by Larry Niven
There was another reason to learn quickly. Whenever anyone looked far ahead on the road, they’d see the gaudy bird.
“Rooster,” Clever Squirrel said. “And I’m sure it’s just one.”
“Sure. Why are you sure?” Sandry asked.
“Coyote thinks it’s just one,” Squirrel said.
“Ah. This is his territory, then?”
She shrugged. “Not really. He comes to me seldom. There are other gods here also. Many gods claim this territory, and there will be more as we come closer to the Island City of Aztlan. Sandry, there’s so much power there! Each night I dream of it, a small island that burns bright with manna. Gold, and jewels, food and power, everything you could ever want.” She grinned. “That’s what I see in my dreams. When I wake up, we’re still here.” She indicated the rolling hills covered with sagebrush and grass stretching endlessly in all directions.
At dawn and dusk, they could see jagged shapes in the rising and setting sun, and sometimes they passed great buttes and mesas, but mostly the road led gently uphill through nearly level rocky ground covered with scrub and grass, dotted here and there with springs and small streams that never ran more than a league before vanishing into the rocks at the bottom of the stream bed.
Every evening Sandry held drills. Crescent City armor wasn’t very good, but they did have stout shields. Armor was more useful against humans than birds anyway.
Sandry taught them to use shields and stabbing spears together, to stand close together and march with shields held in covering position and stabbing spears thrust forward, throwing spears held in place against the shield. Then they would halt and lean the thrusting spears against the shields as they prepared to use throwing spears.
Arshur taught them to use the atlatl, and Sandry took his place in the ranks for the lesson, motioning Younglord Whane to join him. The atlatl was new to them, but Sandry could see its value, something to teach the Lordsmen guards when he got back home. He was startled to see Regapisk take a place beside him as Arshur began his demonstration.
At first it was awkward to juggle thrusting spear, several throwing spears, shield, and atlatl without dropping one. They learned to stand the thrusting spear and spare throwing spears against their bodies, then bring the shield in to keep them from falling down. Then they would use both hands to load a throwing spear into the atlatl, and be ready to throw and reload.
Sandry analyzed each motion, having them do everything in slow motion until they had it right, then slowly speeding up the pace, making sure that everyone was keeping up. In three weeks they looked good, not as good as Lordsmen under a trained Peacevoice, but better than they’d ever expected to be, and proud of using a weapon of their ancestors, one that was new to this stranger officer from Lordshills.
And among the best was Regapisk. Reggy’s overmuscled arms became supple enough for smooth throwing motions, and now they added strength.
“He’s graceful,” Burning Tower said as she watched Regapisk at atlatl practice. “I think he’s as good with that as you are.”
“Better,” Sandry conceded, and wondered if Reggy could use a bow now that his arms were so strong. He could sure throw a spear…. “Not that either one of us will be doing a lot of atlatl throwing. Comes to a fight, we’re more valuable mounted up. But yes, Reggy’s pretty good with an atlatl. Come to that, so are you.”
She grinned. “Surprised?”
“Yes, actually. I never knew any girls who could use weapons.”
“Ever see anyone teach them how?”
“No.”
She grinned again.
The road continued northeast, climbing steadily out of the Crescent City valley. Two weeks out, the climb became noticeably steeper, and a week later they reached a high plain. Everywhere along the road there were ruins, the remains of villages and campsites. In the Crescent City valley, the villages had been built of logs, but now they mostly saw rectangular houses of woven brush covered with mud. A few were stone, with flat roofs. Most had been damaged or destroyed, but nearly all had all four walls.
“Not alive, like hogans,” Sandry observed.
Clever Squirrel agreed. “These are not the same people. But I don’t know who they are.”
Survivors who had crept back and lived in fear of the birds occupied a few of the village sites. They spoke little. None had seen any birds for weeks now, and they were slowly rebuilding, but warily, ready to run again, and no one had any food for sale.
