West of Eden

by Harry Harrison

  He dropped back onto the ground, exhausted again by the effort of speaking. What he had said struck terror into the listeners’ hearts for they knew that death was striding close.

  “They will attack,” Kerrick said. “Soon after dawn. They know exactly where we are. They plan these things carefully. They will have stopped for the night just far enough away not to be observed, yet close enough to strike in the morning.”

  “We must defend ourselves,” Herilak said.

  “No! We must not stay here.” Kerrick spoke the words quickly, almost without thought; they were driven from him by a strong emotion.

  “If we leave they will attack us while we move,” Herilak said. “We will be defenseless, slaughtered as we run. It will be better to remain here where we can make a stand.”

  “Hear me out,” Kerrick said. “If we remain here that will be exactly what they want us to do. It is their plan to attack us in this place. You can be sure that the attack has been worked out in all details and is meant to destroy us. Now we must stop and think of the best way to survive. The beasts they ride, I have never seen or heard of them before. That means nothing. They have the resources of an entire world out there. There are strange creatures beyond counting, murgu we cannot even imagine. But now we know about them, now we are forewarned.” He looked around. “We chose this place to camp because there was water and we could defend ourselves against attack from the river. Do they come by water as well? Did you see any boats?”

  “None,” Peremandu said. “The river was empty. They are so many that they need no aid. Their numbers were like the birds when they gather to fly south in the autumn. Like leaves, they could not be counted.”

  “Our thorn barrier will be trampled down,” Kerrick said. “So will we. We must leave at once. Go north. We cannot remain here.”

  The murmuring died away. No one wanted to speak, for all of this was too unusual, too new. They looked to their leaders. The sammadars looked at Herilak. The decision was his. His face was as grim as theirs, grimmer—for the responsibility now was his alone. He looked around at them, then straightened his back and slammed his spear butt onto the ground.

  “We march. The margalus is right. If we stay here it is certain death. If we have to make a stand it will be at the spot of our own choosing. The night is only half gone. We must make the most of the darkness remaining. Strike the tents . . .”

  “No,” Kerrick broke in. “That would be a mistake—for many reasons. It will take time, and time is one thing we do not have. If we pack the tents the travois will be heavy laden and that will slow us down. We take our weapons, food and clothing—nothing more.”

  The women were listening as well and one of them wailed at this loss.

  “We can make new tents,” Kerrick said. “We cannot make new lives. Load the travois with only the things I have said, the babies and small children can ride as well. Leave the tents standing. The murgu will not know that they are empty. They will attack, use up their darts, that will take time. We need all the time that we can get. This is what I tell you to do.”

  “Do as the margalus orders,” Herilak said, pointing his spear. “Go.”

  The mastodons trumpeted their complaints at being disturbed, but cruel blows in the delicate corners of their mouths moved them out. The fires before the tents were stirred to life and the travois were quickly lashed into position. Kerrick left Armun to load what was needed and hurried out of the encampment, to the head of the forming column where Herilak was waiting.

  Herilak pointed north.

  “The land rises there, you will remember. The hills are wooded and rough, with the stone of the mountains pushing through the ground in some places. We must get there before they catch up with us. It is there that we will find a position that can be defended.”

  The moon rose before they were ready and dawn was that much closer. They went out in single file, the mastodons squealing as they were goaded into a shambling run, the hunters trotting alongside. They had hunted this land for a long time now and knew every crease and fold. The sammads took the easiest and fastest track north.

  When dawn spread the first gray light over the landscape the column was stretched out, no longer running, but still moving. The mastodons were too weary now to complain and slogged steadily on, putting one great foot ahead of the other. The hunters walked as well, looking behind them although there was nothing there to be seen. Yet. The march continued.

  A long, wearying time passed before Herilak called a halt.

  “Drink and rest,” he ordered, looking back the way that they had come, waiting for the straggling column to close up. He waved Peremandu to him. “You know how far away from our encampment the murgu were. Will they have reached it by now?”

  Peremandu looked to the south and his eyes narrowed with thought. He nodded reluctantly. “It took me a longer time, but they are much faster. They will be there by now.”

  “And will soon be after us,” Herilak said grimly. He turned and looked to the east, then pointed to the foothills. “There. We must find a place to make our stand there. Move out.”

  The land soon began to rise and the tired mastodons slowed and had to be urged on. The path they were following took them up a valley, with a stream winding down the bottom of it. One of the hunters who had been scouting ahead came trotting back to Herilak.

  “The valley gets steeper and will soon be hard to climb out of.”

  They turned up the slope then, and when they had breasted it Herilak pointed to the even steeper, rock-strewn hill above. It rose steadily to forested heights beyond.

  “That is what we want. If we lie in wait up there they cannot attack us from behind. They must come up this slope. They will be in the open while we will be hidden among the trees. We will make our stand there.”

  Kerrick heard this with a feeling of relief as he came stumbling up. His leg throbbed with pain after the tiring walk and each step was agony. But there was no time to think about himself now. “That is a good plan,” he said. “The beasts are tired and cannot go much further. They should be taken deeper into the woods, to eat and to rest. The women as well. We must all get some rest because we will go on after dark again. If the numbers of the murgu are as great as Peremandu has told us, then we cannot possibly kill them all. It will be enough to stop them. What do you say to this, Herilak?”

