Invading it would be madness, pure and simple.
And yet, with the starship shattered, what did he have to lose?
Besides, Zenaor owed him a debt ... a debt that only blood could cancel.
Blood. The blood of the starship's crew, and of the Baemae. Of Tumek, and a grey-thatched serving-serf without a name.
And on the roof here, Tumek had said, a disc lay ready.
A disc, and a debt of blood, and the Tower of Zenaor.
And Narla.
Why was he hesitating?
Cold-eyed, tight-lipped. Craig Nesom groped towards the stair....
CHAPTER IV
The disc came down to the roof like a drifting feather. Stepping from it, Craig paused for a moment, staring out with brow furrowed at the spangled night of Torneulan. City of barons or city of Baemae, there was beauty here in this silent moment.
Only now was no time for beauty. Not here, atop Lord Zenaor's sleek, shining fortress tower.
Craig turned.
A stair-housing rose near one edge of the flat, parapeted roof. Crossing to it, he kicked out the door's translucent panel.
Inside, now. The stairwell yawned like a black, bottomless pit. Silently, Craig crept down the steps.
There was another locked door at the bottom—and this one had no panel.
Craig kicked it.
It held firm. He kicked it again—unrestrained, now—and again, and again, till the echoes rang round him in thunder-chorus.
From beyond the portal came a beat of running feet. Someone fumbled with the door's handle.
Craig drew his fire-gun ... waited....
The door opened, a bare inch.
Craig kicked it with all his might.
The door burst open. A guard reeled back, clutching his face where the swinging edge had struck him.
Craig kicked him, too—first in the belly; then, when he doubled over, in the face.
The guard crumpled; lay still.
Craig strode down the hall, trying doors. But the rooms they sealed were empty, unfinished.
Craig went back to the guard.
The man was moaning now. His fingers dug spasmodically at the naked tiles of the floor.
Dragging him erect, Craig shoved him back flat against the wall.
Slowly, the other's sagging head lifted. The glazed eyes cleared a little.
Craig held his voice cold and level: "Where's Zenaor?"
"At ... this hour?" The swollen lips bubbled. "Down—seventh level."
"And between?"
"The guest chambers—Lady Vydys—her party."
"Vydys...." Craig paused—frowning, searching his memory. Where had he heard that name before? From Tumek, or Narla? Or in a report, while he briefed for this mission?
He scowled, probing. "Why are you here, then, when this level's empty?"
"Why—? With Vydys in the tower?" The bloodshot eyes widened. "My lord Zenaor loves life. He knows better than to trust her."
The memories came back with a rush, if not their source. Vydys the Cruel, chief of all Zenaor's rivals! Here, in this tower, tonight!
Craig drew his lips thin.
"Where's your post, scum?"
"Below—force shaft." The guard gestured. "Heard you—kicking."
Craig stepped aside. "Get back to it, then." He motioned with the fire-gun.
The guard shot him a bleared, uncertain glance. Then, shuffling, not quite steady, one hand to the wall, the man moved ahead of Craig down the hall to an alcove backed with twin sliding panels. Clutching the grip of the one on the right, he pushed it back.
Beyond lay a small, square room like a closet, but without floor or ceiling.
The guard stepped across the threshold.
It was as if he had moved out onto an invisible platform. Erect, motionless, he sank slowly down the shaft.
Craig shot one breath-taking glance into the pit, and followed.
Instantly, a pulsing vibrance seemed to grip and hold him. Taut-nerved, he stood rigid, drifting slowly down against the lift of an upward flow of some strange current.
Below him, the guard reached out and caught a metal hand-hold jutting from the shaft's wall, then slid back a panel like the one above and stepped out into a broad hall.
But where the top level had shown stark and bare here lay luxury to stagger man's imagination. The walls were a shimmering tapestry of translucent color. Craig's feet sank into raaltex carpeting so thick and soft that it was like stepping onto a cloud.
He gripped the guard's arm. "Now—Vydys!"
"This way." The other turned, shuffling ahead. "End chamber...."
Craig shifted the fire-gun in his hand; laid the butt hard across the guard's head behind the ear.
The other crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Stripping off the man's harness, Craig donned the livery himself and lashed his prisoner's wrists and ankles, rolling him out of sight behind a long, sofa-like seat.
Then he was at the door, the door to the Lady Vydys' chambers.
He paused for a moment, listening with his ear against the panel.
No sound came.
He gripped the handle ... turned it slowly ... let the weight of his shoulder press against the door.
Ever so slowly, it swung open a fraction. Craig peered into the living room beyond—a place fully as ornate as the corridor, with furnishings sleekly trimmed in polished chromite.
Craig slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
On the far side of the room, another door stood open. Noiselessly, Craig crossed to it ... looked into a bedroom. A sleeping-couch, all gold and white, rested against the far wall, framed in darkly glinting mirrors.
While he watched, the coverlet moved. A body shifted.
Gripping the fire-gun, Craig walked warily to the couch-side.
Black hair rippled against white pillows. A sleek body twisted—sensuous, cat-like.
Then the head turned. For the first time, Craig saw the face.
A woman's face. The face of evil, incarnate, living in the fleshly form that men called Lady Vydys.
Yet she was lovely. Even here, even now, Craig Nesom's heart pounded as he looked down on her.
He rested his weight against a chair-arm; raised the fire-gun. "Vydys...."
She stirred in her sleep. The shadow of a frown crossed the lovely face.
"Vydys!"
Slowly, the soot-black lashes lifted. The dark eyes opened.
Craig said softly, "Quiet my lady! Don't make me kill you!"
She showed no sign of fear—no sudden tensing, no quick tremor. "You know, of course, that your heart will be torn from your body for this, carrion." Her voice was low and silky.
"Will it?" Mirthlessly, Craig chuckled.
Vydys' black eyes widened. She twisted beneath the coverlet. "You are no guardsman!" And then—staring, rocked back with sudden shock: "You—the Earthman—!"
"Yes, the Earthman," Craig nodded bleakly.
"But—what do you want—?"
"You know a girl called Narla? Zenaor's daughter?"
The dark eyes narrowed. "Yes...."
"Would you trade me even for her?"
A note of bafflement; a shifting: "Trade you—even....?
"Yes." Craig leaned forward. "I want her, Vydys—and I'll give you Zenaor's own head for her!"
Vydys' hand came up to the ripe swell of her bosom. Scarlet lips peeled back from small, sharp white teeth. "Zenaor's head—!"
