Hiero's Journey

6. THE DEAD ISLE

Hiero’s first sensation was of pain, the second of movement. Instinctively, the pain made him try to rise, but he found he was hindered, that he could not. This in turn made him realize that he was lying on his back on something hard which moved gently, heaving restlessly up and down, sideways and back, in a regular rhythm.

The pain was centered in the middle of his breast, a constant ache of tremendous proportions which sent ripples of lesser pain throughout his whole body. His right hand was free, and instinctively it sought his chest. It there encountered a hard object of unfamiliar shape and fumbled with it. That’s wrong, his mind said indignantly. The Cross and Sword should be there!

He realized at this point that his eyes were open and had been for some time. He was in total darkness, then, or almost total. A very faint line of light, a little below eye level, showed some way off. As he tried to concentrate on it and at the same time block off the pain by Abbey techniques, memory also returned.

The Lightning! Something very like real lightning had apparently been used on him. The meaning of the little symbol had been its rarest attribute, then, and it had tried to warn him that he would actually be struck by the strange weapon on the Unclean boat’s deck. And he was on an anchored boat now, probably the same one. He had been on small vessels of the Republic many times and on traders’ boats too. The feeling was unmistakable.

The pain still a constant, but now rendered bearable at least, his mind began to work again. What was this strange object that lay on his chest? His free hands, left now as well as right, traced its outline in darkness until they came to a heavy thong which was attached to the object. As he realized what had happened, Hiero offered a silent but fervent prayer of gratitude. The enemy weapon, the electric bolt or whatever, of the Unclean had hit squarely (or been directed: who knew God’s will?) on the silver Cross and Sword medallion which was the badge of his order. Result: a fused mass of melted silver and a man alive who might otherwise have been dead!

His hands felt further down, to his waist, and encountered a broad band of smooth metal, whose very feel was strangely unpleasant. This was what held him firmly to the hard bed or table on which he was secured. Against his ear, though, he now heard the surge and rush of water, and he realized that he must be imprisoned against the actual hull of the ship, apparently down in the hold, or a section thereof.

His eyes were now as night-adapted as they would get, and he could see slightly more. The thin line of light was indeed the bottom of a door. Hiero was held by the broad waistband, on a narrow bunk, and the band was secured at one side of the bunk by a massive lock. The room or cabin was small, about ten feet square, and contained no furniture, except for a foul-smelling bucket in one corner whose use was obvious, although in his present condition his metal belt prevented his reaching it. Wails, decks, overhead, everything he could reach, were all of metal, featureless and blank, with no rivets or welds showing. Since all the vessels he had previously seen were of wood, with experimental iron hulls only being talked about, the priest was compelled to admire the workmanship. It was, he reluctantly conceded, well in advance of any type the Abbeys possessed, at least in the nautical realm. He remembered, too, that the boat he had seen was mastless and no sign of smoke had shown either, eliminating both sails and the crude steam engines of the newest Republic craft as a means of propulsion.

As he listened now, he began to hear other noises over the faint groaning of the hull and the slap of waves on its outer surface. Voices came faintly to him and also muffled barking and grunting sounds, the latter all too familiar. Apparently some of the Howlers were on board. Underlying the other noises was a thin, whining hum, barely audible if one concentrated. This, he decided, must be the ship’s engine or whatever provided power, and he wondered how it operated.

Hiero had wasted no time in looking for any weapons. His belt dagger and his heavy sword-knife were gone, and the rest of the things were on the saddle. Had Klootz and the girl gotten away? Had Gorm also escaped in the confusion? Poor Luchare, her protectors were always getting trapped by the enemy!

His musings were interrupted by the clink of a lock or latch. The door opened, sliding into a recess, actually, and light flooded the little cubicle, causing the priest to blink and raise a hand to his eyes.

Before he put his hand down, a fetid stench warned him of one enemy, at least, a Howler. As he looked, his eyes adjusting to the new glare, he saw that his captors had turned on a fluor in the ceiling.

There were two men in the now familiar gray cloaks and hoods. One wore that mind-wrenching spiral on his breast, but this time instead of red, it was in a sickly blue. The same one, the obvious leader, had his hood thrown back, and he so resembled S’nerg that Hiero had trouble in not gasping aloud. The subordinate creature kept his hood on, but the priest glimpsed a brutal countenance in the hood’s shadows, bearded and with a broken nose. Against the wall near the door crouched the Howler, a pink-faced monster, well over two hundred pounds in weight, its dirty brown fur matted and foul. But under the brow ridges, the deep-set vicious eyes were alive with intelligence and malice. In one huge hand it carried a metal weapon like a great cleaver.

The keen eyes of the leading human had not missed the flicker of recognition in Hiero’s, and it was he who spoke first. He used batwah, Hiero noted, not Metz.

“So—you have seen one of us before? All the Brotherhood are close kin, priest, and if you have glimpsed one, you have seen all.”

Watching him under lidded eyes, Hiero could believe it. The man, if he was a human man, seemed a trifle older than Hiero’s memory of S’nerg, and his throat lines were graven deeper. But the resemblance was still astonishing. Nevertheless, the priest said nothing.

The adept, for such he must be, spoke sharply in an unknown tongue to the other man, and the one addressed hurried to Hiero’s side, bent, and released the lock in the metal belt which held him fast, Hiero did not move, however, but remained lying there, watching the three attentively.

“Good, good,” the adept chuckled. “A man of great control. Had you leaped up, even got up slowly, I should have had you knocked down, just as a beginning lesson in obedience. But we knew you were clever. Why else all this trouble? Still, I am pleased. Now pay attention, priest, if priest you are, and not something else.

