Spacebread crawled blindly after them, leaving Niral shivering behind.
The drumbeat had increased in tempo recklessly. From somewhere a deep pounding roar crashed between beats oddly. The whole built creepingly slow, edging ever louder.
She could see nothing when she topped the ridge, nothing but night and jungle. But the night throbbed like an aching wound, and the jungle pulsed savagely. Then the beat shifted aggressively to the left.
She pulled her gun, realizing only at the last moment that she was about to fire into the bushes ahead of her without aiming. It was the drums, she realized, cooling. They made the blood panic. There was a malicious science in their pounding that drove the mind to terror. So that was the weapon the figlets used so well: fear.
“I begin to understand your reputation,” she said coolly to Gorsook.
Without warning plasma rifles cracked from the other side of the ridge. The blue flashes stunned the eyes, and before the three companions could defend themselves harpies were upon them, screeching and clawing. Spacebread managed to use both her sword and the gun, and she heard Klimmit’s cryo-gun discharge, but they were too many. The harpies must have been directly on the other slope of the ridge, hiding. Claws bit into the figlets and Spacebread.
“Hargh!” Gorsook raved, twisting and striking with his good arm. The stooped bird clutching him merely held him higher.
The Scarvians knotted together with their three captives as shields and faced the maddening drums. They pranced and squirmed with fear, for no foe was visible. Spacebread sank her teeth into a careless wing, feeling a satisfying crunch. A bird jerked away with a cry, but a noose was quickly slipped around her head to restrain her.
“Now we have a chance!” a harpy in a tattered uniform squawked, his beady eyes glistening. “We use these three to buy us time. Outaire’s not far from here!”
“Look!” shrilled another. “An ion-horse!”
“Good!” the first one called. “Let’s show ‘em what we’ve got!”
They fired in a circle, burning a wide clearing that lit the three captives brightly, then held them higher for the still unseen hunters to see.
“Blood for blood!” the first harpy shrieked. “Leave us be, and we’ll not harm these! Go away!”
The drumbeats shifted to a lower, more subtly threatening tone. But they also neared with each pulse. The sounds seemed to be encircling them.
The chief Scarvian hissed madly and, tearing Klimmit from his captor, held him out. “Stop! Stop little figs, or I kill this one now!”
Spacebread had wrapped her tail around the distracted bird behind her and was about to pull him down when she saw the tongue of flame lance out of Klimmit’s collar blowtorch.
“That’s it, Klimmit!” she cried to the drumbeat.
The figlet whirled as the chief harpy howled in pain. His green fist slammed into the harpy’s beak, and he tore the creature’s gun away. Spinning, he dropped two harpies before they could aim, then buzzed into the crowd of them where they had no room to shoot. His gunfire crackled, punctuating the figlet drums.
Spacebread brought her harpy down without trouble and helped Gorsook get rid of his. Klimmit joined them, and they fought their way off the ridge in a cloud of feather smoke.
Then the drums reached a sudden, terrifying climax, the ridge swarmed with figlets, and a great net came from nowhere to bind the remaining harpies so tight they could not move their weapons.
As Spacebread recovered her sword, the circle of figlet Warriors silently converged on the three. Klimmit floated beside her, unsure.
Gorsook pointed. “Warriors, I give you Klimmit BarKloof, now returned from the stars with his Uncle Gorsook to capture harpies!”
There was a pause. A hundred pairs of figlet eyes blinked. Then, in a wave of welcoming jubilation, the jungle itself seemed to cheer Klimmit’s victory.
[6]
To Be A Warrior
THAT NIGHT there was a celebration such as the Barmootha clan had not seen in many Droomyears. Gorsook and Klimmit were carried into the village by a swarm of warriors while Spacebread and the Margh priest had to catch up as best they could. A perimeter of oily trees around the village was set alight, torch-trees whose fragrant leaves burned fitfully down to the wood and no further. Everything was bright by the time the two offworlders arrived, and figlet children were spilling out of their domed tree houses rubbing sleepy eyes.
