the wyte, nothing but a flicker of movement from among the rocks. Rizak cried out. In his forearm hung the quivering shaft of an arrow. He dropped the blaster, and in the same second Ayyar stooped to scoop it up. He rayed a green-clad figure standing among the rocks, but it did not fall, though the beam crisped away its clothing.
"The head!" Jarvas shouted. "Aim for the head!"
Aim? It was hard to hold this alien weapon at all. It shook and wavered. He rested the barrel on his forearm to steady it, shivering at its touch. But the second sweep of that beam went in across the head of the archer. The false Ift did not stagger, but it began to run back and forth with small jerky steps—until its erratic course brought it to the top of a small cliff and it crashed over and down, to be hidden from their sight. Another arrow clattered against the stone at Ayyar's shoulder. There was no going south into that.
"Back—upstream—"
The off-worlder who had spoken got to his feet and obeyed Jarvas' order as if he were one of them. He had his blaster out and accounted for the second silent rush of wytes as they flowed down upon the party. Ayyar's hand shook so he could not aim properly, only sent a beam spraying across the rocks.
Then, as suddenly as the attack had lipped toward them, it was finished. Nothing stirred among the rocks, and even that heaviness of spirit that had been a cloak about those who served That lifted from them, though whether this could be depended upon as a signal of the Enemy's retreat Ayyar could not be sure.
"Who are you?" Again came that demand from the off-worlder. His blaster was now covering the three of them.
"We are Iftin—of the Forest," Jarvas replied.
"More robots—" The pilot's hand struck the blaster from Ayyar's hold.
"Not so. Your robots are out there." Jarvas pointed to the west. "You have just seen them and their hounds in action. We left you one of them to let you know the truth—"
"As if we believe you—"
"Hanfors!" The third of the flitter crew—he of the police—cut in sharply. "Who signaled thus—" He repeated a stream of numerals.
"Two, seven, nine," Jarvas added. "Pate Sissions, First-in Scout."
"Where is he?" the pilot demanded.
"He is with us; he sent that message," Jarvas said. "We are not the robots, nor do we have any alliance with That which controls them. They are being used to create ill feeling between us and you off-worlders."
The man who had halted Hanfors' outburst lowered his blaster an inch or so. He looked to the oldest of their number inquiringly and the other spoke:
"You brought us down—to tell us this?"
"No. That brought you down, to be an easy kill for Its servants."
"And just what is That?"
"I can give you no answer. Only It is a power which has existed for ages, which has always stood as an enemy to my people, and which moves against us now through you."
"Through us?"
"You fire the Forest, grub out its roots—why?"
Hanfors snorted. "Why? To uncover the burrows of the vermin who raid the garths—you—you Iftin, if that is what you call yourselves."
"We Iftin have not raided you."
"We have these now, at any rate!" Hanfors spoke to the others. "We can take them in and get the real truth—with a snooper. I will set the flitter on ready; you bring them up—"
He holstered his blaster and ran up slope to the machine.
"Those swords," the older man said. "Suppose you drop them now."
Rizak supported his wounded arm with his other hand. There was a dark patch growing around the arrow shaft. Jarvas unbuckled his shoulder belt, dropped the sheathed blade on the ground as he asked:
"Will you let me see to his wound?"
"All right. But disarm him first!"
Rizak's sword followed Jarvas'. Then Jarvas laid hand on the protruding shaft.
"You!" The off-worlder pilot looked to Ayyar. "Put yours down, also."
But as Ayyar raised unwilling hands to put off his weapon, there was a call from the flitter. Hanfors came out of the cabin and down slope with greater speed than he had gone up.
"The controls are dead. We cannot raise her."
"Send in a call—" suggested the older man.
Hanfors was already shaking his head. "Everything is dead, no motor, no com—nothing—"
"Can you repair it?"
"Repair what? Hanfors demanded. "There is nothing wrong that one can see."
"Nothing wrong except that it will not work," commented the third man. "If that is so, we are also off the port beam, and they will come looking for us."
"Just when, Steffney? And"—the older man glanced to where Jarvas was dealing with Rizak's wound, snapping the shaft to draw through the point—"we cannot believe that this is a particularly healthy spot in which to be grounded. I would suggest we start north. The clearing squad working on this side of the river must have put a com-find on us as we went over. They will be looking for us first. Also"—he tapped one finger against his blaster—"we have these. It would seem that the weapons mustered against us"—he looked pointedly at the swords, the broken arrow—"are less efficacious. And we now possess three hostages."
"Three prisoners. You, drop that sword!" Steffney ordered Ayyar. "We will not have too far to march, and it is all along the river, sir."
The older man looked upstream and then glanced at the remains of the wytes. As if he could really read his mind, Ayyar knew what the other was thinking. As they glided overhead, swinging well above the Forest, where men of his species were triumphantly wreaking their will, over the Waste that had no meaning for an off-worlder, this country held no fear. To be set afoot here, after a brush with strange enemies, that was another matter altogether. The Waste spread wide; the Forest was no longer just a nuisance to be swept from a man's path; man himself was reduced in size and power. To tramp north through a wilderness, guarding three prisoners, not sure of what might lurk behind or of anything else in the wild countryside, that was an undertaking this port official for one did not relish.