“I am S’duna. The big one in the corner is Chee-Chowk, and he does not like you. No, not at all. He had never seen a Metz priest, yet he knows an enemy, eh, Chee-Chowk? But actually, he’s a delightful fellow. I only wish you could see him tear a man’s leg off and eat it in front of the victim. Good sport, eh, my friend?” He smiled at the awful, grinning creature, and Hiero barely restrained a visible grimace of repulsion.

“Too bad humanity, or your weakling segment of it, priest, doesn’t like the Howlers. Yes, we’ve adopted your name. It’s not a bad one. You see, they’re only mutated monkeys of some long-extinct species. We think they were laboratory animals before The Death, but we’re not sure. They’re very clever now, though, and they do hate humans, all except their good friends.” His tone was light and bantering, and he appeared in no hurry to move.

“We’re going ashore now for a few questions. As you’ll see, escaping is silly. And Chee-Chowk and his merry crew will be watching, waiting for a new kind of dinner, please remember that.”

He leaned over until his white death mask of a face was thrust close to Hiero’s impassive brown one.

“You’re something a little different, priest, I’ll give you that. We may just come to terms. Think that over, too. We don’t generally use prisoners for anything except amusement. Ours, not theirs, I might say. But in your case, well, who knows?

“Now get up,” he added sharply, “and walk behind us and in front of Chee-Chowk. And do what you’re told. You’ll live longer.” He turned and left the cabin, followed by his silent acolyte.

Hiero got up quickly, but not quick enough to avoid a nasty cuff from the Howler, which shoved him through the door at the same time. He fell, still weak, to his knees, and a great paw next jerked him roughly erect by his collar and thrust him further on.

Ahead of him, he saw the booted feet of the second man going up a narrow companion stair. The short corridor was gray and featureless, save for a few doors like his own. He wondered if Luchare were behind one, but he dared not use his mind for a probe, not in this place.

When he crawled out of the foredeck hatch, pushed from behind by the Howler, he found the rain still falling, if anything, harder. As he tried to look about, two more gray-hooded men took him by the arms and half-led, half-dragged him to the side and thrust him down a ladder into a large rowing boat.

They were in a harbor, a hidden anchorage surrounded by tall spires of smooth rock rising from the freshwater sea. Despite the rain and mist, the priest could see a few other craft, one of them with masts, at anchor not far away. None was large, and there was no sign of movement on any.

Behind him, the huge Howler now crouched in the stern, while the horror’s two masters stood erect in the bow. The two oars in the boat’s waist were manned by a pair of half-naked slaves, white men, covered with scars and whose hair and beards grew rank and undipped. They stank worse than the Howler, if that were possible, and their eyes were vacant and apathetic. They stared at the water and made no sound.

As Hiero looked back, moving as little as possible, the boat turned under the oars’ power, and he got his first good look at the ship which had captured him. It was sharp-bowed, long, and slim, the hull of dark gray metal, and with a midship cabin, also of metal. A curious short tower rose just aft the cabin, with a crow’s nest full of strange rods and instruments on poles, like giant fly swatters. On the foredeck, a cloth shroud of some sort covered the weapon which had felled the priest.

The rowboat turned further and the ship was lost to his view. Ahead of them, through the mist, Hiero saw a landing, a stone dock thrust out into the water from a rocky islet. On the islet above, half-hidden under an upthrust crag, crouched a squat castle, a low stone keep visible in the center of massive walls, which lay open now to view through a great gate. The ponderous doors of the castle were flung wide against the gray walls, which rose up some thirty feet above the surrounding rock.

Nothing appeared to grow on the islet, and all was gray or black stone. On the walls’ top, a few figures paced, but not in any regular order. The fortress of the Unclean seemed guarded not by arms, eyes, or regular sentries of any sort.

The Unclean leader, S’duna, turned from his place in the bow and stared down at Hiero. Then he pointed to the oily black water through which they were passing. “Look there, priest! We have many guards and many wards upon our island. Look and remember! None leave the Dead Isle of Manoon, save by permission!”

Hiero stared at the water to where the white finger thrust. Close to the boat and clearly visible, even in the mist and rain, a round thing, several feet across, emerged, like a segment of greasy hose, magnified many times, As it turned and twisted, the Metz saw that it was an eyed head, a head of horror. It was some kind of giant worm creature, whose sucking, round, jawless mouth could not close, but gaped and contracted rhythmically, full of sharp fangs set in concentric circles. The thing dived under the boat as he watched, and he estimated the body to be many yards in length. It had made no sound.

He looked at S’duna and shrugged, very slightly, his face bland and unmoving.

The other smiled malignantly. “You appear a hardy one, I’ll give you that, little priest. Let us see how hardy you remain when we go to visit in our order’s house on Manoon. Is it not a heartwarming place?”

Hiero was now paying little attention. As the boat drew in toward the desolate island, an assault had begun on his mind. He sensed that S’duna knew of it but had nothing to do with it. The forces which laired on the isle had been waiting for Hiero, and their attack was the result of long preparation. It was both a test and an assault and also, in an odd way, a welcome. He knew that he was being subjected to enormous and increasing pressures which were intended to destroy him if they could, yet which might allow him to defend himself if he could. And in the very nature of the onslaught, there was an element of doubt. The Unclean rulers of Manoon did not yet know with what or whom they were dealing. They could have killed him while he slept. Instead, they were frightened enough to feel the need to experiment. And they still thought, apparently, that he somehow could be induced to join them!

He was helped, or rather shoved, onto the stone quay, and with the Howler behind and the others in front, was marched up the path, paved and smooth, toward the gate of the Unclean castle.

