Hunt the Space-Witch! by Robert Silverberg Page A

steadily rougher, and cold squalls began to blow; heavy clouds lay like sagging balloons over the water, dark and gray-shot. Dovirr bided his time, as the Garyun sailed northward. Vostrok had broken off contact with Vythain, eh?
    Strange, he thought. That could mean many things.
    At the end of the week, the Garyun entered Vostrok harbor. The city was much like all the others, only larger. According to Gowyn’s notes, Vostrok had been the central base of the Dhuchay’y during the occupation of Terra centuries ago.
    Dovirr ordered the anchor dropped half a league off-shore. Calling his officers about him, he stared uneasily toward the waiting city.
    â€œWell?” Kubril asked. “Do we go ashore?”
    Dovirr frowned. He wore his finest cuirass and a bold red-plumed helmet; his men likewise were armored. “I like not the looks of this city. I see no men on the pier. Hand me the glass, Liggyal.”
    The seaman handed the glass to Dovirr, who focussed it on the distant shore. Tensely, he studied the area about the pier.
    â€œNo one is there.”
    â€œPerhaps they don’t recognize us,” Kubril suggested. “The tribute isn’t due for another month.”
    â€œStill, when the Garyun casts anchor in their harbor they should flock to! Come—let us land three boatloads of warriors on their pier, and seek the source of these people’s reticence.”
    Dovirr strode away from the gathering and gave orders for three boats to be unshipped. Thirty of his best men, sparkling in their burnished armor, manned them; the sturdy boats groaned under the weight, and the sea-water licked high near the gunwales, but the boats held fast.
    Oars bit water. Standing in the prow of the leading boat, Dovirr peered landward, feeling premonitions of danger.
    The pier was still empty of men when the three boats pulled up. Dovirr sprinted to shore, followed by a brace of his men. Cautiously, they advanced as the other boats unloaded. The Vostrok pier was a long, broad expanse of concrete, an apron extending out from the city proper into the sea.
    â€œShould we enter the city?” Kubril asked. “This may be a trap.”
    â€œWait.” Dovirr pointed. “Someone comes.”
    A figure was approaching them, a graybeard. “Know you him?” Dovirr asked.
    â€œOne of the city fathers, no doubt. They all look alike at tribute time.”
    The old man drew near. Strain was evident on his face; his thin lips trembled uncontrollably, and harsh lines creased his forehead.
    â€œThe tribute is not yet due,” he said in a small voice. “We did not expect you for another month. We—”
    â€œOn your knees,” Dovirr said. “We are not here for tribute. The city of Vythain reports you have been remiss in your shipments of wood, and that you refuse contact. Can you explain this?”
    The oldster tugged at Dovirr’s cloak. “There are reasons.… Please, go away. Leave!”
    Surprised, Dovirr drew back from the man’s grasp. But then, a curious stale odor drifted to his nostrils, the odor of dried, rotting fish spread out on a wharf in the sun. He glanced up toward the city. The oldster turned too, and uttered a groan of despair.
    â€œThey come, they come!”
    Dovirr stiffened. The old man broke away and dashed out of sight. Advancing across the bare pier toward the little group of Sea-Lords were eight things . For an instant, horror grasped Dovirr as his eyes took in the image. Eight feet tall, with bony scaled skulls and gleaming talons, they advanced, each sweeping a thick, lengthy tail behind. Dovirr remained transfixed.
    He recalled what Gowyn had told him once—about green-fleshed, evil-smelling hell-creatures, their bright eyes yellow beacons of hatred, their jaws burgeoning with knife-like teeth, their naked hides rugose, scaly. Eight of them; moving in solemn phalanx.
    A sudden surge of mingled fear and joy shivered through him. Cupping