Again, Craig nodded. He let his own lips part in a tight wolf-grin. "Let's talk straight, Vydys. You hate Zenaor for his power as chief of barons. You know that the first safe chance he gets he'll cut your lovely throat."
"And so—?"
"So your only chance is to get him first—before he finishes the Baemae and decides to turn his full force on you."
Of a sudden an irregularity developed in Vydys' breathing. The dark, eyes smouldered. "You ... would help me with this, Earthman—?"
Wordless, Craig tilted his head in affirmation.
"Now—tonight—?"
"Yes."
"But why? What is your reason?"
Craig smiled—a crooked smile. "I said I wanted Zenaor's daughter Narla, Vydys. That means alive—both of us. I'll need help to handle it."
The last traces of Vydys' hesitation vanished. She twisted; sat up on the sleeping-couch, her face aglow with dark excitement.
"He is on the seventh level, Earthman. If anyone should question, tell him that you carry a message to Zenaor for me. Here, take this signet—" She stripped a ring set with a carved black gem from a slender finger; held it out to Craig.
Not touching it, he said, "I've got a better idea."
Vydys' smooth brow furrowed, ever so slightly. "What—?"
"You go with me."
She caught her breath.
"You see?" Craig laughed harshly. "The picture changes when your neck's in the noose along with mine." He got up; gestured peremptorily with the fire-gun. "Come on!"
Her nostrils flared. "And if I will not?"
Craig paused; brought his weapon's muzzle up, steady and level. "A blast from this at close range would sear your breasts till they crackled, my lady."
A quick-drawn breath. Fear was in the dark eyes now—fear, and ... something else, something strange, hard to define.
Then, wordless, the woman slid from the bed and pulled on shoes and a diaphanous outer garment.
Craig came close behind her. "Time's short."
She shrugged; leaned against him for a moment. "Why do you want her, Earthman—that pale slut, Narla?"
Involuntarily, Craig stiffened, then stood wooden-faced, unmoving. "Why does any man want a woman, my lady?"
"A woman—?" Vydys' laugh held an edge of scorn ... or was it fury? "You call that creature a woman, Earthman? There's water in her veins, not blood!"
Craig stepped away from her, not answering.
For an instant lines of quick anger slashed Vydys' face. Then the tempest faded. Together, the two of them, they went out through the corridor to the force shaft. Rode it down in pulsing silence to the seventh level. Walked echoing halls where the tension crawled like a living thing.
Ahead, an intersection loomed. Down the right-hand passage, a guard paced slowly.
Vydys breathed in sharply. "There—he watches over Zenaor's chambers!"
Craig pushed her forward.
The guard came about, his face a bleak mirror of suspicion. His hand hovered by his weapon.
Vydys said, "I seek the Lord Zenaor."
"At this hour?" Irritation pushed aside distrust. "My lord sleeps."
Ever so casually, Craig eased closer.
"Are you sure?" Vydys' hand came up in a helpless, perplexed gesture. "They told me—"
Craig turned and side-stepped, as if to hear them both the better.
The guard scowled. "Listen—"
Craig brought up a hand as if to scratch his head—and then, pivoting, smashed a blow to the guard's temple.
The man staggered, clawing for his weapon.
Craig caught his wrist in both hands; twisted.
It spun the other around—off balance, still staggering. A kick to the back of his knees buckled his legs. He sprawled flat on his face.
Then, before Craig could move, Vydys threw herself on their fallen foeman like a tigress. A slender, stilleto-like knife flashed in her hand, lancing down into the soft hollow at the base of the guard's skull.
The man's body jerked once, spasmodically, then lay still.
Vydys came to her feet in one smooth, sinuous motion. She was breathing hard. A strange, hot light of excitement gleamed in her eyes.
Craig snatched the bloody knife out of her hand. "Why did you do that? We could have tied him—"
"So that he could talk later?" Teeth bared, she laughed, high and keening. "No, Earthman! This way is better!"
Craig looked from the dead guard to the knife. He could feel the hair along the back of his neck rising.
As if reading his thoughts, Vydys laughed again—low, this time; taunting. "Did you think to find me defenseless, Earthman? Me, Vydys of Cadilek?" She swayed close against him. "You have daring, warrior! That is why I came with you; not out of fear."
Craig pushed past her. "Come on, then—before Zenaor's men surprise us." Bending, he dragged the dead guard up by the harness.
Vydys' face was a mask, the dark eyes unfathomable. She turned and pulled back the door's handle.
The portal swung open. Wordless, Craig followed her into the room beyond, dragging the corpse with him.
A man's quarters, these—bleak, severe, without ostentation. Here no mirror walls threw back the glint of polished chromoid. The raaltex carpeting of the chambers above in this room was replaced with ostran tile and schalagat. Dark leathers gleamed dully against the flat contrast of iron-grey duroid.
Cat-like, slim Vydys tiptoed to the sleeping chamber's entry. Her breath hissed in the stillness as she looked in.
Taut-nerved, Craig lowered the dead guard to the floor.
But already Vydys was back beside him, slim hand outthrust. "My knife!" It was a command.
Craig stepped past her, not answering. In his turn, he peered through the arch into the other chamber.
Zenaor lay there, sleeping. Yet even at rest, the lean, high-boned face showed no trace of slackness. The muscled hands still curled to fists.
"My knife!" Vydys whispered again, close to Craig's ear. "You promised me his head, Earthman!"
Craig stared down at her.
The dark eyes glowed like twin coals now, and the skin of her face seemed suddenly to have stretched tighter, replacing curves with planes and hollows. The fingers that strained towards the dagger trembled with a naked urgency, somehow obscene, as if in the blood-lust of this moment the woman's very soul were spread out to the viewer, dark and evil.
Craig turned away ... looked again at the sleeping Zenaor.
"Curse you, Earthman—!" Vydys panted. She clawed for the knife.
For an instant their bodies strained together in silent struggle. Then, suddenly, Vydys ceased to writhe and twist. Her body pulsed against Craig's.
His heart pounded. He clutched the woman to him.
A voice said, "If you move, you die!"
Craig froze. Ever so slowly, he brought his head round.
Narla stood framed against a drape-shrouded door to his right. She gripped a fire-gun in her hand.
She raised her voice before he could speak. "Father!"
Zenaor came awake with a twist, a jerk of covers. The coal-black eyes gleamed beneath the heavy brows. "So—visitors!" And then, to Narla: "My daughter...."
