by Larry Niven
“And hurry!”
The square was alive with people. Kinless stood in knots, watchfully eyeing the Lordkin, but speaking in agitated tones. When Sandry came near any of them, they cheered. Some were even cheering for the Lordkin Fire Brigade.
The fountain artisan was talking to Wanshig. “Your men, Lord Wanshig—” He glanced hastily at Sandry, who pretended he hadn’t heard. “They saved my boy—I saw them. That man waved his shirt when the beast was running toward the fountain. Ask anything. A new fountain for your meetinghouse? We will build it for you!”
Wanshig looked amused, but he nodded. “Thank you, Master Artisan. We accept.” He turned to acknowledge Sandry. “Lord Sandry.”
“Chief Wanshig. Your men have earned a bonus.”
“Lost four,” Wanshig said. “And two more will be out for months. Lord Sandry, what were those things? I never saw anything like them.”
“Me either,” Sandry said, but then he stopped. Actually, he thought, I have. Burning Tower was wearing a costume made out of feathers like those when she did her high-rope act. The wagon people must know what those things are.
Wagon train. There were seven more of those birds, and the wagon train was in danger. “What’s keeping those fresh horses?” Sandry shouted. “Peacevoice Fullerman, if you please….”
The road north to the border was strewn with bodies. The creatures had killed at least a dozen kinless. Further north a kinless woman hugged two children, while a teenage kinless laid a blanket over a body.
“Lordkin,” Chalker said. He pointed to the dead man.
“We’ll have to tell Chief Wanshig,” Sandry said.
“Not one of his,” Chalker said. “Flower Market, I’d say. What you think, Yiler?”
The borrowed spearman sucked his teeth. “Yeah, reckon so from the tattoos, but you don’t expect to see Flower Market Lordkin killed protecting kinless.”
“You reckon he was doing that?” Chalker asked.
“Had to. Why else would that kinless kid be covering him?”
“Is it unusual for Lordkin to protect kinless?” Sandry asked.
“Used to be you never saw that, but lately it happens in Serpent’s Walk,” Yiler said. “But Flower Market is different—”
“Trouble ahead, sir,” Chalker said.
A cluster of Lordkin surrounded a monster. One of its legs was gone at the knee, but the bird seemed able to stand and even to hop forward. Whenever it did, Lordkin would attack it from behind, rushing forward to chop at its remaining leg. Sandry didn’t recognize any of the Lordkin, but they seemed to have the situation in hand.
“That’s the missing two,” Chalker said.
“Two?”
“Yes, sir. One of them Lordkin was standing on a dead one.”
“Oh. All right—if Maydreo counted right, there’s five left.” And, he didn’t say, just us to deal with them. Peacevoice Fullerman would be marching up the road, but only about half of his troopers were effective. Two troopers dead, three wounded. “Let the Lordkin deal with that one, then. How many troops at the border station?” Sandry asked.
Chalker shouted through clenched teeth. It was hard to talk as the chariot jolted over the rutted road. “Standard group if they didn’t send for more when they heard a caravan was coming.”
“Would they?”
“Being it’s Feathersnake, probably not,” Chalker shouted.
Sandry nodded to himself. That made sense. The border post collected taxes, but it was a welcoming committee too, now that there was actually traffic on the old forest road. Before Yangin-Atep went mythical, the forest fought back against traffic, and the Toronexti who’d held the border station were Lordkin. Lordkin had been no more willing to work at keeping the road open than to work at anything else. There hadn’t been real traffic for generations. But the Toronexti were gone, and Master Peacevoice Waterman had become Bordermaster Waterman and would be learning his duties as he went along. Keep the roads open, keep the streams clean and fresh, store plenty of fodder for the beasts. Serve good meals, dishes they wouldn’t have found out on the Hemp Road. Don’t drive the caravans away—we need the business. Don’t gouge on taxes, make this a safe place to stop, and have lots of kinless ready to do any services needed at reasonable prices. Welcome to Tep’s Town and Lordshills.