This last physical exertion, while not especially strenuous, almost overtaxed his waning strength. He could not estimate how long he had been unconscious, but he was desperately tired and now felt the need of water and food as well. He expected none of the amenities, especially rest, however. The advantages to the enemy of questioning a weakened, half-exhausted prisoner were obvious. However, the process of holding his mind block against the mental assault, using his fast-waning physical energy to do so, was wearing him out at a geometric rate. Halfway to the shallow steps of the fortress, he fell, and when Chee-Chowk’s great paw wrenched him erect, he fell again. He made no effort to rise, concentrating only on holding the mental barrier, and at the same time nerve-blocking any unpleasant physical stimuli. As he lay, the Howler cuffed him but he felt nothing.

S’duna looked down at him thoughtfully. “Wait,” he said, lifting a pallid hand to restrain the Leemute. “Lift him. up. It will avail us nothing to have him die here. He is fast draining himself, and he is wanted for a long period of arduous questioning, if nothing more. Garry him gently, Chee-Chowk, as you would one of your dirty cubs, eh?”

The wizard certainly exacted obedience, Hiero had to admit. He was lifted gently in the great, hairy arms, and although the stink of the creature was appalling, he could block that out too. Carried, or rather cradled, he passed under the cold arch of Manoon. Few who entered that place left it, and of those who opposed the Unclean in their purposes, none at all.

As he was borne into the court of the fortress, the mental assault ceased. Hiero felt that S’duna had signaled somehow, in a way he could not detect, that the prisoner was worn out and had best be allowed some respite. Whatever the cause, the pressure and probing ceased, and although he kept his shield of force firmly in place, with the rest of his senses he could look about, especially with his eyes.

The fortress was not especially large. The whole extent inside the stone walls was perhaps two hundred yards square. Steps led up to the walls’ angles, and as well as being low-walled themselves, the parapets were broad enough to walk upon. A few hooded figures paced them, the same he had glimpsed from the boat. There were no armed men about and he saw no obvious weapons in evidence, save for Chee-Chowk’s cleaver.

The square stone keep which lay before them was low, only about three storeys high, and had few windows. Those it had were narrow and set in no obvious order. The roof was fiat, making the structure look like a great, gray, blank cube, its shape in some way an affront to any kindly softness or indeed the human condition. The pavement on which they walked looked like the same stone slabs as the walls and the fortalice. All seemed to the priest to have been made with one purpose, an arid and sinister efficiency, one which denied beauty or taste or even life as being necessary. Inwardly, far, far inside, he shuddered, but none knew or saw it by his actions or appearance. And too, his curiosity could not be quelled entirely, even here. No one had ever penetrated the lives of the enemy as he was now doing. He must observe, despite himself.

They passed through a narrow door and went silently along an. ill-lit stone corridor. The dim blue glow of an occasional fluor provided the only light. Hiero looked back over the hairy shoulder of his carrier and saw the gray light of day in the door vanish as they rounded a corner.

Presently, after many baffling turns, the corridor began to go down. At the same time, the hollow, echoing voice of S’duna reverberated back from in front.

“Manoon lies truly below, priest. We of the Great Brotherhood find the depths a relaxant, a shield against the silly clamor of the world. Only in the bowels of the earth is there the complete silence we crave, the spiritual emptiness we seek to encourage the growth of pure thought.” His words echoed along the stone corridor in diminishing tones: “Thought, thought, ought, ought.”

When the silence had returned, save for the pad of the three sets of footsteps, he added gently, “And the dead, of course. They are here too.” The echoes sighed: “Too, too, oo, oo.”

Eventually, the two ahead came to a halt. A small, metal door had been opened, and the great Leemute stooped and entered. He laid Hiero on a pallet of straw, not ungently, and then backed out of the room, snarling as he did, to indicate his true feelings toward the captive.

“Farewell for a time, priest,” came the voice of S’duna. “Rest and prepare yourself. You will be summoned, never fear.” The door of heavy iron slammed shut with a clang, and a lock clicked. Then there was silence.

Hiero looked about him. The room, or cell, a better description, had been hewn from the living rock. There was no window in the rough walls, but a small slit high in one corner, too small for a man’s arm, brought air from the distant surface. A small fluor, set in the ceiling, protected by a metal grill, gave a dim but adequate light. The cell was about ten feet square and furnished with nothing, save for the straw mattress and a covered pail, the latter obviously for sanitary purposes. There was also an evil-smelling drain in one corner, again with a heavy metal grill covering its opening.

Next to the pallet was a wooden tray on which were set an earthenware jug of water, another of some sweet, dark wine, and a loaf of ordinary hard bread. One sensing taste, an art taught in the Abbey schools, told him the wine contained some unknown substance, but the bread and water seemed pure enough, if a trifle flat in taste. He poured the wine down the drain, ate the loaf, drank all the water, and lay down to rest. The air was damp, but not especially cold, and he was not uncomfortable. The pain of the great bruise on his chest, where the lightning gun’s blast had struck him, was still vivid but perfectly bearable. He now began, very cautiously, to try a previously thought-out experiment.

He lowered the mental guard on his mind a tiny, the smallest, bit. Imagine a man weakening a wall of rough stones from the inside, in order to see if an inimical force, or a dangerous animal, is pressing on it from the outside. Bit by bit, careful to make no sound, the man removes first the larger stones, then the smaller ones which fill up the chinks. He pauses and listens at frequent intervals. He is careful to leave the outer face of the wall unchanged. But until he is able to make at least a tiny hole all the way through, he cannot communicate with the outside world and get help. This was what Hiero did with his brain, slowly dismantling his invisible wards and guards, one by one.

The very last step was not needed, so delicately attuned had his mind become and so sensitive the warning devices that he felt the Unclean outside waiting! It was a weird experience. He knew they were waiting, on constant watch, waiting in what numbers he could not tell, for him to relax his barrier. And he could feel them without so doing, feeling them waiting to invade his mind, hoping he would be lulled into letting his inner fences down for even one split second, which was all they needed. Give them that, and he would be in an instant a mindless thing!

