by Andre Norton
Fors touched the tip of his forefinger to his lips and then to the soil. But he did not fall to his knees in the finish of that ritual. He gave allegiance but he did not beg entrance to a clan. The woman nodded approvingly.
“You think straight thoughts, young man. In the name of the Silver Wings and of Those Who Once Flew, I accept your fighting faith until the hour when we mutually agree to go our ways. Now are you satisfied, Arskane?”
Her clansman hesitated before he answered. There was an odd soberness on his face as he regarded Fors. Plainly he was disappointed at the mountaineer’s refusal to ask for clan standing. But at last he said:
“I claim him as a member of my family clan, to fight under our banner and eat at our fire—”
“So be it.” She dismissed them both with a wave of her hand. Already she looked beyond them to Jarl and was summoning the Star Captain imperiously.
Arskane threaded through the camp, giving only hasty greetings to those who would have stopped him, until he came to a tent which had two carts for walls and a wide sweep of woolen stuff for a roof. Round shields of rough-scaled skin hung in a row on mounts by the entrance-four of them-and above these warrior shields the wind played with a small banner. For the second time Fors saw the pattern of the widespread wings, and below those a scarlet shooting star.
A small, grave-eyed girl glanced up as they came. With a little cry she dropped the pottery jar she had been holding and came running, to cling tightly to Arskane, her face hidden against his scarred body. He gave a choked laugh and swept her up high.
“This is the small-small one of our hearthside, my brother. She is named Rosann of the Bright Eyes. Ha, small one, bid welcome my brother—”
Shy dark eyes peered at Fors and then little hands swept back braids which would in a few years rival those of the woman chief and an imperious voice ordered Arskane to “put me down!” Once on her two feet again she came up to the mountaineer, her hands outstretched.
Half guessing the right response Fors held out his in turn and she laid small palms to press his large ones.
“To the fire on the hearth, to the roof against the night and storm, to the food and drink within this house, are you truly welcome, brother of my brother.” She said the last word in triumph at her perfect memory and smiled back at Arskane with no little pride.
“Well done, little sister. You are the proper lady of this clan house—”
“I accept of your welcome, Lady Rosann.” Fors showed more courtliness than had been in his manner when he had greeted the chieftainess.
“Now,” Arskane was frowning again, “I must go to my father, Fors. He is making the rounds of the outposts. If you will await us here—”
Rosann had kept hold of his hand and now she gave him the same wide smile with which she had favored her brother. “There are berries, brother of my brother, and the new cheese and corn cake fresh baked—”
“A feast—!” He met her smile.
“A true feast! Because Arskane has come back. Becie said that he would not and she cried—”
“Did she?” There was an unusual amount of interest in that comment from her tall brother. Then he was gone, striding away between the tent lines. Rosann nodded.
“Yes, Becie cried. But I did not. Because I knew that he would be back—”
“And why were you so sure?”
The hand rugged him closer to the shield stands. “Arskane is a great warrior. That—” a pink-brown finger touched the rim of the last shield in the row, “that is made from the skin of a thunder lizard and Arskane killed it all alone, just himself. Even my father allowed the legend singer to put together words for that at the next singing time-though he has many times said that the son of a chief must not be honored above other warriors. Arskane -he is very strong—”
And Fors, remembering the days just past, agreed. “He is strong and a mighty warrior and he has done other things your legend singer must weave words about.”
“You are not of our people. Your skin”—she compared his hand with hers—“it is light. And your hair-it is like Becie’s necklace when the sun shines upon it. You are not of us Dark People—”
Fors shook his head. In that company of warm brown skins and black hair his own lighter hide and silver head-capping must be doubly conspicuous.
“I come from the mountains-far to the east—” He waved a hand.
“Then you must be of the cat people!”
Fors’ gaze followed her pointing finger. Nag and Lura sat together at a good distance from the sheep and the tough little ponies as they had apparently been ordered to do. But, at Fors’ welcoming thought, Lura came up, leaving Nag behind. Rosann laughed with pure delight and threw her arms around the cat’s neck, hugging her tight. The rumble of Lura’s purr was her answer and a rough pink tongue caressed her wrist.
“Do all you people of the mountains have the big cats for your own friends?”
“Not all. The cat ones are not so many and it is for them to choose with whom they will hunt. This is Lura who is my good friend and roving companion. And that yonder is Nag who runs with the Star Captain.”
“I know-the Star Captain Jarl, he who has the kind eyes. He talks in the night with my father.”
“Kind eyes.” Fors was a little startled at a description so at variance with what he thought he knew. Though Rosann probably did not see Jarl as he appeared to a mutant and tribal outlaw.
Smoke was rising from the line of fires and borne with it was the fragrance of cooking. Fors could not repress a single sniff.
“You are hungry, brother of my brother!”
“Maybe-just a little—”
Rosann flushed. “I am sorry. Again have I let my tongue run and not remembered the Three Duties. Truly am I shamed—”
Her fingers tightened on his and she pulled him under the entrance flap of the tent.
“Down!”