"It's nothing. They spoke too loudly. I heard them."
The fire-gun in her hand stayed very steady.
"You'll not regret it." Zenaor groped a weapon of his own from a stand by his sleeping-couch. His lips set in a thin, mirthless smile. "Welcome, Vydys. You come in strange company."
"He ... forced me...."
"He forced you!" Mockery rang in Zenaor's harsh laughter. And then, the mirth dying: "Woman, you go back to your chambers. Under open guard, this time, with every man ordered to kill you if you so much as smile at him."
Vydys' lovely face flushed. "Zenaor, you dare not!"
"Because if I do you'll kill me?" Of a sudden Zenaor's voice echoed flat menace. "You'll try, you mean, you bitch—just as you tried here, tonight. And you'll fail again. Only perhaps by then I'll have less need to let you live for the sake of Kukzubas unity, and I can watch you writhe and die instead, as you should die now!"
There was silence, then—a taut, hate-surging silence. Eyes smouldering, white to the lips, Vydys smoothed her gown, her hair.
Zenaor turned to Craig Nesom. "You, Earthman—now you, too, shall join ranks with your fellows who died in the starship."
Craig shrugged. In this time, this place, words were wasted.
"But slowly," the chief of barons continued. "There are many things I would ask you—things best brought out under torture: how you got here, into my chambers; the plans of the Baemae; your relations with Vydys. So, you die—but by inches."
Craig shrugged again.
The baron's eyes narrowed. A spark that might have been grim mirth lighted behind them. "And ... there is another thing you should know...." He spoke almost softly. "Your serf genius, Tumek, sought to defeat me. With this."
Left-handed, he reached into the stand beside the sleeping-couch once more, and brought out a flat, black case perhaps six inches across. His thumb touched a spring. The cover flew open.
A great crystal gleamed on black orlon.
In spite of himself, Craig Nesom went rigid.
"You see? It ends here!" Zenaor chuckled. "What it means, how the serfs were to use it against the weapon I plan to defeat them with, I do not know. But whatever its purpose, I have it, and its maker lies dead."
He snapped shut the case, dropped it back into the stand. "Back, now, both of you, while I call the guards."
The pulse in Craig Nesom's temple pounded. Turning, he started past Narla towards the door.
Her grey eyes dodged his. She stepped aside, fire-gun lowered.
"Guards...." That was Zenaor, at the com-box.
Craig stopped breathing, stopped thinking. Like lightning striking, he leaped sidewise, pivoting—back, behind Narla.
Zenaor roared a curse.
But already, Craig was clawing the girl close against him, snatching her fire-gun, blazing a flare straight at the baron.
Zenaor dived over the sleeping-couch. The fireball seared into the wall.
Craig jammed the gun against Narla. "Zenaor! If I die, she burns with me!"
Time stood still. Silence echoed.
Again Craig lashed out: "Do you love her, Zenaor? Do you want her to burn?"
He could hear the rasp of the other's quick-drawn breath. "Curse you, Earthman—!"
"And curseyou, Zenaor!" New recklessness surged through Craig. "Curse you for all the blood you've shed; your arrogance, your lust for power, your cruelty!" And then: "Vydys! Bring me that crystal!"
Tension. The fire-gun's muzzle, leveling.
Wordless, the woman obeyed.
Craig gripped the jewel-case. "I'm leaving now, Zenaor—and Narla goes with me! Warn your guards of that!"
Silence again, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing.
Craig drew Narla back, tight against him, a living shield. Holding her close, he backed through the exit door. The girl was trembling now. He could feel her heart pound.
Then they were out in the corridor once more ... the same bleak, echoing passageway through which he'd come with dark Vydys.
Only that seemed an eternity ago, now.
Jerking the door shut, dragging the girl by one wrist, Craig raced for the force shaft. Slamming back the panel on the down-side, he jammed it ajar. Then, sliding open the other unit, he pulled Narla into the lift-current, closed the gate behind them, and let go of the hand-hold.
Together, they surged upward, level after level.
Narla's face showed pale and drawn. "Where ... are you taking me?"
Craig laughed aloud. His head swam, as if he were suddenly drunk on danger and recklessness and tension. "You'll see."
Overhead, the shaft-cap loomed closer ... closer. They reached the top level, hung there, suspended.
Then Craig slid back the panel, and they stepped out into the bare, echoing hallway's darkness. Still gripping the girl's wrist, he groped his way up the stairway and out onto the flat top of the tower.
The disc still lay where he had left it. Far to the west, the sky was already turning turquoise, Roh's blue beams dimming. In minutes the great green morning sun called Boh would climb above the far horizon.
Pulling Narla to the edge of the roof, Craig peered down.
Ant-like, men were moving through the street below—spreading out, forming a cordon.
"Too bad I'll have to miss the reception." He chuckled and turned back to Narla. "Now; about the crystal—"
"The crystal—?" Her grey eyes clouded. "I know nothing of it."
Craig stared. "But Tumek said—"
"He sent it to me to hold for him. That was all. He never told me its use."
A numbness gripped Craig.
The girl said, "Besides, even if I did know, why should I trust you—you, who came as murderers come, with that creature Vydys to whom only pain is passion?"
Craig turned on her. "What—?"
"You held her, did you not? Else how could I surprise you—?"
"Are you jealous, then—because it was she I held, and not you?"
Narla's face turned white with fury. "Not even a sadat would say such a thing!" She jerked free of Craig's hand, beat her small fists on his chest. "Go, you rabble! Leave me! Go back to the scum, the Baemae!"
Craig reached for her hands.
She jumped back and slapped his face.
The sting of her palm was like a trigger. With a curse, he lunged for her and caught her to him, still struggling and flailing.
"Is this what you want?" Savagely, brutally, he kissed her.
Her lips were like ice. Her eyes blazed grey fire. "Is that quite all, Earthman?"
Craig sucked in air. "No. Not quite." Pinioning her arms, once again he glanced down at the cordon of guards in the street below. "You see ... you're going with me."
"No!"
"Yes." He flashed a tight, hard grin. "Without a knowledge of how to use Tumek's crystal, the Baemae will need a weapon against your father. And what better could they find than you, his daughter, as a hostage?"
Shoving her aside, he lifted the great disc from the rooftop; spun it.
It jerked ... caught ... hovered.
"Please, Craig Nesom...."
"Please indeed, my lady Narla! We're sailing south this morning—away from Torneulan, beyond the reach of your father and his cursed Kukzubas barons."
"You mean—?"
