Norton, Andre - Star Gate

VIP免费

2024-12-15 0 0 269.17KB 93 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Star Gate

by ANDRE NORTON

ACE BOOKS, INC.

1120 Avenue of the Americas

New York 36, N. Y.

with Harcourt, Brace & Co., Inc.

Printed in U.S.A.

Contents

PROLOGUE

1. INHEBITANCE

2. THE BATTLE OF THE WASTE

3. NO SHIP—BUT—

4. NEW-FOUND WOULD

5. A QUESTION OF BIRTHRIGHT

6. LEGEND COME ALIVE

7. FALSE GODS

8. FIRST FORAY

9. VOLUNTEER

10. STORM, NIGHT, AND THE SHRINE

11. ILL-CHANCED MEETING

12. A MEETING WITH LORD RUD

13. ORDEAL BY MOHD

14. THE PLACE OF TOWERS

15 TRIAL OF STRENGTHS

16. RESCUE

17. INVASION

18. ONCE MORE A GATE—

PROLOGUE

HISTORY is not only a collection of facts; it is a spider's web of ifs. If

Napoleon had not lost the Battle of Waterloo, if the American colonies had

lost the Revolution, if the South and not the North had won the Civil War . .

. The procession of such ifs is endless, exciting the imagination and spurring

endless speculation. Sometimes the all important turning point can be

compressed into a single small action—the death of one man, a seemingly casual

decision.

And if the larger history of a nation, or a world, depends upon so many chance

ifs, so also does the personal history of each and every one of us. Because we

are five minutes late or ten minutes early for an appointment, because we

catch one bus but miss another, our life is completely changed.

There exists a fascinating theory that two worlds branch from every bit of

destiny action. Hence, there are far reaching bands of parallel worlds, born

of many historical choices. Thus, if some means of communication could be

devised a man might travel, not backwards or forwards in time, but across it

to visit, for example, a contemporary world which resulted from a successful

Viking colonization of the North American continent, or one in which William

the Conqueror never ruled England.

Since this game can be envisioned on Earth, then why could it not also hold on

other planets out in the galaxy when men of our breed .go pioneering there?

Imagine a world on which a Terran ship or fleet of ships

lands. The space-weary voyagers, mutated physically by the effects of their

wandering, greet solid soil thankfully. There is a native race, primitive to

the point of barbarism. There is so much the Terrans have to give, so without

realizing their crime, they meddle. As the generations come and go they begin

to realize that each race must have its own fight for civilization, that gifts

too easily obtained are injuries, that its own destiny is the birthright of

each world.

So, regretfully, the "Gods" from the stars know that they have already

woefully harmed where they meant only good, that to save what may be salvaged

they must go. However, inhere are those of the half-blood, a mingling of

Terran and native breed, and there are those among the Terrans themselves who

do not want the stars, the endless new searching for a hospitable world on

which there is no intelligent native life.

Thus the old idea of parallel worlds awakes anew and some dream wistfully of

this same planet where some quirk of history or the past decided against the

rise of native life—the empty world they want and yet the familiar one they

love and are bound to by many ties.

Next would begin a search for a pathway across the many if worlds, a gate to

open to such exploring. And there would be many worlds—even some in which

their own landing and their labors had taken a darker and more forbidding

turn, a world on which they might even meet themselves as they would lie when

walking another lane of history and influenced by another past.

These Terrans centuries ahead of us, armed with technical knowledge we can

only imagine, might venture forth across time of an alien world, which could

lead to just such a chronicle of action beyond a Star Gate. . . .

INHERITANCE

THIS HAD BEEN a queer "cold" season so far. No snow, even on the upper reaches

of the peaks, no drifts to stopper the high passes, warm winds over the fields

of brittle stubble, though most of the silver-green leaves of the copses had

been brought to earth by those same winds. Instead of cold they had

experienced a general drying-out to kill the vigorous life of wood and

pasturage. And the weather was only a part of the strangeness that had settled

over Gorth—at least those parts of Gorth where men beat paths—since the Star

Lords had withdrawn.