Fors’ heels struck against a pile of thick mats and he obediently folded up his long legs and sat. Lura collapsed beside him as Rosann bustled about. Before Fors could even make out the patterns of the hangings on the walls Rosann returned, carrying before her a wide metal basin of water from which rose steam and the spicy scent of herbs. A towel of coarse stuff lay over her arm and she held it ready as Fors washed.
Then came a tray with a spoon and bowl and a small cup of the same bitter drink he had brewed under Arskane’s direction in the museum. The corn mush had been cooked with bits of rich meat and the stimulating drink was comforting in his middle.
He must have dozed off afterward because when he roused it was night outside and the crimson flames of the fire and the lesser beams of a lamp fought against the shadows. A hand placed on his forehead had brought him awake. Arskane knelt beside him and there were two others beyond. Fors levered himself up.
“What—” He was still half asleep.
“My father wishes to speak with you—”
Fors gathered his wits. One of the men facing him now was a slightly older edition of his friend. But the other wore about his throat a pair of silver wings fastened to a chain of the same stuff.
The chieftain was smaller than his sons and his dark skin was seamed and cracked by torrid winds and blistering suns. Across his chin was the ragged scar of an old and badly healed wound. Now and again he rubbed at this with a forefinger as if it still troubled him.
“You are Fors of the mountain clans?”
Fors hesitated. “I was of those clans. But now I am outlaw—”
“The Lady Nephata gave him earth—”
Arskane was both interrupted and effectively silenced by a single sharp look from his father.
“My son has told us something of your wanderings. But I would hear more of this Plainsmen encampment and what chanced with you there—”
For the second time Fors repeated his outline of recent events. When he had finished the Chief favored him with the same sort of intimidating glare which had worked on his son a few minutes before. But Fors met it f
orthrightly.
“You, Ranee,” the Chief turned to the young man with him, “will alert the scouts against this trouble and make the rounds of the western outposts every hour. If an attack offers, the two beacons on the round hills must be fired. That you must keep ever in the minds of the men—”
“You see, rover”—the Chief spoke over his shoulder, addressing a shadow near the door, and for the first time Fors noted a fourth man there—“we do not go to war as to a banquet-as these Plainsmen seem to do. But if it be necessary then we can fight! We who have faced the wrath of the thunder lizards and taken their hides to make our shields of ceremony—”
“Do not greatly fear the lances of mere men.” The Star Captain appeared faintly amused. “Perhaps you are right, Lanard. But do not forget that the Beast Things are also abroad and they are less than men-or more!”
“Since I have ordered the war drums for more than the lifetime of this my youngest son, I do not forget one danger when faced by another, stranger!”
“Your pardon, Lanard. Only a fool tries to teach the otter to swim. Let war be left to the warriors—”
“Warriors who have sat too long at their ease!” snapped the chieftain. “To your posts, all of you!”
Arskane and his brother went, the chieftain stamping out impatiently after them. Fors started to follow.
“Wait!”
There was the crack of a whip in that one word. Fors stiffened. Jarl had no power of command over him-not even the faintest shadow of power if he was an outlaw. But he dropped his hand on Lura’s head and waited.
“These people,” Jarl continued with the same harsh abruptness, “may be broken between two enemies. It is not in their nature to back trail and in their own country there has been nothing they could not vanquish. Now they have come into this new land and fight on strange territory against those who are familiar with it. They face worse than they can imagine-but if that truth is told them they will not believe it.”
Fors made no comment and after a moment the Star Captain went on:
“Langdon was my good friend always, but there was a streak of rashness in him and he did not always see the road ahead with clear eyes—”
At this criticism of his father Fors stirred but he did not speak.
“You have already, youth that you are, broken the clan laws-going your own way in pride and stubbornness—”
“I ask for nothing of the Eyrie’s giving!”
“That is as it may be. I have twice heard your tale-you have a liking for this Arskane, I think. And you have eyes and a talent for getting under the skin of a man. This Marphy is one whom we might well remember. But Cantrul is a fighting man and of a different breed. Give him something to fight and he may be more open to other thoughts when the victory lies behind him. Very well, it is up to us to give him something to fight-something other than this tribe!”
“What—?” Fors brought only the one word out of his vast amazement.
“Beast Things. A well-baited trail could lead them north to the Plains camp.”
Fors began to guess what was coming. He swallowed, his mouth and throat suddenly dry. To be bait for the Beast Things, to run north a pace or two before the most hideous death he knew-
“Such a task could be only ours alone—”
“You mean-not tell Lanard?”
“It would be best not. The plan would have no merit in their eyes now. You-you are an outlaw-a stranger who might well have little stomach for a fight not his. If you were to desert this camp, run away—”
Fors’ nails bit into the palms of his balled fists. To appear a skin-saving coward in Arskane’s eyes-just because Jarl had dreamed up so wild a plan-And yet part of him acknowledged the point of the Star Captain’s reasoning.
“If the Plainsmen and this tribe fight-then it may well follow that the Beast Things shall finish off both of them.” “You do not have to point it out to me as one and one are two,” Fors spat out. Somewhere a childish voice was humming. And the brother of that child had brought him whole out of the valley of the lizards.
