by Andre Norton
A mewling cry brought the trooper to his feet. Out of the woods came a party of riders. The one in the van wore a short scarlet cloak lined with ttsor fur and carried before him on a perch attached to his saddle a trained hork—thus identifying himself as a member of the Gatanu's own household. But among the other riders was the hooded, robed figure of a Ventur.
The noble did not dismount, but his guard did, pulling the trader with them. For, astonishingly enough, the Ventur was a prisoner, his hands lashed at his back. The Llor held a conference with their scout, their leader going so far as to ride out on the spit to peer curiously into the water, while the guards urged their captive to the bank.
Then, to the horror of the watching Terrans, they calmly picked up the smaller trader and flung him into the stream where the water was now whipped to a foam by the swarming tif.
Kana's first avenging shot snapped the noble out of his saddle—to plunge into the river headfirst. Methodically the Terrans fired in volleys, picking off the murderers on the far bank. Five of the party were down before the other three fled for the protection of the trees. But none of the fugitives reached that grove.
There was a continued flurry in the water where the tif greeted this rare abundance of meat. Kana dared not look at the place where the helpless Ventur had fallen. Death in battle was commonplace—he had been trained to believe that it would be his own end. But the callous cruelty he had just witnessed was to him a terrifying thing.
"By Klem and Kol'." Soong twitched at his sleeve and pointed to the river.
Something struggled there, flopping about—hampered by sodden robe and bound hands. And in an ever-widening circle about the Ventur floated tif, limp and belly up. Kana leaped to the top of the nearest rock and then to the next. A stripped Llor skull snarled up at him as he jumped the water gap which cradled it. The Ventur was on his feet, winding toward the sand spit where a moment later Kana and Soong joined him. Kana drew his knife.
"I cut those—" he said in the trade tongue, motioning to the hide thongs which bound the other's arms.
The Ventur retreated a step. His struggle to gain the shore had not dislodged his masking hood. Unable to read anything from the gray expanse, broken only by the eye-holes, Kana did not follow him.
"Friend—" Kana used that word with all the emphasis he could give it. He pointed to what was left of the Llor noble. "Enemy of us—enemy of you—"
The Ventur might be considering that point. Suddenly he wheeled and backed toward the Terrans, extending his bound wrists as far as he could. Kana sawed through the wet thongs.
His hands free, the Ventur caught the dangling reins of the noble's mount. An unusually well-trained and therefore highly valued animal, it had not bolted with the rest. The Ventur mounted somewhat awkwardly. His hooded head turned from the river to the bodies of the Llor on its banks and the skeletons in the water where the tif, replete, still floated, their menacing eyes on the prey they could not reach.
One hand groped beneath the robe and came out with a small damp bag. A finger which was closer to a green-gray claw indicated the lazily swimming death and then the inert bodies of the tif which had threatened it. It motioned as if sowing something from the bag on the stream. When Kana nodded, the bag was tossed to him and the Ventur kicked the gu into a racking gallop back into the woods.
"Is that something to knock out the tif?" Soong questioned. "Do you suppose they knew he had it when they threw him in?"
"I don't think so, or they would have taken it from him. Maybe its effects are permanent—those floating over there haven't come to—"
The tif which had attacked the Ventur to their own undoing still drifted belly-up, their wicked mouths open. And Kana noticed that their active fellows avoided them. The bag in his hand might grant the Horde a safe crossing.
And so it did. The gritty white powder it contained, strewn on the water upstream, kept off the tif until the Terran force was across. Whether the poison had a permanent effect the Combatants never learned, but as the rearguard trailed through the shallows tif bodies bumped the stepping stones and washed ashore on the spit.
Hansu identified the insignia of the Llor dead as that of the Household Corps. But he was more interested in the trouble between the Ventur and the guardsmen. The great deference paid the hooded ones on the march of Skura's troops east had underlined the belief that then the Llor wanted in no way to antagonize their silent transport specialists. Yet now a Llor noble had calmly ordered one of the Venturi thrown to a horrible death. Somehow the balance of power must have shifted amazingly during the days when the Horde had been fighting across the mountains—shifted to embolden the Llor to show an arrogant contempt for those they had respected for generations. Events certainly suggested that the Llor now had backing so strong that they believed they could make themselves the undisputed rulers of all Fronn. And was that support more than a renegade Mech Legion?
As the Combatants marched on, through valleys which spread out to the level lands of the plains, their alert uneasiness increased. Here the armored, moving fortresses of the Mechs could operate to the greatest advantage. Scouts spent hours each day watching the sky as well as the country before them for signs of aircraft. But since the clash with the party of Llor at the tif river they sighted no enemy. This land appeared to be left to the ttsor, the byll, and the wild khat upon which the two preyed.
On the second day after the Terrans had crossed the river their scouts sighted a village. It was a small frontier settlement, semifortified, ringed with corrals. Here the wild guen of these northern plains were rounded up once a year, sorted, and the duo-yearlings sold after a minimum of training. The pens were full now and a mounted force could move faster. Hansu decided it was wise to turn cavalry and the Combatants altered their line of march, heading for the town.