The Star Lords, with their power, had raised the Gorthians above the beasts of

the forests and had thrown over them their protection, as the lord of any

holding could now extend the certainty of life to one outlawed and running

from sword battle. But now that the Star Lords had gone—what would follow for

Gorth?

Kincar s'Rud paused beneath the flapping mordskin banner of Styr's Holding to

direct a long, measuring glance along the hill line. His cloak, sewn cunningly

from strips of soft suard fur brought back from his solitary upland hunts, was

molded about him now by the force of that unseasonably warm wind, as he stood

exposed on the summit of the watch tower alert to any movement across the

blue-earthed fields of the Holding. Kincar was no giant to boast inches

rivaling a Star Lord's, but he was well muscled for his years

and could and had surpassed his warrior tutors in sword play. Now he absently

flexed one of his narrow, six-fingered hands on the rough stone parapet, while

the banner crackled its stiff folds over his head.

He had volunteered for this post at midday, for no other reason than to escape

the sly prodding of Jord—Jord who affected to believe that the withdrawal of

the Star Lords meant a new and brighter day for the men of Gorth. What kind of

day? Kincar's eyes—blue-green, set obliquely in his young face—narrowed as he

traced that thought to the vague suspicion behind it.

He, Kincar s'Rud, was son of the Hold Daughter and so ruler by blood as soon

as Wurd s'Jastard went into the Company of the Three. But if he was alive to

walk this Holding, then Jord would be master here. Through the years since he

had been brought from the city to this distant mountain Holding, Kincar had

overheard enough, pieced-together bits of information, until he knew what he

would have to face when Wurd did depart into the shadows.

Jord had his followers—men whom he had gathered together during his trading

journeys—who were tied to him by bonds of personal loyalty and not by clan

reckoning. And he appeared able to smell out advantages for himself. Why else

had he come down the long trail two days ago, heading a motley caravan?

Ostensibly it was to bring the latest news of the Star Lords' departure, but

it was strange that Wurd had just taken to his bed in what could only be that

ancient man's last bout with the old wound that had been draining his strength

for years..

Would Jord attempt to force sword battle on Kincar for the Holding? His

constant oblique remarks had suggested that. Yet outwardly to provoke such a

quarrel when Jord himself was the next heir after Kincar was to court

outlawing as Jord well knew. And Jord was too shrewd to throw away his future

for the mere satisfaction of removing Kincar. There was something else, some

other reason beneath Jord's preoccupation with the Lords' withdrawal, behind

his comments on the life to come, that made Kincar uneasy. Jord

never moved until he was sure of his backing. Now he hardly attempted to veil

his triumph.

Kincar could not remember his mother, unless a very dim dream of muted colors,

flower scent, and the sound of soft weeping in a shadowed night were to be

named Anora, Hold Daughter s'Styr. But he could never reconcile in his mind

the fact that Anora and Jord had been brother and sister. And certainly Jord

had given him often to believe that whatever lay between them, hate had been

its base.

Though he had been born in Terranna, the city of the Star Lords, Kincar had

been brought to the Holding when he was so young that he could not remember

anything of that journey. Nor had he ever seen the plains beyond the mountain

ring again. Now he did not want to. With the Star Lords departed, who would

wish to visit the echoing desolation of their city or look upon the empty

stretches where their Star ships once stood? It would be walking into the

resting place of the long dead who were jealous when their sleep was

disturbed.

He did not understand the reason of their going. The aliens had done so much

for Gorth—why now did they set off once more in their ships? Oh, he had heard

the blasphemous whisperings current among those who followed Jord, that the

Star Lords denied to Gorth's natives their great "secrets—the life eternal

with which they were blessed and the knowledge of strange weapons. He had also

heard rumors that among the Lords themselves there had been quarreling, that

some had wished to give these gifts to Gorth, while the others chose to

withhold them, and that those who would give had gathered a fighting tail of

Gorthians to rebel. But since the Lords had withdrawn, what could they now

rebel against—the open sky? Perhaps in the hour of their leaving the Lords had

set a curse upon this rebellious world.

Though the wind about him continued warm, Kincar shivered. Among his people

were those with the in-seeing, the power to drive out certain kinds of

sickness by the use of hand and will. How much greater must be such powers

among the Star Lords! Great enough to lay a spell upon a

whole world so that the cold came not? And later would there follow any season

of growing things once more? Again he shivered.