As carefully as he had dismantled his shielf, so he rebuilt it. A few moments later and he could relax again. The wards were up once more, and the whole thing had been put on “automatic.” Invade the cell and kill him with a sword thrust, they could do easily at any time; but invade his brain and spirit, not at all.

He lay back considering. He was sure of one thing, and that was that he must have frightened the Unclean adepts badly. Had this not been so, he felt sure he would now be writhing on some torture rack to give pleasure to one of their feasts. But they wanted desperately to know more about him, that was obvious. They wanted to know who and what he was and (Hiero was certain this lay uppermost in their thoughts) were there any more like him! As long as he kept them guessing, he had a shrewd idea they would handle him with great care.

How on earth could he use his mind, since his body seemed trapped here? The mental communication bands were sealed off by the necessity of keeping up the wall between their minds and his. Yet he could never escape unless he could explore, could learn more about his prison, and the only way to do that was to use his unfettered mind. And he knew he had better hurry, for God alone knew how long he would last under the Unclean Brotherhood’s idea of an examination. The problem was a snake devouring its own tail. Relax the defenses and be overwhelmed. Don’t relax them and die, through inaction, a little later, but just as surely. The mind’s “doors” were all locked since no one could communicate except on the known wavelengths, not the Unclean, not the Abbeys, not the animals, not anyone.

Or—could they? Like many revolutionary ideas, Hiero’s came partly through his subconscious. It was slow emerging into the conscious, and then suddenly it was there. Or could they? Where had he got that idea? Was it possible there were other bands, perhaps on another part of the mind’s spectrum, one nobody had yet chanced upon? He began to probe, sending his thoughts out on a “wavelength” neither he nor anyone else had ever tried before. It was a thought channel which had long been deemed blank, or rather too full of “static” to be useful. The only thing it had ever been demonstrated to carry was the mass mind of a beehive or wasp nest, for the channel was so “low” or “coarse” that it was very close to the inaudible sounds of certain communal insects.

Once again, analogy is necessary. Try to imagine a specialized electronics expert, who only had knowledge of microwave amplifiers, forced to use a crowded police call band, and use it with the microwave equipment which is all he is accustomed to. In addition to adapting his unsuitable equipment, he must operate through the police calls, which are already apparently using that particular band to capacity!

This was what Hiero now managed to do. Lying on his straw heap, eyes shut, to outward appearances sleeping, he began to tap the minds of his guardians at a level they had never suspected anyone capable of utilizing. It was hard at first, but the new wavelength had fantastic possibilities. For one thing, he found he could easily maintain his shields at the same time he explored with it. The two “bands” were totally different, and one had no relation to the other.

First, he looked for the source of the pressure which never ceased to beat, although without any effect, on his outer, automatically maintained shield. In passing, he noted that he was now using his mind at three separate, quite distinct levels, at one and the same time.

The enemy who watched him and kept up the thrust on his brain surprised him. It was only one man. But he had help. He sat before a curious machine, whose low humming and buzzing varied in a rhythmic pulse as it went up and down a scale. Above a board, covered with lights and buttons, hung a clear glass tube filled with some opalescent fluid, suspended by wire at both ends. The fluid, oily and shimmering, seemed to move in keeping with the wavering rhythm of the board below. The man, another adept, apparently, hood thrown back and eyes shut, sat with his hands fitted into two depressions on the front of the board which were shaped to receive them. In appearance, he was another duplicate, Hiero saw, of S’nerg and S’duna.

Saw!’Even as the word rang in his mind, he closed that channel off and mentally retired into his own skull again, safe behind his shields. Saw! Without the benefit of an animal’s eyes, he had somehow seen the room and the man. There was only one possible explanation. On this new level, he was in the other’s mind, undetected, and using the other’s sense of perception. Could he use more than sight?

Cautiously, he eased himself back along the line to the mind of the Unclean adept who, in turn, was supposed to be observing him. He found to his amazement that he was occupying the other’s brain and tapping the other’s sensations all at the same time. The sickly scent of an unpleasant incense filled the control room in which the adept sat, coming from a small, smoking brazier. Hiero guessed that it had an effect like Lucinoge and enhanced the mental powers. But the key fact was that he, Hiero, was smelling it, using the olfactory sense of his unconscious watcher! And he could feel the cold metal of the instrument board, where the other’s hands now rested. The next step was one he was reluctant to take. But he could see no way out of it. The strange machine was undoubtedly tuned to the other’s brain, was in a combined mental and physical contact with him. The priest wanted to know more about the machine, indeed felt it vital that he know more. The Abbeys were only beginning to consider mind enhancement by mechanical aids, and the enemy was obviously far ahead.

Slowly, as slowly as a person with poor sight threads a needle, Hiero began to use his new channel of observation to tap the adept’s links with the machine. The experience was uncanny. Through the machine, he began to feel the mind of the adept beating remorselessly on his own, Hiero’s, mental barrier! A feeling of intense heat began to overcome him and he withdrew again, hastily. This sort of circular mental polarity was obviously not without danger. It was not necessary to kill himself to test his new powers, and what he had just tried was something that obviously needed lots of lab work first.

When the sensation of heat, a feeling not physical, but nonetheless dangerous for all that, had vanished, Hiero sent his mind to explore elsewhere, and sent it roving, to seek other intelligences nearby. He was doing now, he realized, in a conscious way, what his subconscious had always done when he wanted to see and put himself in a trance with the crystal.

He “knew” S’duna’s personality from observation, both physical and mental, and he set himself to find that particular master of the Unclean Brotherhood. He touched several other human minds, and one non-human fleetingly. This latter he took to be Chee-Chowk or some other Leemute, but he went on without investigating. Ah! He touched the mind of the man he wanted.