Beyond the tollhouse was a long, narrow road winding north and west through the forest and out to the main north–south trade route. Sandry remembered that Burning Tower called it the Hemp Road. He could still hear her voice. But that wasn’t quite it. The section here was called the Hemp Road, but that was part of a greater road stretching far to the north and south, farther than Tower or any of the Bison clan had ever traveled.
The road connecting Tep’s Town to the Hemp Road was already known as the Greenway. Between the creepers and the muddy stream crossings nothing traveled fast on the Greenway. Nothing could sneak up on the border post, so there wasn’t any reason to keep a lot of expensive troopers out there. The whole Lordsmen army could come to the tollhouse at need. Otherwise, it was sufficient to have enough troops to keep order, a Younglord messenger, kinless stable hands, and some kinless foresters to keep the road clear of vines.
It had all made sense when his uncle explained it to him. But nobody expected monsters! Sandry’s whole heart wanted to ride like the wind. But racing ahead would mean getting there with tired horses, and those birds were fast. Sandry took a deep breath and tried to look calm, but he couldn’t get rid of the metallic taste of fear in his throat.
They rounded a bend in the road, and there was the border station, a brick two-story building with a rail fence corral and brick-walled courtyard, paved road for a couple of hundred feet on each side of the gate. It looked neat and clean, as it was supposed to, but there were signs of a fight: torn bloody clothing near the main entrance, a green-and-orange heap in the center of the courtyard. Dead bird, Sandry thought. Waterman got one.
Someone shouted, and a moment later Waterman came to the upper window opening. His head was bandaged and his left arm was in a sling. Bordermaster Waterman was a decade younger than Chalker, but just now he looked older. “Careful, my Lord Sandry,” Waterman shouted. “There’s a whole bunch of them things left!”
“How many did you kill?”
“One, sir, and the Feathersnake guards got one.”
“Three left, then,” Sandry said. “Assuming there were a dozen to start.”
“Hoo!” Waterman sounded impressed for the first time that Sandry could remember. “You killed seven of them things? Hoo-haw!”
“Not just me,” Sandry said. “The Lordkin got a couple, and I had Fullerman’s troops to help. Where are the monsters now?”
Waterman shrugged. “They was here a few minutes ago. They smell those horses, they’ll be back. Seems like they really have it in for horses.”
“Where’s the caravan?”
“Just ahead, sir, on the road up around the bend. You can’t miss it.”
“How many effectives do you have, Bordermaster?”
“Three, sir. And no more spears.”
Sandry nodded. First things first, then. He wheeled the chariot toward the dead bird. Two spears stuck out of it, and another lay on the ground nearby. Sandry gestured, and Yiler leaped down to gather the spears. As he did, the dead bird convulsed, and its beak fastened onto Yiler’s leg.
Chalker leaped down with a curse and ran a spear through the bird’s neck. The beak opened and the head flopped over. Yiler drew his sword and hacked at it again and again.
“You can stand on that; you ain’t too bad off,” Chalker said. “But I think we let him deliver them spears to the toll house, Lord Sandry. He’s bleeding.”
“Right.” Another lesson learned. Just because the birds looked long dead didn’t mean they were. Take Yiler and the spears back to the tollhouse. Stand ready while they open the barred door and let Yiler in. Do I want another spearman, one of Waterman’s people? Nobody seemed to be volunteering, and Sandry did
n’t know any of the troopers except Waterman. “Just you and me again, Chalker.”
Chalker grinned narrowly. “Yes, sir.”
They saw the birds before they rounded the bend. All three of them, running back and forth. Then the caravan became visible, a circle of wagons. Big rectangular wagons with high wooden sides and gray tentcloth roofs, drawn into a tight circle with little space between them. Men with slings stood on the wagon seats, and men and women with long spears crouched between the wagon wheels among sturdy wooden boxes that exactly fit the empty spaces. Inside the wagon circle was a circle of hairy beasts, shaggy with big horns. They stood in a solid ring, their horns out. Bison. Sandry had never seen one before the first Feathersnake caravan came to Tep’s Town. He still wasn’t sure he believed they were domesticated animals.