"Yes!" Bodily, he lifted her and set her on the hovering disc. "We are traveling south to the djevoda range, and freedom!"
CHAPTER V
Below them now stretched rolling grasslands, mile after green-gold mile. Afar, the darker green of shrubs and trees marked water-holes or fringed the meandering streams that glinted in the clear white light of Yoh, Lysor's midday sun. A fragrance—of flowers, of foliage—drifted upward even to the disc, high above it all, still gliding southward.
A paradise, it was. But a paradise apparently without human population. Craig still could find no sign of habitation—only the tiny, moving dots that were herds of some unknown animal grazing.
Then, off to the west, a thin wisp of smoke curled skyward.
Craig shifted his weight so that the disc wheeled towards the distant streamer. "Narla...."
The girl's blonde head moved just a fraction—barely enough to tell him that she, too, saw the far-off feather. That was all. She didn't speak.
A little of Craig's elation left him. Again, as a thousand times before, he wondered about the slim girl crouching on the disc between his feet.
She was Zenaor's daughter.
Yet ... she had also helped to bring him, Craig Nesom, into contact with the Baemae.
Whose side was she really on?
Or did she even know herself?
Craig wondered.
But whatever the answer, she was here with him, in his power—his weapon to break her father's grip on Lysor.
He should have been glad for it. It was what he'd sought, the thing he needed to help avenge his friends who'd died aboard the starship. Only somehow, now, it brought no sense of surging triumph. If anything, the thing he felt was guilt, an ugly gnawing of his own conscience because he'd forced her to come with him.
Ahead, a huddle of buildings came into view below the smoke-wisp.
Craig changed course a fraction.
The buildings showed clearer now—shanties straggling out behind a palisade, across a broad, hill-sheltered plain that sloped down gently to a river. For the first time, Craig could see people moving about.
He tilted the disc, coasting down towards the village in a long, looping arc.
But now those below glimpsed the saucer. A flurry of excitement flared. Fingers pointed. Men ran towards the largest of the buildings.
But not for shelter. For suddenly they were back again, out in the open, carrying discs. In seconds a whole company had taken to the air.
Craig banked sharply as they raced towards him.
But a fierce cry rang out from above him. He jerked around just in time to see a host of other discs slashing down out of the blue.
Then one peeled off, lanced closer. Craig glimpsed a lean, half-naked body ... bared teeth ... a fierce bronzed face.
The rider's arm snaked out. A long black whip flicked towards Craig. Before he could move, the lash twined about his upflung wrist.
The rider above twisted sharply. His disc sideslipped away from Craig.
The next instant the Earthman was flying through the air, jerked clear of his carrier by the whiplash.
Dimly, he heard Narla scream.
Then he was swinging free, like a plumb-bob on a string. Cold sweat drenched him. He clutched at the whiplash, clinging to it with both hands.
Now the disc from which he hung climbed in slow spirals, circling away from the village. Behind and below him Craig glimpsed Narla, similarly suspended, swinging pendulum-like below a second saucer.
The other discs drew in, grouping about the captives in loose formation. Still climbing, the whole flight topped the crest of the hills behind the village.
Here browsed a great herd of the animals Craig had seen grazing. Sweeping low over them, the discs wheeled towards a log stockade atop a knoll, hovered above it for a moment, and then settled slowly.
At last Craig's feet touched ground inside the stockade. Shaking, he sank to the grass, fumbling to free his wrist from the whiplash.
It came free. Scrambling up, he stumbled to where Narla lay in a crumpled, sobbing heap, and tugged loose the lash that held her.
She clung to him, sobbing, her whole body shaking.
Overhead, the discs still hovered almost motionless, making no move to land.
Anger flared in Craig. Instead of releasing the whip, he surged up suddenly, jerking on it with all his might.
The disc from which Narla had been suspended tilted sharply. The whipman pitched off, arms flailing, and sprawled spread-eagled in the grass.
Craig dived onto him before he could even catch his breath—pinning him, gouging at his throat.
But already the other discs were plummeting. Sinewy, work-worn hands dragged Craig back.
Then a bronzed young giant who wore a high ceremonial helmet that must once have belonged to some baron's guard came striding forward. "Hold, friend!" He was laughing.
Craig stared. "Bukal!"
"No other." The strapping Baemae gripped Craig's hand.
"But—the guards—I thought you dead."
"And so did I, for a while, there." Bukal chuckled. "But perhaps the gods have marked me to die in the pit with Vydys' rollers. For at the last moment somebody stumbled and I made it away through the alleys, found a new disc, and fled south, here, to my home village."
"So I see." Craig shook his head dazedly.
"As for you, just now, you were not recognized in time." The Baemae was suddenly apologetic. "You'll not begrudge it that we protect our village? After all, the barons have tried a hundred tricks to trap us—so now we bring all strangers here for scrutiny before we pass them on to full fellowship among us."
"Of course not." Craig matched the other's grin. "But is this"—he gestured to the log walls—"much of a prison?"
Bukal smiled grimly. Leading Craig to the nearest crevice, he pointed out between the logs. "The djevoda stand guard for us."
"The djevoda—?" Craig peered out.
They were strange creatures. Taller than two men they towered—heavy-bodied, six-legged, elephantine. Great tusks gleamed below broad, pig-like snouts.
"Watch!" Bukal commanded.
He drew an ornate dagger from his belt-harness as he spoke. Catching the sun in its jewels, he flashed a beam into the eyes of one of the creatures.
It was as if it were a signal. A roar like that of a maddened bull burst from the djevoda's great throat. Tiger-fast, avalanchal, it lunged up the slope of the knoll, straight for the stockade. The logs rocked under the impact of its hurtling body. A great tusk tore through a crack, bare inches from Craig's arm.
The Earthman leaped back, cursing.
His bronzed friend laughed again. "A wonderful creature, the djevoda. Tons of solid meat, ready for the slicing. But definitely not to be domesticated."
"So I see," Craig agreed, a trifle sourly.
"They charge movement on sight," his guide went on. "Killing them, save from directly above, takes a deal of doing. So, they roam these southern plains by hundreds. That's why this range was never settled, till Tumek gave the flying disc to the Baemae. But overhead, we're safe from them. We can herd them with our whips like cattle, or kill them at will with a bolt at the base of the brain. They feed us, clothe us, protect us, give us freedom...." He broke off. "But I talk too much of our own affairs. Tell me, how did you escape—and what of Tumek?"