"This is not empty land. That and what and who serve It are on the move." Jarvas must have read the same thoughts and was prepared to build upon them as an aid to some mutual understanding.
"We have you. They will not attack us—" Hanfors grinned.
"Will they not? And from whence came that arrow?" Ayyar asked. "Did our own comrades shoot at us? If so, to what purpose?"
The older man smiled slightly. "Do you know, those are questions to be answered. Of course, you may have been sent here to bring us down, stage a fake rescue, and so win our confidence."
"There is one answer. Look at the one he did shoot," Steffney interrupted. "If it is a robot—then why would he worry about blasting it? They could sacrifice a robot to make the story good. And that nick in the arm, that is nothing to howl about. You may be right, Inspector Brash!"
Jarvas shrugged. "There is no opening minds willfully closed. Only this I tell you, we are no hostage for anything out there. To them we are the enemy, and you cannot use us for shields."
"Maybe not. But we shall find other uses for you," Steffney declared. "Now let us be on our way—march!"
Ayyar reluctantly shed his sword, watched Hanfors gather up all three sheathed blades and sling their baldrics across one shoulder. At an impatient motion of the blaster in Steffney's hand they began to walk north along the river. Now and then a faint breath of burning wood came to them, marking the death of the Forest.
They had not gone out of sight of the flitter before Ayyar knew that the attention of That in the Waste was again turned upon them. But they heard no more baying of wytes nor saw any movement there. The off-worlders might not be scouts or woodsmen, but they went warily enough and did not relax caution.
Jarvas was nearest to the river, Rizak next to him, while Ayyar was the closest to their guards. Ayyar's mind began to play with the possibilities in that line up. Suppose he were to stumble, tangle with Steffney. Could Jarvas use that momentary confusion to get to the water? And would the river protect him from blaster fire? No, there was Hanfors moving up to the right, only a step or so behind Jarvas. Rizak must have been more badly hurt than they first guessed, for now and then he staggered, lurched over against Jarvas, though he made no complaint. If they only had a chance to plan—!
How far were they from the devastation about the Forest? It must be more than a day's journey away on foot. And with the coming of night the Iftin would have the advantage of clearer sight. But would That let them travel without another attack? It was watching, and not far from here was the road to the Mirror—
No! As sharp as any order shouted aloud, that denial shot through his mind. One does not lead the enemy into the fastness of one's strength. The Mirror had served them against That, but it would not open its protection to them if they came with off-worlders. It was as if the revulsion they themselves felt against their one-time kin was multiplied a thousand times in protest.
It was sunset now, and the slow pace Jarvas, now supporting Rizak, held grew even slower, in spite of the urging of the off-worlders to hurry. Brash took the lead, but suddenly he paused and looked west.
"Hear that?"
Was it sound or something more subtle? Ayyar had that second or two of warning, perhaps because he had once faced its like. A shadow in the air, winged. One of That's messengers. As it flapped lower, Brash shook his head violently, his hands to his ears. And behind, Ayyar heard Hanfors cry out.
He threw himself back, crashing against the pilot, bringing them both to earth. He tried to hold onto the other in spite of the revulsion that sapped his strength. Perhaps his head came in contact with one of the rocks, perhaps the other landed a blow. But a night no Iftin eyes could pierce swallowed him up.
Waking came piecemeal. He was being dragged along, and he was sick, very sick! Did he cry out in protest or only think he so cried? In either case, his plaint did no good. He continued to be pulled forward. He fought against his sickness, trying to stabilize his private world so that he might learn what had happened.
At last he made a vast effort and opened his eyes. He hung between Hanfors and Steffney; before him moved Brash. About them was a weird interplay of light and shadow, which he could not understand but which made him giddy and light of head.
Jarvas? Rizak? He could not see them. Had they indeed escaped into the river? Or had blasters cut them down? He still marched along the river, but as his head cleared a little, Ayyar saw the difference in the off-worlders. Although they moved easily, they had an odd look. No longer did Brash glance to right or left, displaying the caution he had shown. Rather did he walk with disregard for the ground underfoot, with a straightforward stare, as if all that mattered was some waiting goal.
That last moment before the melee—Ayyar could remember it all now: the coming of the flying thing which was an extension of That's eyes, as he had learned when Illylle and he had encountered it. And as it had then, so did it now strike a mental bolt, probing at the party of Iftin and off-worlders. With Ift it could not prevail, but with the men from the port? They moved as if under command—That's!
There was no pause for rest. They might have been tireless robots as they kept to the steady pace. Ayyar did not struggle in their grasp. It was all he could do to control his aversion to that hold and keep his mind steady.