"Daughter's Sonl"

Kincar had* been so occupied with his own imaginings that his hand went to the

hilt of his sword as he whirled, shocked alert by that hail, to see Regen's

helmed head emerge from the tower trapdoor. But Wurd's guardsman did not climb

any farther.

"Daughter's Son, the Styr would have speech with you."

"The Styr—he is—?" But he did not need to complete that question; the answer

was to be read plainly in Regen's eyes.

Although Wurd had taken to his bed days ago, Kincar had not really believed

that the end was so near. The old chief had ailed before, had been close

enough to the Great Forest to hear the sighing of the wind in its branches,

yet he had come back to hold Styr in his slender fist. One could not picture

the Holding without Wurd.

Kincar paused in the hall outside the door of the Lord's chamber only long

enough to tug off his helm and drop his cape. Then, with his drawn sword

gripped by the blade so that he could proffer the hilt to his overlord, he

went in.

In spite of the warmth there was a fire on the hearth. Its heat reached the

bed on which was piled a heap of coverings woven from fur strips. They made a

kind of cocoon about the shrunken figure propped into a sitting position.

Wurd's face was blue-white against the dark furs, but his eyes were steady and

he was able to raise a claw finger to the sword hilt in greeting.

"Daughter's Son." His voice was only a faint whisper of sound, less alive than

his eyes. It died away in a silence as if Wurd must gather and hoard strength

to force each word out between his bloodless lips. But he raised again that

claw finger in a gesture to Regen, and the guard moved to lift the lid of a

chest that had been drawn forward to a new position beside the bed.

Under Wurd's eyes Regen took out three bundles, stripping off coverings to

display a short-sleeved shirt of scales

fashioned of metal with the iridescent sheen of a reptile's skin, a sheathed

sword, and, last of all, a woven surcoat with a device, new to Kincar, worked

upon the breast. He thought that he was familiar with Wurd's war gear, having

been set to the polishing of it many times in his younger days. But none of

these had he ever seen before, though their workmanship was that of an artist

in metal, and he thought that their like could not be equaled save perhaps in

the armories of the Star Lords.

Shirt, sword, and surcoat were laid across the foot of the bed, and Wurd

blinked at them.

"Daughter's Son"—again that wavering claw pointed— "take up your heritage—"

Kincar reached for that wonder of a shirt. But behind his excitement at the

gift, he was wary. There was something in Wurd's ceremonious presentation that

bothered him.

"I thank you, Styr," he was beginning, a little uncertainly, when that hand

waved him impatiently to silence.

"Daughter's Son—take up—your—whole heritage—" The words came in painful gasps.

Kincar's grasp of the shirt tightened. Surely that could not mean what he

thought! By all the laws of Gorth, he, Hold Daughter's Son, had a greater

heritage than a scale shirt, a sword, and a surcoat, fine as these were!

Regen moved, picking up the surcoat, stretching it wide before his eyes so

that the device set there in colorful pattern was plain to read. He gasped in

amazement—those jagged streaks of bolt lightning with the star set between!

Kincar moistened lips suddenly dry. That device—it was—it was—

Wurd's shrunken mouth shaped a shadow smile. "Daughter's Son," he whispered,

"Star Lord's son—your inheritance!"

The scale shirt slithered through Kincar's loosened grip to clink on the

floor. Stricken, he turned to Regen, hoping for reassurance. But the guard was

nodding.

"It is true, Daughter's Son. You are partly of the Star Lords' blood and bone.

Not only that, but you must join with their clan—for the word has come to us

that the rebels

would search out such as you and deal with them in an evil way—"

"Outlawry—?" Kincar could not yet believe in what he heard.

Regen shook his head. "Not outlawry, Daughter's son. But there is one here

within Styr's walls who will do rebel will on you. You must go before Styr is

departed, be out of lord's reach before he becomes Styr—"

"But I am Daughter's Son!"

