On his outstretched palm appeared, in the blinking of an eye, what seemed to Lurn to be a large sphere of cloudy crystal, filled with vague, drifting lights. Then it seemed to her wondering eyes that it was an immaterial orb of dense, misty light, a rigid globe of force held under mental control.
“By means of the Space-Eye,” the thin old man said, indicating the static globe of energy resting in his palm, “we have followed the course of events and were made aware of your need of our assistance. Hence are we come.”
“I … have failed, Magister,” Galastor confessed. The ancient smiled.
“No. You have done all that could be expected—indeed, far more than we could have hoped! Given more time, even now, your mental conquest of the Rovers should succeed. But now events are moving too swiftly to be corrected by the tactics of Psychowar. The Rovers are leaving Xulthoom even as we speak. Within hours they will lie in orbit about the green orb of the Nucleus-world. Come, enter full linkage with us; we must confer.”
As Lurn watched, she witnessed the most strange council ever seen—a Council of Magic, in which the mightiest Adepts of mental magic the Galaxy had ever known entered rapport. Calastor and the seven ancients formed a ring. No words were spoken in this eerie council, but thought-currents flashed between the Adepts. So swift, so intense were the currents of this telepathic dialogue that the very atmosphere of the cabin seethed with mental forces. No telepath, even Lurn seemed to “overhear” scraps and snippets of thought, as the eight men exchanged ideas, opinions, and discussed plans.
“—one last illusion, projected by eight minds in—”
“—full linkage! Never before attempted—”
“—Tension index per capita: 39.04—”
“—Enough? Surely! Hysteria—revolt—”
“Illusion: (query)—human? Animal?”
“—something so huge—”
“—(query): mythological?—primal terror—”
“—(affirmation): inconceivably large—”
“—beast-image—night-fears—”
“—analysis of the Barbarian id—”
“—agreed, then?”
“— (affirmation)—”
“—(affirmation: complete).”
They broke apart, and the taut mental atmosphere of electric tension dissolved. Calastor stepped to the controls. The Wolfhound sprang forward in lightning acceleration.
When the Rover fleet left its orbit about Xulthoom, the slim craft of the White Wizard followed, invisibly, indetectibly. An hour or two later, after the Magister had given the weary Calastor a short but deeply refreshing hypnotic sleep, the Council of Adepts convened in full Linkage again to mentally project the images of fantastic dragons of space into the minds of the star-pirates.
Through the magic of the Space-Eye, the Adepts observed as terror smote the hearts of the Rovers—as ravening beams and bolts of blazing force slashed at the slowly oncoming forms of the space-dragons …
Drask swore, clenching his fists till the nails bit into his hard palms. The dragons floated on towards the fleet, huge bat-wings beating with ponderous slowness against the bitter black of interplanetary space. They came on in the teeth of the searing laser-bolts. Could nothing stop them?
Suddenly, the shaman laughed.
The sound was jarringly incongruous in the tension of the moment. Drask flashed a glance at Abdekiel, wondering if his mind had snapped.
“I understand all now, Lord,” the shaman said, smiling imperturbably. “From the haunting terrors of Xulthoom to these mysterious space-monsters.”
“What are you talking about?”
The shaman gestured with a plump hand. “Note, Sire, the laser-beams neither consume the dragons nor rebound from their impenetrable hides! Instead, the rays vanish into the monstrous bodies. If the space-beasts were invulnerable to our weapons, the rays would be shattered upon contact with their scales—would shower off the mailed forms in a pyrotechnic display clearly visible even at this distance. They do not. No—the rays are passing harmlessly through the monsters!”
Wonderingly, Drask peered closely at the images on the screens. Somewhere behind him, Shangkar began to curse in a hard undertone.
“They are illusion, Lord. Mirages with no physical, material existence. Moreover, I begin to suspect they are not purely visible—but mental. This is the work of Calastor. And so, I assume, were the ghosts and voices that plagued us upon Xulthoom. How it is done, I do not know—hypnosis, telepathy—but we have nothing to fear from these creatures. They are monsters of the mind, naught more. The fleet can pass straight through them without harm.”
Drask smiled coldly. “We should have guessed this, shaman, from the fact that they did not clearly register on the radar. Gorm!” He snapped a brusque command to the grizzled old pilot. “Radio the news of this discovery to the fleet. Tell them to allay their fears, and continue forward according to the assault-plan, ignoring the illusion of the monsters.”
(—“That does it, Magister! Nothing to do now but pin everything on one final try!”
(—“We understand, youth. We are with you—strike now!”)
Shangkar pointed.
“Look! The dragons are gone!”
Drask laughed harshly. The last impediment to his conquest had proved an immaterial shadow cast upon the mind. Then he froze, uncertainly—
In the cavernous dimness of the giant domed control room, nine shadowy figures faded into existence.
Calastor, Lurn, and the Seven Sages of Parlion stood facing the astounded Star Rovers in the control room of the enormous battleship. Abandoning all other plans, they had bent space—to confront and destroy the leaders of the Barbarian fleet in person.
If possible.
11.
HAND OF THE GODDESS
BELLOWING AN OATH, Tonguth ripped his laser gun from its holster, pointing the weapon at the foremost figure. An aged, nearly naked man turned gravely humorous eyes upon him. With suddenly numb fingers, the Chieftain fought to beam the old man down … but the sparkling black eyes seemed to grow and grow until they filled Tonguth’s mind.
The pistol floated out of his lax grip and drifted up into dimness.
Nerves in his legs suddenly failing to respond to his will, Tonguth staggered—blundered—fell forward, cursing feebly.
“At them, you dogs! Ray them down!” Drask snarled—and a score of grim-faced Rover leaders surged forward, snatching at their weapons. But the Sages turned the full power of their amazing minds upon the Barbarians, and the scene became one of fantastic nightmare.
Some Rovers dropped unconscious, as if they had run head first into an invisible wall. Others suddenly lost control of their limbs, and flopped and floundered on the deck like men helpless in the grip of paralysis. One burly Barbarian went floating up into the air, black fur cloak flapping like vast shaggy wings. Another seemed to go mad and attacked his comrades. Steel rang against steel, as in a blind, cursing rage he sought to slaughter the men around him.
While the Sages were battling against the Rover chiefs, Calastor sprang across the room to seize the Warlord—but found himself face to face with a snarling tiger of ferocity. Shangkar faced him, Shangkar the lean cat-like berserker whom Calastor had nearly driven mad with illusions and horrors on the midnight battlements of Djormandark Keep.