“When do I march?” he asked the Star Captain, hating him and every word he himself spoke.
16. THE HUNTED AND THE HUNTERS
Again Fors was grateful for the mutation which had given him the keenness of his night sight. For almost an hour he had been wriggling down an ancient roadside ditch as a hanger-on of the small party of dark-skinned warriors whom Arskane now led. The broken surface of the nearby road was steel bright in the beams of the full moon, but he was sure that only he could see clearly what passed in the shadows beyond.
He was glad for the weight of bow and quiver across his shoulders-although the bow was the short, double-stringed weapon of the southerners and not the long one he was accustomed to. However, one sword was much like another and the new one at his belt already fitted his hand as if it had been forged to rest therein.
If it had not been for JarFs plan he could have been really happy in that hour. To follow Arskane as one of his own tribe-to be accepted without question by those around him-But he was now pledged to put an end to that by his own actions-as soon as the time was right. Jarl was scouting to the west, the same compulsion driving him. They might be able to rendezvous after their break away from the tribe or they might never see each other again. Fors sent a silent call to Lura. If they did strike out into the wilderness tonight he would have to depend upon her wits and instinct-even more than upon his own.
The old road curved around the base of a rise. Fors stopped-had he really seen a flicker of movement in a bush halfway up that hill? His hand fell on the ankle of the man before him and he pressed hard, knowing that that signal would be as swiftly passed down the line.
That flash of cream white, that must be Lura crossing the road and heading up. But what he had caught only the faintest glimpse of had been far above that. Lura should rout it cut-There was a sudden scurry on the slope and Fors saw the outline of a crouching body. The sharp line of the thing’s shoulders was only too familiar. “Beast Thing!”
Lura’s scream tore through the air drowning out the warning he shouted. The bushes threshed wildly at her attack. But she had had her instructions, not to kill now -only to harry and drive. The black thing snapped up out of hiding, arms flailing as the men around Fors went to their knees, arrows ready on strings. A cloud of feathered shafts flew. Most, Fors guessed, had fallen woefully short. Shooting up slope was always a tricky business.
The Beast Thing scuttled away over the crown of the hill at a desperate speed. And it was gone before other arrows could follow the first volley. Arskane edged along the line of disappointed archers to join Fors.
“Was that a scout?” he asked.
“Could be. They have always hunted in packs before. If it was a scout, it will now report.”
Arskane chewed the tip of his thumb thoughtfully. Fors knew the worries which plagued him now. Ambush-that was the worst fear. They knew so little of the tactics of the Beast Things-but lying in wait in the dark seemed to fit the nature of the foul creatures best. In the ruined cities they had always fought from cover when they could.
In the end Arskane did as Fors thought he would, gave the signal to push on until they reached the boundaries of their beat, one of the hills where the beacon had been heaped some days before. So they crawled on. Lura flanking the line of march. And they reached the beacon hill without interference. Once there, Arskane formally relieved the guard on duty.
The hour was close to dawn. A thin gray light gave ordinary trees and bushes a queer new life as if they were now cut off from the real world by some flimsy barrier. The beacon keepers had torn out or hacked away most of the brush and saplings, so that the crown of the hill was bare and one could see for a good range on all sides.
Fors located the camp by the river first and then set about noting other landmarks which might help him keep the proper course if he decided to make the break north soon. The men whom they had relieved were marching in fairly good order down
the hill, ready to drop into the protection of the road ditch, when the last one in that line threw up his arms with a startled jerk and fell without a sound. The man nearest him spun around just in time to see him fall and started back to his aid, only to choke and go to his knees tearing at the dart quivering in his own throat.
They broke and ran back. But before they could reach the miserable shelter afforded by the beacon, two more died, Beast Thing steel in their contorted bodies. Only one lived to break through to the men above.
And they, arrows ready, stood cursing, unable to shoot at a foe which would not show itself.
Lura bounded out of cover below. She crowded up to Fors, her blue eyes wide. Once getting his attention her head swung meaningly from side to side. So, they were surrounded! Maybe it was already too late to play the game Jarl had set him. But even as that hope leaped he knew that he would have no escape-that this was just the right sort of background for his break through-that this would truly bring the Beast Things out on any trail he laid for them. He must openly desert Arskane-perhaps even to the southerner’s death!
“We are surrounded.” Tonelessly he passed on Lura’s report.
Arskane nodded. “That I thought when she came to us. Well, now we may be forced to the waiting game.” He turned to the men around him. “Down on your bellies! Crawl to the brush. We are clear targets to them now.”
But before those orders were out of his mouth, the man beside him gave a gasping cry and held out his arm, a dart embedded in its flesh. As one man they moved into what cover they could find, Arskane pulling the wounded tribesman with him. But the cover of the beacon was a sorry shield.
The worst was not being able to sight the enemy. If they had been able to fight back it would not have been such a strain on the nerves. Picked and seasoned warriors knew better than to waste arrows or empty tree glades where nothing moved. It would be a battle in which patience would mean the most.