"Those within these walls have full knowledge of your blood," Regen continued

slowly. "And there are some who will follow you in drawing sword if you raise

the mord banner. But there are others who want none of the Star blood in this

Holding. It may be brother against brother, father against son, should you

claim to be Styr."

That was like coming up with bruising force against a wall when one was

running a race. Kincar looked to Wurd for support, but the old lord's still

bright eyes held the same uncompromising message.

"Where shall I go?" he asked simply. "The Star Lords have left."

"Not—so—" Wurd's whisper came. "Ships have gone— but some remain— You shall

join them. Regen—" He waved a finger at the guard and closed his eyes.

The other moved quickly. Almost before he knew what was happening, Kincar felt

the man's hands on him, stripping off ring mail, the jerkin under it. He was

reclad in the scaled shirt, over it the surcoat with its betraying insignia.

Then Regen belted on the new sword.

"Your cloak, Daughter's Son. Now down the inner stair. Cim awaits you in the

courtyard."

Wurd spoke for the last time, though he did not again open his eyes, and the

words were the merest trickle of sound. "Map—and the Fortune of the Three with

you— Daughter's Son! You would have held Styr well—it is a great pity. Go—

while I still hold breath in me!"

Before Kincar could protest or take a formal farewell, Regen hurried him from

the room and down the private stair

to the courtyard. The mount that he had trapped in the autumn drive pens two

years previously and knew to be a steady goer, heavy enough for good work in

the press of a fight, and with an extra stamina for long travel on thin

rations, stood with riding pad strapped about its middle, saddlebags across

its broad haunches.

Cim was not a beautiful larng, no sleek-coated, nervous highbred. His narrow

head whipped about so all four of the eyes set high in his skull could survey

Kincar with his usual brooding measurement. His cold-season wool was growing

in patches about the long thin neck and shoulders, its cream-white dabbed with

spots of the same rusty red as the hide underneath. No, Cim was no beauty, and

he was uncertain of temper, but to Kincar's mind he was the pick of the

Holding's mount pens.

But Cim was not the only thing in Styr Hold that he could claim as his own. As

Kincar settled on the larng's pad and gathered up the ear reins, he whistled,

a single high, lilting note. He was answered from the hatchery on the smaller

tower. On ribbed leather wings, supporting a body that was one-third head with

gaping, toothed jaws and huge, intelligent red eyes, the mord—a smaller

edition of those vicious haunters of the mountain tops, lacking none of their

ferocious spirit—circled once over her master's head and then flapped off.

Vorken would hover over him for the rest of the day, pursuing her own concerns

but alert to his summoning.

"The road to the north—" Regen spoke hurriedly, his hands raised as if he

would literally push Kincar out of the courtyard. "The map is in the left bag,

Daughter's Son. Take the Mord Claw Pass. We are blessed by the Three that

storms have not yet choked it. But you have only a short time—"

"Regen!" Kincar was at last able to break the odd feeling, which had possessed

him during these last few minutes, of being in a dream. "Do you swear by Clan

Right that this is a good thing?"

The guard's eyes met his with honesty—honesty and a concern there was no

attempt to disguise. "Daughter's Son,

by Clan Right, I tell you this is the only way, unless you would go into the

Forest dragging half your men after you in blood. Jord is determined to have

Styr. Had you been only Daughter's Son, not half of Star blood, none would

have followed him. But that is not so. There are those here who will draw

blade at your bidding, and there are those who look to Jord. Between you, if

you so strive, you will split Styr Holding like a rotten fruit, and the

outlaws will eat us up before the coming of green things again. Go claim a

greater heritage than Styr, Daughter's Son. It is your right."

For the last time he gave Kincar full salute, and the younger man, realizing

that he spoke the truth, set Cirn into a lumbering trot with a twitch of the

ear reins. But his hurt struck so deep that he did not once turn to look back

at the squat half-fortress, half-castle with the cluster of fieldmen's

dwellings about its walls.

The wind was at his back as he took the northeast track, which would bring him

up to Mord Claw Pass and the way to the interior plains. As far as he knew, he

was heading into the broken, aimless life of an outlaw, with the best future

he could hope for one in service as a guardsman under some lord who wanted to

enlist extra swords for a foray.