There was no howling of wytes but a sound alien to this side of the river, the rumbling clank of heavy machinery. And as if that had some particular meaning for those he traveled with, they halted, but to no spoken order, standing to face north whence that sound came. It grew sharper, stronger.
Some of it came from upstream, yes. But there were other sounds across the river, among which were faint cries, surely from human throats. Through the thin woodland there came the crackling of small trees and brush going down before the not-to-be-withstood force of a machine's advance. What pushed its nose through into the open was no flamer or grubber, as Ayyar had expected, but something that had no place in this wilderness, as if one of the space ships had fallen over to creep reptile-like across the land.
This was a loader, combining in its body, force enough to pull a heavy-laden truck, with the crane mast and other fittings to transfer those burdens into waiting cargo ships. The mast was now tilted askew, half ripped from its moorings, ragged banners of broken branches and winter dried vine caught up and wreathed around it. The same woodland debris was caught in every crevice of the machine as it ground forward, breaking through the edge ice along the river, advancing as if the force of the current, under which it shuddered and shook, meant nothing beside the necessity for crawling through that flood to reach the other shore.
It was pushed downstream by the current, yet it continued to fight doggedly to reach their bank, though now it traveled at an angle which, if the machine did finally manage to breast the full force of the river, would bring it out not far from them. Ayyar watched, hardly believing that truth of what his eyes reported. The blind determination of the loader was amazing. There was no driver in the small upper cabin which had been bashed and twisted, perhaps by the fall of some tree with which the machine had argued passage. It was as if the loader itself was imbued with brainless life!
The clamor from upstream on their own bank grew louder as the loader continued its fight for river passage. There, too, vegetation was being crushed. Finally they caught sight of the flamer, its nozzle covered with the same debris the loader bore, not belching flames but pointing with a slightly crooked finger obliquely toward the Waste.
Cleaned by the stream of most of its ragged covering, the loader's treads caught on some underwater sand bar and it splashed up the bank. All the time, the off-worlders with Ayyar stood, staring straight ahead. Whether they watched at all he could not be sure. But they showed no surprise or alarm at the coming of the machines.
The flamer blanked into the open, turned to point to the Waste, began a ponderous march westward. After it, ground-eating prongs erect, a third machine, the grubber, came into view from the forest clearing and turned in the same direction. The loader made heavy business of bringing up the rear.
From over the river the shouting that followed in the wake of the loader was loud. Blazing, waving torches showed there. Then Brash came to life, as did the two men supporting Ayyar, moving away from the stream, up slope in the wake of the three machines still grinding into the Waste. They did not turn their heads to look as the torches reached the water's edge, but Ayyar strove to do so.
He did not believe that the garthmen with their night limited sight could see the four men from that distance. The Settlers did no more than move up and down on the bank. There was a large party of them, and Ayyar saw the light shine on metal. Gleaming scythes, axes, and the long knives used in clearing brush could also be weapons in the hands of desperate and determined men.
Perhaps their party was sighted as they reached the top of the rise, passing in the rutted track left by the loader, for the shouting grew louder. But Ayyar, unable to turn in the merciless grip that held him prisoner, could no longer see what happened behind them.
However, now they were no longer alone, for, amidst the wreckage strewing the path that the machines had broken, came other men, walking with the same unseeing tread of his captors, staring before them. All wore port clothing and plainly were now controlled by some influence that did not claim him.
Ayyar stiffened, drove his booted feet as deeply as he could into the rutted track, strove to twist free from the grip that dragged him on. He might have been struggling alone to delay the loader. There was no loosing of that hold. They continued to compel him forward.
Was That summoning an army obedient to Its will?
Cries from the river! Ayyar could not see if the garthmen had conquered their hesitation or were also caught in That's net. He could only fight for his own freedom as best he could, digging in his feet, struggling, useless though his resistance seemed to be.
Two of the company that had followed the clearing machines caught up with Ayyar's party. Neither group looked at their new companions nor gave any sign they knew the others existed. Both the newcomers wore uniforms of the police. They were armed with blasters, but those were holstered, as if here and now there was nothing to fear. And their calm march had a quelling effect on Ayyar, as if he were being borne along in a company of men who were both invincible and deathless.
They came to the edge of a gully into which the loader had plunged and was now making violent efforts to get up. Hanfors and Steffney turned sharply to the left, bearing Ayyar with them. The other men headed for the stalled machine, put their shoulders to it, lending their strength to free it, though their efforts made no difference to the wallowing of the loader. Now came others, first port men, all blank of face, all going directly to the machine's aid. After them, four, five, of the bearded, dully clad garthmen, all wet with river water, dripping as if they had swum the flood.
Without a word exchanged between them and the men from the port, they joined in the task of striving to free the loader. Groaning, scraping with its treaders, the machine struggled. Then those treads caught—it heaved, gained a space, another, pulled over the top, leaving behind it men who had fallen and lay panting and spent but who struggled to their feet to walk blankly onward in its wake.