There were horses inside the bison circle. No, Sandry corrected himself, not horses. They’d be kinless ponies if they weren’t so big! And they had horns growing out of their foreheads. Boneheads, one-horns. Some of the seaman traders had stories about one-horns. Could they be true? Everyone said they were true.
“They see us!” Chalker shouted.
The birds were coming.
“It’s the horses,” Sandry said. “They want to kill the horses. Ruby! Steady there!” Ruby and Rose, two mares, not as fast as the stallion and gelding team he’d had in Peacegiven Square. “This is going to be tricky,” Sandry said. “Keep an eye out to the caravan. See if there’s going to be any help there.”
“Looks like they’ve got a gate and people ready to open it,” Chalker said. “We could run inside.”
“And be trapped like they are,” Sandry said. “Maybe when the horses tire. The birds have been running; they can’t be all that fresh—”
“They look fresh enough to me!”
They did. The birds were coming fast now. Sandry wheeled the horses. Lead them up the road, get them close to Waterman’s tollhouse. Lead them to the spears—
“They’ve opened that gate!” Chalker shouted. “Something’s coming out. Something, somebody.”
Sandry didn’t dare look. The road was none too straight, and the birds were getting closer, and the mares were terrified—
“It’s a girl, riding one of them boneheads,” Chalker shouted.
Now Sandry had to look behind. It was Tower, Burning Tower, long hair tied behind her, trousered legs astride a white stallion with a gleaming horn, her perfect feet bare and appealing as always. She was shouting in a language Sandry didn’t know.
And that got their attention! The birds wheeled, abandoning the chase to turn after Tower. Not too bright, easily distracted, Sandry thought. Remember that—they run for the nearest victim. And they were running after Burning Tower!
“Whoa! Turn! Gee! Gee!” Sandry shouted. He wheeled the horses to the right. “After ’em! Chalker!”
“Ready, My Lord!”
He pushed thoughts of the girl from his mind. Steady, Sandry thought. Steady. He pulled up close to a bird. It started to turn, and Chalker thrust the spear directly into its chest just where the neck came out. The bird leaped and Chalker let go.
“That’s one,” Chalker said with satisfaction.
The bird ran on, squawking horribly, blood gushing out around the spear. Chalker held on with one hand and worried a spear out of the spear pod with the other. “Ready, sir!” Chalker shouted.
Sandry stole a glance. Chalker might be ready, but he was tired, gray, breathing hard, and no wonder. I should have got another spearman from Waterman. I should have.
“Pull up on him,” Chalker said. “Little closer, sir—”
“Heay!” Sandry flicked the reins. “Go!”
A spurt of speed, and Chalker thrust at the bird. The spear went home, and the bird dropped, pulling Chalker out of the chariot and onto the ground. He made a loud thud! as he fell heavily to the ground beside his victim. The bird flopped around, spurred feet kicking, toothed beak opening and closing, and Sandry had to look to his driving.
The last bird was closing on Tower and her mount. She led it directly toward the wagons. At the last moment, she turned the pony and leaped from its back onto the wagons. The one-horn put on more speed…
And the bird crashed against a wagon. As it did, a dozen stones flew. Some hit it. A wagoneer, big, big as a Lordkin, leaped off the wagon. Another, smaller, jumped down waving a blanket. They spread out, taunting the bird. It turned toward the smaller one with the blanket.
Sandry urged the horses forward. They didn’t want to close with the bird. “Can’t blame you,” Sandry said through his teeth. “On! On, ladies!”
The wagoneer threw his blanket. It settled over the bird’s head. The big one—Green Stone, that was his name, Tower’s brother, Sandry remembered. Big, big as a Lordkin. And nearly as strong. He had a big knife, like the Lordkin knives but better made, sharp, and he swung it at the bird just as Sandry’s chariot reached the scene. Sandry hurled a short spear into the bird, but it wasn’t needed. It was down.
He looked back. Chalker was limping, but he was upright, and that bird wasn’t.
Down. All down.
And there was Burning Tower. Here. And she’d been riding a one-horn, and everyone knew what that meant. Sandry was ready to cheer.
Chapter Six
Twisted Cloud
“Welcome,” Green Stone said. “We have not set up facilities for receiving guests, but we freely share what we do have.”
