Children of the Gates Read online

  Vegetation masked the ruin rankly on the outside. Bushes Stroud had been holding aside snapped back when the last person was through the door, covering the door from sight. Nick saw the rise of the ridge now at his back.

  Outside the tower they had more light than the natural night offered. It sprang rainbow-hued from some ground-source ahead, hidden by the trees and brush which so well cloaked the ruin.

  At Stroud’s order they kept close together. If the Warden was no trained woodsman, he did his best, as did the others, following his example, to keep their passage as noiseless as possible. They were angling right, and with every step they took, the growth about them thinned, the light grew brighter—until at last there was only a thin screen of branches through which Nick saw the city.

  The wonder of that sight stopped him short so that Crocker bumped into him. But he paid no attention to the pilot, he was entranced by what he saw.

  It arose abruptly, without any outlying clusters of buildings, even as they had said. And it towered until he thought that its spires might well dispute the stars. For it was all towers and spires, reaching shafts like longing arms held up to the wonders of space.

  What might be the material of those distant buildings Nick could not begin to speculate. He could not equate stone with the constant play of color. For that blaze of brilliance, which radiated from the walls to light the night, was not constant in any one place. Rainbow-mixed shades, light and dark, rippled and flared, to die down, before once more flaming up.

  Strange as the city was it did not seem alien to the ground on which it rested. There was the green of woodlands in its sheen, the gold of meadow flowers, the rust red of bark, the blue, the silver gray of water, the pale pink of blossoming fruit trees, the ruddy, heavy splendor of that same fruit come to full ripeness. It was all the colors of the earth mingled joyfully together.

  For the city did not frighten, it did not awe. The emotion that filled Nick as he gazed upon it was happy excitement. Something that had long been sought, that had been glimpsed imperfectly, perhaps in a dream, now stood proud and magnificent before him.

  “Come on, you fool!” Crocker caught him, gave a jerk hard enough to break Nick’s daze. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “It’s wonderful!” Nick wanted to run straight across the open to the city.

  “It’s a trap!” The pilot was uncompromising, harsh. “They set it for us. Don’t look at it.”

  Was Crocker right? Nick could not believe him. But the distant towers did draw him. And now that he had passed his initial wonder, he distrusted that longing a little.

  Yet it was still with reluctance that he moved on, edging always to the east after Stroud and the rest. Crocker matched step with him as if he feared that Nick might suddenly take off.

  They had not progressed far before Stroud hissed a warning and they halted. To the west, figures came into the light. There was no mistaking the long-legged creature that paced ahead of that group—a Herald “horse.”

  But there was no one on its back, rather the brilliantly coated one who was the creature’s master walked behind. With him were three others, a strangely assorted group.

  There was a man wearing the drab uniform of those Nick had seen netted, and behind him—surely that was one of the suited aliens from a saucer. Yet here they walked as if they were not enemies, both with their eyes fixed on the Herald. The third was a woman.

  “Rita!” Crocker cried.

  Nick would have thought the party too far away for any to be recognized. But he could read on the pilot’s face the conviction that the green figure was his lost friend.

  A sharp noise in the sky. This time it was not one of the saucers that appeared out of nowhere, rather one of the cigar-shaped craft.

  It shot earthward as if about to bury its nose in the soil. From it pulsated sharp bursts of light. They struck around the advancing party—who paid them no heed—bringing wisps of smoke from charred stretches of ground. The rays were obviously deflected and struck at angles to either side or the rear of those on foot.

  Overhead the flyer made reckless darts, as if its pilot was determined to stop the others if he had to ram his craft into them. But in every one of those dives the ship wavered from side to side and the effort with which the pilot maintained control was manifest.

  All this time it would appear that the four people and the “horse” were entirely oblivious to the attack. They did not turn from the straightest route to the city. And Nick could imagine the frustration of their attacker.

  At length the flyer’s pilot must have accepted defeat. The craft skimmed back toward the ridge, streaking off at incredible speed. But the party on foot continued their even-paced way, unruffled and undaunted.

  Nick was impressed. He had a real safety blanket, did the Herald. With such protection he could travel anywhere and not worry. If a man could just discover how that worked! Nick watched the Herald speculatively, wondering why he now walked instead of rode. Was that so his protection covered those he led? If they only had his secret!

  The Herald and the city, one or the other was the key. And Nick was sure they merited a detailed study. The Heralds went out of the city, so he would be easier to check on. A man could not enter the city without the Herald—but could a Herald be held for ransom?

  That might be utterly impossible. They had just had a demonstration of how impervious the Herald and those under his protection were to force. And there was no use in trying to talk the English into such an attempt—not until Nick had a plan that had an even chance of working. But he would continue to think about it.

  The pace of the Herald’s party must have been swifter than it seemed, or else the city was closer, for they were almost there now.

  “That was Rita!” Crocker said. “She’s helping them set their traps for poor fools, marching them in!” He balled one hand into a fist, struck it into the open palm of the other with force. “She’s helping them!”

  “Why not?” Jean asked. “She is one of them now.”

