Behind those who freed the machine came Ayyar, between his two guards, still at that mechanical, unvarying pace. They were now at the tail of the motley mob heading into the heart of the Waste. Ayyar saw to the north the shadowed rise of the mount that was the frame of the Mirror. But it might as well hang like a moon out in space for all it would serve him now.
The way was rough, the soil soft so that the machines crawled through it slowly, leaving deep ruts. This was where the Mirror flood had cleansed and swept free the land. But it was desert still, though the evil growth that had once formed leprous patches had withered into dried skeletons.
On and on. Now and again the flying thing that was the projection of That swooped over the straggling line of men and machines. If the wytes or false Iftin also roved this land they did not show themselves.
Ayyar no longer struggled. Better to conserve his energy for any chance fortune might bring. But his mind was clearer, more alert, and he studied both the land and the men about him carefully.
It must be near midnight. The moon looked oddly pale and far away. To off-world eyes the terrain must be very shadowed. But it would seem that the purpose that united his captors made them also impervious to day or night. Now and then a man did sprawl forward in the ruts, only to regain his feet and go on, with no sign that he was aware of his tumble.
Suppose one—or both—of his captors should so lose their balance? Could he guide them into any pitfall? Ayyar began to search the ground ahead for any promising hole or unevenness. Experiments taught him that he could not vary their progress route by much in spite of any struggle on his part. But perhaps only a handsbreadth right or left might serve his purpose.
Then came another halt; men tramped around the machine just ahead, as if alerted by some signal. Ayyar caught sight of the grubber in much the same difficulty in soft ground as the loader had been earlier. The strange army gathered about it, lending their strength to aid the trapped machine. Ayyar caught his breath in a gasp of horror.
One of those pushing it had fallen under the treads of the grubber. Not one of his companions, even those nearest, made an effort to pull him out of danger. Instead, the machine lurched on and over him with crushing force. Then only did the men stand aside, their hands hanging idly by their sides, their faces blank, their eyes fixed on some point ahead invisible to Ayyar, while the grubber ground on. When the loader, too, had passed, they took up the march once again.
There had been no cry from the man who had so gone to his death. If the false Iftin were robots, then these were now even more alien for they had once been men and now were—what?
Ayyar's revulsion for the off-worlders increased a hundred-fold. Had the Larsh been so? He strove to make memory obey his will as he had so many times in the past. In this company it would seem that Naill was growing more clear, Ayyar less. He looked upon these men and machines as Naill would consider them.
Psycho-locked! That came out of Naill memory—and just what did it mean? There were drugs, it was rumored, that could turn a living body into a mindless robot-like thing. They deadened brain and personality so completely that the thing left had even to be ordered to eat, to carry out the other processes necessary to keep the body alive and serviceable to the master. But these men could not have been drugged, at least not those with him.
Left, right, left, right— Suddenly Ayyar realized that his feet were moving in time with all the others. This . . . was . . . right . . . this was meant—let go—be one—with them—with It—
With Larsh declared another memory struggling in his mind. Not one of the Iftin-kind; they did not share minds with Larsh!
Naill—Ayyar—he was torn between the two who were one in him. Naill who would be united with this plodding company, Ayyar who felt toward such companions only disgust and fear. To be Naill now was defeat. He must cling to Ayyar as a man in a spring-flooded river would cling to a floating log. He was Ayyar, Ayyar of Ky-Kyc, once Captain of the First Ring, who had dwelt in Iftcan. That city—Iftsiga—
Close to drowning, he clung to the thought of Iftsiga, its centuries-withstanding strength, its healing, its sheltering. Iftsiga's sap had fed him only a few days ago. He was one with the Great Crowns, the Forest, not with these who would and did despoil that beauty.
As one who stumbles through smoke murk into clear air, so did Ayyar emerge, by strength of will, from Naill who would betray him into the hands of That. He dared delay no longer, for every moment of time he marched with this company locked him more securely to the purpose that animated them.
