The Iron Breed
Page 25
A sound from above! The faint squeal echoed in the shaft. Rattons up there! Probably at the door he had forced open. Would they take to the air after him? Furtig flexed his fingers within the fastening of the claws. He had no liking for the prospect of fighting in mid-air. But if he had no choice he had better be prepared.
However, it seemed that those above were not ready to make such a drastic pursuit. Perhaps if they could not sight him they would believe that he had plunged to death. Unless they, living in the lairs, knew the odd properties of the shaft. If so, would they ambush him on landing?
Alarmed at the thought, Furtig kicked out and thrust closer to the wall, searching as he drifted down for any signs of an anchorage he could use. But he must have waited too long. The walls here were uniformly smooth. And, though he drew the claws despairingly along, hoping to hook in some hole, he heard only the rasping scrape of those weapons, found nothing in which they could root.
He could not judge distance, and time seemed strange too. How long, how far, had he fallen? He had entered the lair at ground level, but this descent must be carrying him far under the surface of the earth. Though he knew security in caves which reached underground, yet this was something else, and the fear of the unknown was in him.
He was falling faster now! Had that cushion of air begun to fail? Furtig had only time to ready himself for what might be a hard landing before he did land, on a padded surface.
The dark was thick; even his night sight could not serve him. But he could look up the shaft and see the lighter grayish haze of what lay beyond the door he had forced.
Furtig tested the air for Ratton stench but was only a fraction relieved at its absence. There were other smells here, but none he could identify.
After a moment he straightened from the instinctive crouch into which he had gone and began to feel his way around the area. Three sides, the scrape of his claws told him, were walls.
His whiskers, abristle on his upper lip, fanned out above his eyes, gave him an additional report on space as they were intended to. The fourth wall was an opening like the mouth of a tunnel. But Furtig, remembering his error at the door above, made no quick effort to try it.
When he did advance, it was on all fours, testing each step with a wide swing of hand ahead, listening for the sound of the metal claw tips to reassure him about the footing.
So he crept on. The tunnel, or hall, appeared to run straight ahead, and was the width of the shaft. So far he had located no breaks in its walls, at least at the level of his going. Now he began, every five paces, to rise and probe to the extent of his full reach for any openings that might be above.
However, he could find none, and his blind progress continued. He began to wonder if he were as well trapped by his own recklessness as the Rattons could have trapped him by malicious purpose. Could he somehow climb up the shaft if he found this a dead-end way?
Then his outthrust hand bumped painfully against a solid surface. At the same time there was a lightening of the complete dark to his right, and a sharply angled turn in the hall led him toward it.
Furtig's head came up, he drew a deep breath, testing that faint scent. Ratton—yes—but with it a more familiar, better smell, which could only come from one of his own people! But the People and the Rattons—he could not believe any such combination could be a peaceful one. Could Gammage have carried his madness so far as to deal with Rattons?
The Ratton smell brought an almost noiseless growl deep in his throat. But the smell of his own kind grew stronger, and he was drawn to it almost in spite of himself.
Furtig discovered the source of the light now, a slit set high in the wall, but not so high that he could not leap and hook claws there, managing to draw himself up, despite the strain on his forearms, to look through.
All that short glimpse afforded him was the sight of another wall. He must somehow find the means of remaining longer at the slit. Whatever was there must lie below eye level, and the odor of the People was strong.
Furtig had his belt. Slowly he pulled the bone pin which held it about him, unhooked the pouches of supplies, and laid the belt full length on the floor. He shed the claws and clumsily, using his teeth as well as his stubby fingers, made each end of the belt fast to the claws, testing that fastening with sharp jerks.
Then he looped the belt around him, slipped the claws on lightly, and leaped once more for the slit. The claws caught. He jerked his hands free, and the belt supported him, his powerful hind legs pressed against the wall to steady him.
He could look down into the chamber. His people—yes—two of them. But the same glimpse which identified them showed Furtig they were prisoners. One was stretched in tight bonds, hands and feet tied. The other had only his hands so fastened; one leg showed an ugly wound, blood matted black in the fur.
Furtig strained to hold his position, eager to see. The bound one—he was unlike any of the People Furtig knew. His color was a tawny sand shade on his body; the rest of him, head, legs, tail, was a deep brown. His face thinned to a sharply pointed chin and his eyes were bright blue.
His fellow prisoner, in contrast to the striking color combination of the blue-eyed one, was plain gray, bearing the black stripes of the most common hue among the People. But—Furtig suppressed a small cry.
Foskatt! He was as certain as he was of his own name and person that the wounded one was Foskatt, who had gone seeking Gammage and never returned.
And if they were prisoners in a place where there was so strong a stench of Ratton, he could well guess who their captors were. If he had seen only the stranger he would not have cared. One had a duty to the caves and then to the tribe, but a stranger must take his own chances. Though Furtig hesitated over that reasoning—he did not like to think of any of the People, stranger or no, in the hands of the Rattons.