It sounded like a formal speech. Was that because Green Stone was speaking in the Lordkin dialect of Tep’s Town? He’d have learned that from his father, but it could hardly be the language he used most. There’d be no need for that along the Hemp Road. But there was more to it than that. Someone had told Sandry that hospitality offered was a big deal to the wagon people.
“Come in, come in!” Burning Tower was jumping excitedly, chattering. “It’s good to see you! I told you we’d be back. Did you come to meet us? Did they tell you I was here?”
She was wearing a leather skirt over the leggings she’d worn when she rode. It was tattooed leather, painted over with suns and tents and wagons and exotic birds, all painted in colors, far too fine a garment to be worn fighting. Sandry was certain she couldn’t have been wearing that when he first saw her. Her long brown hair was flowing free now. Brown, but it flashed red in the sun when she turned. She’d had it in a queue when she was riding. She was wearing soft leather slippers, beaded with tiny shells, over her perfect feet.
“You are a gracious host, Wagonmaster,” Sandry said. “We will return your hospitality as soon as feasible, and all is ready for you at Peacegiven Square. Or—well, it’s not my place to invite you, but I’m sure that if you would care to bring your caravan farther toward the harbor, we can find accommodations nearer Lordshills. Tower, it is great to see you!” He knew he was grinning like a fool. “I was hoping you would come, we waited, but then we thought you would not be here this year, the caravan was late. And I didn’t know you were here, I learned that when I learned the monsters were attacking, then I came as quickly as I could, it is great to see you—”
Green Stone looked from Sandry to his sister and back again and sighed. “We were late because this is the fourth attack of terror birds we’ve had to fight off, Younglord Sandry.”
“Lord,” Chalker said carefully. “Your pardon, Wagonmaster. Lord Sandry has been made a Lord since you were here last. He is chief of the Fire Brigades.”
“Oh, good!” Burning Tower said. “Was it the battle with the Toronexti? You were wonderful then!”
“You were too,” Sandry said. She was glad to see him! Really! “You burning the old charter, that’s what won the war.”
“Are the terror birds all defeated?” Green Stone asked.
Sandry nodded. “As far as I know, there were twelve. Eleven are dead and one is in a cage. Do you think there were more?”
“No, that’s more than we counted,” Green Stone said. He ushered them toward a place in the shade, where carp
ets had been spread to sit on and a fire blazed in a big ceramic bowl. There was a tea kettle on the fire.
The wagoneers clustered around them. They all seemed young, older than Burning Tower but younger than her Wagonmaster brother. Most were dark and short, with a queue hanging down their backs, some to their waist. Sandry was average height for a Lord, but much taller than the wagoneers. Sandry had learned that most people outside the Valley of Smokes looked alike, like these who called themselves the Bison Tribe. There were other tribes, but there was no way to tell them apart except by paint and ornaments and feathers, which Sandry didn’t know how to read. But they were all one kind of people.
Then there were the others who were not. Green Stone, who was as big as any Lordkin but bore the ears of a kinless. Not surprising, given his ancestry, Lordkin father and kinless mother, no kin to the Bison Tribe people at all. But Burning Tower didn’t look much like her brother. She was much shorter and smaller, more kinless than Lordkin, but she could also pass for one of the Bison Tribe. Why not? Sandry thought. Bison Tribes and kinless had to be related, they were both here when the fair-skinned Lordkin giants came following a fire god and wandering southward seeking a land they had been promised but might never find. A land of perpetual green with no winter snow. A land where gathering was good and one never had to work.
Well, we found that for them, Sandry thought. And from the stories, it had been a good life: kinless did the work, Lordkin lived by gathering from kinless, and Lords governed. Lordkin were convinced the kinless wouldn’t work without the Lords, kinless convinced the Lordkin would slaughter them all if the Lords didn’t prevent it. And the funny part was that it was all true, Sandry thought. The Lordkin really would take everything if we didn’t stop them, and then the kinless would just stop making anything and everyone would starve.
“Old charter,” Green Stone said. “The one that gave the Toronexti rights to steal. Burning Tower set fire to it.”