Deliberately he moved his feet to break step. He did not try again to weaken their hold upon his body, but once more he set to studying the ground ahead. He decided upon one of the dried skeleton bushes—for lack of anything better. Half of it had been driven into the soil by the track of the loader. But to the left of that rut projected a stub of the center stem that looked as if it might hook a man at shin level. Exerting pressure slowly, Ayyar began to move his captors inch by wearying inch into the position where the stub could trip Hanfors.
So small a thing on which to build any hope! But he had not fought their grip for a while. They might have relaxed a little when they no longer had to brace themselves to defeat his pull.
So—just a little more— Ah, it looked as if he had planned better than he knew. Hanfors was walking in the depression of the left loader track, Steffney, on the other side, in the matching rut. This left Ayyar a little above them on the uncut ground in the middle, making their hold on him harder to maintain. He waited to see if they would adjust that to defeat his purpose, but they did not. Now if Hanfors would only trip on the broken bush— Ayyar made ready to take any advantage.
Three steps—two— Now!
The broken stub caught Hanfors on his shin. Fortune favored Ayyar, for the stub was stoutly enough bedded not to yield. The man staggered, tumbled forward, and at the same moment Ayyar jerked back with all his might.
He broke the hold the young pilot had on him. Steffney still kept his lock grip on the right, but Ayyar swung around, struck the other's undefended face as hard as he could. Steffney went down in turn, and Ayyar staggered back a step or two. Then he turned and ran, expecting any moment to hear them pounding after him. But perhaps the fall and the blow had slowed their reflexes, for after a few tense moments, he knew that they were not following.
Which way? Toward the river where the garthmen had gathered on the opposite shore? North to the Mirror? Or south to the sea? At least in the south were those of his own kind, and perhaps Jarvas and Rizak had escaped there also.
Ayyar had covered perhaps a third of the way back, angling southward, when movement before him sent him into cover. He tried to see or scent what waited there. Did the false Iftin and the wytes now patrol the shore? There was no baying.
"No!" He cried that aloud. Another company of marchers from the world beyond the Waste. Garthmen these were, carrying axes, any sharp-edged tool that could serve as a weapon. But they moved with the same thudding lock-step as had the earlier group. And with them—Iftin! False Iftin herding captives?
Then Ayyar caught sight of the face of the nearest guard—Jarvas! Was he caught by that compulsion? Had he reverted to Pate Sissions, and so was susceptible to whatever influence stirred all the rest of them? Beyond him was Lokatath who should have been scouting beyond the river. Jarvas was the nearer.
Ayyar skulked close to that line of marchers, crouched behind a tangle of dead and dried brush. Then he leaped, his hands closing on the taller Ift, bringing the other down under his weight on the ground. If Jarvas had been under the influence of That, it was now broken. He heaved under Ayyar, caught him in an immobilizing infighting hold that was of Pate's knowledge, not Jarvas'. Then their faces were near together, and Jarvas' slitted eyes widened.
He loosed his captive and sat up, Ayyar beside him. Coming at a swift stride was Lokatath. They were truly Iftin then, not controlled. Ayyar said as much in his joy, and Jarvas nodded.
"What compels them does not affect us—"
"Unless," corrected Lokatath, "we allow ourselves to remember that we were once as they. But what happens anyway? These—they were on the track of a raiding party—suddenly they became as you see them—marching as if to order, swimming the river with only the purpose of reaching this shore in their minds— What would That do?"
"Marshal an army, I think." Swiftly Ayyar told what he himself had witnessed.
"Machines, men—?" wondered Lokatath.
"It has given up more subtle tactics such as the false Iftin and now It moves to open warfare—" Jarvas got to his feet, stood looking after the marching garthmen. "It is gathering all the servants and tools It can garner—to prepare—"
"For what? To root out the Forest tree by tree?" Ayyar asked. "Already those from the port and the garths were doing that for It. To fight us? We are but six on this side of the ocean. It need not forge an axe to destroy a blade of grass. Why then?"
"Yes, why?" Jarvas gazed now not after the marchers, but north to that shadow of the Mirror's setting. "There is another power, another opponent It would consider far more worthy of Its full attention than us. Months ago that power struck, and perhaps that blow—or blows—was what aroused in turn this desperate need for retaliation. No, I do not think that these march against us, nor against the Forest any longer. Just as That once sent the Larsh to defeat Iftcan, so now It will send what tools It may gather to defeat the central point of all that opposes It here—the Mirror of Thanth!"
