He would not remember! He dared not! Storm’s hands balled into fists and he beat them upon his knees, feeling that pain far less than the awaking pain inside him. He was cut off—exiled—And he was also accursed, unless he carried out the purpose that had brought him here. Yet still there was this other hesitation in him. Without realizing it, he reverted to age-old beliefs. He must have broken his warrior’s magic. And so he could not meet Quade until he was whole again, once more armed against the enemy—the time was not yet ripe.
How long he sat there he did not know. But now there were streaks of orange-red in the mauve sky. It was not the same promise given by the sun to Terra, but with it came the feeling that his decision had been rightly made.
Storm faced the band of growing color, raising his arms and holding up into that light first his bared knife and then his stun rod—the arms of a warrior—to be blessed by the sun. He pointed them first at the life-giving heat in the sky and then at the earth, the substance from which the Faraway Gods had fashioned the People in the long ago. He had not the right, as had a Singer, to call upon those forces he believed existed, and possibly, this far from the land of the Dineh, the Faraway Gods could not, would not listen. Yet something within Storm held the belief that they could and did.
“Beauty is around me—
This one walks in beauty—
Good is around me—
This one walks in beauty—”
Perhaps the words he recalled were not the right ones, perhaps he did wrong to pre-empt the powers of a Singer. But he thought that the Old Ones would understand.
CHAPTER SIX
T
he wind that had drawn Storm to this little height died away. With a soft, coaxing whine Surra pressed against his leg and bumped her head against the hand that had dropped from his knife hilt. He heard the chittering of the meerkats in the grass. Above, a perfectly shaped black silhouette on the dawn sky, Baku mounted to greet the new day in the freedom of the upper air. Storm breathed deeply. His feeling of loss and loneliness dimmed as he returned to the trail camp to make his farewells.
A short appraisal of Sorenson’s preparations told the Terran that the Survey man was as competent as Larkin about the details of packing. The party was a small one: Sorenson himself, the settler pack master, Mac Foyle, and three Norbies, among whom Storm was not too surprised to find Gorgol. He raised his hand in greeting to the young native hunter, as he led his pack mare along to be lined with the others.
Foyle eyed this addition to the train with some astonishment, for the meerkats clung to the top of the mare’s pack and in addition she bore an improvised perch rigged for Baku. Surra trotted on her own four paws, well able to match the ambling pace of the pack animals.
“Those are a couple of tricky riders you got there,” Foyle hailed the Terran. “What are they, young fella? Monkeys? I heard tell of monkeys but I’ve never seen ’em.”
“Meerkats,” supplied Storm.
“From Terra, eh?” Foyle tested a lashing, looked over the mare’s rig with approval, and then brought up his own riding horse. “Smart lookin’ little tykes—what are they good for?”
Storm laughed. “Digging mostly. See their big claws? Those can make the dirt fly when it’s necessary. They also bring back what they take a fancy to. You might call them thieves sometimes—” He snapped his fingers at Ho and Hing and they blinked back at him, uncaring.
“Heard about you and your animals back in town. Your name’s Storm, isn’t it? Heard tell, too, how you knocked out one of Gorlund’s riders just pattin’ him on the head—or so the boys were sayin’.”
Storm smiled. “Commando tricks, Foyle. That rider was loaded and wanted to stretch himself a little, only he did it a bit too wide and in the wrong direction—”
Foyle examined him with a frank stare that climbed from boot soles to the top of his hat. “Bet the boys weren’t far wrong either about your bein’ thunder and lightnin’ all rolled up into one. You aren’t so big a fella, but it’s the small ones, light on their feet, who can really cause trouble. I’d like to have seen that dust-up, I surely would!” Foyle jerked the lead rope of the first pack horse and that animal obediently fell into line behind.
They went down slope to the river where Surra balked on the bank, spitting her displeasure at the thought of water and wet fur. Storm soothed her and tossed a rope end, to be caught in her teeth after a last cat-curse. Then, with the dune cat swimming along with the horses, they crossed the Irrawady to the field above which the eastern mountains reached into the faint lavender of the sky.