The adept was apparently resting, his mind under the influence of some strange drug. Hiero was able to see part of the room, a large one, hung with dark draperies and containing many strange instruments laid out on tables. S’duna lay upon a bed, and beside him, another small brazier emitted a thin trickle of bluish smoke which he was inhaling. One brief look into the thoughts of the enemy was enough for Hiero. The man’s plans for imaginative relaxation involved much that was bizarre and sensuous and more that was hideous, foul beyond belief. Hiero withdrew his mind, sure now that he could find the other again whenever he wanted.

What next? The time element he was being allowed in which to plan was uncertain, but must be decreasing. The fact that S’duna was under some drug seemed hopeful. A mind of that power would probably be involved in any interrogation. What more could now be done with this new attribute he had acquired?

He concentrated as hard as he could on distance. That is, he began to use the new band in an increasingly wide arc. Whenever he tapped a mind or even touched one which could be identified as Unclean or as being on the island, he thrust further out and beyond.

Soon, he knew he was sending his thoughts far beyond the physical scope of Manoon, as ripples from a far-flung stone grow larger and larger. Now he concentrated on Gorm and the girl. He knew their mental identities well and he began to search for them.

He encountered many minds, but all were animals, the brains of birds, intent on prey, usually fish, and the minds of fish and other aquatic creatures. Once he touched upon a cluster of human minds, all in one area, like a group of blips on an ancient radar screen. This, he guessed, must be a ship, and he knew he was still over water in a physical sense. Wider and wider yet, he cast his net of awareness.

Just when he was about to despair and abandon the process for some other, more hopeful, line of endeavor, he found them.

¹ Gorm! The mind of the bear lay open to him, or at least partly so. To his surprise, which he momentarily put aside, there were some areas he could not penetrate. Using the bear’s weak eyes, he could see that he was looking at Luchare. The two were on a lonely stretch of beach, in what seemed to be late afternoon from the way the light appeared. A shift of the bear’s glance now revealed a huge foreleg blocking part of the scene. Klootz, too, was still with them, then!

Now, could he communicate? Gorm, Gorm, he called, using the new wavelength as hard as he could. He could feel the animal shift uneasily, but he was not getting through. At best, he was making the bear uneasy, acting as an irritant. He tried again, this time not so hard, but using a narrower “needle” of thought. It must be remembered that the soldier-priest was trying something utterly new. The full capabilities of his recently won system were unknown to him.

Mainly by luck, he made a fleeting contact. Hiero! He felt Gorm literally jump as the message hit him; then he lost the bear again. He tried Luchare next, but got nowhere. He was not surprised. She was a novice at mind speech and the bear was not. In fact, he thought, recalling the sealed elements of the ursine mind he had just noticed, the bear was still an unknown.

There was no time for such speculation, however. Patiently, he went back up and down his odd channel, trying to relocate the precise point at which Gorm had been jolted. There it was again, a flood of thoughts! Hiero, the bear sent. Hiero/friend, where are you? How do we speak, this (strange) way?

The priest finally managed to quiet the animal and began slowly to explain what he was doing and how. This time Hiero was not too surprised to observe how quickly Gorm understood. He had thought previously, it came to him now, that the young bear owned a brain not far short of a human’s in power. It was now apparent that the estimate was far too low. The bear was quite as intelligent as Hiero, only in a somewhat different way, that was all.

I am a prisoner of the Unclean, the priest sent. l am on an island in the sea, where I do not know. I am going to try to escape very soon, since I feel sure they will torture me. Where are you and how are you?

As Gorm developed practice, the story of the three unfolded. The brief fight, which had left Hiero dead, they thought, on the beach, had left them untouched. They had evaded all missiles and galloped away west. Easily losing the few Howlers who pursued, they had next gone a few miles inland to the very edge of the Palood and headed east again. Now they were camped some half a day’s eastward journey from the place where Hiero had been captured. The enemy was not, apparently, seeking them. It was supposed that they were thought to be mindless brutes and a stupid slave girl, not worth bothering about. They had been trying to frame new plans when the wonderful message had burst upon them. It was now a day and a half since the battle, if it could be called such. What did Hiero want them to do?

The priest reflected for a moment. It would be silly for the girl, who knew nothing of boats or deep water, the bear, who knew even less, and the morse, too big for most vessels, to try and reach him. He must escape in his own way and seek them out instead. The problem was where to tell them to meet him. But it was not insuperable.

Go, he sent, to the east. Find a cove where a small boat can come in secretly. Wait there in concealment. The Unclean know nothing of this channel of the mind we use now. He told them to send him a mind picture through Gorm, once they had found such a location, and estimate how far it lay from the site of the battle. He would surely be able to direct himself to it with that help. He added a prayer, a message of comfort for Luchare, and broke communication. A plan had been growing steadily in his mind, and he felt he could no longer avoid trying it. Who knew how much more time he would be allowed?

Once again he mentally sought the nameless adept, the same who, by the help of the curious apparatus, was maintaining the combined watch and pressure upon him. Once again he had the weird experience of invading the Unclean wizard’s mind and senses and seeing them focused on himself!

He began to insert a thought in the normal mental pattern of the adept, a thought which would simply appear as a subconscious command! The thought was simple: The prisoner is too quiet. Turn off the machine and go and check on him. Too quiet; go and check. Over and over the thought was built, Hiero increasing its strength by degrees, his concentration never faltering as he tried not to let the pressure mount too rapidly so that the adept, himself a master of mental science, would suspect he was being tampered with. On and on, up and up, went the pressure. All the while Hiero watched the instrument board before him through the eyes of the man he was trying to mislead.