Craig said, "Tumek ... is dead."
The laughter left the bronzed man's face. "Tumek dead—!" He cursed aloud. "How did it happen?"
Briefly, Craig told him ... showed him the crystal ... mentioned the ourobos.
Only one thing did he leave out.
Narla.
He didn't know why. It made no sense, even to him.
Yet somehow, he could not bring himself to reveal her lineage ... tell how she came to be here, put her forward in the role of hostage.
Bukal was frowning when Craig finished. "There's too much here I don't understand," he grunted. "Ourobos are not of Lysor, but of our sister-planet, Xumar—a loathsome, crawling horror beyond man's controlling. Innoculations with a rare oil will repel them, but no one has ever found a way to kill them. If Zenaor were mad enough to bring them here, to Lysor...." He shuddered and left his sentence hanging.
"And the crystal—?" Craig displayed it.
Again, the other shook his head. "For all I know, it might as well be nothing but a lamp-lens." He straightened, thin-lipped. "But at least we'll make our masters pay for Tumek! This very night!"
Pivoting as he spoke, he strode back towards the waiting discmen. "These two"—he gestured to Craig and Narla—"they are accepted. Take them to the village."
Only then did it dawn on Craig that the Baemae had asked not a question about the girl.
But there was little time for pondering on that. The men spun their discs; helped Earthman and girl to board them. The ground, the stockade, fell away.
Then the hills, too, lay behind, and they were gliding down beyond the palisade, into the village.
A withered crone led Craig and Narla to a hut. "Rest here, warrior—you and your woman. Tomorrow will be time enough to think of work and duty."
She left them, then, closing the door behind her as she departed.
Silence echoed through the room. Wordless, Craig turned to leave.
But Narla's voice stopped him: "Wait, Craig Nesom...."
He swung round. "What—?"
She said, "You didn't tell them that I was Zenaor's daughter. You let them believe I was your woman." A note of strain, of puzzlement, crept into her tone. "Why, Earthman? Why?"
Craig shrugged. "What point was there? Did it matter?"
"Yes, Craig." The grey eyes were thoughtful now. "Yes, it matters very much. You brought me here to use as a weapon against my father—yet now you keep my secret. Why?"
Craig shrugged again, not speaking.
"Because Zenaor's daughter would have received a different welcome, Craig; so very different. You know that, surely."
He nodded slowly. "Yes, I knew it."
"Then why—?"
"Because there's been too much of blood and killing." He lashed out the words in sudden fury, out of all proportion. "I wouldn't turn in a dog to be tormented...."
The girl came to him, through the shadows, till she was close ... so very close. "Then ... it was not for anything that you felt towards me that you saved me?"
She swayed as she spoke—swayed forward, against him. He could feel the slow beat of her heart, the measured pressure of her breathing. The fragrance of her hair rose in his nostrils.
"No," he said. "No. There was nothing."
For a long, long moment she stood still, not moving. Then, very softly, she said, "You lie, Craig Nesom!"
Something inside Craig let go like a taut spring snapping. "Damn you—!" he choked, and crushed her to him, hard against him.
She came willingly, body warm and vibrant; eyes closed, lips parted.
Red lips ... softer than any dream of Vydys.
Craig drank deep of them.
Then, at last, the kiss was ended. They stood there, breathing hard, clinging to each other in the semi-darkness; and Narla said, "They spoke truly, Craig Nesom. I am—will always be—your woman."
He kissed her again, then, while a knot drew tight in his belly, and his throat swelled, and his eyes stung.
But all he could whisper was "Narla ... Narla...."
Outside someone knocked on the door.
Craig stiffened; straightened. "What is it?"
"It's me Bukal. Roh's coming up. Would you raid with us?"
Craig looked at Narla.
Pain was in her eyes, but her voice stayed steady: "Your life's your own, voyager. And ... I'll be waiting."
Craig called, "I'm coming, Bukal!"
They kissed again, and then he left her, striding out into the pale green light of the ebbing day.
Over by the disc-shed, men were working—stacking the saucers one upon the other till they formed neat cylinders, each half-a-dozen discs high.
Laughing, bronzed Bukal gestured to them. "You see, Craig? These are our weapons! Why should we kill, when we can hurt the cursed barons worse by sending their serfs through the skies to freedom?"
Craig nodded.
Another man came up. "We're ready, Bukal."
"Good!" The Baemae leader strode to the shed and caught up a disc. "Here, Craig. Lend a hand!"
Following his lead, Craig dragged a single saucer out into the open and spun it till it hovered on the wave-force.
"Now lash it fast atop a unit."
Moving the saucer to the nearest pile, Craig tied it down. A tilt—a shove—and all seven saucers took the air.
A man scrambled aboard each cylinder as it rose.
"North, now!" cried Bukal. "We'll see how the Lady Vydys likes running her estates without the Baemae!"
Vydys—!
Dark loveliness, rising from a dead guard's corpse with her knife still dripping blood.
Craig shuddered.
Only then they were rising, circling, and there was no time for thoughts or shudders. High through the emerald sky they flashed while the hills fell away and the village vanished. Koh's green ball sank from sight beyond the horizon. Roh climbed afar, tinting Lysor's fields all blue and purple.
And still they raced north, the night wind whipping at hair and garments.
Then, far below, a black line scarred the grasslands. Craig caught a faint shout: "The barrier!"
Again, he was above the land of the Kukzubas barons.
Ahead, the stocky Bukal waved a sweeping signal. Discs slipped earthward.
Another signal. They dropped lower ... lower ... came at last to ground in the shadow of a grove of great sefopp trees.
Out of the murk, the dim figure of a burly man hurried towards them. "Thank the gods, you've come!"
Craig could see Bukal stiffen. "Why? Is there trouble?"
"Is there anythingbuttrouble?" the other shot back, hoarse-voiced. "Someone betrayed your contact man to the Lady Vydys when she arrived back from Torneulan this morning. He died by her own hand in the torture chambers."
Bukal cursed. "Did he talk?"
"Would I be here if he had?" the burly man snarled back. He scrubbed his palms on the front of his loose Baemae tabard. "The others are waiting for me to bring the word of your coming."
"Then get them!"
The burly man vanished into the shadows.
Bukal pivoted back to his helpers. "Hurry! Unlash the saucers!"
In seconds, the cargo of discs was spread out. Already, more men from the estate shuffled from the grove's blackness.
Then the burly man, too, returned. "All here," he grunted.
Bukal shot a quick glance around. "No women—?"