As if in compensation, there was good hunting along the road. The grass had grown high enough that their animals could graze with little effort, and not far from the road were rabbits and quail. Springs were frequent. Day followed day.
It was the twenty-eighth day. They camped near a village of ruins where a dozen men and women struggled to survive. They needed tools, and Ern gave them some, although the villagers had nothing to trade. “On account,” Ern said. “You can pay when we come back through.”
That night at camp, Ern reminisced about previous travels on this road. “A village every two days, three days at most between them. Hot food. Fodder and forage all gathered and ready for sale, and good prices, because if anyone charged too much, another village would open close by. And it was all peaceful and orderly, patrolled by soldiers.” He shook his head sadly.
Sandry said, “I hear a lot about the Emperor, but he sure hasn’t been able to protect these people.”
“We are not in his lands yet,” Ern said. “Not in the lands he rules directly.”
“When will that be?”
“Ten days,” Ern said. “Understand, the Emperor takes tribute here, and in Crescent City as well. There we have our mayor, and our tribute to the Emperor is light, but tribute there will be. Here there is a king who pays tribute. The king’s soldiers kept order.” Ern shrugged. “Now we see no signs of soldiers or king.”
“And none of the Emperor,” Sandry reminded him.
“No, and I do not know why. Surely he has noticed that all trade to Crescent City has ceased.”
“And that he’s not getting any tribute,” Clever Squirrel observed.
“Surely he knows that!” Sandry said. “Why hasn’t the Emperor sent his army to look into the matter?”
Ern shrugged. “No one knows the ways of the Emperor. He does as he wills. Who can question him?”
On the thirty-fifth day, Ern pointed to the horizon. “That large rock, red like blood,” he said.
Sandry frowned at the distant object, staring until his mind realized how far away it was. It was big, and flat on top.
“There will be a village and factory at its base. The Emperor’s lands begin there,” Ern said. “He will have soldiers there, and his people maintain the roads. From there to Aztlan, the wagons should be safe enough. I confess that I am relieved that we have not had to fight terror birds.”
“They were all at Crescent City,” one of the wagoneers said. “None left to devil us here.”
“More than enough,” another said. There were mutters of agreement.
“We’re not there yet,” Sandry said.
“Four days,” Ern said. “Perhaps five.”
Clever Squirrel and Fur Slipper sat together, their eyes closed. They sipped strong hemp tea, and rocked back and forth in time to a wordless song. The whole wagon camp fell silent as everyone watched. Presently Fur Slipper opened her eyes. When she did, Clever Squirrel awoke with a start. She stared around without understanding, then saw Burning Tower.
“Ugh. That was vivid,” Squirrel said.
“Did you share a dream?” Tower asked.
“Yes. A strong one. Lord Sandry!” Squirrel called.
“Right here, Wise One.”
“There are bandits near,” Squirrel said. “I recognized them in my dream, but now I don’t know who they are.”
“The survivors of Dust Devil village,” Fur Slipper said. “They had a caravan stop a day’s travel ahead. Then the birds came.”
“Refugees from the birds,”
Sandry said. “The birds attacked them and took their living, so they turned bandit?”
“Worse,” Clever Squirrel said. “The birds attacked them, yes, and killed some, but then…” She shuddered.
“I can’t tell. They may have joined with the birds,” Fur Slipper said. “Their village remains. Perhaps they will invite us in for the night, but then they will summon the birds.”
Sandry digested this information and frowned. “Doesn’t every wagon train have a shaman?” he asked. “How would they expect to befool anyone?”
“Perhaps not,” Fur Slipper said. “I would not have seen this vision.”
“And I would not have known its meaning, I think,” Squirrel said.
“Coyote’s daughter,” someone muttered.
“No, Coyote is far away,” Squirrel said. “This is not his land. This land belongs to the birds. I think it has always belonged to their god. This was my vision. Coyote is not here.”
“We heard coyotes last night,” Sandry said. “And I saw three of them today. There are coyotes all around us.”
