Dragon Wing

17

The dig-claws carrying their ore lifted back up into the storm clouds, on their way to the Drevlin dumps. Limbeck, watching them ascend, pondered how long it might take them to unload the coralite and return for more. How long would it take someone to notice his mark? Would someone notice his mark? If someone did notice his mark, would it be someone friendly to his cause or would it be a clark? If it was a clark, what was the clark likely to do about it? If it was a friend, how long would it take to attach the help-hand? Would that happen before he froze to death or died of starvation?

Such gloomy wonderings were unusual to Limbeck, who was not, ordinarily, a worrier. His disposition was naturally cheerful and optimistic. He tended to see the best in people. He held no malice toward anyone for his having been tied to the Feathers of Justick and tossed down here to die. The High Froman and the Head Clark had done what they considered to be best for the people. It wasn’t their fault that they believed in those who claimed to be gods. It was no wonder that the Froman and his followers didn’t believe Limbeck’s story—Jarre herself didn’t believe it either.

Perhaps it was thinking about Jarre that made Limbeck feel sad and discouraged. He had fondly assumed that she, at least, would believe in his discovery that the Welves weren’t gods. Limbeck, huddling, shivering, in the bottom of his pit, could still not quite accept the fact that she didn’t. This knowledge had nearly ruined his entire execution. Now that the initial excitement was over and he had nothing to do but wait and hope things went right and try not to notice that there was an incredible number of things that could go wrong, Limbeck began to reflect seriously on what would happen when (not if) he was rescued.

“How can they accept me as their leader if they think I lie?” Limbeck asked a stream of water running down the side of the pit. “Why would they even want me back at all? We’ve always said, Jarre and I, that truth was the most important virtue, that the quest for truth should be our highest goal. She thinks I’ve lied, yet she’s obviously expecting me to continue as leader of our Union.

“And when I go back, then what?” Limbeck saw it all clearly, more clearly than he’d seen anything in years. “She’ll humor me. They all will. Oh, they’ll keep me as head of the Union—after all, the Mangers have judged me and let me live. But they’ll know it’s a sham. More important, I’ll know it’s a sham. The Mangers haven’t had a damn thing to do with it. It’s Jarre’s cleverness that will bring me back, and she’ll know it and so will I. Lying! That’s what we’ll be doing!”

Limbeck was growing increasingly upset. “Oh, sure, we’ll get a lot of new members, but they’ll be coming to us for the wrong reasons! Can you base a revolution on a lie? No!” The Geg clenched his thick wet fist. “It’s like building a house on mud. Sooner or later, it’s going to slip out from under your feet. Maybe I’ll just stay down here! That’s it! I won’t go back!

“But that won’t prove anything,” Limbeck reflected. “They’ll just think the Mangers did me in, and that won’t help the cause at all. I know! I’ll write them a note and send it up with the help-hand instead of going myself. There are tier feathers lying around. I can use those as a pen.” He jumped to his feet. “And silt for ink. ‘By choosing to stay down here and perhaps dying down here’—yes, that sounds well—‘I hope to prove to you that what I said about the Welves was the truth. I cannot lead those who do not believe me, those who have lost faith in me.’ Yes, that’s quite good.”

Limbeck tried to sound cheerful, but he found his pleasure in his speech rapidly draining. He was hungry, cold, wet, and frightened. The storm was blowing itself out, and an awful, terrible silence was descending over him. That silence reminded him of the big silence—the Endless Hear Nothing—and reminded him that he was facing that Endless Hear Nothing, and he realized that the death of which he spoke so glibly was liable to be a very unpleasant one.

Then, too, as if death wasn’t bad enough, he pictured Jarre receiving his note, reading it with pursed lips and that wrinkle which always appeared above her nose when she was displeased. He wouldn’t even need his spectacles to read the words of the note she’d send back. He could hear them already.

“ ‘Limbeck, stop this nonsense and get up here this instant!’ Oh, Jarre!” he murmured to himself sadly, “if only you had believed me. The others wouldn’t have mattered—”

A bone-jarring, teeth-rattling, earth-shaking thud jolted Limbeck out of his despair and simultaneously knocked him down.

Lying on his back, dazed, staring up at the top of the pit, he thought: Have the dig-claws come back? This soon? I don’t have my note written!