Sorenson not only knew how to organize an expedition, he could also lead it. And Storm soon learned that this was the third and not the first time the Survey Service man had attempted to find the Sealed Caves.
“Water’s the problem,” he explained. “You can travel this country in the spring, or for about four short weeks in the fall, and live off it. The rest of the time you have to pack water and food for your horses. And that just can’t be done, except at ruinous expense, which my department won’t authorize on mere rumor alone. We had one successful season before the war, opened a small dig on the Krabyaolo, that’s the edge of the Peak country. And a piece of carving was unearthed there that caused an explosion in rarefied circles. So the authorities will grant us a pittance now and then for these short trips. Let me discover something really worthwhile and they might set up a permanent work camp. I’ve been told that the water supply is better in the direction we’re heading this trip—”
“This thing you found—what made it so important?”
“Did you ever see any Lo Sak Ki work?” Sorenson counter-questioned.
“Not that I know of—”
“That’s a unique type of carving found in the Lo Sal provinces on Altair Three—very intricate patterning, shows evidence of a long development of civilized art, undoubtedly the result of a lengthy period of experiment and refinement. And it’s native to Altair Three. Only this piece we found repeated at least two of Lo Sak Ki basic designs.”
“I don’t suppose there are too many different designs possible,” ventured Storm. “And with about two thousand planets producing art work—twenty-five other nonhuman races of high intelligence into the bargain, as well as all the dead civilizations we have uncovered in space—designs could be repeated without being related.”
“Logical enough. But see here—” The Survey man used his quirt as a pointer to indicate the ketoh on the Terran’s wrist.” I take it that is Terran, also that it may represent some lesser known tribal work there, perhaps it has ceremonial significance—”
“It was developed from a bow guard once worn by my people when they were roaming desert raiders—”
“And were those people a dominant nation on your world in the days when separate nations did exist there?”
Storm laughed. “I believe they considered themselves to be so—in error. They did rule a small section of one continent for a few years. But no, they were not a dominant race. In fact their country was overrun by a white-skinned race, representing a mechanized, technical civilization, who considered them barbarians.”
“It follows then you would not have found such a bracelet to be an object universally known and worn on Terra?”
“No.”
“So what would have been your reaction if say on—Where did you serve during the war, Storm?”
“Lev—Angol—”
“Lev? Good. Suppose while you were on Lev you investigated a mound of rubble and found buried in it the twin to your bracelet—knowing, of course, that no other galactic trooper had been there recently, that no Terran of the present era could have dropped it. What then would have been your conclusions?”
“Well, either a Levite had imported it or there had been a Terran there once—”
“Just so. But if all other evidence argued that it had been there since before the era of Terran space flight?”
“Either there was earlier Terran space flight than is known t
o our records, or Terra had off-world visitors herself.”
Sorenson nodded vigorously. “You see, you cling instinctively to the idea that your bracelet must have come from Terra. Not once have you suggested that an alien developed something of the same design.”
Again Storm laughed appreciatively. “You make out a good case, sir. Perhaps it’s all a matter of native pride—”
“Or perhaps your instinct is entirely right, and there was space travel at an earlier date. So—here we have a similar problem, a design, well known to a very limited section of Altair Three, is found half the galaxy away in ruins attributed by native legend to a nonnative race. May we not assume that others prospected through the star lanes before Terra colony ships and explorers went out to the same paths? If so, why haven’t we met them or their descendants? What ended their empire or their confederacy? War? Decadence? Some plague spread from system to system by their ships? Perhaps our answer lies in the Sealed Caves, if we can find them!”
“You are sure you have a good lead this time?”