Ayyar memory quailed from even considering such sacrilege. Always there had been the power invested in the Mirror or focused by it. And by that power had seed grown, Iftin-kind lived, Iftcan tossed great branches to greet seasons' winds throughout centuries of life. And, likewise by the will of That, had death and decay and desert crept, always threatening that life, ever held at bay. Now when they were so few, and That so strong because of the many It could summon to Its banner, there was a chance that the final overturn of all was before them. And even to think of that sent a man's brain close to the edge of madness.
Words out of the long past were on his tongue now. He had no sword any longer, but his hand went up as if it held such a blade—point out.
"This is Iftin answer then—any tribute will be bought at sword point."
He heard a high excited laugh from Lokatath. "Well said, brother! It is better to die fighting than to give over-lord's salute to That!"
"Better still," Jarvas cut in sternly, "to live and ask what our swords can do for Thanth. We go crippled into any battle, for we have not the powers nor the knowledge of those we replace, while That has all memories open to It. But whatever we can do, we shall. And in this hour we must not be divided. Rizak is hiding by the river; his wound is not such that he cannot join with us. But Illylle, above all, we must have with us!"
"My journey that," claimed Lokatath. "Though"—he glanced at the sky—"day comes and it is That's time. I will not risk too great speed."
"You must not!" Jarvas agreed. "It is in my mind that That will take no chances, even though the weight of advantage is now Its. Forget not that the false Iftin still prowl, and the wytes. Also perhaps That pulls more Settlers. Run a broken course through this land of danger."
"Perhaps two of us—" began Ayyar.
"Not so! We must not separate too widely. For you and me and Rizak, the Mirror and the burden of waiting there."
They did not seek the river end of that road which led to the Mirror, but struck directly cross country, passing from the shriveled part of the Waste at a steady lope into that part where clean greenery had begun to find root, though this was now winter dried. The wall of the way, which grew taller the nearer one drew to the Mirror stair, was about shoulder high at the place they elected to cross it. Once that had been an effective barrier between the brooding menace of the Waste and the sanctuary of the road. For Ayyar, now, there was a difference on this side of that barrier. In the slot of the road he had had no sense of peace, nor of refuge, rather of withdrawal as if some hunter was hiding to watch and wait.
Jarvas made no move to approach the stairs that led to the Mirror, nor did they urge him to it. They were three, having brought in Rizak on their way. Over the arch which led to the steps glowed the symbols Ayyar had seen there months ago when a spark from his Iftin sword had turned some unseen key to bid them enter.
Then that symbol had been green; now it was darker in shade, and it pulsated as if behind it some energy flowed and ebbed or built by degrees. They watched it; but none spoke.
If their question had been, "What was That?" now it could also be, "What moves the Mirror or uses it to communicate at Iftin call?" Ayyar decided. And he knew the wariness of one who crouches in open ground between two hostile forces, so far beyond his own puny strength that he could not even guess at any bonds laid upon them.
Jarvas sat crosslegged in the road, his eyes fixed. Ayyar guessed that he was now fighting for memory, to be all Jarvas, to know what that Jarvas who had been Mirrormaster had known. Mirrormaster? Not truly, no Ift could master that which reached through Thanth.
Rizak leaned against one of the wall stones, nursing his hurt arm across his chest, his eyes closed. But Ayyar—his restlessness was such that he prowled along the wall, first east and then west, looking out into the Waste. Dawn was coming fast and the heat of day was Its own time. What was that in the graying sky?
No winged follower of That—rather a flitter from the base port flying straight out westward. Was That summoning all machines? Or did some foolish off-worlder come scouting here? The course would bring the flyer directly over the Mirror. Ayyar's hand half raised in an instinctive warn-off gesture. But even as he moved, the flitter veered sharply, swooped as if control was momentarily lost, then rose again to make a sharp-angled flight to avoid the mount and its crater.