Flustered, Limbeck staggered to his feet and stared up into the grayness. The storm had passed over. It was drizzling rain and foggy, but it was not lightninging, hailing, or thundering. He couldn’t see the claws descending, but then, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Fumbling for his spectacles, he put them on and looked back up into the sky. By squinting, he thought he could just barely distinguish numerous fuzzy blobs materializing out of the clouds. But if they were the dig-claws, they were far above him yet, and unless one had come down prematurely or fallen—which seemed unlikely, since the Kicksey-Winsey rarely allowed accidents like that to happen—the dig-claws couldn’t have been the cause of that tremendous thud. What, then, was it?

Hurriedly Limbeck began to climb the sides of the pit. His spirits were rising. He had a “what” or a “why” to investigate!

Reaching the rim of the pit, he peeped cautiously over the edge. At first he saw nothing, but that was because he was looking in the wrong direction. Turning his head, he gasped, marveling.

A brilliant light, shimmering with more colors than Limbeck had ever imagined existed in his gray and metallic world, was streaming out of a gigantic hole not more than thirty feet from him. Never stopping to think that the light might be harmful or that whatever had created the humongous thud might be lethal or that the dig-claws might be slowly and inevitably descending, Limbeck clambered up over the edge of the pit and made for the light as swiftly as his short, thick legs would carry his stout body. There were numerous obstacles blocking his path; the surface of the small isle was pockmarked with holes dug by the claws. He had to avoid these, as well as heaps of broken coralite dropped when the dig-claws carried the ore upward. Making his way up and over and around these took some time, as well as considerable energy. When Limbeck finally reached the light, he was out of breath, both from the unaccustomed exertion and from excitement. For as he drew nearer, Limbeck could see that the colors in the light were forming distinct patterns and shapes.

Intent on the wonderful pictures he could see in the light, Limbeck stumbled almost blindly over the rocky ground and was saved from tumbling headfirst into the hole by tripping over a chunk of coralite and falling flat on his face at the hole’s edge. Shaken, he put his hand to his pocket to feel if his spectacles were broken. They weren’t there. After a horrible moment of panic, he remembered that they were on his nose. Crawling forward, he stared in amazement.

For a moment, he couldn’t see anything but a brilliant, multicolored, ever-shifting radiance. Then forms and shapes coalesced. The pictures in the light were truly fascinating, and Limbeck gazed at them in awe. As he watched the constantly shifting and changing images, that portion of his mind which continually interrupted important and wonderful thoughts with mundane matters such as “Mind you don’t walk into that wall!”, “That pan’s hot!”, and “Why didn’t you go before we left?”, said to him urgently, “The dig-claws are coming down!”

Limbeck, concentrating on the pictures, ignored it.

He was, he realized, seeing a world. Not his own world, but somebody else’s world. It was an incredibly beautiful place. It reminded him some, but not quite, of the pictures he’d seen in the books of the Welves. The sky was bright blue—not gray—and it was clear and vast, with only a few puffs of white sailing across it. Lush vegetation was everywhere, not just in a pot in the kitchen. He saw magnificent structures of fantastic design, he saw wide streets and boulevards, he saw what might have been Gegs, only they were tall and slender with graceful limbs . . .

Or had he? Limbeck blinked and stared into the light. It was beginning to fragment and break apart! The images were becoming distorted. He longed for the people to come back. Certainly, he’d never seen anyone—not even the Welves—who looked like what he thought he’d glimpsed in that split second before the light winked out, then blinked back on, and shifted to another picture.

Trying to make sense of the flickering images that were beginning to make his eyes burn and ache, Limbeck pulled himself farther over the lip of the hole and saw the light’s source. It was beaming out of an object at the bottom of the hole.

“That was what made the thump,” said Limbeck, shielding his eyes with his hand and staring at the object intently. “It fell from the sky, like I did. Is it part of the Kicksey-Winsey? If so, why did it fall? Why is it showing me these pictures?”

Why, why, why? Limbeck couldn’t stand not knowing. Never thinking of possible danger, he crawled over the edge of the hole and slid down the side. The nearer he drew to the object, the easier it was to see it. The light pouring out of it was diffused upward and was less brilliant and blinding approached from this angle.

