Authors: Robert E. Vardeman
Old Ones will thank … Guardian thanks.
Nightwind snorted in disgust. “Why did I bother yelling at him? He gets my message telepathically! I guess this communicating takes some getting used to. Ready to go, Heuser?”
Heuser tugged on the rope, then began to pull. His muscles knotted in hard bunches. Nightwind could see the strain telling on the small man. He added his own strength to the hoisting. Still, they weren’t able to make good progress. Steorra joined in. Progress from then on was slow but sure. Five minutes — an eternity — passed and there were four standing beside the pit.
“We did it!” enthused Steorra. “We actually got out!”
“It was a team effort and, if you don’t mind my saying so, we’re one hell of a team, the four of us.” Heuser looked very happy.
All are one … Guardian’s cubs … one with all sandcats.
Nightwind smiled and bowed deeply in the sandcat’s direction. To the others, he said, “I believe we have just been adopted and are all honorary sandcats. How’s it feel to be an honorary six-pawed intelligent being?”
“I’d be satisfied with just being intelligent,” said Heuser. “We wouldn’t have ended up down there if we’d been the least bit smarter.”
“You’re too cynical, Heuser, my friend,” said Nightwind. “But I think I have to agree with you. This time, at any rate.”
“What are you going to do now?” asked Steorra, a faint tremor in her voice. “You’re not just going to leave, are you?”
“Of course not. How could honorary sandcats turn around and leave their furry brothers?” Nightwind noticed the woman’s relief at his words. He knew they couldn’t possibly give up and go home. Slayton would have the sandcats after them in a flash. Without weapons, they were going to have to do some fancy plotting. Slayton had an impenetrable bodyguard in the sandcats plus being able to follow them mentally.
No … not so … not know you live … prevent other sandcats … not humans … must hurry fast … before learns you live!
“Well, troops, the Guardian’s given me an interesting tidbit. Slayton thinks we’re currently residing in our friend’s belly, being digested. The orders he’s given the sandcats guarding him seem to concern only other sandcats — the ones he doesn’t control — and not humans.”
“I think we’d better go get him before he finds out different about us,” said Heuser. “After all, it should be apparent the Guardian doesn’t need any antacid.”
“What?” asked the woman.
“I’m not the most digestible of people around. The plasteel would no doubt pose a nasty problem for most stomachs.” He smiled, looking childlike and innocent.
She grinned weakly. Accepting such an odd assortment of allies wasn’t easy.
SLAYTON’S EYELIDS FLEW up as the thought worked its way into his brain that he wasn’t alone. Clutching the scepter with a white-knuckled grip, he started a mental survey of his defenses. Everything was as it should be. All the sandcats were competently pacing their assigned posts. He could sense the bitterness, the hatred, the sheer loathing, lurking under their calm acceptance of his domination. It mattered little to him. They had been slaves once before, they could be slaves now.
But something was niggling at his mind. Something was dreadfully wrong, and he couldn’t figure out what it was. Casting his mental net farther afield, he encountered the Guardian’s distinctive thought form. It was solid, more powerful than the others in the room. Slayton instantly recognized the fact that this sandcat was a leader. It was responsible for the safety of this so-called Ancient Place.
He laughed aloud. The sandcat was plotting death. How futile such a thing was! Lane Slayton was no mere human to be driven off. The scepter gave power, unlimited power. He was a king! How any mere slave could even hope to overthrow the king single-handed — single-pawed? — was a monstrous joke.
“So, my friend, you stalk me? Come,
come,
COME!” Slayton’s powerful thoughts, augmented by the throbbing scepter clenched in his fist, reached out, ensnaring the sandcat. A fierce mental battle ensued. But the outcome was never in doubt. Slayton was too powerful.
The Guardian was pulled into the palace. As Slayton was gloating over his easy victory, another set of mental impressions came into his mind. These sobered him quickly and erased the euphoria of his power.
“Nightwind!” he whispered. “How? And Steorra and Heuser! They have escaped the pit!” He settled back on his throne, thinking furiously. Some single item eluded him. Then he had it. The Guardian was free of the pit, also. The sandcat even managed to escape from the deep trap into which he and Dhal had thrown it. He would have wagered any sum that it simply wasn’t possible to escape from that deep hole. Yet they obviously had done so.
He quickly mustered his forces. The sandcats lined up, both on the floor of the chamber and on the balcony he and Dhal had found earlier. The sandcats were formidable opponents; they would stop anything trying to kill him.
Slayton leaned back, anticipating the slaughter about to happen.
Nightwind instantly noticed the change in the Guardian’s behavior. One instant, the sandcat was alert. The next, its eyes glazed over and it appeared more of a robot obeying someone else’s commands.
And, Nightwind knew, this was the case. He understood in a vague way that Slayton was able to reach out and take control of any sandcat he desired. But the Guardian told him Slayton’s power was less than complete and to play against this.
“Don’t stop it. Let it go,” said Nightwind. Heuser checked his stride as the Guardian loped off toward the palace.
“Is that wise, Rod? He’s a mighty strong ‘cat. And he seems to be one of the top dogs — or ‘cats or however they’d call it.”
“We don’t have much choice. Physically, we could hit it over the head. Maybe tie the Guardian up. But that would only warn Slayton. He probably knows we’re alive and free, but we don’t dare take the chance of needlessly warning him if he doesn’t. That scepter seems to have almost magical power. What we need right now is some sort of diversion to get by his defenses.”
“What defenses?” asked Steorra.
“If he commands the sandcats, they would make fine bodyguards,” answered Heuser. “They might not like it, but they won’t be able to resist him. Not if what the Guardian said is true.”
“We never got around to checking the rear of the palace. Most beings prefer to have a little backdoor. Keeps them away from the adoring throngs or lets them escape the lynch mobs.”
“If the Rulers were reptilian, the best bet to look would be low, even underground,” said Steorra.
“You’re the closest to an expert. So close to the ground it is. But I don’t want to get caught in the open. Let’s move,” said Nightwind, taking off in a dog trot toward the strange, hauntingly lovely temple in the center of the city.
Heuser ran easily and Steorra managed to keep up with little effort. Seeing this, Nightwind lengthened his strides. The sooner they were able to hide, the better it would be for all of them. By the time they reached the back of the temple-palace, they were panting and gasping for air. Even Heuser with his virtually indefatigable physique was sweating. The cool air gusting around Nightwind erased the sweat and he was soon able to begin his search.
On hands and knees, he crawled along the rear wall of the palace. The milky material with the trapped bits of colorful lightning gave him enough illumination to discover the tight-fitting cover over a rectangular opening.
“Heuser! Give me a hand with this.”
The cyborg slipped fingers under the edge and lifted. At first, nothing happened. With increasing pressure, the metal plate began to bend. It soon crumpled and allowed Heuser to reach inside and rip out the locking mechanism. There wasn’t supposed to be any way of opening the hatch from the outside.
Strong fingers — fingers stronger than steel — had turned the trick.
Steorra asked, “Do you think Slayton knows where we are? If he can read minds, he should be able to see everything we’re thinking with perfect clarity.”
Nightwind shook his head. “I’m counting on his control to be spotty. The communication with the Guardian I had wasn’t exactly clear. I received impressions more than actual words. It’s one of those things that has to be experienced to be appreciated. If Slayton isn’t able to telepathically control the sandcats any better than I was to communicate, he might not be able to do much.”
“But he’s human — and so are we. Uh,” Steorra hesitated, looking at Heuser.
The cyborg laughed. “I’m human. As human as Nightwind!”
This didn’t seem to reassure the woman too much. She smiled wanly and pointed to the gaping hole in the ground. The rectangular patch of black undoubtedly led into the back of the palace. It was time for them to make their move — regardless of what Slayton had in store for them at the other end.
Nightwind dropped down less than a meter. He stood, the edge of the ground only slightly below his waist. “So much for the idea of tall aliens. They must have slid along on their bellies like you thought, Heuser.”
“It does explain the fancy velvet roads,” agreed the cyborg. “Better let me go first. I can see better in the dark.” He left it unstated that he, being the strongest, would be able to cope with anything blocking their path.