The harpies were taken hissing and screeching to a central tree, where they were enclosed in a cage of woven iron hard branches and hoisted into the night air for all to mock. A crowd of taunting children stayed just out of talon’s reach and sang jeeringly of the creatures’ cowardice.
Then Kordik, the figlet chieftain, rose to the top of the central tree and held up his wiry hands for attention. Immediately the village settled into a respectful quiet.
“Awaken those still sleeping,” he said. “Send to Dodirra village and Kwaikit village, for we have news worth rejoicing over! Not only are the evil harpies caught at last after much tracking, but their victim Gorsook is returned. And a greener wonder! His nephew, Klimmit, whom we lost in the raid five years ago, is with him!”
A wave of gasps ripped through the villagers, and they strained to see the strange young figlet with the odd collar and bearing.
“More!” Kordik continued. “It is this same Klimmit who captured the harpies! He has returned a candidate for Warriorhood!”
Now Spacebread caught sight of the drummers who had driven the harpies to such panic. They came to the fore, thumping out an exuberant beat on various gourd instruments. She had not noticed the drums before, for they were mostly the same size and shape as the figlets bearing them, making the host seem twice as large.
A revel was called. Klimmit fought through the throng long enough to introduce Kordik and a few of the elders to Spacebread by screaming over the celebration, but she was never sure that they understood her relationship to the prodigal figlet. Or perhaps it was just that they had no interest in the alien.
Then spice baths were wheeled out for the figlets to partake of, and some stale, watery wine was located for Spacebread at Klimmit’s request. Niral folded himself against a hut wall and did not attempt to join in. The priest felt as out of place in this celebration as he had on Kiloo. Too much noise and untoward behavior.
Spacebread enjoyed herself until well past midnight when the last of the children’s epic air ballets was held. But after that there were long competitions between the village poets to put a rhyme to Klimmit’s and Gorsook’s exploits, and she grew sleepy and not a little lonely. The figlets who did not stare at her ignored her completely, and Klimmit held a place of honor atop the central tree so she had no one with whom to share the experience. She silently stole to a quiet spot and put herself to bed.
Before she drifted off to the muffled beat of drums, Spacebread lay on her back and searched the deep black skies of Kesterole for familiar stars. There was Shaula blazing overhead, and beyond, Stilwyn’s cluster and the distant frosty gleam of Fomalhaut. She could think of a dozen places out there where she could feel at home, and she considered cutting her visit to Kesterole short. Then she fell asleep, dreaming of distant deeps and skies.
* * *
SHE WAS AWAKENED by a gentle shaking of her shoulder. Broom’s rude light spilled into her eyes, and for a moment she could not tell it was Klimmit.
“Here, milady. I brought you some food. It’s nearly noon.”
Spacebread shook her head. “Oof. I should have known better than to drink wine that tasted that bad. Thank you, Klimmit. Milk! By Bastu, where did you get it?”
Klimmit beamed. “The village keeps some grotch-cows because their grazing makes the tu grow faster. I thought you might like it. Here’s some steamed fibrils and meat.”
She ate with gusto. The milk was blue and sweet, and like everything else here, spicy. Klimmit flitted down to sit beside her.
‘”I guess we kind of got separated last night,” he
said.
She smiled. “It made me proud to see you up there. It was your night for attention, and you deserved it.”
“It felt strange. Seeing Uncle Gorsook wasn’t really preparation enough for seeing so many figlets. I’ve been used to being unique. It was fun, and I felt proud too, but … it wasn’t comfortable.”
Spacebread paused from lapping at the milk. “The attention?”
“Partly. But partly, it was as if I don’t belong here any more.”
“But you’ve been looking forward to this for years. And they’re going to make you a Warrior.”
He smiled. “Tonight. It’s a long ceremony. Yes, I’m pleased at that. But you know, when you called me a Warrior back on Ralph seems just as important now. You taught me to believe I was a Warrior, and that’s better than a ceremony.”