Once past the Mirror, the flyer followed the route of the vanished army. There were no other signs of life outside their refuge. But the rising sun sought out glittering spots here and there to the west—too far for Ayyar to make out their nature but brilliant enough to hurt his eyes. So as he made his voluntary sentry-go, he watched only the space beyond the walls of the road.
How long it was before Jarvas stirred, glanced at his two companions as if he saw them, instead of looking into an inner well holding only thought, Ayyar did not know. The sun was well up and they were hungry. But their supplies as well as their weapons were gone. Ayyar was thinking of that loss when Jarvas asked a question:
"Anything out there?"
"No."
"Consolidation of forces." Rizak, whom Ayyar had believed asleep, spoke without opening his eyes. "And what do we do—march in to face what waits there?"
"If necessary, yes." And they could not dispute Jarvas' answer, for they knew it was true. There was no turning back now; perhaps there never had been a chance to since each of them in his own time had reached out his hand to take up that portion of the "treasure" that had made him a changeling. This was an old, old struggle for the Iftin-kind, and they were Iftin now.
"Sleep if you can," Jarvas said to Ayyar. "The watch is mine."
Though the sun glared, the road still held shadows along its walls, and they were shelter. Thankfully Ayyar lay in one such dusky pool, closed his eyes. Slumber came, though he had not thought it would.
Of what had he dreamed? Of something that might answer all their questions, that he was sure of when a hand shook him into reluctant wakefulness. But that answer was gone with the opening of his eyes to the refreshing dusk of evening. On the arch the symbol still burned, but steadily now, as if the gathered energy was complete. And there was such an atmosphere of expectancy that he looked about him, seeking to see what or who had been added to their company.
It was Rizak who had roused him. Of Jarvas there was no sign, but the other answered Ayyar's unvoiced question.
"He has gone—up there."
Ayyar stood to follow, but Rizak shook his head. "For us not yet."
Looking upon the symbol, Ayyar knew he spoke the truth. For them the summons had not yet sounded.
"Blue the leaf, strong the tree,
Deep the root, high the branch,
Sweet the earth, lying free.
Gather dark—"
With the words Ayyar's hands moved as one who wished to finger a curtain, draw it aside—
"Gather dark, hold the night,
Stars hang, the moon is bright.
Blue the leaf, life returns.
In the end, sword never fails—"
But that song was not true. Swords had failed once; they could again. And swords against blaster were no match at all. Naill thoughts troubled Ayyar's mind. From behind him came other words:
"Blue the leaf, rise and grow,
Deep strike old roots to reach.
Star shine, moon glow—
Ift seed—"
Rizak stopped. "It is gone," he added a moment later. "With so much else, all the wise words, the power songs. In bits and patches they come to mind and then they are naught. If we could sing together the tale of the sword of Kymon, well might we guess the nature of That and how Kymon forced upon It the restraining Oath. But we cannot."
Why did they speculate now on wisdom that might or might not be hidden in an ancient hero tale, Ayyar wondered. Of course it could well be that Kymon had once walked this very path of Thanth. Or was he a legend who had never lived? No, old songs would not help them now, nor tatters of memory. Yet still in his mind rang the words that did have meaning for all Ift born or changeling made:
"Blue the leaf, life returns—"
For blue had been the leaf in the golden age when the city of Iftcan had been root-set and the Ift, masters of Janus.
The night was long as they watched and waited, knew hunger and thirst and must set aside as best they could such demands of their bodies. They watched the Waste where nothing stirred, and listened, always listened for anything that passed outside the road.
Even with dawn Jarvas did not return from the Mirror. But Ayyar found a depression in the rock where drops of dew gathered, and those they licked to dull their thirst. He remembered more and more the rich, life-restoring sweetness of the sap in Iftsiga's walls and wondered how much longer they could deny the needs of their bodies.
It was deep in the second night that they heard sounds from the east. Ayyar armed himself with a stone, the best weapon chance now granted him, only to drop it again at a familiar soft whistle. Three came along the road. By some great good fortune Lokatath had bettered the time allowed for his mission. Illylle and Kelemark, each carrying a small pack, ran beside him, straight for those who waited in the glow of that purplish symbol and what lay behind it for good or ill.