“Better than just a lead, we have a guide waiting for us in the Valley of Twisted Horns, a man who says he has found at least one cave. Most of the Norbies avoid that section. But their wizards do go in at certain seasons of the year for ceremonial purposes, and war parties can add to their effectiveness by making magic there against their enemies. They believe that a ritual performed near the Caves can render a warrior twice as impervious and the enemy twice as vulnerable, whether that enemy is within striking distance or three days’ journey away at the time. Youngsters who want to claim warrior status travel to the Peaks. That young Gorgol joined us for that reason. The place has religious significance. And Bokatan, our guide, is a clan wizard. He’s made three such journeys and now he believes that the Sealed Caves people want to issue forth again and that an off-worlder must open the gate for them—hence our expedition has his blessing.”
“Has Bokatan power enough to impress other Norbies with that idea?” questioned Storm. “We could run into trouble if he hasn’t.”
“I believe he has. The alien laws have always frustrated digging here on Arzor. We are not allowed to cultivate the tribes unless they make the first overtures, and we cannot enter their territories unless invited. But this time we’re on safe ground. I had to swear to observe a formidable set of conditions before I received my permit and then Bokatan testified for me. A few off-world men have lived as licensed yoris hunters in Norbie territory, and from them, and the settlers for whom the Norbies will work, we have to pick up all we know about their customs. And there are tribes back in the hills who have had no contact with off-worlders or settlers at all, whose whole way of life may differ radically from those we do know something about—”
“You can’t live in a Norbie camp without government permission?”
“Oh, I guess it has been done, but the invitation has to come from the Norbie clan involved.”
Storm eyed the ranges ahead. He would fulfill his contract with the expedition. But afterwards what was to prevent his cutting loose and striking down south on his own? He had the team and he had learned how to live off the land in far more hostile countries than this one, including some where not only the natives were deadly enemies but also the land itself provided fatal pitfalls for the unwary.
As they traveled, Storm fitted into the wilderness and the duties of a scout as a hand would slip into a well-worn glove. He perfected his finger-talk with Gorgol’s eager aid and the assistance of the other Norbies. But repeated failures taught him the truth of what he had heard—that an off-worlder could not hope to learn and use the vocal speech of the natives. His efforts to imitate their twittering actually seemed to hurt their ears.
In spite of their lack of a common oral speech the Norbies adopted him in a way they did not accept Sorenson or Foyle. The Terran tried their bows, displaying his familiarity with that type of weapon, only he discovered that he could not string one made for an adult Norbie. Gorgol’s was lighter and when Storm’s trial shaft centered in the heart of a deerlike browser, the Norbies ceremoniously presented him with a smaller weapon of his own and a quiver containing five arrows with fire-bright heads, points brilliant enough to have been chipped from gem stone.
“Warrior arrows,” Gorgol told him via fingers. “No use second time after they have been dipped in man-blood. You warrior—you can use.”
The young native tried to persuade Storm to follow the Norbie custom of tattooing a bright scarlet band about the old scar on his shoulder, urging that any warrior would be proud to display such marks at the evening fire when Norbie men stripped off their corselets, showing for the awe of their untried fellows their marks of valor.
It was usual that Gorgol and Storm were paired as scouts, Baku circling overhead, and Surra ranging in a crisscross pattern to cover both flanks. The meerkats rode in skin bags slung across Rain’s back, scrambling out at every halt to go exploring on their own, but returning readily to Storm’s call, usually dragging some prize—a succulent root or brightly colored stone—which had taken their fancy, as loot.
This acquisitive habit of theirs was a never-ending source of amusement for the whole party, and there was a demand at each evening’s camp for Storm to turn out the bags where the meerkats stored their treasures and reveal what Ho and Hing had thought worth retrieving that day.
Twice they turned up worthwhile items. Once it was an “eye” stone—an odd gem sometimes found in dried river beds. It was shaped like a golden drop, the color of dark honey, with a slitted line of red fire through its middle, not unlike one of Surra’s eyes—save for the color. And it changed shades when moved from light to dark—the red slit lightening to yellow, the honey becoming greenish.