Could Wurd's talk of a remaining Star ship—of his joining with the Star Lords—

be true? He had half forgotten it since leaving the old man. Kincar fumbled

with the left saddlebag and brought out a roll of writing bark. He had been

trained to read block characters, for part of his duties at Styr was to keep

records. But such reading was not a quick task, and he let Cim pick his own

route along the road as he puzzled over the two lines with the small

accompanying drawing.

Why—it was clear enough! Those of the half-blood who wished to join the Star

Lords had been summoned. And the map was not unfamiliar—it covered a portion

of the countryside he had been set to memorize a year or so earlier. Then Wurd

had still been able to ride and had carried on the tutelage of the Hold's

heir, taking him as far as the passes and pointing out in the wastes below

where gatherings of

outlaws might exist and where a canny chief of a Holding might well look for

future trouble. The map was the heart of such a section, a district of ill

omen, rumored to be the abode of the Old Ones, those shapes of darkness driven

into foul hiding by the Star Lords upon their arrival in Gorth.

The Star Lords! Kincar's hand went to the device on his surcoat. He had a

sudden odd longing to look upon the reflection of his own face in some chamber

mirror. Would his new knowledge make any change in what would be pictured

there?

To his eyes he had no physical difference from the other youths of Styr. Yet,

by all accounts, the Star Lords were giants, their skin not ivory-white as his

own but a rich brown, as if they had been hewn from a rare wood. No, if this

wild tale were really true, he could have nothing of his sire in face or body.

Under his helm his hair curled tight to his skull in small rings of blue-gray.

Through the years it would darken to the black of an old man. But it was

rumored that the Star Lords also had hair growing upon their bodies— and his

skin was smooth. Away from Styr who would know his alien blood? He could

discard the surcoat, turn free guardsman—maybe in time raise a following tail

and gain a holding of his own by legal sword battle.

But, while he made and discarded half-a-dozen such plans, Kincar continued to

ride along the path that would take him over the Mord's Claw and into the

wasteland shown on the map. He could not have told why, for something within

him shrank from the acceptance of his inheritance. While he revered the Star

Lords and had hotly resented Jord's sneers, it was a very different thing to

be of off-world blood oneself. And he did not like it.

The day had been half over when he quit Styr. And he did not halt for a rest,

knowing that Regen must have fed Cim well. When the track they followed

dwindled into a forking trail, he came upon Vorken sitting in the middle of

the open space, fanning her wings as she squatted upon the still-warm body of

a small wood-suard. He was heading into a country where game might be scarce,

and wood-suard was tender eating. Kincar dismounted, cleaned the beast with

his hunting knife, giving Vorken the tidbits she hungered for, and slung the

body up behind his pad. It would do for the last meal of the day.

Their way up was a winding one. It was a caravan track, only used in times of

war when the more western routes were preyed upon by guardsmen. And he was

sure that it had not been traveled this season at all—the wastes beyond having

too ill a name.

When the slope grew too steep, he dismounted, letting Cim pick a path where

the mount's clawed feet found good hold. He scrambled along through scrub

brush, which caught at his cloak or the crest of fringed mord skin on his

helm. And he knew he was lucky that the season was so warm he did not have to

fight snow as well, though here the nip of the wind was keen. Vorken took to

hovering closer, alighting now and then on some rock a little ahead of her

companions' slow advance to whistle her plaintive call and be reassured by

Kincar's answer. A mord, once trained to man's friendship, had a craving for

his presence, which kept it tractable even in the wilds where it could easily

elude any hunter.

It was close to sunset when the vegetation, dried and leafless, was all behind

them and they were among the rocks near to the pass. Kincar looked back for

the first time. It was easy, far too easy, in the clear air, to sight Styr

Holding. But—he caught a quick breath as he saw that the banner was gone from

the watchtower! Wurd had been right—the lordship had passed from one hand to

the next this day. Wurd s'Jastard was no longer Styr. And for Kincar s'Rud

there could be no return now. Jord was in command—Jord s'Wurd was now Styr!

