Knave of Dreams by Andre Norton

Author:Andre Norton [Norton, Andre]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TEN

The rocky ridge slowly gave way to shifting dunes. Then they saw, flowing toward them across the ground, a mist—or a fog? Though this ground-based cloud appeared to move more swiftly than any normal fog, Ramsay thought.

Dedan’s alarm whistle raised a shrill, ear-piercing call, echoing over the beach. The company closed in tighter formation. Now they began to take on the appearance of a beleaguered host. Still Ramsay could see nothing ahead but the gathering of that thick yellowish mist. Again, more furiously, Dedan blew. Ramsay realized that already the scouts had vanished, curtained off by the fog. A glance back over his shoulder to the sea confirmed the fact that the ship was rapidly dwindling toward the horizon. Retreat in that direction was impossible.

“To the ridge—” Dedan’s arm waved them right.

That tumble of stone that had formed a very rough wharf for their landing was here rooted in a rise of rock, pitted and crannied, but, even so, providing a more solid surface than the sand through which they had started to plough.

To that ridge they made their way at the best speed they could manage, the fog rolling inexorably behind them, rising not from the sea but, oddly enough, from an inner point of land. Ramsay was scrambling up the first of the stones when he heard, even through the now continuous pipe of Dedan’s whistle, a scream of such agony that he clutched convulsively at the rock in instant reaction. Out of that mist had that cry come. He could believe it a death shriek. Friend? Or still unseen foe?

They fought their way higher among the water-worn rocks. Here was no spray to lash at them, but the footing was so treacherous, because of the many hollows and crannies in the stone themselves, that they had to give strict heed to their going. At last they reached the crest, men fitting into hollows, dodging behind any rise of rock, dropping field packs, unslinging weapons. Those in charge of the two vibrations machines dragged off protecting coverings, swung fan-shaped antennae back and forth in search of the foe.

Ramsay squatted beside Dedan. None of the scouts had yet returned. Now the dirty yellow of the fog, washed around the foot of the ridge on which they were perched was rising higher and higher.

He looked to the Free Captain. “What is it?”

Dedan shrugged impatiently. “Your guess will equal mine. I have not seen the likes of it before. But to my mind the fog is not natural.”

“Pirate magic!” A man behind them spat. “Some trickery of Northerners. Perhaps the sea devils bought such with their loot from Razlog.”

“A gas—something noxious in the air?” Ramsay felt his throat tighten, his breathing grow faster, shallower, even as he asked.

Dedan shook his head. “With the sea wind rising, they could not control such an attack well enough.”

“They might have masks to breathe through, to purify,” Ramsay pointed out from the knowledge of his own time and space.

The Free Captain looked unconvinced. “I think this is to provide attack cover.

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