"No." The man shifted. "We thought you'd want fighters."
"Fighters—?" Bukal stiffened. "What do you mean? Why would we need fighters?"
The burly one fumbled. "Why ... to meet Zenaor's raiding party...."
"Raiders—!"
"Yes. Had you no warning?" The informer choked on his own spittle. "Vydys herself brought the word. Last night an alien from another system stole Zenaor's daughter and disced south with her. Now Zenaor swears—"
Bukal swung round, eyes blazing. "Earthman! Is this true?"
Numbly, Craig nodded.
"That girl! Zenaor's own daughter!" Bukal choked with fury. "You brought her to our village! You gave no warning!"
Craig held his voice chill: "So? Could you ask for a better hostage?"
"No. Not if we had known. But now—" Bukal broke off and whirled round. "You"—this to the burly man—"take your people and head south to protect our village. The rest of us will run the barrier and try to intercept the raiders. As for you, alien"—he turned back to Craig, eyes hot and scornful—"you'll go south also. But as prisoner, not one of us."
Craig looked to the others; searched their faces.
Their eyes held no mercy.
"All right, you. Come on!" The burly man started towards Craig.
Craig whipped up his fire-gun and laid the barrel hard along the other's temple.
The man slumped to the ground.
Craig said tightly, "To hell with the lot of you! I'm no man's prisoner!"
"Curse you, alien!" Bukal took a quick step forward.
Craig leveled the fire-gun at the flat, bronzed belly.
Bukal halted.
Craig flicked the weapon's muzzle to the nearest of the Baemae. "You! Spin me a disc!"
Seconds stretched to eternity. Then the man's eyes fell. Wordless, he shuffled through the echoing silence, tilted up a disc, and whipped it round.
The magnetic currents caught it; held it, hovering.
Craig vaulted aboard it. "Death's waiting for the man that follows...."
He threw his weight to one side, then back again. Rocking, the saucer swirled upward.
Again he tilted; sent it careening around the far end of the line of trees.
Behind him, Bukal shouted an order. There was a rush of feet, a flurry of movement.
Craig leaned far out, so that the disc almost doubled on its course, sliding back on the other side of the masking sefopp trees. Then, dropping it swiftly back to the ground, he leaped off and dragged it into the shadows.
Saucers sped past the end of the grove, riders and discs alike silhouetted dimly against the blue-black sky. Craig crept deeper into the undergrowth, flat on his belly.
More aching tension. More seconds dragging by, turning into minutes.
Then discs swept down again. Craig heard someone rasp, "He's gone, Bukal. We couldn't spot him." And then Bukal, cursing: "We can't wait any longer. Not with Zenaor prowling."
Again, discs tilted skyward. All of them, this time.
Silence once more, broken only by the whisper of breeze and trees, the chirp of insects.
Craig crept back to his own saucer and wheeled it out into the open. Ten seconds later he, too, was climbing into Lysor's dark night sky.
Climbing—to what end, with every man's hand against him? Bukal or Zenaor, Baemae or barons, one and all sought his blood.
All but Narla.
Somehow, he had to reach her.
Grim, tight-lipped, he set a course southeast, veering just far enough north of the village so that he might pass Vydys' serfs undetected. Their very numbers might slow them. There was at least a bare chance that a lone man might reach Narla ahead of them.
Only then, as he sped on, he caught a sound.
He hesitated, straining his ears.
The noise came again—a muffled, rhythmic clanking.
Craig veered a fraction; raced towards the sound.
Below Craig, dots appeared against the blue-grey shimmer of the grasslands ... dots that crawled grimly, steadily southward.
He knew, then—knew what the dots meant, and the clanking. A chill ran through him.
These were heavy vehicles in motion! This was Zenaor's column, grinding towards the village. They'd passed the barrier far ahead of Bukal.
And Vydys' serfs would never stand a chance against their power, their numbers.
That left it up to him.
Only what could one man do?
Cursing, Craig circled far ahead of the raiders—searching the rolling hills below, praying for some miracle of terrain, some inspiration.
But no miracle came. There were only the grasslands, the great straggling herds of the djevoda.
The djevoda—!
Craig came up short. Here was his miracle! Here his allies!
Sideslipping his disc in a flashing arc, he surveyed the ground beyond the column.
The vehicles were following the low ground, moving towards a pass of sorts in the hills that sprawled east and west across their path.
Craig raced south again. A long way south, till at last he passed above the distant range and swept down on its far side.
How long did he have? An hour? Or only half that?
A knot of djevoda moved restlessly as his disc's shadow fell across them.
Craig slashed back closer.
Rumbling their irritation, the huge, ungainly beasts turned west, drifting towards the pass.
Craig searched out another, larger group and turned it, too. Then another. Another.
Across the hills, Zenaor's column was creeping closer. Sweat rilled down Craig's back. He crowded his growing herd of djevoda harder.
The beasts were angry now—bellowing their rage through the stillness of the night; lunging at him, tusks high, when he swept too close.
If he should slip or fall—! He shuddered.
Then the first of the creatures began to funnel into the mouth of the pass. Craig raced his saucer back, moving up others to press in behind the leaders.
Now, again, the clanking of Zenaor's carriers drifted to Craig. He maneuvered his disc in a tight spiral—climbing, climbing.
The grasslands fell away below him. The range spread out like a problem in tactics set on a sand table: here were the djevoda, straggling into the pass. Beyond the hills, Zenaor's column twisted towards them, snake-like, as if hastening to join battle.
Already, the lead vehicles were swinging south into the rift.
Craig plummeted down ahead of the first djevoda.
Roaring, they fell back.
The Earthman raced away in a monstrous circle—driving in the beasts, crowding them together in a milling herd that numbered hundreds.
The column was in the pass now, hurrying forward faster, as if its commanders realized the danger of such close quarters.
Craig rounded up the last straggling djevoda ... hovered just above and beyond them, waiting.
Down the pass, lights gleamed. Drifting dust set Craig to coughing. The rumble and clanking echoed like distant thunder.
Craig dropped to one knee on his disc; brought out his fire-gun.
The approaching lights shone brighter. A beam sprayed across the first of the djevoda.
The creatures' great, tusked snout-heads lowered. Huge feet churned up choking clouds of dust.
Craig held his breath.
The lead carrier rocked over a bump. Metal clanged on metal. The lights flashed into the djevodas' eyes.
It was a signal. With a deafening roar, a djevoda lunged forward.