THE BATTLE OF THE WASTE

AN OVERHANG of rock gave Kincar shelter for the night. He had crossed the

highest point of Mord Claw Pass and come down a short distance to the

beginning of the timber line before the daylight faded. But- he had no wish to

push on into the wilderness beyond during the dark hours. Though the mountain

shut off some of the wind, it was far colder here than in the valley of the

Holding, and he set about building a traveler's small fire in the lee of the

rocks while Vorken settled down upon the pad he had stripped from. Cim and

watched him intently, spreading her wings uneasily now and again as she

listened to sounds from the stunted bushes and trees below them.

With Vorken's ears at his service, and Cim's alertness to other animals,

Kincar needed to do no sentry duty. Neither would leave ths fireside, and

either or both would give him swift warning of danger. He was in more peril

from wandering outlaws than he could be from any animal or flying thing. The

giant sa-mords of the heights were not night hunters, and any suard large

enough to provide a real threat would be timid of fire.

He cut up the meat Vorken had provided, sharpening a stick on which to impale

chunks for roasting. And in the saddlebags he found the hard journey cakes of

wayfarers, which packed into their stone solidity enough nourishment to keep a

man going for days through a foodless wilderness. Regen was an old campaigner,

and now that Kincar had time to check the contents of the bags, he appreciated

the thought and experience that had gone into their packing. Food in the most

concentrated forms known to men who hunted or raided through waste country, a

fishing line with hooks, a drag blanket folded small, its wet-repelling

surface ample protection against all but the worst storms, a set of small

tools for the righting of riding gear and armor, and, last of all, a small

packet wound with a fastening of tough skin that Kincar tackled with interest.

Judging by the care with which it had been wrapped, he was sure it must

contain some treasure, but when the object was at last bared to view in the

firelight, Kincar was puzzled. He was sure he had never seen it before—an oval

stone, dull green, smoothed as though by countless years of water action

rather than by the tools of men. But there was a hole in the narrower end, and

through this hung a chain of metal. Plainly it was intended to be worn.

Tentatively Kincar shook it loose from the hide covering and cupped it in his

palm. A moment later he almost dropped it, for as it lay upon his flesh, its

dullness took on a faint glow, and it grew warm as though it held a life of

its own. Kincar sucked in his breath and his fingers tightened over it in a

jealous fist.

"Lor, Loi, Lys," he whispered reverently, and it seemed to him that with every

speaking of one of the Names, the stone he held pulsed warmly.

But how had Regen—or was this a lost heritage from Wurd? No one within Styr

Hold had ever dreamed that a Tie had lain in its lord's keeping. Kincar was

overwhelmed by this last evidence of Wurd's trust in him. Jord might have the

Holding, but not the guardianship of a Tie. That was his! The trust—and

perhaps someday— He stared bemused at the fire. Someday—if he were worthy—if

he proved to be the one Wurd hoped he might be, he might even use its power!

With a child's wondering eyes, Kincar studied the stone, trying to imagine the

marvel of that. No man could do so until the hour when the power moved him. It

was enough that a Tie was his to guard.

With shaking fingers he got the chain about his throat, installed the stone

safely against his skin under coarse shirt, jerkin, and scale armor. But it

seemed that some measure of heat still clung to the hand that had held it. And

when he raised his fingers to look at them more closely, he was aware of a

faint, spicy fragrance. Vorken gave one of her chirps and shot forth her huge

head, drawing her toothed beak across his palm, and Cim's head bobbed down as

if the larng, too, was drawn by the enchantment of the Tie.

It was a very great honor to be a guardian, but it was also dangerous. The Tie

could weave two kinds of magic, one for and one against mankind. And there

were those who would readily plant a sword point in him to gain what he wore

now—if it was suspected to be in his possession. Regen had given him aid and

danger tied together in one small stone, but Kincar accepted it gladly.

Without worry, knowing that he could depend upon Vorken for a warning, he

curled up with cloak and blanket about him to sleep away the hours of the

dark. And when he roused from a confused dream, it was to a soft chittering

beside his ear. Vorken was a warm weight on his chest. Outlined against the

coals of the dying fire, he saw the black blot of her head turn from side to

side. When he moved and she knew he was truly awake, Vorken scuttled away,

using the tearing claws of her four feet to scramble to the top of a rock —

making ready to launch into the air if need be. Her form of defense was always

a slashing attack aimed at the head and eyes of the enemy.