She looked at him long, the food forgotten. “Thank you, Klimmit,” she finally said. “I needed to hear that.”
“I remembered this morning that I had never told you that,” he said. “And I wanted to let you know.” After a pause he added, “Have you thought about when you’re going back?”
“I suppose I’ll see Niral safely onto a liner for somewhere. After all, he’s paid me for my services. That’ll be a week. Then I guess I’ll go. I’ve no idea where to. Maybe I’ll visit the casinos of Tirriore, or the dream vaults on Winderness.”
“Really?” he said eagerly.
She nodded, smiling, and drained the rest of her milk with gusto.
After she had finished, Klimmit took her on a tour of the village, filling her in on aspects of figlet life she was unfamiliar with. He showed her the cubicle where the priest who served local villages stayed, the spice fields and grotch-cows with all the Warriors-turned-farmers tending them. Then Klimmit briefly took her on a tour of the underground part of the village, where machines were made and weapons stored. “So here they are,” she mused. “Kept just in case. Your people are Warriors indeed, Klimmit. Their greatest weapon is their bravery.”
“Don’t forget the drums.” Klimmit’s eyes twinkled.
She laughed, and they continued their tour, arriving at the central tree just as the cage was being brought down. A patrol air-car from Dacquar was there, with two uniformed figlets, looking very official, in charge. Unlike the villagers, they wore weapons. The harpies were loaded onto the car, sullen and quiet.
“What will be done with them?” Spacebread asked.
“They’ll toil in the factories of Dacquar, Uncle Gorsook says, or have their atoms dispersed if they’re unruly. They can’t be allowed to get back to their kind to tell of figlet battle methods. If our enemies knew that our most powerful weapon is their fear of our reputation and the unknown, then we would have to use our cryo-guns much more often. That’s one reason strangers aren’t allowed here. We figlets like not having to use weapons.”
Klimmit was called aside to report to the police of his enslavement. Spacebread lounged idly about the village until she spied Niral talking to a wizened old figlet who seemed to be resting from carrying a large round case he was now sitting on. Spacebread sauntered over.
“Ah,” the figlet said. “You must be the other alien the BarKloof lad brought back with him.”
She nodded cheerfully, amused at the image of Klimmit bearing herself and Niral home like trophies. She now saw that the old figlet wore the stem decorations and painted cheeks of the Sanguakkoid priest, and she understood better Niral’s sudden interest in conversation.
“Your friend and I were just discussing the similarities between our beliefs, madam,” the little priest went on. “The figlets on this planet believe that all we see has grown from the Green, which created its own soil and water before there was time or space. It is the invisible tree upon which our universe has sprouted.”
Spacebread smiled at the old fig’s quaintness and squatted in the shadows with them. “A pretty picture,” she said. “All the suns opening like flowers in their season, with the planets springing out like petals.”
“Oh, more than a picture,” he squeaked, a tiny line forming between his eyes.
“Yes, much more,” Niral agreed. “We of the Korlann have a sacred tradition also. We believe that this universe is the crust formed on an invisible lava flow. Beneath this reality is the living truth. Every belief system recognizes that the creative energy of the universe is always present, but just beyond sight.” “What is your belief?” the figlet priest asked shrilly, one eyebrow lifted.
Spacebread chuckled. “I believe that the universe exists inside Spacebread’s head.”
“It is not a joke.” The small priest pouted indignantly. “You never feel the need to ask for help from that which grows behind what you see?”
“No.” Spacebread smiled. “I once did, but I learned at an early age that my own help was the only reliable kind.”
Niral gazed at her in keen admiration, reminded again of his own weakness. Doubt again bit at him. Of what use was his belief, if it only lay outside himself? What strength did that give?
The small priest cackled at Spacebread’s remark. “You once did! Then you have simply unlearned what you once knew. The young often are able to see more than the old.” He hefted his baggage to balance again on his hardened stem, then gazed at her with glittering eyes. “Soon, you will remember what you have forgotten. You will change your mind. You will find limits beyond which even your strength cannot take you. Soon.”
