Web of the Witch World

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IN THE NIGHT there had been a storm with great gusts of angry wind to batter ancient walls, aim spearthrusts of rain at the window slits of the chamber. But its violence had been reduced to a sullen mutter outside the South Keep. And Simon Tregarth had found that mutter soothing.

No, this was no troubling of nature—the raw nature man must fight and subdue for his own survival. It was a very different unease he felt as he lay in the early morning, awake and aware as a sentinel listening to sounds beyond his post.

Chill sweat gathered in his armpits, beaded dankly on his slightly hollowed cheeks and square jaw. Gray light overtook the room shadows, there was no sound, but—

His hand went out tentatively before he consciously thought. Nor did he entirely realize that he was yielding to an emotion which he still found new and hard to understand. This was an instinctive appeal for comradeship and support against—what? He could set no name to the uneasiness which held him.

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