Kincar felt for his sword hilt as she stared into the dark. There was no sound

from Cim, which meant that Vorken's more acute hearing had given them time to

prepare. What she warned against might well be far down the mountainside. The

fire was almost dead, and Kincar made no effort to feed it into new life. His

senses, trained during long wilderness hunts, told him that dawn was not far

off.

He did not try to go out of the pocket in which they had camped. Vorken still

gave soft warnings from her post. But, since her night sight was excellent,

and she had not taken to the air, Kincar was certain the intruder that had

disturbed her was coming no nearer. The sky was gray. He could pick out the

boulders sheltering them. Now he set about padding Cim, lashing on saddlebags,

though he did not mount as they edged out of the hollow. Vorken took to the

air on scout. Cim's claws scraped on the rocks, but within a few feet the

trail began and they walked in thick dust. Kincar chewed on a mouthful of

journeycake, giving the major portion of the round to Cim. That must do to

break their fast, until they were sure they were safe.

The trail came out after a steep descent upon the lip of an even more abrupt

drop. But Kincar did not move on. Crouching there, he brought Cim up with a

sharp tug at the ear reins, hoping that neither had been sighted by the party

below.

His first thought—that he spied upon a traders' caravan was disproved in his

second survey of the camp. There were six larngs, all riding stock—no burden

bearers among them. And there were six riders on the bank of the small ice-

bordered stream. The larngs bore the marks of hard going, their flanks were

flat to the bones, and their cold-season wool hung in draggled patches as if

they had been forced through thorn thickets.

But Kincar was astonished by the riders, for three of the figures seated on

the bank were women, one hardly more than a child. Women in the wastelands! Of

course the outlaws raided the holdings and took women to build up their clans.

But these were plainly not captives, and their traveling cloaks were fine

garments of tetee wool such as Hold Daughters had. They were on good terms

with the men, and their light voices were pitched as if they spoke at ease

with clan brothers.

What was such a party doing here? They were not out for a day's hunting, for

each larng bore traveling bags, plump to seam-bursting. Kincar longed to see

their faces, but each wore the conventional travel mask under a well-wound

turban of veil. For a moment he had a wild suspicion— This was the waste where

the Star Lords had ordered their people to assemble. But there was no

mistaking the pale skin'of the nearest warrior. He was of Gorthian breed, no

being from outer space.

As Kincar hesitated, uncertain as to whether he should hail the others, there

was a startling scream from Vorken and then the deep, braying roar of a hand

drum.

Those below were on their feet as if jerked up by ropes laid about them. The

women, tossed by their escorts into the riding pads of the waiting larngs,

galloped off, one man with them, while the other two warriors reined in their

mounts with one hand, holding swords free with the other. There was the sound

of a running larng, and a war mount burst out of a screen of brush. Kincar,

already up on Cim, paused to stare at the newcomer.

His larng was a giant of that breed—it had to be—for the man who bestrode him

was also a giant. His wide shoulders were covered with a silvery stuff that

drew light even in the gray of early morning. Both of the waiting warriors

rode over to take a stand beside him, all three wheeling to await some attack.

Kincar found the zigzag trail down the cliffside. Recklessly he did not

dismount but kept the larng to the best speed possible, as loose stones and

gravel rolled under Cim's scrabbling claws. The path took one of its sudden

turns, and he caught sight of a battle raging in that river clearing.

Men in the tatters and rusty mail of outlaws, some on foot, a few riding gaunt

larngs, leaped out of the brush, a wave to engulf the three who waited. But

those three met the wave with licking blades. There was a confused shouting,

the scream of a dying man. Cim's forefeet were on the last turn and Kincar

leaned forward, whistling into his mount's ear that particular call that sent

the larng into the proper battle rage.

