The Iron Breed

by Andre Norton

  Their entanglement was a flurry of such fast tearing, rolling, and kicking with the powerful hind feet that the spectators, accustomed as they were to such encounters, were hardly able to follow the action before the warriors parted. Tufts of fur blew from the battle site, but they were yowling again, neither seeming the least affected by the fury of their first meeting.

  Again that attack, vicious, sudden, complete. They rolled over and over on the ground and fur flew. The emotion spread to the spectators. Waiting warriors yowled, voicing their own battle cries, hardly able to restrain themselves from leaping at each other. Even the Elders added to the general din. Only the Choosers held to their studied languor, though their eyes were very wide, and here and there a pink tongue tip showed.

  San-Lo won. When they separated the second time, the black had lowered tail and backed from the field, raw and bleeding tears on his belly. The champion of the caves strutted to the rock to pick up his claws, dangling them in an arrogant jingle before he returned to his place in line.

  The fights continued. Two of the cave warriors surrendered to the visitors. Then there were three straight wins for Furtig's clan. But his apprehension was growing. The matching of pieces was leaving another warrior on the western side as formidable in size as the one who had stood up to San-Lo. If the favor of the Ancestors was against Furtig—

  And it was. His neighbor on the cave line bested—but just—his opponent. Furtig must face the powerful warrior. Also—no claws swung from the other's belt, so he had to face the thought of not only one defeat but two.

  Dreading what was to come, yet knowing it must be faced, he went dutifully to the rock, tossed his claws there with a reluctance he hoped was not betrayed.

  At least he could make the black know that he had been in a fight! And he yowled his challenge with what strength he could muster. When they tangled, he fought with all the skill he had. Only that was not enough. Sheer determination not to give in sent him twice more to tangle with those punishing clawed legs, fangs which had left wounds. It was a nightmare to which there was no end. He could only keep fighting—until—

  Until there was blackness and he was lost in it, though there were unpleasant dreams. And when he awoke in the cave, lying on his own pallet, he first thought it was all a dream. Then he raised his swimming head and looked upon the matted paste of healing leaves plastered on him.

  Almost hoping, he fought pain to bring his hand to his belt. But there were no claws there. He had plainly lost, and those weapons which had been Gammage's good gift to Furtig's father were gone with all his hopes of ever being more in the caves than Fu-Tor of the missing hand.

  They had patched him up with the best of their tending. But there was no one in the cave. He craved water with a thirst which was now another pain, and finally forced his aching and bruised body to obey him, crawling through the light of the night lamp to the stone trough. There was little left, and when he tried to dip out a bowlful his hand shook so that he got hardly any. But even as he had fought on when there was no hope of victory, he persisted.

  Furtig did not return to his ledge. Now that he was not so single-minded in his quest for water, he could plainly hear the sounds of the feasting below. The Choosing must be over, the winners with the mates who had selected them. Fas-Tan—he put her out of his mind. After all she had been only a dream he could never hope to possess.

  His clawless belt was the greater loss, and he could have wailed over that like a youngling who had strayed too far from his mother and feared what might crouch in the dark. That he could stay on in the caves now was impossible.

  But to go to Gammage armed and confident was one matter. To slink off as a reject from the Trials, with his weapon lost as spoils of victory—In some things his pride was deep. Yet—to Gammage he must go. It was his right, as it had been his brother's, to choose to leave. And one could always claim a second Trial—though at present that was the last thing he wanted.

  However, Furtig had no intention of leaving before he proclaimed his choice. Pride held him to that. Some losers might be poor spirited enough to slink away in the dark of night, giving no formal word to their caves—but not Furtig! He crawled back to the ledge, knowing that he must also wait until he was fit for the trail again.

  So he lay, aching and smarting, listening to the feasting, wondering if his sisters had chosen to mate with victorious westerners or within the caves. And so he fell asleep.

