by Andre Norton
“It is Dokital of the line of Dok the long-armed, of Amsog of the quick wit, of Gid of the red spear. It is Kade of the starwalkers from the far skies. It is Swiftfeet of the horse kind.”
Dokital threw the words at the still silent throng.
“Here are warriors who have fought the devil kind, the devil kind of the collars, the devil kind who obey those of the collars, the devil kind of the stony places.” Dokital jerked the end of net. The crushed head of the susti rolled in gruesome answer, and the stallion pawed the earth, danced a step closer to his trampled foe.
“Here are warriors!" For the third time the Ikkinni flung that into the faces of the massed tribesmen.
The crackle of the flames cut the night and below that small sound Kade thought he could detect another murmur, as the whisper of a breeze running along the slopes of the arena. They waited.
Then, from directly above the cave door of the susti, there was a stir in the shadows, a ripple of figures rising, giving place to a small group of natives who stepped out in the full light of the fires. They halted there, five of them, well built men with the glint of jewelry on their upper arms, their belts, but no telltale rings about their throats. And, as the three from the plains faced them, each raised his spear and drove it point deep in the sand, ceremoniously disarming themselves. “Here are warriors—”
Kade relaxed. Dokital dropped his net. The stallion stood as a statue.
“It is Kakgil of the line of Akil of the stone arm.”
“It is Dartig of the line of Tigri the wind-swift.”
“It is Farqui of the Inner Cliffs.”
“It is Losigil of the Bitter Water Place.”
“It is Vuqic of the line of Stigi the strong heart.”
Each announced himself in turn. Their names, their identifications meant nothing to Kade, but he memorized them, sure that none of these men were petty chieftains with only a handful of followers. Their pride of bearing rather argued that he was fronting what might be the tribal leaders of the free interior, men on whom the Styor might have set fabulous prices. And if that were so, and he could make peaceful contact—Kade fought down his own soaring excitement, this was no time to hope for too much, to grow careless.
He who had named himself Kakgil made a quick downwards sweep with one hand. The cords holding Dokital twitched, loosened. With a kick the Ikkinni drew one foot out of an imprisoning circle, and then the other. The ex-slave stepped forward, leaving his bonds on the sand behind him.
“It greets Kakgil, as one who runs the high places to one who holds the spear over them.”
“It greets the runner.” Kakgil responded gravely. He plucked his spear out of the sand, reversed it with a graceful toss, and held out the butt to Dokital. The other took the weapon, spun it in a like fashion and drove the point into the ground again before his own feet. Kade guessed at the symbolism behind that action. If these two had been enemies, that enmity was now at an end.
“It has spoken true words,” Dokital continued, and now there was again a hint of challenge in his tone. He put up one hand, drew his fingers lightly along the curve of the stallion’s neck. The horse turned his head, regarded the Ikkinni, but accepted the attention with the same docility with which had had allowed Kade to mount.
“This is Swiftfeet, and the kind of Swiftfeet are for warriors, even as it said.”
Kakgil looked at the Ikkinni, the horse and the Terran.
“It has spoken true words,” he acknowledged. “The evil tale came to us out of the night, now we know that is evil. Swiftfeet is the friend of those in the heights. This is so!” His voice arose, carrying authority, the determination of his will, and again the murmur whispered about the arena. One by one the other chieftains echoed him. And so Kade found they had not only won the fight, but also acceptance among the free peoples of the hidden mountain valleys.
Before the dawn Kade, the horses, and Dokital were taken to one of those well concealed villages and the Terran witnessed for the first time the life of the Ikkinni who were not linked to the Styor will by the collars.
The architects of that village had taken advantage of a natural feature of the mountain side in their planning of what was in effect one great house set cunningly into a vast half-cavern where the overhang of rock not only provided the erection of stone and fire-dried clay with added protection, but effectively concealed it from any but ground level detection.
“Once warriors lived in skin tents,” Kakgil noted the Terran’s interest. “For then hunters followed the kwitu. Afterwards there were hunters for hunters, and those who wandered away from the high places could be easily netted and taken. Thus we make these hidden places.”
Kade studied the rough walls, the small, easily defended entrances, and smaller, high window holes. The structure was undeniably crude, put together by those who had worked only with a general idea of what they must accomplish and primitive, untaught skills. Compared to Cor, Kakgil’s village was a child’s sand castle set against a finely finished plasta playhouse. Yet it represented a vast, awesome step forward into another kind of civilization, made in only a generation or two by men who had been roving hunters. And the potential it suggested was startling.
“This is a fine place!” The Terran gave hearty tribute not only to the city-house but to the labor and the dream which had brought it into being. And his sincerity was plain to the chieftain, for Kakgil gave a small sound, close to a human chuckle.
“To us a fine place,” he agreed. “There are others,” he waved a hand to the spreading peaks of the mountains. “Many others.”
Kade discovered that there had been no great consolidation among the free Ikkinni. They still lived in bands of a few family clans, and such a village as he was shown harbored no more than a hundred natives at the most. But several such were linked by loose alliance, and the gathering in the arena had been comprised of the adults of five such communities.
