How many of his own kind—winglings—still existed? Those who were of his clan, or the clan claimed for him, had apparently been near wiped out by the invaders. The other clans had not been so devastated, for the fate of the Langrones had come upon them soon after the enemy had finned down. Since the winged race were widespread over territories they claimed, most of their co-species had managed to escape, save for a few surprised when they returned to their territories by crossing the ravaged land of their sometime kin.
It had been easy enough to understand that the People had been divided among themselves when the off-world danger had struck. He himself had been of some importance, not for himself but because of the state of kinship he could claim. However, he had, at the same time, been practically defenseless, condemned to the ground until his wings were fully grown. While he was so helpless, Farree gathered from the scraps Fragon, Selrena, and Atra gave him, he had been a victim of jealousy among his own people. His father, who had led the Langrone, had been brought down during the clan-species dispute which had flared between his people and the groundlings (due to some incitement on Fragon's part for what reason Farree could not guess). He, Farree, had then been taken into captivity by the Museyons, night dwellers and hunters of the dark, answerable—sometimes—to Beast Mask but mainly going their own crooked ways.
From them he had been freed temporarily by a traitor– brother kin to his father and sour-blooded because the rule had not passed to him. Naively the traitor had attempted to bind the star invaders to his cause and had delivered Farree in turn into their hands, hoping so to remove him in such fashion that his trail could not be traced.
Those of the ship Farree had just attacked had not been the first to fin in here—there had been earlier ships. The first one had had none of the defenses which had rendered this one and its crew so formidable. That earlier crew had been made free of some treasure; in fact a "safe-hole" of groundlings who were considered Langrone enemies had been betrayed. But that treasure had been hardly won. Star-based men had died, and, in turn, burrows of groundlings had been stormed, their owners trapped and slain. So that at last, having in turn suffered a loss of nearly half the crew, the ship rose again, with its hard-won cargo, determined to return better equipped for the tearing of the last scrap of precious metal or new-found gem from one-time owners.
How he, Farree, had come into the Limits with Lanti, reduced by drink and graz chewing to a sodden wreck unable to get another berth, was part of the memory which still eluded him. Not that any of that mattered. This was history as far removed from him as Yiktor from the earth into which he was advancing steadily downward. There had been another visit here of an off-world ship, and that had stayed for some time. Traps had been set—they had gathered captives—even one of the Darda. What they did with those they took none could discover, for their ship was blank to all mind probing. In fact the use of this talent could and had led to more captures– the invaders seemed able to home in on any trace of mind search.
Thus, unable to use what they had come to depend upon as one of their most important weapons—the power to contact mentally and even overcome the wills of others—they had realized that once more they had been overtaken by the old, old enemy and against off-worlders they no longer had much chance to win. They had been on Elothian for centuries, so free from the ancient menace that they had no longer had the knowledge nor the materials to prepare for another flitting. Here they must stay and face a losing fight. Furthermore they were not of one mind, for the groundlings considered that the invasion could not move against them—they had their ability to burrow and hide in places too remote for the invaders to follow, unless they were willing to creep or wriggle on their bellies through the dark, unable to stand against ambush. It was easier to battle winglings and the Darda castles. It had taken the fall of one of their cave cities, its inhabitants overcome by fumes from smoke released from balls of metal which had been brought back by some of the smiths, to bring the under-surface ones out against the enemy which thus became a common one.
That ship, too, had vanished in time. But the Darda had not released watch, nor had the winglings and the others. Their history was too plain—with the coming of such invaders their day of defeat was upon them, and there was nothing to do but wait for that to arrive.
Except this time there were other players. Farree thought of Maelen, of Vorlund, of the Zacanthan, who had the results of centuries of learning behind him. What of himself also? He was Langrone but more beside. Having survived the horrors of the Limits he had proven that there was a good measure of strength in him, while his journeying with Maelen and Vorlund had brought him knowledge his kind might never have gained before. Yes, he might not be Darda but neither was he pure wingling.
Before him burst the great light. He now moved more quickly into the chamber of crystals, eager to learn what he might of what the others had done.
Chapter Eighteen
Fragon again occupied the throne of dusky crystal. He might not have moved since Farree had last seen him. There were others gathered about, some finding perches among the lighter crystal outgrowth. He saw Selrena seated so. Her head was upheld but her eyes were closed. On one side of her Maelen was also seated and she held one of the Darda's slim hands between the two of hers. Her eyes were open but there was a remoteness about her face which suggested that she had fastened thought elsewhere.
At their feet was Atra, so removed from the others of her race; they were clustered in a burst of color apart from the center of the cave chamber, their wings folded, their attention on the three they did not approach.
Well to the other side of Fragon's chosen seat stood the Beast Mask, but for the first time Farree saw that mask thrown back, to lie along the shoulders as a limp hood. The features so disclosed were not entirely unlike those of the Darda, save that the skin was dark—greyish—like unto Fragon's, and this was no skull head. That dark skin was puffed and so distended on the cheeks that the eyes seemed very small and near hidden by the rolls of the unpleasant-looking flesh. There was no hair on the puffy ball of the head. Male or female? Farree could not be sure. He felt an instant disgust and beyond that—fear. This one was as powerful as Fragon in his or her own way.
The other Darda, Vestrum, and his flutist were missing. However, even as Farree stepped into the crystal lighting, so did Zoror enter from another angle. He laid down the power conductor which he had carried up the slopes and, doing so, noticed Farree first, beckoning to him. Of Vorlund there was no sign; perhaps his mission to their own ship was not yet finished.
Atra opened her eyes, meeting Farree's with a strong compelling stare as if she had been waiting for him. Farree paused. She edged away from Maelen and Selrena, to cross the cavern toward Farree and the Zacanthan. Her torn and filthy clothing had long since been changed for a short robe of creamy white, girdled with a mesh belt of silver into which had been set small gems of green-blue. A circlet of the same material held her hair in place at the nape of her slender neck.
Farree noted that in her coming to him she made a short detour which took her away from close contact with the other winglings, those whose wings pulsed, rose or blue or yellow. Nor did he escape picking up a flash of thought—just as he had found himself aloof from their company so, it would seem, she, too, had been placed in exile. That she had been released from any enemy mind bond, he was sure, or she would not have been here. However, the shadow of what had been done to her, and through her unto others, still wrapped her in.