“What do you mean?” Spacebread asked, startled, but already he was humming off through the huts. She turned to comment to Niral, but his eyes had turned inward once more, searching for a misplaced confidence.
The rest of the afternoon Spacebread spent watching the figlet children play games and receive struction in one particularly large dwelling. Klimmit had to meet the delegations from distant villages that kept arriving. He was becoming quite a celebrity, and Gorsook had retired grumpily to have proper medicines applied to his wound to avoid just such a fate.
By Droomset the village was filled with throngs from nearby villages waiting to hear of Klimmit’s exploits. The priest hummed busily about his cubicle arranging the necessary equipment for the night.
A revel similar to the previous night’s was held until midnight, with wild games and much drumming. Then the figlets seemed to settle down in expectation.
First, the priest whirled about the central tree with various chants and gestures, over and over. Then, when he seemed satisfied with the effect, he settled in the top of it and began his song. It was of the Green, and went from the beginning of its growing through the entire history of the figlet culture. It was in the old language, much of it incomprehensible to Spacebread. She dozed toward its end, until a motion awakened her. It was Klimmit, who had been ushered into the arena by Uncle Gorsook, solemnly, with a red wreath around his stem to signify he was a special candidate, skipping all the middle Warrior grades. He settled beside Spacebread slowly, with eyes turned downward.
Then the drums began pounding and flowing like the sap of the Green pulsing behind all visible things. Long into the morning the drums played, building tension.
Abruptly, they stopped.
The priest climbed again to the top of the tree. “Who sponsors this candidate? Who has seen proof of his valor?”
“I,” Gorsook bellowed, taking Spacebread’s paw. “And the alien cat.”
Then the maimed figlet described the fight in the betweeness and their capture by harpies on the veldt and Klimmit’s bravery in freeing them. He ended by belting out a strange chant in an ancient tongue.
Gorsook then took his place beside Spacebread and nudged her forward. “Go,” he whispered fiercely. “It is your turn.” Then, when she still stared dumbly, he said, “Tell them what you know of Klimmit’s virtues. And when you are finished, sing them a song of your people in his honor.”
She stumbled up. In halting words Spacebread told those assembled what she had come to know about the figlet. They nodded and murmured to hear of his due
l with the deadly gnorlff in the ruined palace of Ralph and of his many other exploits. Spacebread herself had never heard it all at once, and she began to realize she had a true admiration for the figlet. She ended with the fight in the alley on Kiloo.
Klimmit smiled up at her, and suddenly she was searching her panicked memory for a song that she could sing for him. There were none. She could play the lyrtyl, but had never been much of a songstress. None of the bar ballads she could now recall were fit for hearing. Finally, in desperation, she remembered a nursery song. Its tune had been the music she danced to on Kiloo. It was one that her mother had sung to her years and years before, but the words were confused in her mind.
She sang it anyway, strongly, as though it had been created with this occasion in mind. When the words failed her, she made up words of her own, or nonsense sounds; and when the last note ended, she knew that she had done her best.
Klimmit rose to the beat of a single drum, clear and crisp in the predawn coolness. He poised atop the central pole proudly. And in the first green rays of the rising sun, the priest painted him with the sacred varnish while Gorsook recited the Warrior’s Creed in a loud voice.
Boom!
“A Warrior has the strength of his clan; his sap is the sap of many.”
Boom!
“A Warrior looks to no one for protection; his courage comes from the Green within him.”
Boom!
“A Warrior does not think of revenge; he kills only when capture fails.”
Boom!
“A Warrior does not despair; fear is the ground from which valor grows.”
Boom!
As the last drum beat echoed through the crowd, Korliss Niral looked up. He had been staring at the ground as if at his own cowardice. But the Warrior’s Creed had awakened something in him, a dim growing awareness, stirred by the words. He wondered what it was.
[7]
Born of Flame Page 6