Squirrel said, “But coyotes are not Coyote. Coyote lives in the spirit world, and here the spirit world belongs to other gods. Coyote has a place here, but it is not so grand.”
“I don’t think I understand,” Sandry said.
Fur Slipper smiled thinly. “I would not expect you to understand,” she said. “But know this: Clever Squirrel and I have shared a vision. There is danger beyond the next ridge at the stream crossing. There will be a village there, and they will smile and smile. And then the birds will come upon us.”
“Did you see them do that? See them bring the birds?” Squirrel asked.
“Plainly.”
“But I did not. In my dream, bandits crept on us at night to cut our throats in our sleep. There were no birds.”
“So this vision wasn’t shared,” Burning Tower said. “Not really.” But she said it in a whisper so that only Sandry heard her.
“Ah, but I saw birds, and people bringing them. Headdresses with feathers. Men carrying talismans.” Fur Slipper signaled for her cup to be filled with water, and drank heartily. “Dreaming is thirsty work. Daughter of Coyote, I saw a little of that dream. You saw more than I. But I saw other wagon trains, and there were birds enough.”
“Have you seen what will be?” Sandry demanded. “How can it be, since we certainly will not sleep in that village?”
“Dreams are but dreams,” Fur Slipper said impatiently.
“So is it certain that Dust Devil has made common cause with the birds?” Ern demanded. “They have been at the crossing as long as I remember. They are said to have power over the wind. Perhaps the rain as well.”
“They served good stew,” one of the drivers said. “Lots of plants in it. Hate to miss that stew.”
Fur Slipper asked, “Would you ignore our warning?”
“We know well enough how to deal with bandits on the Hemp Road,” Burning Tower said impatiently. “How many will there be?”
“Squirrel, how sure are you of this vision?” Sandry asked. “How sure are you that these are enemies?”
Squirrel and Fur Slipper answered in chorus. “Very sure, Lord Sandry.” They looked at each other and smiled thinly.
“The shamans are certain,” Sandry said to Ern. “Why should we let them attack us? Better we attack them.”
“No!” Ern was emphatic. “Although this is outside the lands of the Emperor, it is still within his protection. We may defend against bandits, but if we attack a village, the Emperor will know.”
Sandry said nothing.
“And if the Emperor knows only that we have attacked his village, he will never listen to us. He will send his army, and we will all be killed.”
“He has sent no army to defend the ruined villages behind us,” Sandry said.
“I know,” Ern said. “And I don’t know why. But Lord Sandry, we dare not earn his wrath! His vengeance can be terrible! Those villages”—he waved toward the road they had come up—“are behind us. This is close to his border, and now we go into the heart of his domain! And he will know, Sandry. He knows everything. He will know if we defend ourselves—and he will know if we attack unprovoked.”
“That makes it a bit harder,” Sandry said. Burning Tower looked at him quickly. “Quite a lot harder, actually.”
Chapter Three
The Dust Devils
“Will we fight men or birds?” Secklers eyed Sandry’s heavy armor and noted the bow case and quiver in the chariot. Then he fingered his big Lordkin knife. “Looks like you expect men.”
“I do,” Sandry said. “But I don’t know. The shaman said there would likely be birds as well.”
“So the lady can lead them around,” Secklers said. The big Lordkin waved at Burning Tower in her place on Spike. “I’ll stay with the wagons. Lead them to me, Tower!”
When they left Tep’s Town, Spike was a large gray kinless pony. Now he was a white stallion, larger than any horse Sandry had ever seen, and armed with a formidable spiral horn growing out of his forehead. When he was younger he had seemed attracted to Sandry’s mares, but now he paid them no attention, to the enormous relief of the stallion Blaze. At one time Blaze had challenged Spike. Spike was much smaller then, and they were evenly matched until they were separated. Now Blaze avoided the one-horn, and Spike did not deign to notice a mere horse.
It was Sandry that Spike hated now.