Suddenly there was a click. The priest felt his enemy’s worry plainly as the light in the peculiar hanging tube dimmed and went out. The board’s lights, too, were now shut off. The pressure on the other part of Hiero’s brain vanished. And at the same time, before the Unclean adept could even rise from his seat, Hiero struck. The mental barrier he had erected to defend himself was swept down, and he lashed out at the dark mind of the adept before the other could even think of guarding himself. Using both channels now open to him, Hiero captured the enemy’s brain before any warning even could be formulated. Now Hiero paused, keeping a tight vise on the other, arid waited to see if anyone else had been aroused. There was nothing, no thrilling of the ether, no alarm, no sign of awareness of what had happened.

After a moment, Hiero ordered his captive, bound no less strongly than if he had been loaded with chains, to come to his cell and release him. It was a risk, for the adept might have no key, but Hiero was gambling that anyone of that rank must have the ability to set him free.

He watched through the other’s eyes as the adept left the chamber from which he had kept watch and headed for Hiero’s distant place of imprisonment. Nor were the adept’s eyes the priest’s only aid. With the man’s ears, Hiero heard footsteps coming at a cross corridor and made the other stand in an alcove until they had passed.

All this time he could feel the enemy’s own mind raging against its restraints. It was a strong mind and it battled desperately to free itself and the body it was attached to from the strangling embrace of the priest’s brain. But in vain: so quick had Hiero been that the entire forebrain was completely under his power, all senses, all locomotor ability, everything. The Unclean could only rage futilely in the dark recesses of his mind, helpless to intervene actively.

Through a maze of dark corridors they went, passing closed doors at intervals and using the occasional dim bulb of a fluor set in the ceiling for light. Once, as they passed a door, Hiero caught the sound of a faint moan. But he dared not tarry to see what foulness of the enemy lay behind it. It would be all he could do to escape alone, and it would serve no one to have him die here in the course of a hopeless attempt at rescue of some other of Manoon’s captives. Presently they were before his own door. He could feel himself inside and themself outside at one and the same time. Under Hiero’s mental orders, the adept was forced to release a tiny, hidden catch in the stone corridor wall just outside the door. The door lock clicked, and the adept opened it and entered. As he entered, Hiero forced him to his knees. The door closed by itself behind the Unclean. At the same time, Hiero clamped down on every neural synapse he could reach in the adept’s body. With a muffled exhalation of breath, the enemy passed out cold, completely unconscious, even as the Metz left his mind completely and reoccupied his own in full.

He rose from the bed and crouched by the body. Hastily he stripped the other, finding a nasty-looking dagger belted on under the robe. This he took and drew on the gray robe and hood over his own supple leather clothes. He listened for a moment and heard nothing. He built again his “ordinary” mind shield, simply as a precaution, lest a snooper try a chance probe at him. A sudden stillness made him glance down. There would be no need to tie the Unclean master up now, for he had ceased to breathe. The ferocious nerve shock must have stopped the evil heart, Hiero realized and promptly forgot the matter. The sooner such creatures as this were exterminated, the better, was his only feeling.

Before he had “led” the adept to his own cell, the enemy’s memories had been extensively looted. Hiero knew now where his cell lay, where the various entrances were, and the whole maze of Manoon’s underworld down to the last broom closet. He shut the cell door behind him, locked it, and went on his way down the corridor, his hood over his bent head, to all appearances a master of the Dark Brotherhood intent on some problem as he paced along at a steady rate.

He was not heading for the surface by the way he had entered. It was not the closest way out, for one thing, nor the most private. Also, there was something he wanted to get before he left. He kept his mind always on the warning pulse of the mental wavelength he had found the Unclean to favor. Any human being within range would be detected before he ever saw him and either avoided, the best method, or taken over mentally if necessary.

He had crossed several hundred yards of dusty corridor, listening intently, his new knife held firmly up a sleeve, when he thought he caught a faint sound. He paused, his ears straining. The noise, if it were a noise and not the blood beating in his temples, was a soft scuffing, and it had seemed to come from behind him somewhere. He heard nothing now. The buried world of Manoon was utterly silent. Far behind him, a dusty blue fluor glowed in the corridor roof, and equally far ahead, another.

Once more he went upon his way. Soon he slowed his pace even further. He heard footsteps ahead and saw the glow of a stronger light. He was approaching, as he had meant to, a more used part of the dungeon-fortress complex. The footsteps died away again and he moved on. It had only been an underling, whose mind radiated nothing but vicious stupidity.

Hiero saw that the light came from a strong fluor set at the junction of his corridor with a much broader one. This was also as it should be, and no Unclean minds were in close proximity. Hood drawn down, he stepped into the new hallway and turned left. In a short time he was before another door, and finding it unlocked, he quickly entered. The small storeroom was empty. Having mind-probed first, he would have been greatly surprised had it been otherwise. On a shelf, shoulder belt, scabbard, and all, lay his beloved sword-knife, flung there carelessly by hands disdainful of mere physical weaponry. In a second, he had his robe off and was belting the beloved weapon on. Only moments later, he was out again and moving off up the corridor outside, back the way he had come, storeroom door shut behind him. It had been luck that the dead man back in his own cell had known where his sword was stored, but it had been forethought which had led the Metz to probe for the information. He wasted no time looking for the thrower. It already had been taken apart for examination, he had learned, and besides, he had no shells.

Hiero met no one and sensed nothing on the way to the little-used corridor from which he had come, but he was nonetheless nervous. A feeling was growing that somehow he had been detected. Once into the corridor, he quickened his pace, moving at a dog trot. All of Manoon seemed unconscious of his escape, but that feeling persisted.

The passage floor grew rougher, the jagged walls dripping cold water now and then, and the fluors were set even further apart.

This was a path to a seldom-used exit, one originally designed in the far past to serve as an emergency escape route in the event Manoon should suffer a siege. When Hiero had ransacked the now dead master’s mind, this way had been the one which the Unclean himself had regarded as the most secret and the least likely to be either searched or guarded.