But it was the other find, made on the tenth day after they had left Irrawady Crossing, that excited the Norbies. Emptied out of Ho’s bag, among other gleanings, was an arrowhead. It was barbed and unlike the others Storm had seen in use by the expedition scouts, for the crystal from which it was fashioned was a milky white. Since the natives would not personally handle any of the meerkats’ plunder, the Terran picked it up, balancing it on his hand. Hunting points were always of green-gold stone, war arrows clear crystal with a blue cast—at least those carried by the camp Norbies were. This one’s delicate point had been snapped off, but otherwise it was a beautiful piece of fletcher’s art.
Dagotag, the leader of the Norbies, examined it carefully as Storm held it out, but he did not offer to touch it. He sucked in his breath loudly, a Norbie preliminary to serious pronouncement, and then made fast finger-talk.
“That be Nitra—over-the-mountains-men. Warrior—this be war arrow. Come to collect honors for Nitra warrior talk—kill strangers—”
“They be enemy you?” Storm signed.
Dagotag nodded. “Enemy us—we Shosonna people. Maybeso enemy you faraway men. Nitra never see faraway men—big trophy bow hand—”
“The Nitra eat THE MEAT?” Sorenson shaped a sign forbidden save in times of stress, and punctuated his question by spitting ritually into the fire three times.
“Not so!” Dago tag’s fingers flew. “Take trophy—hang bow hand of enemy in wizard house. But no eat THE MEAT. Only evil men do so. Nitra—good fighters—not evil ones who listen to black spirits in the night!”
“But they might fight us?” Storm persisted.
“Yes—if they track us. But this point—it may be old—of another season. Only we must watch—”
Every Norbie had reached for his skin bedroll and was bringing out his well-protected package of personal war arrows to place the customary five such shafts in their quivers beside the ordinary hunting points.
Storm spoke to Sorenson. “We’ll have plenty of warning if they do try to scout us. I have yet to see any living thing creep by Surra undetected.” He tossed the enemy arrowhead into the air and caught it. Dragged out of a man’s flesh, those cruel, brittle barbs were clearly meant to be left in the wound on the way. It was as wicked a thin
g as a blaster. Where Ho had found it and how long it had lain there were the important questions. Was it truly the relic of some long-ago raid, or had its owner discarded it that very day because it was broken?
He ordered the dune cat on guard, certain that no scout of the Nitra could win past her. And tomorrow Baku would comb the wastes ahead of them with better eyes than any human or humanoid possessed. The party was reasonably safe from a surprise attack, but there was the matter of an ambush, which could be so easily staged in this country, where the trail threaded through canyons and narrow defiles, along twisted traces where it was sometimes necessary to dismount and lead one’s horse. And the farther they bored into the mountains, the worse the going became. He could well understand that only a strong lure could drag anyone into this desolate country.
After Sorenson and Mac turned in, Storm brought out his own bow and arrows. The fire had not yet died down and he held those glittering points in its glow. One by one he touched each to his wrist and pressed, saw the answering drop of blood cloud the crystal tip. Then, when all had been so painted, Storm let the blood fall in a thick dollop to the ground. The age-old offering to secure strong “medicine” for a new war weapon was made. Why did he offer it now—and to what spirit of the Arzoran wilderness?
“Why you do so?” The slender hand in the firelight sketched that inquiry.
He did not know the Norbie word for fortune or luck—but he used the finger vocabulary he did have and tried clumsily to explain:
“Give blood—arrow shoot straight—enemy feel. Blood pay for good arrow—”
“That is true! You faraway man—but you think Norbie. Maybeso Norbie inside man—he fly far—far—be caught faraway—want to get back to his own clan—enter in faraway baby—so come back now. True—true—” The yellow-red fingers tapped lightly on the back of Storm’s hand close to that tiny wound. “Here—outside—you be faraway man. Inside, you Norbie come home again!”
Beast Master's Planet: Omnibus of Beast Master and Lord of Thunder (Beastmaster) Page 7