  It was mid-day when he awoke, for the sun was shining in a bright bar well into the cave mouth. The ledges of the Elders were empty, but he heard noises in the parts within. As he turned his head one of the younger females almost touched noses with him, she had been sitting so close, her eyes regarding him unwinkingly.

  “Furtig.” She spoke his name softly, putting out a hand to touch a patch of the now dried leaf plaster on his shoulder. “Does it hurt you much?”

  He was aware of aches, but none so intense as earlier.

  “Not too much, clan sister.”

  “Mighty fighter, in the cave of Gammage—”

  He wrinkled a lip in a wry grimace. “Not so, youngling. Did I not lose to the warrior of the westerners? San-Lo is a mighty fighter, not Furtig.”

  She shook her head. Like him she was furred with rich gray, but hers was longer, silkier. He had thought Fas-Tan was rare because of her coloring, but this youngling, Eu-La, would also be a beauty when her choose-time came.

  “San-Lo was chosen by Fas-Tan.” She told him what he could easily have guessed. “Sister Naya has taken Mur of Folock's cave. But Sister Yngar—she took the black warrior of the westerners—” Eu-La's ears flattened and she hissed.

  Furtig guessed. “The one I battled? He is a strong one.”

  “He hurt you.” Eu-La shook her head. “It was wrong for Sister Yngar to choose one who hurt her brother. She is no longer of the cave.” Once more she hissed.

  “But of course she is not, sister. When one chooses, one is of the clan of one's mate. That is the way of life.”

  “It is a bad way—this fighting way.” She chewed one claw tip reflectively between words. “You are better than San-Lo.”

  Furtig grunted. “I would not like to try to prove that, sister. In fact it is a not-truth.”

  She hissed. “He is strong of claw, yes. But in his head—does he think well? No, Fas-Tan is a fool. She should pick a mate who thinks rather than one who fights strongly.”

  Furtig stared at her. Why, she was only a youngling, more than a season away from her own time of choice. But what she said now was not a youngling kind of thing.

  “Why do you think so?” he asked, curious.

  “We”—her head went up proudly—“are of the cave of Gammage. And the Ancestor learned many, many things to help us. He did not so learn by fighting. He went hunting for knowledge instead of battles. Brother, females also think. And when I grow trail-wise I shall not choose—I shall go to Gammage also! There I shall learn and learn—” She stretched forth her thin furred arms as if she were about to gather to her some heaping of knowledge, if knowledge could be so heaped and gathered.

  “Gammage has grown foolish with time—” He spoke tentatively.

  Once more she hissed, and now her anger was directed at him.

  “You speak as the Elders. Because some do not understand new things they say that such are stupid or ill thought. Think instead on what Gammage has sent us, and that these may only be a small part of the great things he has found! There must be much good in the lairs.”

  “And if Gammage's fears are the truth, there may also be Demons there.”

  Eu-La wrinkled a lip. “Believe in Demons when you see them, brother. Before then take what you can which will aid you.”

  He sat up. “How did you know I was minded to go to Gammage?”

  She gave a soft purr of laughter. “Because you are who you are, you can do no other, brother. Look you.” She brought out from behind her a small bag pulled tight by a drawstring. Furtig had seen only one such
before, that being much prized by the females. It had been made, according to tradition, by Gammage's last mate, who had had more supple fingers than most. But it had not been duplicated since.

  “Where got you that?”

  “I made it.” Her pride was rightfully great. “For you—” She pushed it into his hand. “And these also.”

  What she produced now were as startling as the bag, for she had a pair of hunting claws. They were not the shining, well-cared-for ones which had been his. There were two points missing on one set, one on the other, and the rest were dull and blunted.

  “I found them,” Eu-La told him, “in a place between two rocks down in the cave of waters. They are broken, brother, but at least you do not go with bare hands. And—this I ask of you—when you stand before the Ancestor, show him this—” She touched the bag. “Say to him then, shall not a female of the cave of Gammage not also have a part in the learning of new things?”

  Furtig grasped both bag and claws, astounded at her gifts, so much more than he could have hoped for.