But Foskatt had to be considered. Furtig knew only too well the eventual fate of any Ratton captive. He would provide food for as many of his captors as could snatch a mouthful.
Furtig could hold his position no longer. But he took the chance of uttering the low alerting hiss of the caves. Twice he voiced that, clinging to the claw-belt support.
When he hissed the second time, Foskatt's head turned slowly, as if that effort was almost too much. Then his yellow eyes opened to their widest extent, centered on the slit where Furtig fought to keep his grip. For the first time Furtig realized that the other probably could not see him through the opening. So he called softly: “Foskatt—this is Furtig.”
He could no longer hold on but slid back into the tunnel, his body aching with the effort which had kept him at that peephole. He took deep breaths, fighting to slow the beating of his heart, while he rubbed his arms, his legs.
His tail twitched with relief as a very faint hiss came in answer. That heartened him to another effort to reach the slit. He knew he could not remain there long, and perhaps not reach it at all a third time. If Foskatt were only strong enough to—to what? Furtig saw no way of getting his tribesman through that hole. But perhaps the other could supply knowledge which would lead Furtig to a better exit.
“Foskatt!” It was hard not to gasp with effort. “How may I free you?”
“The caller of Gammage—” Foskatt's voice was weak. He lay without raising his head. “The guard-has-taken-it. They-wait-for-their-Elders—”
Furtig slipped down, knew he could not reach the slit again. He leaned against the wall to consider what he had heard. The caller of Gammage—and the Ratton guard had it—whatever a caller might be. The guard could only be outside the door of that cell.
He picked up his belt, unfastening the claws. Now—if he could find a way out of this tunnel to that door. It remained so slim a chance that he dared not pin any hopes on it.
He stalked farther along the dark way. Again a thin lacing of light led him to a grill. But this one was set at an easier height, so he need not climb to it. He looked through into a much larger chamber, which was lighted by several glowing rods set in
the ceiling.
To his right was a door, and before it Rattons! The first live ones he had ever seen so close.
They were little more than half his size if one did not reckon in the length of their repulsive tails. One of them had, indeed, a tail which was only a scarred stump. He also had a great scar across his face which had permanently closed one eye. He leaned against the door gnawing at something he held in one paw-hand.
His fellow was more intent on an object he held, a band of shining metal on which was a cube of glittering stuff. He shook the band, held the cube to one ear. Even across the space between them Furtig caught the faint buzzing sound which issued from that cube. And he guessed that this must be Gammage's caller—though how it might help to free Foskatt he had no idea. Except he knew that the Ancestor had mastered so much of Demon knowledge in the past that this device might just be as forceful in some strange way as the claws were in ripping out a Ratton throat.
Furtig crowded against the grill, striving to see how it was held in place, running his fingers across it with care so as not to ring his weapon tips against it. He could not work it too openly with Rattons on guard to hear—or scent—him.
The grill was covered with a coarse mesh. He twisted at it now with the claw tips, and it bent when he applied pressure. So far this was promising. Now Furtig made the small chirruping sound with which a hunter summons a mouse, waiting tensely and with hope.
Three times he chirruped. There was a shadow rising at the screen. Furtig struck. Claws broke through the mesh, caught deep in flesh and bone. There was a muffled squeak. With his other hand Furtig tore furiously at the remaining mesh, cleared an opening, and wriggled through, hurling the dead Ratton from him.
On the floor lay the caller. The scarred guard had fled. Furtig could hear his wild squealing, doubtless sounding the alarm. It had been a tight fit, that push through the torn mesh, and his skin had smarting scratches. But he had made it, and now he caught up the caller.
He almost dropped it again, for the band felt warm, not cold as metal should. And the buzzing was louder. How long did he have before that fleeing guard returned with reinforcements?
Furtig, the caller against his chest, kicked aside the bars sealing the door and rushed in. He reached Foskatt, hooked a claw in the other's bonds to cut them. But seeing the extent of his tribesman's wounds, he feared the future. It was plain that with that injury Foskatt could not walk far.
“The caller—give it to me—” Foskatt stared at the thing Furtig held. But when he tried to lift a hand it moved like a half-dead thing, not answering his will, and he gave an impatient cry.
“Touch it,” he ordered. “There is a small hole on the side, put your finger into that!”
“We must get away—there is no time,” Furtig protested.
“Touch it!” Foskatt said louder. “It will get us out of here.”
“The warrior is mad,” growled the other prisoner. “He talks of a thing coming through the walls to save him. You waste your time with him!”
“Touch it!”
Foskatt made no sense, yet Furtig found himself turning the caller over to find the hole. It was there, but when he tried to insert a finger, he discovered that his digit was far too thick to enter. He was about to try the tip of a claw when Foskatt batted clumsily at his arm, those deep ridges in his flesh, cut by the bonds, bleeding now.
“No—don't use metal! Hold it closer—hold it for me!”
Furtig went to his knees as Foskatt struggled up. Foskatt bent forward, opened his mouth, and put forth his tongue, aiming its tip for the hole in the cube.