The carrier's brakes screamed.
But already the mountainous beast was thundering down upon it. Like an avalanche of flesh and bone, it crashed into the vehicle. Screams clashed with the shriek of rending metal.
Craig blazed with the fire-gun at the packed, elephantine mass of animated death below him.
Bellowing with rage and pain, the whole herd swept forward—on into the pass, following the already-charging leaders.
More carriers braked and crashed into each other.
Then the herd was upon them, smashing at them. Green fire seared through the night, mingling with the crashing thunder of some other, heavier weapon. Craig glimpsed a djevoda torn asunder in mid-stride, its six massive legs gone suddenly limp and sprawling.
But no human power could stop that hurtling, murderous tidal wave of flesh. Through the whole column the djevodas raged—crushing carriers, overturning them, stomping them to masses of shapeless metal.
At the far end of the pass, the last of the vehicles wheeled about in blind, desperate haste. Engines roaring, they raced for the safety of the open grasslands.
Only then, flashing shapes lanced down out of the skies to the north. Men dropped from discs onto carrier-tops, clamping their capes across the vision-slits.
Vehicles ground to a halt. Crews stumbled out, hands high in panic and surrender.
Craig surged to his feet; sent his own disc climbing.
Too late. For now saucers hung above him, too, hemming him in ... saucers ridden by Bukal's lean, bronzed raiders.
And there was Bukal.
"Craig, friend—!" he shouted. "Hold, Craig Nesom!"
Craig stood rigid atop his disc.
But then the other was beside him, waving and laughing. "Can you forgive me, Craig? Without this blow you've struck, without the firing-sounds to guide us, we'd never have caught up with this column."
"And ... Narla—?"
Bukal swept the whole sky with his gesture. "Go to her, Earthman! After this night's work I'd even give you Zenaor!"
He signaled as he spoke. The discs above Craig moved aside.
His throat all at once too tight to speak, Craig waved back and spiraled his own disc upward.
But as he did so, another saucer swept down—a saucer ridden by a woman he'd never seen before, a woman with an anguished, strain-taut face. "Alien!" Her voice broke ragged. "Where is Bukal?"
"Here, T'clar!" He glided up beside her. "What is it? Is there trouble?"
"The village—" Again her voice broke, and for a moment Craig thought she was going to faint. Then, rallying, she burst out, "Bukal, the men from the estate of Lady Vydys—"
"Yes, T'clar—?"
"They were her guards, not of the Baemae."
A numb horror gripped Craig. He hardly heard the rush of words between them.
But ... he had to know.
He blurted: "The woman who was with me—Narla—"
And then, the answer: "Alien, it was she they came for. Now they are gone again—and she is with them!"
CHAPTER VI
Morning. Pale green morning, and the vast estate of dark Vydys the Cruel.
Bukal begged, "Give it up, Craig Nesom. There is no hope. Besides, this is between the Kukzubas, the barons. Vydys seized your Narla only as a weapon against Lord Zenaor. She will not harm her."
Craig cursed him.
The bronzed Baemae's lips drew thin. "What would you have us do, then, alien? Throw our discs against her defenses? Gut ourselves on her guards' weapons?"
Bleakly, Craig stared up at the shining ramparts. Bitterness seethed in him.
And yet ... was it his right to be bitter? These were brave men, dedicated to the Baemae's fight against the barons. But Narla was not of them. The things she meant to him lay between two only.
He said, "Forgive me, Bukal. You and your people—you have troubles enough. I could not give you more."
"Then what—?"
"I'll go alone."
The hot light left Bukal's eyes. He gripped the Earthman's arm. "No, Craig—"
"Yes, Bukal." Craig pulled free of the other's hand.
"But—"
Of a sudden Craig was weary of argument, of empty phrases. Tilting his disc, he raced away from the Baemae leader, skimming out as the swallow swoops, straight for the gates of Vydys' shaft-like Tower of Cadilek.
But green fire blazed from the port-slots. Veering sharply, Craig sped away again, climbing along the wall in the shelter of the angle bastion.
Then he had topped the lowest level's battlements. Leveling off, he glided across the roof to a point beyond the central obelisk where none could see him.
There, at last, he brought his disc to rest.
But no attack from above would baffle Vydys. Not after that night of blood of Torneulan.
Ignoring the roof-ports, Craig crossed quickly to the parapet along the rear wall. A coil of rope, stripped from his waist, gave him a line down. In seconds he was upon the ground.
Fire-gun in hand, then, he moved along the wall to a deep-set, shrubbery-shrouded postern.
The door opened at his first pressure. A dim-lit, stone-walled corridor loomed, inviting.
An invitation to death, perhaps....
Cat-footed, Craig slipped inside ... stood taut and breathless, waiting.
But no sound came, no sign of guards or trouble.
Craig's scalp prickled. This was too pat, too easy.
But trap or not, here lay his only chance at Vydys, his only hope of reaching Narla.
Shadow-silent, he moved down the hallway to twin kresh-wood doors, one set on each side of the passage.
Craig pressed each in turn. But they were locked; they would not budge.
Raw-nerved, he moved on again.
Now came a short stair, leading down. At the bottom, a heavy door barred the passage.
Walking softly, the Earthman descended. Reached for the door.
It swung wide before he even touched it. Light blazed, so bright he fell back a step, half-blinded. A voice said, "Welcome, Craig Nesom!"
The voice of Vydys.
Craig pivoted.
But now, behind him, the kresh-wood doors had opened. Guards stood at the ready, weapons poised.
Craig faced the light again.
It shone like a dazzling wall. Even shielding his eyes, Craig could see nothing for its brilliance.
Vydys' voice commanded, "Come forward, alien! I would not harm you."
He sucked in a breath; stepped across the threshold.
Hands shot out ... seized him ... held him helpless while they wrenched away his fire-gun and his dagger.
Then, incredibly, Vydys was saying, "Away, guards! Leave us." And he was free again and stumbling forward, the door slamming shut behind him.
Groping, he drew himself erect; turned, searching for the woman.
But still there was only the blazing silver light, dazzling him to blindness. Her laughter rippled out of nowhere, a sound to sting him to impotent fury.
He lashed out: "How long do I stand here, woman? Do you fear to face me?"
"Fear you—?" She laughed again, and now there was a new note in her voice, an element he could not name or place. "No, warrior, I do not fear you."
Even as she spoke, the dazzling light was fading. Like a wall dissolving, the veil of its brilliance fell away.
Vydys stood before Craig, high on a dais.