  She stood to the other side of Crocker, not looking at the pilot, but rather at the city. When she spoke again it was in a lower voice that embarrassed Nick for he could not move out of hearing and he knew it was not meant for him.

  “She is gone, Barry. And you cannot bring her back—let her go. You won’t be whole again until you do.”

  “Let me alone!” Crocker flung out his arm. He did not quite touch Jean, but the force of his voice was close to a blow. “I know she’s gone—but let me alone!” He plunged past her and there was a stir among the rest where they huddled. Stroud started them moving to the east, and a little later they began to lose the glow of the city in a darkness that seemed twice as heavy and drear because it was away from the strange glory—the promise behind.

  Nick caught at that half-conscious thought. No, he must not allow his momentary enchantment at the first sight of the city to influence him now. There were traps aplenty here without allowing himself to be beguiled by such an obvious one.

  9

  “We’ve never seen it like this before.”

  That “safe” stronghold, the one place in this alien and threatening land that they could call home, held them at last, had sheltered them now for several days. But conditions, Nick was quick to discover, were far from what the English had earlier faced. In the pile of tumbled rocks that masked the entrance to their hideout they had a sentry post. He now shared it with Crocker.

  “We can’t hunt or fish—not now,” the pilot continued.

  For the land was no longer seemingly deserted as the refugees had led Nick to believe was generally the case. It was rather as if a sweep was coming from the north, bringing past their place of concealment a tide of drifters.

  Though they expected to see the drifters harassed by the saucers, there had been no sighting of those. Just the bands, which moved with unslacking determination as if they fled from fear. And the sight of them made the watchers uneasy. Yet they were not ready to desert
their own stronghold.

  The foundation of their refuge was a natural cave but it had been enlarged, embellished by the hand of man or some other intelligence. Walls had been smoothed. On their surfaces were incised lines, some filled in with ancient paint to make the designs fully visible.

  There was light, too. A kind that puzzled Nick more than the rock paintings, for such as those were to be found in his own world. But these rods, based in the native stone, yet bearing on their tips flares of blue light, were of a civilization far more advanced technically than one that would have used caves for dwellings.

  These lights were oddly controlled also. There was no apparent switch—one thought them alight. You need only face one of the slender rods, wish for a light, and the flames, like those of giant candles, flared aloft.

  The patterns on the walls and the lights were the mysteries of this world. The rest was what the refugees had brought—beds of dried grass and leaves, a fireplace of small rocks, wooden bowls and spoons Stroud had carved, having the knowledge a hobby supplied. They were cave dwellers surrounded by the remnants of a vastly more advanced civilization. But so easily defended was the way into their stronghold, so safe its atmosphere, they clung to it.

  If the land continued so occupied, Nick could understand Crocker’s concern. Food supplies were dwindling, even though they had stocked up well in the days when this land had been their own. One could not hunt or fish and be constantly alert for attack.

  They had been pent-up for two days now, unable to venture out because of the drifters. Those did not appear even to rest at night. Twice in the one just past they had witnessed flickerings of lights out there. Nick was impatient. They ought to do something—find out what was going on.

  He had depended upon the English for guidance. Only an utterly stupid person would plunge ahead without learning what he might have to face. But, within the past few hours, he was sure they were just as baffled as he, that this mass migration was new.

  Ill assorted, the drifters were. It was, Nick thought, like watching the flow of history stirred into a weird mixture. He had seen Indians once. And later three men with long-barreled rifles and the fringed hunting shirts of the early colonial frontier. But there were others—a party of bowmen with steel helmets accompanying two armored knights. And another band, this one with women (who were always rare), also in armor but of a far earlier period, the helmets topped with brushes of red-dyed bristles, bronze-embossed shields on their arms.

  Stroud had slithered out that morning, using rocks and brush as cover. The Warden was, Nick gathered, the only one who appeared to have the ability to scout, limited as that might be. It was his intention to reach the river to the east and judge the traffic around it.

  Though the cave had been their headquarters ever since they had first chanced upon it and they had other refuges, such as the camp by the lake and the farmhouse, they had never intended to make any of these a permanent base. Their plans had been to reach the sea and, if possible (which sounded hardly probable), find transportation back to their own land. In pursuit of this general plan they had begun work some time ago on a raft at the river, but had been forced to hide the results of their labor when there had been sudden saucer activity near that point.

  Now Stroud was to discover if that section were still patrolled, or if they could hope that the movement of drifters had drawn the flyers after them. If so, and they could not wait out the migration, then the raft on the river might mean escape. It seemed a very slender hope to Nick, but he knew that they held to it.

  The city continued to haunt his own thoughts. If one could just learn the secret of getting in—

  “I’m going to the back post and relieve Jean,” Crocker said. “Lady Diana will be here shortly.”

  The pilot was gone, Nick was alone. He was glad of that. Crocker was all right, but Nick knew that the pilot did not warm toward him, any more than Nick himself would have sought out Crocker back home. It was plain that the Englishman had problems, which kept him in a sullen, brooding state, and he did not welcome strange company.