They burst through the stream in a spatter of high-dashed water, were up the

opposite bank and racing toward the melee. Vorken, seeing that Kincar was on

the move, planed down to stab at an unsuspecting face, sending the man rolling

screaming on the ground as her bill and claws got home. Cim, as he had been

schooled, reared, using his forefeet on the dismounted men, while Kincar clung

to the riding pad with one hand and swung his sword to good purpose with the

other. There were a few wild minutes, and then the roar of the hand drum once

again. A man at whom Kincar had aimed a stabbing thrust broke and ran for

shelter into the brush. And when Kincar looked about for another enemy, he

found that, except for the bodies on the ground and the three men who had been

attacked, the pocket meadow was clear.

One of the warriors dismounted to wipe his blade on the grass before sending

it home in its sheath.

"Those scouts have now had their fangs drawn, Lord Dillan-"

The man who had just sheathed his sword laughed, a harsh sound lacking mirth.

He speedily contradicted his fellow.

"For the moment only, Jonathal. Were they of the common breed one such lesson

would suffice. But these have a leader who will not let us away in peace as

long as blades can be raised against us."

The giant in the silver clothing looked beyond his own men to study Kincar, a

frown line showing between his brows, though little else was to be seen of his

features because of the traveling mask across cheek and chin. Something in

that close scrutiny brought Kincar's head up. A thrill of defiance ran through

him.

"Who are you?" The question was shot at him as quick as a sword stab and as

sharply.

"Kincar s'Rud," he replied, with none of the ceremonious embellishment he

should use by forms of holding courtesy.

"—s'Rud—" the other repeated, but his tongue gave an odd twist to the name so

that it came out with an intonation Kincar had never heard before. "And your

sign?" he pressed.

Kincar had tossed aside his cloak. He twisted a little on the riding pad so

that the other could see the device worked so boldly on his surcoat—that

device that even yet did not seem right for him to wear.

"—s'Rud—" the giant said again. "And your mother?"

"Anora, Hold Daughter of Styr."

All three of them were staring at him now, the warriors appraisingly. However,

he must have satisfied the big man, for now the lord held his hand, palm

empty, over his head in the conventional salute of friendship. "Welcome to our

road, Kincar s'Rud. You, too, have come at the summoning?"

But Kincar was still wary. "I seek a place in the waste—" The strange lord

nodded. "As do we. And, since the time grows very short, we must ride in

haste. We are now hunted men on Gorth."

They might be satisfied with his identification, but he had had none from

them. "I ride with—?" Kincar prompted.

The silver clad lord answered. "I am Dillan, and these are Jonathal s'Kinston

and Vulth s'Marc. We are all wearers of the lightning flash and followers of

strange stars."

His own kind, the mixed blood. Kincar studied them curipusly. The two

guardsmen, at first glance, seemed no different from well-born holding men.

And, though they showed Lord Dillan a certain deference, it was that of

clansman to close kin and not underling to hold chief.

The physical difference between Lord Dillan and the others was so

marked that the longer Cim picked his way behind the leader's mount, the more

Kincar came to suspect that he now rode in company with no half-blood but with

one of the fabulous Star Lords in person. His great height, the very timbre of

his voice, betrayed an alien origin, even though his helm and face mask and

the tight silver clothing , concealed most of his body and features. Yet

neither Jonathal nor Vulth acted as if their leader was semidivine. They

displayed none of the awe that kept Kincar silent and a little apart. Perhaps

they had lived all their lives in the shadow of the Star-born and knew no

wonder at their powers. Yet in the battle the Lord Dillan had not slain his

enemies with shooting bolts of fire, as legend said he might do, but used a

blade, longer and heavier than the usual to be sure, but still a sword much

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

StarGatebyANDRENORTONACEBOOKS,INC.1120AvenueoftheAmericasNewYork36,N.Y.Copyright©,1958,byHarcourt,Bracfe&Co.,Inc.AnAceBook,byarrangementwithHarcourt,Brace&Co.,Inc.AllRightsReservedPrintedinU.S.A.ContentsPROLOGUE1.INHEBITANCE2.THEBATTLEOFTHEWASTE3.NOSHIP—BUT—4.NEW-FOUNDWOULD5.AQUESTIONOFBIRTHRIGHT6.L...

展开>> 收起<<

Norton, Andre - Star Gate.pdf

共93页,预览19页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Norton, Andre - Star Gate

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: