Urthona gave a yell of despair, threw the beamer down, and retrieved the spear of the beheaded warrior.
The beamer’s battery was exhausted. It was two against eight now; the outcome, in no doubt.
Four riders came up onto the bank. McKay and Urthona thrust their spears into the beasts and then were knocked backward into the channel by the wounded beasts. The savages dismounted and went into the water after their victims. The remaining four rode up and shouted encouragement.
Anana had to admire the fight her uncle and his aide put up. But they were eventually slugged into unconsciousness and hauled up onto the bank. When they recovered, their hands were tied behind them, and they were urged ahead of the riders with heavy blows on their backs and shoulders from spear butts.
A moment later, the first of a long caravan emerged from the darkness. Presently, the whole cavalcade was in sight. Some of the men dismounted to tie the dead beasts and dead men to moosoids. These were dragged behind the beasts while their owners walked. Evidently the carcasses were to be food. And, for all she knew, so were the corpses. Urthona had said that some of the nomadic tribes were cannibals.
As her uncle and McKay were being driven past the point just opposite her, she felt something grab her ankle. She repressed a cry. But, when sharp teeth ripped her ankle, she had to take action. She lowered her head below the surface, bent over, withdrew her knife, and drove it several times into a soft body. The tentacle withdrew, and the teeth quit biting. But the thing was back in a moment, attacking her other leg.
Though she didn’t want to, she had to drop the Horn and the amphibian to free her other hand. She felt along the tentacle, found where it joined the body, and sawed away with the knife. Suddenly, the thing was gone, but both her legs felt as if they had been torn open. Also, she had to breathe. She came up out of the water as slowly as possible, stopping when her nose was just above the surface. A body broke the water a few feet from her, dark blood welling out.
She went under again, groped around, found the Horn, and came back up. The savages had noticed the wounded creature by then. And they saw her head emerge, of course. They began yelling and pointing. Presently, several cast their spears at her. These fell short of their mark. But they weren’t going to let her escape. Four men slid down the bank and began swimming toward her.
She threw the Horn upon the bank and began clawing her way up it. Her pursuers couldn’t chase her on their beasts on this side. The big creatures could never get up the bank. She could get a head start on the men. But when she rolled over on the top of the bank, she saw that her wounds were deeper than she had thought. Blood was welling out over her feet. It was impossible to run any distance with those wounds.
Still … she put her axe in one hand and her knife in the other. The first man to come up fell back with a split skull. The second slid back with two fingers chopped off. The others decided that it was best to retreat. They went back into the water and split into two groups, each swimming a hundred yards in opposite directions. They would come up at the same time, and she could only attack one. That one would dive back into the water while the other came at her on the ground.
By then ten others were swimming across. Some of them were several hundred yards downstream; others, the same distance upstream. She had no chance to get beyond these. Flight to the mountains a mile away on this side of the channel was her only chance. But she’d be caught because of her steady loss of blood.
She shrugged, slipped off her ragged shirt, tore it into strips, and bound them around the wounds. She hoped the tentacled things hadn’t injected poison into her.
The Horn and the axe couldn’t be hidden. The knife went into a pocket on the inside of the right leg of her levis. She’d sewed the pocket there shortly after she’d entered the gateway into Earth. That was a little more than a month ago, but it seemed like a year.
Then she sat, her arms folded, waiting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Her captors were a short, slim, dark people who looked as if they were of Mediterranean stock. Their language, however, did not seem to her to be related to any she knew. Perhaps their ancestors had spoken one of the many tongues that had died out after the Indo-Europeans and Semites had invaded the Middle Sea area.
They numbered a hundred: thirty-two men, thirty-eight women, and twenty children. The moosoids were one hundred and twenty.
Their chief clothing was a rawhide kilt, though some of the men’s were of feathers. All the warriors wore thin bones stuck through their septums, and many bore smoked human hands suspended from a cord around their necks. Human heads adorned the saddles.
Anana was brought back to the other side of the channel and flung half-drowned upon the ground. The women attacked her at once. A few struck or kicked her, but most were trying to get her jeans and boots. Within a minute, she was left lying on the ground, bleeding, bruised, stunned, and naked.
The man whose two fingers she’d severed staggered up, holding his hand, pain twisting his face. He harangued the chief for a long while. The chief evidently told him to forget it, and the man went off.
Urthona and McKay were sitting slumped on the ground, looking even more thrubbed than she.
The chief had appropriated her axe and the Horn. The woman who’d beat off the others in order to keep the jeans had managed to get them on. So far, she hadn’t paid any attention to the knife inside the leg. Anana hoped that she would not investigate the heavy lump, but there didn’t seem much chance of that, human curiosity being what it was.
There was a long conference with many speeches from both men and women. Finally, the chief spoke a few words. The dead men were carried off in travois to a point a mile away. The entire tribe, except for the few guards for the prisoners, followed the dead. After a half an hour of much wailing and weeping, punctuated by the shaman’s leaping-abouts, chanting, and rattling of a gourd containing pebbles or seeds, the tribe returned to the channel.
If these people were cannibals, they didn’t eat their own dead.
A woman, probably a wife of one of the deceased, rushed at Anana. Her fingers were out and hooked, ready to tear into the captive’s face. Anana lay on her back and kicked the woman in the stomach. The whole tribe laughed, apparently enjoying the screams and writhings of the woman. When the widow had recovered, she scrambled up to resume her attack. The chief said something to a warrior, and he dragged the woman away.
By then, “dawn” had come. Some men ate pieces of one of the moosoids killed by Urthona, drank, and then rode off across the plain. The rest cut off portions for themselves and chewed at the meat with strong teeth. The flesh was supplemented by nuts and berries carried in raw leather bags. None of the captives were offered any food. Anana didn’t mind, since she’d eaten a few hours ago, and the beating hadn’t improved her appetite. Also, she was somewhat cheered. If these people did intend to eat her, it seemed likely that they would want to fatten her up. That would take time, and time was her ally.
Another thought palled that consideration. Perhaps they were saving her for lunch, in which case they wouldn’t want to waste food on her.
The chief, his mouth and beard bloody, approached. His long hair was in a Psyche knot through which two long red feathers were stuck. A circle of human fingers on a leather plate hung from a neck-cord over his beard. One eye socket was empty except for a few flies. He stopped, belched, then yelled at the tribe to gather around.
Anana, watching him remove his kilt, became sick. A minute later, while the tribe yelled encouragement, and made remarks that were obviously obscene, though she didn’t understand a word, he did what she had thought he was going to do. Knowing how useless it was to struggle, she lay back quietly. But she visualized six different ways of killing him and hoped she’d have a chance to carry out one of them.
After the chief, grinning, got up and donned his kilts, the shaman came up to her. He apparently had in mind emulating the chief. The latter, however, pushed him away. She was going to be the chi
ef’s property. Anana was glad for at least one favor. The shaman was even dirtier and more repulsive than the chief.
She managed to get up and walked over to Urthona. He looked disgusted. She said, “Well, uncle, you can be glad you’re not a woman.”
“I always have been,” he said. “You could run now before they could catch you, and you could drown yourself in the channel. That is the only way to cleanse yourself.”
He spat. “Imagine that! A leblabbiy defiling a Lord! It’s a wonder to me you didn’t die of shame.”
He paused, then smiled crookedly. “But then you’ve been mating with a leblabbiy voluntarily, haven’t you? You have no more pride than an ape.”
Anana kicked him in the jaw with her bare foot. Two minutes passed before he recovered consciousness.
Anana felt a little better. Though she would have preferred to kick the chief (though not in his jaw), she had discharged some of her rage.
“If it weren’t for you and Orc,” she said, “I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
She turned and walked away, ignoring his curses.
Shortly thereafter, the tribe resumed its march. The meat was thrown on top of piles on travois, and a more or less orderly caravan was formed. The chief rode at the head of the procession. Since attack from their left was impossible, all the outriders were put on the right.
About three hours before dusk, the men who’d been sent across the plains returned at a gallop. Anana didn’t know what they reported, but she guessed that they’d gone up one of the mountains to look for enemies. Obviously, they hadn’t seen any.
Why had the tribe been on the move during the night? Anana supposed that it was because many tribes would be going to the sea-country. This people wanted to be first, but they knew that others would have the same idea. So they were on a forced march, day and night, to get through the pass before they ran into enemies.
At “noon,” when the sky-illumination was brightest, the caravan stopped. Everybody, including the prisoners, ate. Then they lay down with skins over their faces to shut out the light, and they slept. About six stayed awake to be lookouts. These had slept for several hours on travois, though when they woke up they looked as if they hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep.
By then the captives’ hands were tied in front so they could feed themselves. When nap-time came, thongs were tied around their ankles to hobble them.
Anana had also been given a kilt to wear.
She lay down near her uncle and McKay. The latter said, “These savages must’ve never seen a black man before. They stare at me, and they rub my hair. Maybe they think it’ll bring them luck. If I get a chance, I’ll show them what kind of luck they’re going to get!”
Urthona spoke out of lips puffed up by a blow from a spearshaft. “They might never have seen blacks before, but there are black tribes here. I brought in specimens of all the Earth races.”
McKay said, slowly, “I wonder what they’d do to you if they knew you were responsible for their being here?”
Urthona turned pale. Anana laughed, and said, “I might tell them—when I learn how to speak their tongue.”
“You wouldn’t do that, would you?” Urthona said. He looked at her, then said, “Yes, you would. Well, just remember, I’m the only one who can get us into my palace.”
“If we ever find it,” Anana said. “And if these savages don’t eat us first.”
She closed her eyes and went to sleep. It seemed like a minute later that she was roused by a kick in the ribs. It was the gray-haired woman in her panties, the chief’s woman, who’d taken a special dislike to Anana. Or was it so special? All the women seemed to loathe her. Perhaps, though, that was the way they treated all female captives.
Obviously, the women weren’t going to teach her the language. She picked on an adolescent, a short muscular lad who was keeping an eye on her. Since he seemed to be fascinated by her, she would get him to initiate her into the tribal speech. It didn’t take long to learn his name, which was Nurgo.
Nurgo was eager to teach her. He rode on a moosoid while she walked, but he told her the names of things and people she pointed out. By the end of the “day,” when they stopped for another two-hour snooze, she knew fifty words, and she could construct simple questions and had memorized their answers.
Neither Urthona nor McKay were interested in linguistics. They walked side by side, talking in low tones, obviously discussing methods of escape.
When they resumed their march in the deepening twilight, the chief asked her to demonstrate the use of the Horn. She blew the sequence of notes which would open any “gate”—if there had been one around. After some initial failures, he mastered the trumpet and for a half-hour amused himself by blowing it. Then the shaman said something to him. Amana didn’t know what it was. She guessed the shaman was pointing out that the sounds might attract the attention of enemies. Sheepishly, he stuck the Horn into a saddlebag.
Amazingly, the woman with her jeans had so far not been curious about the heavy lump in the leg of the cloth. Since she had never seen this type of apparel before, she must think that all jeans were weighted in this fashion.
Near the end of the “night” the caravan stopped again. Guards were posted, and everybody went to sleep. The moosoids, however, stayed awake and chomped on tree branches. These were carried on the travois or on their backs. The supply was almost gone, which meant that men would have to forage for it. That is, find a grove or forest of walking plants, kill some, and strip off the branches.
At “noon” the following day the two mountains forming the pass to the sea seemed to be very close. But she knew that distance was deceiving here. It might take two more days before the pass was reached. Apparently, the tribe knew how far away it was. The beasts wouldn’t make it to the sea before they became weak with hunger.
Twenty of the men and some four adolescents rode out onto the plain. As fortune had it, the necessary food was advancing toward them. It was a square of trees which she estimated numbered about a thousand. The riders waited until it was a quarter of a mile from the channel. Then, holding lariats made of fiber, they rode out. Nearing the trees, they formed an Indian file. Like redskins circling a wagon train, they rode whooping around and around it.
The plants were about ten feet high and coniferous, shaped like Christmas trees with extraordinarily broad trunks which bulged out at the bottom. About two-thirds of the way up, eyes ringed the boles, and four very long and thin greenish tentacles extended from their centers. When the tribesmen got close, the whole unit stopped, and those on the perimeter turned on four barky legs to face outward.
Anana had noticed that a herd of wild moosoids had ignored them. There must be a reason for this. And as the men rode by, about twenty feet from the outguards, she saw why. Streams of heavy projectiles shot from holes in the trunks. Though a long way from the scene, she could hear the hissing of released air.
From much experience with these plants, the humans knew what the exact range of the darts were. They stayed just outside it, the riders upwind closer than those on the downwind side.
She deduced that they knew what the ammunition count for a tree was. They were shouting short words—undoubtedly numbers—as they rode by. Then the chief, who’d been sitting to one side and listening, yelled an order. This was passed on around the circle so that those out of hearing of his voice could be informed. The riders nearest him turned their beasts and headed toward the perimeter. Meanwhile, as if the plants were a well-trained army, those who’d discharged their missiles stepped backward into spaces afforded by the moving aside of the second rank.
It was evident that those behind them would take their places. But the riders stormed in, swung, and cast their lariats. Some of them missed. The majority caught and tightened around a branch or a tentacle. The mounts wheeled, the ropes stretched, the nooses closed, and the unlucky plants were jerked off their feet. The riders urged their beasts on until the trees had been dragged out of range of the missiles. The o
ther end of the lariats were fastened to pegs stuck into the rear of the saddles. All but one held. This snapped, and the plant was left only ten feet from the square. No matter. It couldn’t get up again.
The mounts halted. The riders jumped down and approached the fallen plants. Taking care to keep out of the way of the waving tentacles, they loosened the lariats and returned to their saddles.
Once more, the procedure was repeated. After that the riders ignored the upright trees. They took their flint or chert tools and chopped off the tentacles. Their animals, now safe from the darts—which she presumed were poisoned—attacked the helpless plants. They grabbed the tentacles between their teeth and jerked them loose. After this, while the moosoids were stripping a branch, their owners chopped away branches with flint or chert tools.
The entire tribe, men, women, children, swarmed around the victims and piled the severed branches upon travois or tied bundles of them to the backs of the beasts.
Later, when she’d learned some vocabulary, Anana asked the youth, Nurgo, if the missiles were poisoned. He nodded and grinned and said, “Yu, messt gwonaw dendert assessampt.”
She wasn’t sure whether the last word meant deadly or poison. But there was no doubt that it would be better not to be struck by the darts. After the plants had been stripped, the men carefully picked up the missiles. They were about four inches long, slim-bodies, with feathery construction of vegetable origin at one end and a needdlepoint at the other. The point was smeared with a blue-greenish substance.
These were put into a rawhide bag or fixed at the ends of spearshafts.
After the work was done, the caravan resumed marching. Anana, looking back, saw half of the surviving plants ranged alongside the channel. From the bottom of each a thick greenish tube was extended into the water, which was being sucked up into these. The other half stood guard.
“You must have had a lot of fun designing those,” Anana said to Urthona.
“It was more amusing designing them than watching them in action,” her uncle said. “In fact, designing this world entertained me more than living on it. I got bored in less than four years and left it. But I have been back now and then during the past ten thousand years to renew my acquaintance with it.”
The World of Tiers, Volume 2 Page 31