If he couldn’t they might as well give up this expedition through the back door and try something else.
He went scurrying off on hands and knees. Nightwind followed cautiously. Behind him, he heard Steorra wriggling along. In less than five minutes, they were in complete darkness. The walls were smooth, the floor made of the same material as used in the city streets. There was no doubt this was an escape route for the reptilian Rulers.
“Heuser,” Nightwind whispered, “can you see okay?”
“Dim but sure, no trouble. There’s not much heat seeping down into here. Most of the IR comes from ahead. Bright red, the way I read it. No visible spectrum stuff yet, though.”
They continued until Heuser said, “Hold it. Another plate is in the floor. Or ceiling. Depends on where you are, I guess.”
Nightwind heard the cyborg grunt as he positioned himself under the plate. A twisted tearing noise and light flooded the tiny crawl space. Heuser tossed aside the heavy metal plate as if it were light plastic. He stood and Nightwind could see the floor was about the same height as outside the palace walls. Quickly following Heuser, he crouched and surveyed the area where they had exited.
Less than ten meters away was the black wood room containing the throne, altar and scepter — and Slayton.
“Quiet! Look. In the shadows,” warned Heuser.
Nightwind could see the sandcats patrolling the larger area of the chamber in front of the throne room. Apparently Slayton never considered the possibility of a rear attack.
“How are we going to get by them?” Steorra hadn’t missed the silently pacing shapes on either side of the chamber.
“That’s a good question, milady. I think I’m going to do some recon work before venturing opinions. You two stay out of sight.”
“What about the ‘cats? They might smell us. Or hear us.”
Nightwind shook his head. “It might be possible they could normally detect your mental patterns. The Guardian almost admitted as much. But not with Slayton controlling them. And remember, they’re desert creatures. No ears to hear with and I doubt if they have a very acute sense of smell. All the fancy perfumes were probably for the Rulers. Now just lie quiet and don’t let Slayton find you.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to let Heuser do this? I mean, he’s stronger and can see better and…” Her voice trailed off.
“Milady,” said Heuser, looking at Nightwind. “
He
could walk through the center of those ‘cats and come back without them ever knowing it. I can do some things better than he. Rod’s better at this than I ever could be. He’s got the reflexes and
all
his senses are sharp. I just see a little IR. Is that satisfactory?”
“I … I didn’t mean anything by it. It … it just seemed like you were the better choice. Sorry.”
“Back in a while,” said Nightwind, drifting off silent as a stalking shadow. He made his way to the back of the throne room. Pressing his ear against the black-grained wood revealed nothing of interest. The wood, if he correctly remembered, was too thick to let much sound through.
He looked overhead and saw a low railing along the top of the room. He thought for a moment, then decided this was the perfect height for one of the Rulers to use as a handrail. Or a claw rail or whatever type of appendage they once possessed.
He stood back a few paces, took a running start and leaped. His muscles responded beautifully in spite of the recent strains. His fingers locked on the railing. He quickly pulled himself up enough to study the broad, flat roof of the throne room. No sandcats were visible. Kicking, he pulled himself the rest of the way up and laid prone on the smooth wooden surface until the beating of his heart smoothed out once more.
Crawling on his belly, he quickly reached the front of the throne room. From his elevated position, he could see all of the posted sandcats throughout the colorful chamber. His eyes were pulled with hypnotic insistence to the flow of hues under the floor. It was soothing, quieting, soporific. He wanted to go to sleep and let the others take care of their own petty problems.
Banging his elbow against the low railing brought him back to his senses. From his vantage point, he received the full hypnotic effect of the ever-changing patterns and colors. It was still another mystery of the long-dead Rulers. Did they find this stimulating? Was it some sort of visual opiate? Was there aesthetic value in it for them? Or none of these? It might have been something totally different. Only trained archeologists could hope to unravel this thread in the tapestry of the Rulers’ culture.
Nightwind studied the pattern paced out by the sandcats. It was relatively simple. Six of them patrolled the perimeter of the huge chamber. He could see two more crouching on either side of the main doors into the palace. Peering over the edge of the black box under him, he found another sandcat quietly waiting, head on crossed paws.