  “Be sure, sister,” he said, “that I shall say it to him just as you have said it to me.”

  3

  Furtig crept forward. It was not yet dawn, but to his eyes the night was not dark. He had chosen to cross the wide expanse of open space about the western fringe of the Demons' lair by night—though a whole day of watching had shown no signs of life there. Nor had he, during this patient stalk across the grass-covered open, discovered any game trail or sign that aught came or went from the buildings.

  But the closer he approached the lairs, the more awe-inspiring they were. From a distance he had been able to judge that their height was far greater even than that of the cliff which held the Five Caves. However, he had had no idea how high they were until he neared their bases. Now he had almost to roll on his back to see their tips against the sky.

  It was frightening. Furtig felt that to venture in among those banks of towering structures would be to set foot in a trap. As Gammage had? Was it death and not the reception afforded his unwelcome ideas which had kept the Ancestor silent these past seasons?

  Though his sense of smell was no way near as keen as a Barker's, Furtig lifted his head higher and tried to distinguish some guiding odor. Did Gammage's people mark the boundaries of their territory here as they would forest trees, though with scent not scratches? He could detect the scent of the dying grass, got some small whiffs of the inhabitants of that flat land—mice, a rabbit. But nothing seemed to issue from the lairs, though the wind blew from there, rippling the grass in his direction.

  On all fours, Furtig advanced with the stealth of a hunter creeping up on unwary prey, alert to sounds. There was a swishing which was the wind in the grass, some rustlings born of his own movements, which could not be helped unless one could somehow tread air above the blowing fronds. A frantic scurrying to his left—rabbit.

  The grass came to an end. Before him was a stretch of smooth stone—almost as if the lairs had opened a mouth, extended a tongue to lap him in. There was no hiding place beyond. He would have to walk across the open. Reluctantly, Furtig rose on hind feet.

  It was well enough to creep and crawl when one had the excuse of keeping to cover. But he did not intend to enter the lairs so. There was something in him which demanded boldness now.

  He paused only to slip the claws over his hands. They were inferior, and did not fit his hands smoothly, but he had worked them into the best condition he could. And, while he never ceased to regret the loss of his own fine weapons, he was deeply grateful to Eu-La for her gift. Armed, he was now ready.

  A quick dart took him across into the shadow by the first wall. There were regular breaks in that, but set so high he could not reach any. Surely there must be some guide to Gammage, some trail markings to lead in a newcomer. For it was well known that Gammage welcomed those who came to him.

  Furtig continued to sniff for such a marker. There was a smell of bird. He could see streaks of droppings on the walls. But nothing more than that.

  With no guide he could only work his way into the heart of the lairs, hoping to pick up some clue to those he sought. However, he went warily, making use of all shadows he could.

  And, as he went, awe of those who had built all this grew in him. How had they piled up their cliffs? For these erections were not natural rock. What knowledge the Demons had had!

  Sunrise found him still wandering, at a loss for a guide. He had come across two open spaces enclosed by the buildings. They were filled with tangles of vegetation now seared by fall. One surrounded a small lake in which water birds suddenly cried out and rose with a great flapping of wings.

  Furtig crouched, startled. Then he realized that he could not have been the reason for that flight. Then—what had?

  At that moment he caught the hot scent, rank, overpowering. And he snarled. Ratton! There was no mistaking its foulness. Rattons—here? They clung to the lairs of Demons, that was true, yet it was thought they had not spread far through those.

  Furtig edged back into the hollow of a doorway. At his back the door itself was a great unbroken solid slab, and it was closed. As it was about six times his own height and gave the appearance of strength, he had no hope of opening it. And if he were sighted, or scented, in this place he would be cornered.

  The Rattons did not fight as the People did but more like the Barkers, sending many against one. Though Furtig was much larger than any of their kind, he could not hope to stand up to a whole company of them. His tail twitched sharply as he watched the bushes about the lake and used his nose and ears to aid his eyes in locating the foe.

  Though most of the water birds had flown, at least three of their flock were in difficulty. For there was a beating of wings, harsh cries at the far end of the lake. Furtig could not see through the screen of bushes, and he was not about to advance into what might be enemy territory. Suddenly the squawking was cut off, and he thought the hunters must have finished their prey.

  His own plans had changed. To go into Ratton-held lairs—no! And he imagined now what might have been Gammage's fate—well-picked bones!

  But could he withdraw without being hunted? Furtig was not sure whether the Rattons hunted by scent or by ear and eye. His only recourse was to befuddle his trail as well as he could. And in the open he could not do that.

  Furtig tried feverishly to remember all he had heard concerning the Rattons. Could they leap, climb, follow the People so? Or were they earthbound like the Barkers? It seemed he was soon to prove one or the other.

  On either side of the door behind him was a panel in the wall. These were set higher than his head, even when he stretched to his full height. The one to his right was intact. But the other had a break in its covering, leaving only shards of stuff in the frame.

  Furtig crouched and leaped. His fighting claws caught on the edge of those shards and they splintered. He kept his hold and kicked his way in. He found himself on a ledge above a dusky floor. It was narrow, but he could balance there long enough to survey what lay beyond.

  There were objects standing here and there, a heavy dust covering the floor. He surveyed that with disappointment. Not a track on it. When he dropped he would leave a trail the most stupid tracker could follow. Furtig teetered on the ledge, undecided. The dead air made his nose wrinkle, and he fought the need to sneeze. His half-plan now seemed rank folly. Better to stay in the open—He turned his head to look out. There was a flash of movement in the bushes near the door.

  Too late! They were already closing in. He needed speed now to reach a place where he could wedge his back as he turned to face his attackers.

  He made a second leap from the ledge to the top of one of the objects standing on the floor. His feet plowed into the soft dust and he skidded nearly to its far end, pushing the dust before him, before his claws held fast.

  The room had two doors, both open arches, neither barred. What he wanted now was to get to the very top of this lair, and out into the open, where
he would perhaps have a bare chance of leaping to the next lair, just as he would leap from tree to tree to escape ground-traveling enemies.

  There was little choice between the doors, and in the end he took the nearest. This gave onto a long passage from which opened other doorless rooms—rather like the caves. Save that these promised no security.

  Furtig wasted no time exploring, but ran at top speed past those doorless openings to the end of the hall. Here was a door and it was closed. He tried to insert claw tips in the crack he could see and was answered by a slight give. Enough to set him tearing frenziedly at the promise.

  When it did open far enough for him to slip his body through, he gave a convulsive start backward. For, opening at his feet, was a deep shaft. There was nothing beyond the door but a hole that might entrap a full-sized bull. In his fear Furtig spat, clawed at the edges of the door.

  It was too late. The momentum of his assault on that stubborn barrier pitched him out into empty space. He had closed his eyes in reflex as he went, fear filling him, forcing out sense and reason—

  Until he realized that he was not falling like a stone pitched from one of the cave ledges, but drifting downward!

  Furtig opened his eyes, hardly aware even now that he was not on his way to a quick death. It was dark in the shaft, but he could see that he was descending, slowly, as if he rested on some solid surface that was sinking into the foundations of the lair.

  Of course it was well known that the Demons commanded many powers. But that they could make thin air support a body! Furtig drew a deep breath and felt his pounding heart lessen its heavy beat a fraction. It was plain he was not going to die, at least not yet, not so long as this mysterious cushion of air held. Thinking about that, he grew fearful again. How long would it hold?

  He wondered if he could aid himself in some way. This was almost like being in water. One swam in water. Would the same motions carry one here? Tentatively Furtig made a couple of arm sweeps and found himself closer to the wall of the shaft. He reached it just in time to see the outline of another door, and tried to catch at the thin edge around it with his claws. But those scraped free and he was passed before he could make any determined effort. Now he waited, alert to another such chance as he drifted down. Only to be disappointed.