  Now the Vicar—Nick could warm to him. And he understood Stroud. The Warden reminded him vividly of several men he had known, the last being Coach Heffner at high school. Mrs. Clapp—he smiled—and Jean—but he was sure Jean had an eye only for Crocker. He wished her well in that direction but success seemed dubious.

  Lady Diana was manager whether they welcomed it or not. She was one you would have to reckon with if you crossed her.

  Linda—he thought about Linda. Before they met the English, they had drawn together. Afterward, she had become more quickly absorbed in the other group than he had. And, following their adventure in the wood, she had avoided him. He had made no attempt to close the gap she had opened. Linda was all right, but he certainly was not going to make any effort to know her better. Just because they were fellow victims did not mean they were thereby joined in a relationship.

  Nick tensed—movement out there, a shaking of bush not caused by any wind. During his sentry tours Nick had seen animals on the move also, disturbed by drifters.

  And the animals had sometimes been grotesque. There were the light-colored deer, and twice wolves, giant ones as large as a small pony. Rabbits of a very ordinary type had come and a flock of wild turkeys. But there had been a pair of nightmare forms as weird as the two he had seen with the Green Man. Each had four limbs and a body not unlike that of a giant cat, though the fur was more like deerskin, and a long neck ending in the head of a beaked bird, an eagle, scaled instead of furred or feathered. From the shoulders had sprouted membranous wings like those of a bat, plainly too small and weak to support the bulk of the body. In the open the creatures stretched their wings with a clapping sound.

  He described these two to Hadlett, and the Vicar nodded as if he recognized such an impossible mixture of bird and beast.

  “An opinicus—”

  “A what?”

  “A fabulous beast used in heraldry. Just as the two you met in the forest were a yale and an enfield.”

  “But—” Nick was completely bewildered. He had an idea that heraldry had something to do with shields, coats-of-arms, the designs used in the Middle Ages to identify knights in battle, and used nowadays as a form of snobbery to make wall plaques, mugs, designs on stationery. But living animals—

  “Yes,” the Vicar continued. “Imagined beasts do not roam the countryside. But here they do! They are allied to the People and show no interest in us, unless they are directed to do so. Fortunately that seldom happens.”

  Now as Nick watched the movement down slope he speculated as to what might appear, a normal animal he could name, or one of the weird companions of the People. But what flowed out, with the sinuous grace of his species, was Jeremiah. The cat was experiencing some difficulty, having to keep his head at an angle unnatural for him, for he had mouthed and was drawing along a large bird. Twice on his way up the slope he had to pause to take a fresh hold. But his determination to bring in his catch never faltered.

  He finally reached Nick and dropped his burden. His eyes fixed upon the man, he gave a warning growl. The limp bundle of now dusty feathers was vividly colored. Some of the long tail pinions were bent and broken. It seemed about the size of a chicken, but its plumage was far removed from the barnyard fowls Nick had known.

  “Good catch,” Nick observed. “You’re a better hunter, Jeremiah, than we’ve been lately.”

  The cat lay down on his side, his forepaws outstretched. Now he dropped his head on these and gave a visible sigh. It was plain his endurance had been taxed by the effort of bringing home the fruits of his hunting. Nick put out a hand toward the bird, watching Jeremiah for any sign of resentment. But the cat merely watched him, did not again assert ownership.

  He had killed the bird cleanly, there was not even any outward sign of a wound. Nick smoothed out the bedraggled plumage in wonder. The colors were as brilliant as those of a parrot, yet blended into one another in a subtle fashion. He
was reminded of the glory of the Herald’s tabard.

  The Herald—holding the bird Nick no longer saw it. He was rather remembering that long moment in the farmhouse when he was sure the Herald had known he stood behind the window. And his thoughts moved to his own—well, you could not call it a plan—idea of somehow getting the Herald to use as a key to the city.

  But the trouble was he would have to know so much more about the Herald himself. And Nick was well aware that such discussion was taboo as far as the English were concerned. Only Hadlett had given him bits and pieces, never as much as he needed to know, always changing the subject when he tried to find out more about the enigmatic master of the city. Was he master there, or a servant messenger? The status of the Herald could have a distinct bearing on what Nick wanted to do. If he only knew—

  Hadlett had warned him that he and Linda would be the target for an offer. But so far that had not happened. And holed up here as they were now, how could it? If Nick could meet the Herald, perhaps he could learn for himself—But if a saucer attack could not trouble that alien, what could he do?

  The need for action continued to gnaw at him. He did not believe they could indefinitely hide out here in the present state of the country. And what if whatever was driving the drifters south did arrive? The very flimsy hope of escaping via the raft was no hope at all, he was sure, rather a delusion that might prove fatal. No, the city was safe—

  Nick was so certain of that that his very surety was a surprise. He had played with the idea ever since he had seen those glittering towers, but this was absolute conviction.

  A soft rub against his hand. Jeremiah must want his trophy. But when Nick looked down at the cat, the animal had not reached for the bird at all. Rather he rubbed his head back and forth against Nick’s hand and arm, and he was purring.

  “Good boy!” Nick scratched behind the gray ears, rubbed along the furred jaw line. “You agree with me, don’t you?”