Warlock

indistinct. There were dark circles where eyes should have been, dark slits for mouths, dark holes for nostrils. There were whirls of dark hair, and a haze of mist filmed even this small vision.
        
        “What is that?” Richter asked, pointing to fine lines that had begun to criss-cross the faces on the plate.
        
        “Wires?” Gregor asked. “Copper wires?” He looked at his master uncertainly, then returned his gaze to the faces.
        
        By this time, both visions were woven through with a net of wires; here and there were small plastic squares that were transistors, but which no one in the study could identify.
        
        The Shaker was straining now, bringing all his power to bear on the problem. But only the wires grew more distinct while the features of the two assassins remained unidentifiable. “There does not seem… to be the mind… of… a man… in either… of those two… we see.”
        
        “Not the mind of a man?” Belmondo asked, peering at the shimmering ghosts.
        
        “Their minds are cold… unfeeling… but clever…”
        
        “Demons you say?” Belmondo asked, his voice rising squeakily.
        
        “Not demons, perhaps… but something… we cannot guess,” the Shaker said.
        
        Then the silver plate flashed with a puff of incandescent gas, and the images were gone. There was only a silver plate, cut square and set flush in the round oak table, holding the reflections of their anxious faces.
        
        Weary, Shaker Sandow pushed away from the table and slumped in his chair. Immediately, Mace went to the sideboard and poured him a stiff jolt of peach brandy brought it to him and placed it in his weathered, slim magician's hands. Sandow drank greedily of the liquor some color returned to his ashen complexion.
        
        “You are reputed to be one of the most powerful Shakers in all of Darkland,” Richter said thoughtfully. “And yet even you could not summon up the nature of our enemy. So we fight demons, not men. But how could the lands beyond the Cloud Range house demons for the Oragonians to make pacts with, when demons live in the bowels of the earth and not on the land itself?”
        
        “The word 'demons' was the choice of your captain,” Sandow corrected. “I have said that our killers are simply something different than men.”
        
        “And what else does than mean but demons?”
        
        “It could mean angels,” Sandow said.
        
        “I would hardly think the beneficent sprites are responsible for the carnage we saw tonight”
        
        “I was only offering an alternative,” Sandow said, “as proof that there could also be a third.”
        
        “What do you suggest?” the commander asked.
        
        “I suggest nothing. I only report what information I obtain and leave the decision to you. It must be so, or I then become the commanding officer. And I do not want nor could I bear such responsibility.”
        
        The room was quiet a long while before Richter said, “We will leave tomorrow at dawn, as planned. If we went back to the Darklands, to the capital, days would be lost that we cannot afford. And the chances of more spies entering our ranks the next time would be no better for us.”
        
        “Then perhaps we should get some sleep,” Sandow said. This night has given us very little rest with which to meet the mountain tomorrow.”
        
        Slipping into their oiled leather coats, the two officers left the house, hurrying through the driving sheets of rain and the occasional stinging pellets of hail which still fell. The Shaker stood by the front door, watching them until they were out of sight down the cobbled slope.
        
        “It will not be easy,” Gregor said. “Not many will cross the Cloud Range.”
        
        “Perhaps,” the master said. “But the commander is more of a man than he even appears. He has that strength which negates the acceptance of defeat. There is a better chance with him than there would be with another officer.”
        
        “Such as Belmondo,” Gregor said.
        
        “I wonder at Richter's tolerance of that frightened youth,” the Shaker said. “They are not like men.”
        
        “Good gods!” Mace roared behind them. “Must we stand here all night gossiping of soldiers. We've but two hours on the springs, if