10 — TO THE SEA
As the Horde spread out in a half-arc across the eastern approach to the town, the first signs of life, other than the restless guen in the corrals, showed in a band of Llor, some riding, some trudging humbly on foot, headed from the domed houses toward the Terran lines. The foremost rider waved over his head a hastily constructed parley flag.
Remembering the fate of Yorke and his officers, neither Hansu nor any other of the Combatants moved from the cover they had taken on the first sight of the Llor. Apparently disconcerted by meeting with only empty landscape the Llor leader reined in his gu and sat, waving the flag at the brush and trees, his followers clustered timidly about him—trying to face in all directions at once.
"Lords—War Lords of Terra—" called the leader, addressing the empty air. And his words lengthened oddly until "Terra" might well have been "terror."
Without rising to view Hansu answered:
"What would you, Corban?" giving the other the honorary title of a headman of a city.
"What would you, Lords of Terra?" countered the Llor. He handed the flag to one of his companions and sat, his hands on his thighs, facing in the direction of the Blademaster's voice. "Do you bring us war?"
"We war only when it is offered us. Where open hands hold no swords, we show palms in return. We but wish to travel the road to our homes."
The Llor swung out of his saddle and started to the Terran lines. One of his followers attempted to detain him, only to be pushed aside as the Fronnian, his hands held ostentatiously before him, advanced.
"My hands are open, Lord. I close no road to you."
Hansu arose to meet him, holding his own palms up.
"What would you then, Corban?"
"Word that my village will not be trodden into the earth, nor the blood of my people shaken wet from your swords, War Lord."
"Has not the war banner been raised against us?" countered the Blademaster.
"Lord, what have little men to do with the fine words of Gatanus and nobles? He who sits on the hork-winged bench means little to us—there are always those to gather taxes in his name, whatever it may be. We wish only to live and depart not into the Dark Mi
sts before our time. And stern things have been said of you off-world ones—that you fight with fire those who deny you what you would take. Therefore come I to treat with you for the life of my village. Grain is yours, and the fruits of our fields—and whatever else you wish. Guen also—if it be your will to strip our pens of the newly caught wild ones. Only take your fill and go!"
"Then what if the Gatanu's men come and say unto you, `You have fed the enemy and given him guen to ride upon. You are one with him'?"
The Corban shook his head. "How can they in truth say that? For you are an army of men trained in strange and horrible forms of warfare. Nay, all of Fronn knows that nothing can stand against the might of your swordarms. For you fight not only blade to blade after our custom, but with fire which sears from a great distance and with death rained from the air. Some of you crawl in mighty fortresses of metal, lying snug within their bellies as they creep across the ground and crush your enemies under their weight! These things are widely known. So the Gatanu's men cannot believe that a village guard would dare deny you anything you desired. Therefore, I entreat you, Lord, take what you will and go—leaving us our lives!"
"You have seen the Terran fortresses which creep, the machines which fly through the air?"
"Not with my eyes, Lord. For I am an outland man—though Corban of men who do not flinch from hunting the ttsor on foot, nor from snaring the guen of the dales. But in the south all men have seen these wonders and the word has spread to our ears."
"These are then to be found about Tharc?"
"Yes, Lord, there are many of your wonderful machines there now. You wish to join them? It is well. But I entreat you—take what you want and go."
Hansu dropped his empty hands. "Good enough. We shall not invade your village, Corban. Send us supplies and one hundred guen—those broken to saddle use. And we shall not be deceived if you give us wild ones, but if you do we shall come and choose for ourselves."
The Corban raised his hands to his breast and then to his forehead in the salute a vassal renders his lord. "War Lord, it shall be even as you say. We shall bring you a conqueror's share and thank you for your mercy."
The Llor party went back to the village and Hansu addressed the shrunken Horde.
"—that's the picture. From this fellow's description there must be a full Mech Legion at Tharc. They have heavy stuff as well as wings with them."
"What about Truce Law?" called a voice from the ranks.
"Let's face it. Truce Law was broken when they flamed Yorke and the rest. Mech renegades aren't alone in this—they couldn't have brought in heavy stuff without help—a lot of it. And now they believe they can settle us whenever they wish. I don't care how much backing they have—they don't dare let any news of this get back to Prime. So their first move will be to shut us away from the ships at Tharc."
Shut off from Tharc—bottled up on Fronn—unable to get away. Kana watched the uncertainty mirrored on the faces of those about him begin to change to something else—a grim determination. Generations ago the weaklings, the irresolute, had been weeded and bred out of the Combatant strain. The mercenaries were, by the very nature of their trade, fatalists. Few lived to retire, or even to go into semi-service at the base. And they had followed many lost causes to the end. But this was a new experience. The code which to them was a creed, an unshakeable belief, had been flouted. And for that someone was going to pay!
"We'll get 'em—" The words were drowned out in a growl of assent.
But Hansu's gesture silenced that. "We're not alone," he reminded them. "Once Combat Law is broken here, what will happen? Others will begin to set Mech against Arch."
He did not need to continue. They knew what that would mean—vicious civil war on half a thousand planets, one Terran force pitted against another, bleeding their own world white—
"That has to be stopped here and now. One message to Combat Center and it will be!"