The Terran established a camp with the horses outside the cave of the village and he was not surprised when Dokital chose to remain with him. They were eating cakes of ground grass seeds supplied them by their hosts when Kade asked his first question.
“It was left tied . . . for the susti—”
Dokital swallowed, perhaps to gain time. But he did not evade a reply.
“Tied, yes; for susti, no.”
“Why?”
“It was not friend. The starwalker knew secret to free Ikkinni but would not help. It was made safe.”
Kade could follow that line of reasoning.
“So it was left while Dokital went for the free warriors?”
“That is so. It has said those are for warriors.” He pointed to the horses.
“So Dokital took the horses to impress the free men, but they would not believe, holding the stranger prisoner?”
“That is so. It was struck from the back of the runner by a net. It was out of its body for a time. When it returned there were bonds, and it was judged a thing of the collar masters sent to bring monsters into the hills where the masters can not come on their flying things.”
“But how did this tale of monsters spread so far from the flat lands?” Kade asked.
Dokital’s lips shaped a half-smile. “Ask of the mountains where blows the force of the wind-breath. Drums talk among the hills, men tell false tales to those who have not seen with their two eyes, heard with their own ears, touched with the fingers of their hands. The collar masters spoke and the ripple of their speaking reached far.”
Kade began to understand the pattern. The Styor had tried to make sure not only of the Traders at the post, but of any who might possibly escape into the mountains. The aliens had planted this story of monsters, seen that the rumor trickled back by “bush telegraph” into the holds of the outlaws, thereby making sure of a hostile reception for any refugees.
“Now warriors believe differently?”
Dokital selected another cake. “The warriors of five tribes have seen with their own eyes, heard with the
ir lips. Soon they will come to this fire, ask for more talk concerning Swiftfeet and his wife ones.”
But it was not about horses that the two Ikkinni who stepped quietly into the camp came to talk. Kakgil and the taller, thinner native who had introduced himself in the arena as Vuqic, stood waiting until Kade arose. And then, using the same ceremony as they had before, they pushed spear points into the earth.
“There is fire, and food,” the Terran recited the formula he had learned at the post. “It is welcome,” he inclined his head toward Kakgil and Vuqic, remaining on his feet until both were seated.
Kakgil came to the point brusquely. "There is a story that the one from beyond the stars has a new weapon to make collars into nothingness.”
“Part of such a story is the truth,” Kade admitted. “But there is this also; that when the weapon makes nothingness of the collars, some of those wearing them die.”
“That is the truth,” Dokital added. “Yet it is free.” His hand went to his throat, rubbing the calloused skin where a collar had once chaffed.
“These weapons which make a collar nothing. Let us see one.”
Kade held up empty hands: "One each of those did the starwalkers carry. It is gone, blasted away, and so are the rest. For the masters of the collars brought the fire death to all my clan.”
"So has that story been told also,” Kakgil assented. “But if these weapons exist beyond the stars, then those who fly into the far sky can bring us more. Do they not give the masters many things in exchange for the skins of musti? And we know caves in which musti have never been troubled. We can build a mountain of skins in return for such weapons.”
“There is this,” Kade brought his own problem to the fore. “A ship of the starwalkers came two suns ago to the burnt place where its clan lived. When those in that ship find no life, they will depart again. Maybe to come no more. And already that ship may have returned to the stars.”
“In the high places there are drums to send thoughts and calls from one clan holding to the next.” Vuqic spoke for the first time. “Have, the starwalkers no drums to sound among the star?”
“There is a chance that there is one. But between this place and that lies much ground, also many hunting parties of collared ones. Out in the open country the flying ships of the collar masters can capture or kill those who try to reach the burned place. And it can not be sure that the drum is still there.”
Kakgil laid a stick upon the small fire. “This matter shall be thought upon,” he declared. “Now what of this Swiftfeet who serves warriors without a collar? Why was it brought?”
Kade noted that the Ikkinni gave the horse the “it” designation of a man, rather than the “that” of an animal.
“There is a saying,” Vuqic cut in once more, “that it was to be taken to a master of collars—the high master—for a new toy thing.”
"So was the thought,” Kade said cautiously.
“But not all the thought,” Dokital corrected. “It,” he indicated Kade, “said that the runners are for warriors. And what master of collars is a true warrior? Kill is the order, but there is no spear in the hand of such a one. A warrior kills for himself, not afar and by word only.”
Kade relied on what he knew of Ikkinni customs. “There is a story—in truth a story,” he used their own idiomatic approach of one of the honored elders of their kind, a born story teller whose phenomenal memory and powers of invention could recall one of their age-old sagas, or add a new tale fashioned out of the events of the latest clan hunt. And to the Terran’s gratification he saw that they were giving him close attention.
“Where it dwells among the stars there were once those who were also in their way masters of collars. And these same animals were ridden into battle by their warriors, so that the other peoples who had no such helpers could be easily hunted for killing or caught to be made into collared ones. But the animals were new to the land which they found a good one, and they broke free from their masters, running into hidden places. And the Ikkinni of that land found the beasts were also friends to them, so they stole more from the city places of the masters.” He simplified, made into a story they could understand the explosion of history which had marked the coming of the horse to his own plains-roaming race, and what had occurred thereafter. And seeing their gleaming eyes, Kade knew that the parallel was plain to them.
Dokital spoke first. “These are a treasure to keep!”
“Ha, so!” agreed Kakgil. “But that is locked in time. Now is now and there is the weapon of the starwalkers. Give such into the hands of warriors and no hunters or collar masters shall enter these lands!”
“The weapons are beyond the stars!” Kade objected, afraid they would demand which he could not possibly give them.
“Other things have come from the stars. This is a thing to be thought on.” Kakgil arose, reached for his spear. "This star drum for your signaling must be thought on, too.”
CHAPTER 12
THIS TIME THE TERRAN headed toward the plains by night instead of day, and he did not go alone. A picked hand of Ikkinni trackers, seasoned to the alarms and cautions of the hunted, went as guides, and, he suspected, guards. The natives were determined not to lose the off-worlder until they had made some sort of a bargain for stunners. Although Kade had continued to argue that the Trade ship might have long since left Klor.
The very slim chance of using the hidden com was one he did not like to consider. He could not push out of mind the doubt that he might now be an exile on the alien planet, without hope of rescue. So he tried to concentrate on the business of getting safely back to the destroyed post.
They threaded a more complicated route than the one he had used days earlier, once skirting a camp of collared men, sleeping feet to the fire, their Overman sheltered in a leanto of branches. Kade’s Ikkinni neighbor toyed with his spear as he eyed them thoughtfully. But any miss from a death stroke meant torture for the slaves and the native did not use his weapon.
“Two watchers,” he whispered to Kade, his motion only dimly to be seen in the light of the dying fire as he motioned right and left.
The Terran could detect no sound except the usual ones of the night. A sleeping slave stirred, and both watchers tensed. Kade had a knife, a spear under his hand. But he longed for a stunner. The slave muttered and rolled over, but his restlessness did not arouse any of his fellows.
With finger pressure on the Terran’s shoulder, the Ikkinni signaled Kade to the right. And the off-worlder applied all his knowledge of woodcraft to melt into the brush as noiselessly as possible. Together they flitted into a small gully where another joined them.
“It on watch now sleeps?”
The low voice of Kakgil answered. “It does.”
Again their party drew together and pushed on. False dawn found them in file along the banks of a stream where rank, reedlike grass grew. The Ikkinni put the natural features of the spreading bog to their use. Mud, grey-green, was scraped from holes, plastered to the haired skins, to Kade’s breeches, chest and shoulders. Handfuls of dried grass laid into that sticky coating so that every man could fade undetected into the landscape.
They continued to stick to the bog, following a trail, the markers of which Kade could not discover. Perhaps they existed only in the memory of the native who now led. As far as the Terran could determine, they were now to the north of the former post, well out into the plains region.
Looming up now and again were islands of firmer land on which they paused to rest. And, as the first lines of the climbing sun split the sky, they ate grain cakes, drank sparingly from the leather bottle Kakgil carried. It contained a thin, acid liquid which burned the tongue, but satisfied the body’s desire for water.
The village chieftain smoothed out a stretch of clay, marked on it with a stick. A finger’s whirl was the swamp about them, a dot the site of the post. Kade began to realize that, far from being kept to the mountains as the Styor had contended and the Traders believed, these free natives must h
ave made countless scouting trips into the plains in which their fathers had been hunted, each carrying in a trained memory vast knowledge of the lost lands. What raiders they would make, given adequate weapons and the means for swift movement!
But this was not a matter of future guerrilla attacks against Styor holdings. It was their own safe visit to a site which could easily be patrolled from both air and ground level. The Terran digested that crude map, tried to align it with his memories of the countryside.
If the scout ship had been sighted by the Styor—and unless the aliens were possessed by a suicidal folly they would have left a sentry near the post—there could be a Klorian force at hand already, or on their way to the burn-off. Kade warned of that and found that Kakgil had accepted such a possible peril. If the Styor were at the site, the mountaineers would leave a scout in hiding and withdraw, to try again. And the Terran understood the monumental patience of these people who had fought for a century against drastic odds. The drive which had sent his own species into the star lanes met time as an enemy, these men used it as a tool.
The sun which had promised so brightly in the dawn hours, shone only for a space. Clouds gathered above the mountains. Dokital, pointing to the wall of mist hanging above their back trail, laughed.
“The Planner has planned, now the Spearman readies His weapon. This is a good day, a good thing, a good plan.”
Wind rasped across the plains, struck chill, lifting the vapors of the bog, thrusting at the tangled covering of their island. The signs of the storm suggested one more severe than any Kade had witnessed on Klor.
With the push of the wind at their backs they obeyed Kakgil’s order to move on. Half an hour later, cloaked in the deepening murk, they splashed from a shallow runnel of water onto a solid strip of earth marking the fringe of the plains.
A Styor flyer might just try to buck the wind, but Kade doubted it unless the pilot had definite orders to operate. This weather should ground all routine patrols. But the method of advance, in a zig-zag pattern with frequent halts to take cover, proved to the Terran that Kakgil did not intend to underestimate the enemy.