The passage floor now began to slope upward at a light angle, which reassured Hiero, who had been wondering if he had made a mistake. But the floor was even rougher, and bits of rubble and even a few large rocks littered it. Also, it twisted, cutting down the dim light of the occasional fluors even more. His pace slowed to a walk.

The priest paused. Had he caught another faint sound, the rattle of a stone far to his rear? Once again he “swept” the airwaves for an Unclean human’s presence and detected nothing. If anything, a rat or some other vermin, he decided and went on. No human mind stirred in the fortress.

At length the passage straightened. It ran up now at a fairly steep angle, and a tiny gleam of light far away heralded its end. Encouraged, the Metz loped on, breathing evenly. He was beginning to feel the strain of all the mental effort, even more than the physical exertion, but he still had reserves to draw on.

He had passed the last dusty fluor and gone into the darkness beyond when the rattling scrape of claws on stone made him turn, freeing the heavy sword-knife and dagger together from the folds of the robe as he did.

One fluor’s light beyond the near one, a great dark bulk filled the tunnel from side to side, rolling along at a terrifying speed. At the same time, realizing somehow that he had been detected, the monster gave forth with a ghastly ululating bellow which filled the tunnel with deafening noise.

Chee-Chowk! Somehow the giant Howler had sensed Hiero’s escape and tracked him down. And the priest’s watch for Unclean human minds had made him forget they too had allies who thought in a different band altogether! But there was no time for self-recrimination.

As the Leemute passed under the last fluor just in front of him, Hiero caught the glint of the cleaverlike weapon the filthy thing carried in one great paw. Then the priest attacked.

He had transferred his sword, letting it droop from his dagger, or left hand, while he stooped and then hurled a fist-sized piece of rubble as hard as he could, straight into the fang-lined maw which shrieked at him. Straight and hard went the missile, and the chunk of limestone smashed into the hideous mouth, silencing the cries on the instant and making the brute halt in sudden agony, pawing the air with his free hand.

Behind the rock raced Hiero himself, sword now in the right hand, dagger in the left, using the downward slope of the tunnel to lend force to his charge.

Chee-Chowk tried to raise his own weapon, but using the long dagger as a main gauche, the defensive poniard of the forgotten Cinquecento, the priest beat it aside and struck a terrible blow at that awful, bleeding face which reared above him. The short, heavy blade, backed with utter desperation, for Hiero had no doubt as to the ultimate outcome if he should miss, came cleaving straight between the staring, red eyes. It drove into the skull beyond and split it with a “chunk” sound, as when a man splits a heavy tree knot with an axe.

That was all. The Howler’s giant body fell slowly forward, eyes glazed in death, and Hiero had to twist himself sideways to avoid being crushed. Even so, his sword was wrenched from his weakening grip, so deeply was it embedded in the head of his monstrous foe.

There was silence, broken only by the priest’s panting breath. As soon as he could think again, he tried to tear loose his sword and, while doing so, to use his brain to see if any general alarm had been given. But he could detect nothing. No mental clamor, no alert, nothing at all. The minds he was able to spot-check back in the main fortress were unconcerned, set only upon their own routine business. S’duna still lay in drugged slumber, a prey to evil visions.

Finally, Hiero tugged his weapon loose, and stooping, wiped it more or less clean on the dirty fur of the Leemute. He stood looking down at the huge bulk, whose muscular spasms went on despite death. “A pity, Chee-Chowk,” he mused aloud. “Perhaps if decent men had raised you, you’d have been just another kind of man, not a foul, night-haunting ogre.” Moved by the tragedy of the Leemute’s mere existence, he said a brief prayer and then turned and resumed his march up the tunnel. Already he could smell the fresh breezes over the dank airs of the tunnel and the stench of the dead Howler.

The light was much further than it looked, however, and it was more time than he cared to lose before he climbed the ramp to the end of the tunnel. His legs now really ached, and he had a strong feeling that a Chee-Chowk one-year-old would have been too much for him.

The emergency exit from the buried world of the Unclean was not barred by any door. The tunnel walls made a double zigzag, that was all, so that no one could see out or in, The last portion of the zag was a narrowing slit, through which one squeezed.

The Metz priest peered out cautiously. He had to shade his eyes, even though the sun was setting, until they grew accustomed to the normal light of the outside world. The bolt hole from which he peered was set high up, on the left arm of the bay to which the ship had come bearing him as a prisoner. He now faced east, and the light of the setting sun was coming from above and behind him. While Underground, he had come a long way out onto one arm of the two which guarded the harbor of Manoon.

Down a tumbled slope of rock and scree, on which nothing grew, the harbor lay before him. The few ships still rested silently at anchor, including the thin black craft which had captured him. A slight chop stirred the waters of the harbor, and looking to his left, the entrance, he could see whitecaps outside where a brisk breeze was blowing. And he could see something else.

There was only one wharf, the one to which he had been taken, below the road up to the castle. The castle glowered at him across the silent harbor and the bare rock which surrounded its walls. The gate was shut. No one paced the walls and no sound came from the edifice.

But just to the right of where Hiero now crouched, a path led down to a tiny cove with a bare shingle of pebble beach. Spread out upon this were a couple of fishing nets, and near them two small wooden boats were drawn up on the shore, held by anchors tossed up into the rocks at the end of their ropes. The priest decided that the rulers of the Dead Isle occasionally wanted fresh fish and made some of their servants go out and get it. Whatever the reason for those boats, they represented a chance. Their oars were plainly visible, simply shipped inside, and one of them even had a collapsible mast lying across its thwarts, a sail wrapped tightly about it.

Hiero had been maintaining a watch on the massed minds of the castle and its underground world. Still nothing stirred. Chee-Chowk apparently had followed his intended prey alone, not wishing to share what he no doubt thought of as a free dinner! But this could end at any time. Nevertheless, he decided to wait. The light was failing rapidly now, and it must be very close to sundown.