"We can't face up to big stuff in the field!" someone shouted.
"We won't try to. But we've got to get a messenger to Secundus or Prime. And the rest of us must hole up and wait for Combat to move."
"Stay in the mountains?" There was no enthusiasm in that question. They had had enough of Fronn's mountains.
Hansu shook his head. "We have an alternative. First we must learn more about what is going on. Now—set hostile country camp. Swordtans, scouts, report to me."
They went to the duties in which they had been drilled. Kana joined the others at the cart where Hansu waited for them. The commander had spread out a much-creased sheet of skin and was frowning at the blue lines which crossed and re-crossed its surface.
"Bogate"—he turned to the head scout— "when that Corban comes out with supplies, round him up and bring him here. These guen hunters must know the land for miles, know it intimately. We want all the information about it we can pry out of them. Mechs can't operate in rough territory—so we've got to keep to broken wilderness."
"But all around Tharc is open plain," one of the Swordtans objected.
"We have no intention of going to Tharc. They'll be watching for us to try that."
"The only space port—"
Hansu corrected him instantly. "The only military space port is at Tharc. You are forgetting the Venturi!"
Kana's lips shaped a soundless whistle. The Blademaster was right. The Venturi! As hereditary traders of Fronn they had some centers of their own on the mainland. And not too far from the western sea was a small off-world space landing used by the few alien traders who had managed to establish contact with the Venturi for a limited exchange of goods—mostly exotic novelties the Fronnian merchants were suspected of reselling at fabulous profit. To reach there—to take control of one of the trading ships—that offered a better chance than to try to blast their way into the toothed trap which was now Tharc.
"There is a space port near the Venturi holdings at Po'ult," Hansu was explaining. "There is no regular schedule of ships, but off-world traders do come. And we may have luck in making a deal for shelter with the Venturi. If we head straight west we should strike the sea not far from Po'ult."
The Corban was only too willing to provide any assistance which would insure getting these dangerous Terrans out of his territory. Kneeling with two of his best guen hunters over the map Hansu had produced, he asked one question which the Blademaster had to parry adroitly.
"But why, Lord, must you seek out a path through this wilderness? To the south the road is wide and smooth and there your brothers await you."
"It is our wish to visit the Venturi of the coast—and not to come upon them by a well-marked road—"
The Llor's tiny circle of a mouth moved in the Fronnian equivalent of a smile.
"Ha. Then it is true—that which has been whispered from mouth to ear—that the day of reckoning with those is coming? No longer shall the hooded ones keep the trails, nor be the only buyers and sellers to carry goods from one village to the next! That is good to hear, Lord. Eat up the Venturi forts along the coast if you will—and all the Llor shall speak kindly of you to the Ruler of the Winds. For when those fall, then there shall be rich spoil for all."
Eagerly he consulted the map. "Now here is a path—it lies among the western mountains and there may be Cos. But to you what are Cos—you may brush them out of your way as we brush the fas-fas beetles from our floors. And this path will lead you directly to the sea above Po'ult. May your hunting there prosper, War Lord!"
"Indeed may it," piously returned Hansu. And he moved his fingers in the Three Signs of those air, fire, and water spirits who must be consulted on Fronn before any major undertaking.
The Corban warmed still more and became their champion with the guen herders, personally inspecting the stock his fellow citizens had run out from the village corrals, and rejecting ten animals, much to the bafflement of his men who were prepared to make a handsome profit from the ignorance of off-world men, for Hansu insisted on paying for the animals. That night he gave a feast, us
ing a month's supplies with the abandon of a Chortha of a province. To the future conquerors of the Venturi he would deny nothing. And a handpicked corps of guides, selected from the most hardy and far roving of the guen hunters, was detailed to accompany the Horde to the foothills of the western mountains.
That was a day and a half journey—mounted—and Hansu pushed them to the utmost, driven himself by the desire to get out of the dangerous level country before they were sighted by a Mech patrol.
On the morning of the third day when they were well on the mountain trail they found the Llor guides gone. Distant behind them was the smudge of smoke in the sky and bits of charred grass drifted down. The hunters had lighted a plains fire to drive the wild guen into a netting place. Hansu watched that haze with satisfaction. It would effectively cover their trail, which was perhaps why the Llor hunters had lit it.
Now began the old nightmare of climbing, climbing and being ever alert for an attack. Though the hunters had insisted that this route lay on the edge of Cos-held country and that the mountaineers had very seldom troubled the caravans which used it, they could not be sure of a peaceful penetration. And the Llor had been unable to answer Hansu's questions as to whether the Venturi caravanmen had some pact with the Cos which insured that safety. However, the Terrans had no alternative but to advance.
The trail was marked with those narrow stone pillars erected by the Venturi, the pictographs on them untranslatable. And it was made for the use of guen.
That night they went without fire, camped in small groups, strung out with sentries between. But the hours of darkness were not broken by alarms and they sighted no beacons on the heights.
Kana had tramped behind Hansu for most of that day, and now, his blanket pulled about him for warmth, he crouched by an outcrop trying to snatch some sleep while the Blademaster sat cross-legged a yard away and listened to the reports of scouts.