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Foskatt's head jerked as if that touch was painful, but he persisted, holding his tongue with an effort which was manifest throughout his body. At last, it seemed, he could continue no longer. His head fell back, and he rested his limp weight against Furtig's shoulder, his eyes closed.
“You have wasted time,” snarled the other prisoner. “Do you leave us now to be meat, or do you give me a fighting chance?” There was no note of pleading in his voice. Furtig had not expected any; it was not in their breed to beg from a stranger. But he settled Foskatt back, the caller beside him, and went to cut the other's bonds.
When those were broken, he returned to Foskatt. The stranger had been right. There was no chance of escape through these burrows, which the Rattons knew much better than he. He had wasted time. Yet Foskatt's urgency had acted on him strongly.
The stranger whipped to the door. Even as he reached it, Furtig could hear the squealing clamor of gathering Rattons. He had failed. The only result of his attempt at rescue was that he had joined the other two in captivity. But he had his claws at least, and the Ratton forces would pay dearly for their food when they came at him.
“Fool,” hissed the stranger, showing his fangs. “There is no way out now!”
Foskatt stirred. “The rumbler will come—”
His mutter, low as it was, reached the stranger, and his snarl became a growl, aimed at them both.
“Rumbler! He has blatted of none else! But his wits are wrong. There is no—”
What he would have added was forgotten as he suddenly whirled and crouched before the door, his bare hands raised. However, for some reason, the Rattons did not rush the prisoners at once, as Furtig had expected. Perhaps they were trying to work out some method whereby they could subdue their captives without undue loss on their part. If they knew the People at all, they must also realize that the Rattons on the first wave in would die.
Furtig listened, trying to gauge from sounds what they were doing. He did not know what weapons the Rattons had besides those nature had given them. But since they frequented the lairs, they might have been as lucky as Gammage in discovering Demon secrets. Foskatt pushed at the floor, tried to raise himself. Furtig went to his aid.
“Be ready,” his tribesman said. “The rumbler—when it comes—we must be ready—”
His certainty that something was coming almost convinced Furtig that the other knew what he was talking about. But how that action of tongue to cube could bring anything—
The stranger was busy at the door. He had pulled some litter together, was striving to force into place rusty metal rods as a bar lock. Even if that worked, it could not save them for long, but any action helped. Furtig went to aid him.
“This should slow them—a little—” the stranger said as they finished as well as they could. He turned then and padded across the room to stand beneath the wall grill high overhead. “Where does that lead? You were behind it when you signaled—”
“There is a tunnel there. But the opening is too narrow.”
The stranger had kept one of the pieces of metal, too short to be a part of their barrier. Now he struck that against the wall in a rasping blow. It did not leave more than a streak of rust to mark its passage. There was no beating their way through that wall.
He strode back and forth across the cell, his tail lashing, uttering small growls, which now and then approached the fury of battle yowls. Furtig knew the same fear of being trapped. He flexed his fingers, tested the strength of his claw fastenings. In his throat rumbled an answering growl. Then the stranger came to a halt before him, those blue eyes upon Furtig's weapons.
“Be ready to cut the net with those.” His words had the force of an order.
“The net?”
“They toss nets to entangle one from a distance. That was how they brought me down. They must have taken your comrade in the same fashion. He was already here when they dragged me in. It is only because they were awaiting their Elders that they did not kill us at once. They spoke among themselves much, but who can understand their vile chittering? One or two made signs—there was something they wished to learn. And their suggestion”—the hair on his tail was bushed now—“was that they would have a painful way of asking. Die in battle when they come, warrior, or face what is worse.”
The Rattons were trying to force the door now. How long would the barrier hold?
“It comes! Gammage is right! The rumblers will serve us! Stand ready—”
Then Furtig caught it also, a vibration creeping through the stone flooring, echoing dully from the walls about them. It was unlike anything he had experienced before, though it carried some tones of storm thunder. It grew louder, outside the door, and once more the enemy squealed in ragged chorus.
“Stand back—away—” Foskatt's husky whisper barely reached Furtig. The stranger could not have heard it, but, so warned, Furtig sprang, grasped the other's arm, and pulled him to one side. The stranger rounded on him with a cry of rage, until he saw Foskatt's warning gesture.
As if some supreme effort supplied strength, Foskatt was sitting up, the caller now at his mouth, his tongue ready, extended as if he awaited some signal.
Then—there was a squealing from the Rattons which became a hysterical screeching. These were not battle cries but rather a response to fear, to a terrible, overpowering fear.
Something struck against the wall with a force that certainly the Rattons could not exert. Thudding blows followed, so close on one another that the noise became continuous. The door broke, pushed in, but that was not all. Around its frame ran cracks in the wall itself; small chunks flaked off.
Together Furtig and the stranger backed away. No Ratton had sprung through the opening. The prisoners could see only a solid, dark surface there, as if another wall had been erected beyond. Still those ponderous blows fell, more of the wall broke away.
Yet Foskatt, showing no signs of fear, watched this as if it were what he expected. Then he spoke, raising his voice so they could hear over the sounds of that pounding.