Nightfall would aid his chances enormously. It was a risk worth taking.

The shadows rapidly grew longer. No lights came on in the squat bulk of the castle, and its sinister outline grew harder and harder to make out. Nor were any lights visible in the harbor. Not even an anchor watch, thought Hiero, who had some experience of the Beesee coast and its seamen. These people were overconfident, he decided, too arrogant to believe anything could challenge them or their fortress. Their very lack of apprehension would be a shield to one of God’s servants. Or would it? He remembered S’duna’s comment in the boat, about Manoon’s having “many guardians.” Best to go cautiously.

A few stars had glimmered through the flying clouds, but no moon, and soon even the stars were invisible. The wind was making up now, and it moaned among the empty, barren rocks of the Dead Isle. The voices of the countless dishonored slain, the tortured victims of the Unclean, Hiero thought, and resolved that, come what might, he would not be among them.

He felt his way slowly down the slope, all senses alert, but heard nothing and sensed nothing with his mind.

Soon he made out the outline of the small boats. He felt his way around the one with the mast and freed its anchor. Then, with the anchor rope over his shoulder, he began to drag the boat into the water. It was a sturdy little thing, and it took some doing. Twice he had to pause and rest, each time checking the dark mass of the fortress for lights.

Finally he got the boat launched and, climbing aboard, stepped the mast, though leaving the sail furled. Then he went back and smashed a hole in the other boat with a heavy rock, first transferring its oars to his own in case he needed spares. In another moment he was afloat, had two oars in the tholes, and was pulling along the shore for the harbor mouth.

He rowed carefully, glancing ahead for rocks and not trying to make any speed. His little craft was almost invisible in the black shadows of the overhanging rocks, and he followed each dip and twist of the shore with precision. At one point he had to pass quite close to one of the larger moored vessels he had glimpsed earlier, but it was soon past and nothing stirred aboard it; nor could he detect any mind. His greatest problem was the increasing chop of the short, stiff waves as he neared the harbor mouth. Spray was already coming aboard, but he was grateful for the fact that at least he would be in no danger from thirst.

Two oval, flat pieces of wood, which sat on pins secured to the sides of the boat near the tholes for the oars, had caught his eye. Though he had never seen leeboards before, for his own people did not use them, he quickly grasped their purpose. The round-bottomed little boat would go faster sideways than forward under sail and might even turn over without a steadying influence. The leeboards rotated on bolts secured to the boat’s side, and one of them could be dropped on the side away from the wind when the sail went up. The priest had been in enough craft with sails, even though they had had fixed keels, to understand what tacking into the wind meant, and he could see what he had to do to make use of the fishing boat’s best powers.

Even though he was prepared for it, the full force of the wind at the entrance caught him by surprise. Actually, it was not gale force or anything like it, but in the tiny boat, only a dozen feet long, it felt far more severe than it was. A capful of water, caught from a wave top, slammed into the back of Hiero’s bare head and ran down his neck under the cloak, making him shiver momentarily. But it was not really cold, little less than blood heat, and he pulled stoutly into the crests, pounding up and down, quickly developing a rhythm which allowed him to avoid shipping much water.

He was squarely in the middle of the entrance, fangs of black rock rearing up on either side, when all his mental alarms went off. Instantly he slapped on his own new spy-proof mind shield and simply listened to the clamor, while continuing to row his hardest.

He could hear S’duna’s mind, almost incoherent with rage, as the Unclean was awakened and told the news. The minds of other adepts, how many Hiero could not now tell, also tuned in, and he felt the mental search pattern they established at once. But he also felt that it was harmless. His shield was impervious, giving him a mental invisibility the Unclean could not even detect, far less crack. He was much more worried about purely physical means of detection arid pursuit, and he felt sure the cold minds in Manoon would think of them, too, before very many more moments went by!

Luck, or something else, Hiero thought, mentally apologizing to God, was with him. He had barely rounded one of the corner rocks of the entrance when lights burst out on the walls of the castle. At the same time a flare hurled up by a rocket cast a spectral blue light over the harbor. Not two wavelengths to the left of the boat, Hiero saw the harbor’s mouth almost as brightly illuminated as if it were day. But a wall of stone, the outer bastion of the Dead Isle itself, shielded him from view. Nevertheless, he was under no illusions about his safety. Once there had been time for logic to take over, the Unclean search would discover the missing boat. After all, how else could he leave the Dead Isle, save by water?

He shipped his oars and freed the sail from its lashings. It was a simple type, a kind called a “standing lug” in the Lost Millennia, and Hiero had seen similar rigs before. Next, deciding that he wanted to run along the island’s coast in an easterly direction, he lowered the right leeboard into the water. Then he took one oar and locked its thole pin into a hole in the stern, so that he had a crude, but adequate, rudder.

It took a few moments to get the feel of the boat, and some of them were bad. Once he let her head fall off so far a bucket of water poured over the stem, but he managed to bring her up again and get her settled. Fortunately, the wind was steady from the west and did not blow in gusts. Also, the little craft was well balanced and, once given a chance, sailed stoutly along.

Hiero had been so busy mastering the boat and watching for rocks that he had let his mental probes slip, though not the shield, for that he had put on “automatic.” Now he felt something new, a strange, unpleasant thrilling of the mental communication bands. It meant nothing to him and was not actively harmful, being merely a minor annoyance. Since he had no idea what it meant, however, it worried him.

Then, from the whitecapped water off to his left, beyond the shadow thrown by the island, an enormous coil of glistening rope, as thick around as his body, rose from a swell and sank again, clear in the light of the dying flare.

The worm-things of the harbor! Manoon had called new and awful pursuers from the slimy depths of the Inland Sea.