Blinking, he stared up at her.
The ripe lips curved into a smile. Sinuous cat-graceful, she moved towards him, sleek silvery body-sheath shimmering as she descended. "You see, Earthman? I told you I did not fear you."
He stared down into the midnight eyes, black and unfathomable as the void itself. "Then what—?"
The scarlet lips parted. She swayed against him. "Kiss me, alien!"
Involuntarily, Craig stiffened. "What—!"
The woman laughed softly. "Is it so strange a concept, alien? Am I so old, so drab, so ugly?"
Craig could find no words.
"We are as one in so many ways, Craig Nesom," dark Vydys went on. "Fear is not in us, nor yet mercy. We know what it means to strike with daring. Both of us hold ruthless to our hatred for Lord Zenaor."
Still Craig did not move. "And because we both hate Zenaor, I should kiss you?"
"If we stand together, we can defeat him." The dark eyes half mocked, half measured. "Some say that pain is my only passion. That is not true. I love also as a woman. There are men, Kukzubas barons, who would sell their souls for my embrace."
"Then why not give it?"
"Why—?" The throaty laughter rippled. "Because they desire me does not mean I want them, Earthling. I seek a man of blood and iron as well as passion—a champion to aid me against Zenaor."
In spite of himself, Craig smiled thinly. "Some might call that a tribute. To me, it seems left-handed."
Vydys frowned, ever so slightly. "I do not understand you, alien. Would it be such punishment to sit beside me, ruling Lysor?" And then, eager again: "For we can do it, with your valor and the weapon they say you received from the one called Tumek."
"The weapon—!"
"Yes. A crystal, to win power even over the Xumarian ourobos my spies say Zenaor plans to use against the Baemae. You have it, do you not?"
She drew closer as she spoke. Her hands slid over him, touched the jewel-case where it lay flat against his body. Before he could stop her, she had it out and open.
"So—! This is the thing! A pretty bauble...."
Craig didn't answer.
"How do you use it, alien?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know!" The smooth face stiffened. "Or ... is it that you won't tell me?"
Craig shrugged. "Have it as you want it."
For an instant the woman's nostrils flared. Then, once again, she was close to him—her breasts, her body, smooth and firm against him. "Please, Earthman! Do not make me believe that you are one of those who can love no woman!"
Craig held his silence.
A flush came to Vydys' dark, lovely face. She stepped back, eyes bright with anger. "Is it another, then—that blonde hag, Narla?"
Craig's fists clenched. His shoulders stiffened.
"It is, then! You'd scorn me for her!" Vydys' scarlet lips peeled back. "Very well! You shall have her—as soon as you give me the secret of the crystal!"
Sweat came to Craig Nesom's forehead. "I can't tell you what I don't know."
"You leave me little choice, then." Vydys was almost purring. "I must have protection against Zenaor and his ourobos. Unless you share the crystal's secret with me, I shall be forced to sell the wench back to her father for tanagree oil to drive off the slime-monsters."
Dry-lipped, Craig said, "So be it."
"But I had such pleasant fantasies of how I would amuse myself with her in my torture chambers!" Vydys' eyes grew wide and doleful. "There are so many things that one can try! And a young, nubile girl may live for hours...."
Craig bit down hard to keep from shuddering.
"But since you will not help me—" Vydys sighed, turned, walked up the dais. "At least, your death shall entertain my favorites."
Craig would have lunged for her, then.
But she struck a great gong sharply. Instantly, the dazzling light-wall blazed forth to shield her. Guards leaped from nowhere to seize the Earthman. Their blows made his head ring.
"To the pit with him!" Vydys cried shrilly. "To the pit!"
Craig's world resolved into a nightmare of dank corridors and blows and blackness.
Then, suddenly, he was in the open once again, tottering on the rim of a deep, walled trench that ran about a side-shaft of the Vydys' tower like a sort of moat.
"Look down, alien!"
Blear-eyed, Craig stared down into the pit.
Great tusks speared up at him. The bellow of an enraged djevoda rang in his ears.
Vydys said, "You and your Baemae friends are said to be clever with these creatures, alien. Especially with a whip." She turned to one of her retinue. "Give him the lash!"
The man brought out a long Baemae whip and handed it to Craig.
"Down with him!"
In seconds, Craig swung into the moat at the end of a rope-loop.
He was still staggering when the djevoda charged, thundering its rage.
Craig lashed out with the whip.
But without avail. The stinging lash brought a new roar of fury from the great creature. Savagely, it lunged again.
Barely in time, Craig leaped out of the way. Desperately, he ran through the trench in search of some exit, some chance for escape.
There was none.
Again the djevoda charged.
Once more Craig side-stepped in the nick of time.
Above him, on the pit's rim, Vydys laughed her silvery, sadistic laugh.
Hate surged through the Earthman ... hate mingled with fear.
Was he to die here—tusked high into the air; trampled under the great hammer-feet?
If at least the hell-bitch above only could die with him—!
He fell back to the moat's far edge ... but not at the djevoda. No. Higher, this time. Higher—and straight at Vydys!
The long lash slashed through the air. Almost lazily, it seemed, it drifted. The snapper lifted ... curled ... wrapped round Vydys' slim waist.
She screamed, then.
Too late. Because now Craig was surging back on the whipstock with all his strength, a savage jerk.
The woman lurched forward, across the parapet. Down the steep face she slid, straight into the trench.
Along the rim, tumult erupted. Guards shouted. Serfs raced this way and that. Fire-guns blazed down at the djevoda. A ladder appeared, shoved down from above.
Dropping the whipstock, Craig lunged for the ladder.
A guard was scrambling down it. Catching him from behind, Craig knocked him sprawling. When another head appeared above the parapet, Craig butted low, not slowing.
Blood—blows—violence. A race for the postern. As from afar, Craig caught the echo of Vydys' scream: "The alien! Stop him!"
So she still lived....
More guards. Veering, Craig darted through the nearest door and pounded through a maze of echoing corridors and stairways.
If only he could reach the roof, his saucer....
Locked doors. Dead-end hallways. Men racing towards him.
Craig sprinted towards a window.
Below lay the outer grounds.
Craig leaped.
As he did so, a familiar shadow swooped low—the shadow of a disc.
Bukal. He brought the disc down in a fast sideslip. "Quick—!"
Craig dived onto the saucer.
Then they were climbing—up, away from Vydys' Tower of Cadilek, away from guards and clenched fists and shouted imprecations.