  “I say that this thought is hard as stone. But I think that it is also true. We will wait for the attack at the forest edge. The mastodons will go deeper among the trees. Har-Havola, I want strong runners from your sammad to find a way through the forest and beyond while it is still light. We will fight. After dark we will go on.”

  The stragglers were still working their way up the slope when a hunter shouted a warning and pointed to the west, at the growing cloud rising up beyond the first of the foothills. The sight of it hurried the last of them on their way.

  A fresh breeze was blowing, rustling the bare branches above their heads. Kerrick sat next to Herilak on the soft grass, the afternoon sun warm on their faces, carefully feeding darts into his hèsotsan. The cloud was closer still. Herilak rose and waved the hunters to cover.

  “Conceal yourselves,” he ordered. “Do not squeeze the death-sticks until I order it—no matter how close they come. Then kill them. Slaughter them until they pile high and cannot get by their own dead. Do not retreat until you are ordered to. Then do it, but just a few at a time. Get behind the trees. Let the others pass by you. I want hunters hiding and killing, never stopping. Let them die among the trees just as they will die on the hillside. Remember, we are all that stands between the murgu and the sammads. Do not let them pass.”

  The murgu were close, the dust cloud now roiling up from the last valley that the sammads had climbed. Kerrick stretched full length behind the trunk of the large tree, the hèsotsan resting on a fallen branch. The grass on the slope swayed as the breeze moved across it. A flock of birds rose up from the grass and winged overhead. The rumble, like distan
t thunder, grew louder.

  A row of dark forms came suddenly into view on top of the ridge, moving slowly but steadily. Kerrick lay motionless, pressed to the ground, aware of the rapid thudding of his heart.

  The riding beasts were large, looking a bit like epetruk, striding forward on their thick hind legs, heavy tails swishing through the grass behind. Each of them had a Yilanè rider straddling its forequarters. Now they paused, looking up at the slope and the trees beyond. Waiting there as the rumbling grew louder.

  Kerrick gasped as the crest of the ridge darkened with the running figures, low beasts with too many legs. They stopped as well, milled about, armed fargi on their backs. Four legs to a side, eight in all. Tiny heads on thick necks. Raised and bred to carry, to bring the fargi here, more and more of them all of the time. They surged and crowded each other—then started ahead.

  The wind blew from them, carrying the cries of the Yilanè, the loud hammer of feet, shrill animal screams, the sour, bestial smell of the creatures.

  Closer and closer, looming high, coming forward along the track straight towards the handful of hunters hidden beneath the trees. Every detail of their spotted hides was now clear, the fargi clutching their weapons and blinking out through the dust, the Yilanè on their larger mounts forging ahead.

  Herilak’s warbling cry was small against the loud thunder of the attackers.

  The first death-sticks cracked out.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Kerrick fired at the nearest Yilanè, missed, but hit her mount instead. The creature reared up—then fell heavily. The rider dropped to the ground, unhurt, aiming her hèsotsan. Kerrick’s next dart caught her in the neck and she crumpled into the grass.

  It was a slaughter. The first row of attackers fell before the concentrated fire from the trees. Many of the lumbering, eight-legged beasts were hit, dropped as well, spilling the fargi from their backs to the ground. Those few that kept coming forward were killed well before they reached the line of trees. The survivors fell back, became entangled with the riders who were still coming forward. The darts flew into the jumbled mass and the bodies piled higher. The attack stumbled to a halt, encumbered by the dead, the air filled with the pained cries of wounded fargi crushed beneath the fallen beasts.

  Orders were being called out now by mounted Yilanè grouped to the rear of the attackers. Under their direction the fargi struggled to seek cover, to fire back. Kerrick lowered his own weapon to listen, understanding some of what was being said. One of the riders rode free of the attackers, calling for attention, issuing orders. Kerrick raised his hèsotsan but saw that she was carefully staying out of range. Her voice was clearly heard now, making order out of chaos. It was clear to Kerrick as well.

  He froze. Eyes wide, hands clenched and muscles locked. That voice. He knew that voice.

  But Vaintè was dead, he had killed her himself. Stabbed deep. Killed her. She was dead.

  Yet it was undeniably her voice; loud and commanding.

  Kerrick leaped to his feet, trying to see her clearly, but she was facing away from him. Then, as she was turning back in his direction, he was hit hard in the back, tumbled to the ground, dragged back into cover. Darts rustled in the leaves around him. Herilak released him, sought cover himself.

  “It was her,” Kerrick said, his voice tight with the effort. “The one I killed, the sammadar of all the murgu. But I killed her, you saw me.”

  “I saw you stab a marag. They can be very hard to kill.”

  Still alive. There was no doubt. Still alive. Kerrick shook his head and lifted the hèsotsan. There was no time to think about that now. Unless he could kill her again. Still alive. He forced his thoughts back to the battle.