The Geg was, at first, disappointed. “Why, it’s nothing but a hunk of coralite,” he said, prodding chunks of it that had broken off. “Certainly the largest hunk of coralite I’ve ever seen—it’s as big as my house—and then, too, I’ve never known coralite to fall out of the sky.”

Slithering closer, displacing small bits of rock that skittered out from under him and went bouncing down the side of the crater, Limbeck drew in his breath. Delighted, awed, and astounded, he immediately squelched the mental prod that was reminding him, “The dig-claws! The dig-claws!” The coralite was just a shell, an outer covering. It had cracked open, probably in the fall, and Limbeck could see inside.

At first he thought it must be part of the Kicksey-Winsey, and then he thought it wasn’t. It was made of metal-like the Kicksey-Winsey—but the metal body of the Kicksey-Winsey was smooth and unblemished. This metal was covered with strange and bizarre symbols, and it was from cracks in the metal that the bright light was streaming. And it was because of the cracks—or so Limbeck reasoned—that he couldn’t see the complete picture.

“If I open the cracks wider, then perhaps I could see more. This is really exciting!” Reaching the bottom of the crater, Limbeck hurried toward the metal object. It was about four times taller than he was and—as he’d first noticed—as big as his house. Gingerly he reached out his hand and made a swift tapping motion with the tips of his fingers on the metal. It wasn’t hot to the touch—something he’d feared due to the bright light pouring from it. The metal was cool, and he was able to rest his hand on it and even trace the symbols engraved there with his fingers.

A strange and ominous creaking noise sounded above him, and that irritating part of his brain was shrieking at him something about dig-claws coming down, but Limbeck ordered it to shut up and quit bothering him. Putting his hand on one of the cracks, he noticed that the cracks ran all around the symbols but never intersected one. Limbeck started to tug at the crack to see if he could widen it.

His hand seemed reluctant to perform its assigned task, however, and Limbeck knew why. He was suddenly and unpleasantly reminded of the fallen Welf ship.

“Rotting corpses. But it led me to the truth.”

The thought passed through his mind swift as a heartbeat, and, refusing to let himself think about it further, he gave the metal a good hard tug. The crack widened, the entire metal structure began to shiver and tremble. Limbeck snatched his hand away and jumped backward. But the object was only, apparently, settling itself more firmly into the crater, for the movement ceased. Cautiously Limbeck approached again, and this time he heard something. It sounded like a groan. Pressing his ear to the crack, wishing angrily that the creaking sounds of the dig-claws descending from the skies would cease so that he could hear better, Limbeck listened intently. He heard it again, louder, and he had no doubt that there was something alive inside the metal shell, and that it was hurt.

Gegs, even the weak ones, have a tremendous amount of strength in their arms and upper body. Limbeck put his hands on either side of the crack and pushed with all his might. Though they bit into his flesh, the metal sides split wide open and the Geg was able, after a brief struggle, to squeeze inside. The light had been brilliant out there. In here, it was blinding, and Limbeck at first despaired of seeing anything. Then he detected the light’s source. It was radiating outward from the center of what the Geg had come to think of—by past association—as a ship. The groaning sound came from somewhere to the right, and Limbeck, by using his hand as a shield, was able to block out most of the light and search for whatever it was that was in pain. Limbeck’s heart jumped. “A Welf!” was his first excited thought. “And a live one at that!” Squatting down beside the figure, the Geg saw a large amount of blood beneath the head, but no signs of blood anywhere else on the body. He also saw—rather to his disappointment—that it wasn’t a Welf. Limbeck had seen a human only once before, and that was in pictures in the Welf books. This creature looked something like a human, yet not quite. There was one thing certain, however. The creature, with its great height and thin, muscular body, was definitely one of the so-called gods.

At that moment, the screaming warnings in Limbeck’s brain became so insistent that he was forced—reluctantly—to pay attention to them.

He looked up through the crack in the ship’s structure and found himself staring into the wide-open maw of a dig-claw, directly above him, and descending rapidly. If Limbeck hurried, he could just manage to escape the ship before the claw smashed into it.

The god-who-wasn’t groaned again.