“If there are birds,” Sandry said. He shaded his eyes to peer up the long gentle slope to the Dust Devils village two thousand paces ahead. The road ran right through the village, and the soil here was dotted with big chunks of crumbling black rock. Vegetation was sparse except for the high grass in the cleared areas on both sides of the road. It would be bad country for horses to run in, worse for chariots. Birds would have far less trouble.
Next to the village was a large fenced corral, also full of tall fresh grass. Smoke from cook fires rose straight up to the sky in the windless afternoon. There was no breeze to waft smells of stews and soups toward them, but it wasn’t hard to imagine them. A stream ran invitingly along the far edge of the village. The village gates were wide open. A perfect place to stay.
As they drew closer, Sandry saw that the corral and much of the village fence was made of living plants, big broad-leafed plants, leaves as long as a man and nearly as broad at their base growing from a central stalk. Each leaf had a sharp spike at the end.
“Maguey,” Ern said.
“What’s that?” Sandry demanded.
“They make mescal from it,” Fur Slipper said. “A drink fit for the gods, full of manna and strong with fire. A cup of that will make anyone see visions.”
“But there won’t be any here,” Ern said.
The wagon train moved onward toward the town. No one had come out to greet them.
“Why not?” Sandry asked.
“This is the first village outside the Emperor’s land that has been given the right to grow the maguey,” Ern said. “I remember when they earned that right.” He paused. “Another name for the maguey is the fifty-year plant. It produces the pulque only when it blooms, and it blooms every fifty years. Those plants are no more than a dozen years old.”
“How does it grow?” Mouse Warrior asked. “Will it grow anywhere?”
Ern shook his head. “I don’t know. It grows only with permission of the Emperor. How they make it grow after he gives his permission is not anything I would know.”
“Maybe we can find out,” Whane said. “We have excellent gardeners in Lordshills, and the Emperor doesn’t rule there. I’ll see if I can find out.”
“Maguey may not grow without a spell,” Fur Slipper said. “Certainly the mescal will not be the same.”
“Is there manna here?” Sandry asked.
Regapisk had been listening quietly. Now he shaded his eyes and squinted toward the village. “Not much,” he said.
Sandry nodded indulgently and looked to Clever Squirrel. She sh
rugged. “As he says. No more than along other stretches of the road. Nothing special.”
“The road narrows. There’s no way around their village,” Sandry said.
Ern agreed. “We would have to clear a path. The ground is too stony for wagons.”
And for chariots as well, Sandry thought. “If we’re going to fight, I want to do it here, with the sun behind us.”
“We can’t just attack them,” Ern insisted.
Secklers grinned. “Let me go in and look.”
“And if they kill you?”
“I’ll sure take some with me,” the big Lordkin said.
“I will come,” Arshur said. “How can they kill me? I will be a king.”
Secklers chuckled. “I’ll be glad to have you with me, Majesty. Let’s do it.”
“You won’t speak their language at all,” Ern reminded him.
Secklers shrugged. “I can sure look around. And Arshur here knows some.”
Arshur was already striding ahead of the wagon train. Secklers scrambled to keep up.
Sandry took the big compound bow out of its case and strung it with an effort. He motioned to Whane to join him in his chariot. “Drive,” he said. “At a walk. Stay about fifty paces behind those two. If anything happens, we’ll try to rescue them. Just get to them, let them get aboard, and run for the shield wall. Stay on the road; that’s leg-breaker turf out there.”
“Yes, sir. It looks pretty quiet in the village,” Whane said.
A boy no older than Lurk came out of the gates and waved in welcome. An older man stood in the gateway. He shouted a greeting that Sandry didn’t understand, but Arshur answered and laughed. A puff of wind whisked smells of hot stew toward them.
“Stop short of the gates,” Sandry ordered.
They halted. Moments later, Regapisk plodded by in his heavy chariot pulled by two mules. In the wagon with him were Mouse Warrior and one of the Crescent City youths Regapisk and his partners had hired as drivers. Sandry took in a breath to shout at him, then thought better of it. “Whane, if they try to close those gates, I’ll use my bow to stop them. If I can.”