  So far few darts had been fired by the attackers, so sudden and overwhelming had been the disaster. But now they found shelter behind the bodies of their dead and began to fire back; the leaves rustled and stirred at the impact of the numberless darts.

  “Don’t expose yourself!” Herilak called out. “Stay down. Wait until they attack.”

  The Yilanè who had survived the first charge now kept their large tarakast safely behind the mass of uruktop and fargi. There were loud cries as they ordered the attack to be pressed home. Reluctantly, the fargi rose and ran forward, died. The attack was broken even before it began.

  “We stopped them,” Herilak said with rich satisfaction, looking out at the corpse-strewn slope. “We can hold them.”

  “Not for too long,” Kerrick said, pointing down the hill. “When they attack from the sea they use a formation called the outstretched-arms. They go out to both sides, then come in behind. I think they are doing that now.”

  “We can stop that.”

  “For a little while. But I know their strategy. They will attack on a wider and wider front until they turn our flanks. We must be ready.”

  Kerrick was correct. The fargi climbed down from the eight-legged uruktop and spread across the face of the hill, coming forward slowly. They died—but more were ordered up behind them. The slaughter was great, but the Yilanè commanders did not care. More and still more fargi advanced, sheltering behind the dead, some even reaching the edge of the forest before they fell.

  It was midafternoon when the first fargi found protection among the trees. Others joined them and the Tanu defenders had to draw back.

  A different, yet equally deadly, battle now began. Few of the fargi had any experience in woodcraft. When they left their cover death usually sought them out. Yet still they advanced. There was no front to the battle any more, hunters and hunted mixed together in the gloom beneath the trees.

  Kerrick fell back with the others, the pain in his leg almost gone now, trying to keep the bulk of the trees between himself and the fargi. Yet when he straightened up there was a sharp crack and a dart hit the bark of the tree close to his face. He spun about, his spear ready in his left hand, sinking it into the fargi who had come up behind him, wrenching it free then hurrying deeper into the forest.

  The retreat began again. Whispered commands started the mastodons along the escape route, the hunters gathered behind them and guarding their backs. There were other, harsher commands being called through the forest now and Kerrick stopped, cupping his hand to his ear. He listened carefully, then turned and ran back through the trees to find Herilak.

  “They are withdrawing,” Kerrick said. “Without seeing them I can’t be sure of everything that they are saying, but there are bits of it I could make out.”

  “Are they retreating, beaten?”

  “No.” Kerrick looked up at the darkening sky above the trees. “It will be night soon. They are regrouping in the open. They will attack again in the morning.”

  “And we will be long gone. Let us now fall back and join the sammads.”

  “There is one thing that must be done first. We must search the forest, find as many of the death-sticks as we can. Then we can leave.”

  “You are right. Death-sticks and more darts. We have fired too many.”

  Night had fallen by the time they had searched out the weapons and returned with them to the sammads. Kerrick was the last. He stood looking back down the slope until Herilak called after him. He waved the big hunter to him, pointing.

  “Let the others return with the weapons. I want both of us to get closer to the murgu camp. They don’t like the dark. Perhaps there is something that we can do there.”

  “An attack during the night?”

  “That is what we will have to find out.”

  They walked slowly, weapons ready, but the enemy were gone from the hillside. Yet they had not gone far: their encampment was clearly visible on the grassy slopes beyond. A vast collection of dark bodies drawn together, silent and motionless.

  The two hunters took every precaution. Stooping low in the grass when they drew close, then crawling forward silently, weapons ready. When they were a long arrowshot away from the Yilanè camp Herilak stopped Kerrick with a light touch on the shoulder.

  “This
is too easy,” he whispered into his ear. “Don’t they have guards of some kind?”

  “I don’t know. They all sleep at night. We must find out.”

  They had crawled forward just a few paces more when Kerrick’s fingers touched something, a stick, a length of vine perhaps, hidden by the grass.

  It moved sluggishly between his fingers.

  “Get back!” he called to Herilak as the glow sprang up from the darkness ahead. A dim light that quickly grew brighter and brighter until they could see clearly. And be seen. There was the crack of weapons and darts rustled quick death into the grass around them. They crawled as fast as they could, stood and ran into the welcoming darkness as soon as they were out of range. Stumbling and falling, gasping for breath, they did not stop until they reached the ridge above.

  Behind them the lights faded, died away, and darkness returned. The Yilanè had learned after the massacre on the beaches. They would not be attacked at night again.

  When Kerrick and Herilak reached the sammads the darts and hèsotsan that had been retrieved from the battle had been loaded onto the travois; the retreat began once again. Herilak spoke to the sammadars as they walked.

  Four hunters had not returned from the battle in the forest.

  They went slowly, far too slowly to escape the attack that would surely come in the morning. They were all weary after two nights of traveling with little sleep. The mastodons screamed in protest when they were goaded on. Yet still the sammads stumbled forward, for they had very little choice. If they stayed, they died.

  The ground was rough, rocky, and uphill most of the way. Their progress became slower and slower and well before dawn it ground to a halt. Sorli brought the message to Herilak.