“I’ve got to get you out of here!” Limbeck said to him. The Gegs are a softhearted race and there is no doubt that Limbeck was moved by unselfish considerations in determining to risk his own life to save that of the god. But it must also be admitted that the Geg was moved by the thought that if he took back a live god-who-wasn’t, Jarre would have to believe his story!

Grasping the god by the wrists, Limbeck started to pull him across the debris-strewn floor of the shattered ship, when he felt—with a shiver—hands grasp him back. Startled, he looked down at the god. The eyes, almost covered in a mask of blood, were wide open and staring at him. The lips moved.

“What?” With the claw’s creaking, Limbeck couldn’t hear. “No time!” He jerked his head upward.

The god’s eyes glanced up. His face was twisted in pain, and it was obvious to Limbeck that the god was holding on to consciousness by a supreme effort. It seemed he recognized the danger, but it only made him more frantic. He squeezed Limbeck’s wrists hard; the Geg would have bruise marks for weeks.

“My...dog!”

Limbeck stared down at the god. Had he heard right? The Geg glanced hastily around the wreckage and suddenly saw, right at the god’s feet, an animal pinned beneath twisted metal. Limbeck blinked at it, wondering why he hadn’t seen it before.

The dog was panting and squirming. It was stuck and couldn’t free itself, but it didn’t appear to be hurt and it was obviously trying, in its struggles, to reach its master, for it paid no attention to Limbeck.

The Geg looked upward. The claw was coming down with a rapidity that Limbeck found quite annoying—considering how slowly they had descended the last time he’d seen them. He looked from the claw to the god to the dog.

“I’m sorry,” he said helplessly. “There just isn’t time!” The god—eyes on the dog—tried to wrench his hands from the Geg’s grip. But the effort apparently taxed the god’s remaining strength, for suddenly the arms went limp and the god’s head lolled back. The dog, looking at its master, whimpered and increased its efforts to free itself.

“I’m sorry,” Limbeck repeated to the dog, who paid no attention to him. Gritting his teeth, hearing the sound of the claw coming closer and closer, the Geg pulled the body of the god across the debris-strewn floor. The dog’s struggles became frantic, its whimperings changed to yelps, but that was only—Limbeck saw—because it was watching its master being taken away and it couldn’t get to him.

A lump in his throat that was both pity for the trapped animal and fear for himself, Limbeck heaved and pulled and strained and finally reached the crack. With a great effort he dragged the god through. Depositing the limp body on the floor of the crater, Limbeck threw himself down beside the god just as the dig-claw smashed into the metal ship.

There was a shattering explosion. The concussion lifted Limbeck off the ground and slammed him back into it, driving the breath from his stout body. Small bits of shattered coralite fell down around him like rain, the sharp edges biting painfully into his skin. When that ceased, all was quiet. Slowly, dazedly, Limbeck lifted his head. The dig-claw was hanging motionless, probably injured in the explosion. The Geg looked around to discover what had happened to the ship, expecting to see it a mass of twisted wreckage. Instead, he didn’t see it at all. The explosion had destroyed it. No, that wasn’t quite right. There were no pieces of metal lying about; no remnant of the ship remained. It wasn’t only destroyed, it had vanished as though it had never been!

But there was the god to prove that Limbeck hadn’t lost his mind. The god stirred and opened his eyes. Gasping in pain, he turned his head, staring about.

“Dog,” he called feebly. “Dog! Here, boy!” Limbeck, glancing at the coralite that had been blown to smithereens in the blast, shook his head. He felt unaccountably guilty, though he knew there’d been no way he could have saved the dog and themselves.

“Dog!” called the god, and there was a panicked crack in the voice that made Limbeck’s heart ache. Reaching out his hand, he started to try to soothe the god, fearful that he would do himself further injury.

“Ah, dog,” said the god with a deep, relieved sigh, his gaze fixed on the place where the ship had been. “There you are! Come here. Come here. That was quite a ride, wasn’t it, boy?”

Limbeck stared. There was the dog! Dragging itself out of the broken rock, it hobbled, limping on three paws, to its master. Its eyes shining brightly, its mouth open in what Limbeck could have sworn was a pleased grin, the dog gave its master’s hand a lick. The god-who-wasn’t relapsed into unconsciousness. The dog, with a sigh and a wriggle, sank down beside its master, laid its head on its paws, and fixed its intelligent eyes on Limbeck.