Arskane did not break stride but threw himself to the left and crouched in the shadow of a bush, the darts he had picked up at the scene of the ambush in his hands, ready. Fors on the contrary stood where he was and held up empty palms.
“We travel in peace—”
The rolling words of his own mountain land seemed odd to mouth after all these weeks. But he was not surprised at the identity of the man who came out of the clump of trees to the right of the trail.
Jarl would be imposing even in the simple garb of one of the least of the Eyrie. In the insignia of the Star Captain he had more majesty, thought Fors proudly, than Cantrul, for all the Plainschiefs feather helmet and collar of ceremony. As he walked toward them the sun glinted meteor bright on the Star at his throat and on the well-polished metal of belt, sword hilt and knife guard.
Arskane pulled his feet under him. He was like Lura ready to spring for the kill. Fors made a furious gesture at him. Jarl, in turn, showed no astonishment at the sight of the two who waited for him.
“So, kinsman.” He fingered his bow as if it were a councilor’s staff of office. “This is the trail you have found to follow?”
Fors saluted him. And when Jarl did not acknowledge that courtesy he bit down hard on the soft inner part of his lip. True, Jarl had never shown him any favor in the past, but neither had the Star Captain ever by word or deed betrayed belief that Fors was any different from the rest of the young of the Eyrie. And for that he had long ago won a place apart in the boy’s feelings.
“I travel with Arskane of the Dark Ones, my brother.” He snapped his fingers to bring the southerner out of the bush. “His people are in danger now, so we join them—”
“You realize that you are now outlawed?”
Fors tasted the flat sweetness of the blood from his lip. He could, in all fairness, have hoped for little less than that sentence after his manner of leaving the Eyrie. Nevertheless the calm mention of it now made him cringe a little. He hoped that he did not show his discomfiture to Jarl. The Eyrie had not been a happy home for him-he had never been welcome there since Langdon’s death. In truth they had outlawed him long since. But it had been the only shelter he knew.
“By the fire of Arskane is his brother always welcome!”
Jarl’s eyes, those eyes which held one on the balance scale, went from Fors to his companion.
“Soon the Dark Ones will not have fires or shelter to offer. You are late in your returning, clansman. The drums of recall have been still these many hours.”
“We were detained against our will,” returned Arskane almost absently. He was studying Jarl in his turn and, seemingly, the result was not altogether to his liking.
“And not detained in gentleness it would appear.” Jarl must have marked every cut and bruise the two before him boasted. “Well, fighting men are always welcome before a battle.”
“Have the Plainsmen—?” began Fors, truly startled. That Cantrul could have moved so quickly out of the wild confusion they had left him in was almost beyond belief. “Plainsmen?” He had shaken Jarl. “There are no Plainsmen in this. The Beast Things have forsaken their ways and are boiling out of their dens. Now they move in numbers to make war against all humankind!”
Arskane put his hand to his head. He was tired to exhaustion, his lips showing white under the swelling which made a lopsided lump of half his mouth. Without another word he started on doggedly but when Fors would have followed him the Star Captain put out a hand which brought him up short.
“What is this babble of Plainsmen attacking—?”
Fors found himself answering with the story of their capture and stay in the Plains camp and their escape from Cantrul’s tent city. By the time he had finished Arskane was already out of sight. But still Jarl made no move to let him go. Instead he was studying the patterns he traced in the dust with the tip of his long bow. Fors impatiently shifted weight from one foot to the other. But when the Star Captain spoke it was as if he followed his own thoughts.
“Now do I better understand the events of these past two days.”
He whistled high and shrill between his teeth, the sound carrying far as Fors knew.
And he was answered when out of the grass came two lithe furry bodies. Fors did not notice the black one that rubbed against Jarl-for he was rolling across the ground where the force of the other’s welcome had sent him, rolling and laughing a little hysterically as Lura’s rough tongue explored his face and her paws knocked him about with heavy tenderness.
“Yesterday Nag came back from hunting and brought her with him.” Jarl’s hand rubbed with steady strokes behind the ears of the huge cat whose black fur, long and silky and almost blue in the sun, twisted in his fingers. “There is a lump on her skull. During your fight she must have been knocked unconscious. And ever since Nag brought her in she has been trying to urge me into some task-doubtless the single-handed rescue of your person—”
Fors got to his feet while Lura wove about him, butting at him with her head and rubbing against his none too steady legs with the full force of her steel-tendoned body.
“Touching sight—”
Fors winced. He knew that tone from Jarl. It had the ability to deflate the most confident man and that speedily. With an unspoken suggestion to Lura he started down the trail after the vanished Arskane. Although he did not look back he knew that the Star Captain was following him at the easy, mile-eating pace his own feet had automatically dropped into.
Jarl did not speak again, remaining as silent as Nag, that black shadow which slipped across the land as if he were only in truth the projection of a bush in the sun. And Lura, purring loudly, kept close to Fors’ side as if she were afraid that should she return to her old outflanking ways he would disappear again.
They found Arskane’s people encamped in a meadow which was encircled on three sides by a river. The two-wheeled carts were a wooden wall around the outer edges and in the center showed the gray backs of sheep, the dun coats of ponies in rope corrals with the lines of family cooking fires running between low tents. There were only a few men there and those were fully armed. Fors suspected that he must have come through some picket line unchallenged because of the Star Captain’s companionship.
It was easy to find Arskane. A group of men and a large circle of women ringed him. It was a crowd so intent upon the scout’s report that not one of them noted the arrival of Fors and Jarl.
tall as the young warrior before her and her features were strongly marked. Two long braids of black hair swung down upon her shoulders and now and again she raised a hand to push at them impatiently with a gesture which had become habitual. Her long robe was dyed the same odd shade of dusky orange as the scrap of cotton they had found in the berry field and on her arms and about her neck was the gleam of stone-set silver.
As Arskane finished, she considered for a moment and then a stream of commands, spoken too rapidly in the slurred tongue of the south for Fors to follow, sent the circle about her apart, men and women both hurrying off on errands. When the last of these left she caught sight of Fors and her eyes widened. Arskane turned to see what had surprised her. Then his hand fell on the mountaineer’s shoulder and he pulled him forward.
“This is he of whom I have told you-he has saved my Me in the City of the Beast Things, and I have named him brother—”
There was almost a touch of pleading in his voice.
“We be the Dark People.” The woman’s tone was low but there was a lilt in it, almost as if she chanted. “We be the Dark People, my son. He is not of our breed—”
Arskane’s hands went out in a nervous gesture. “He is my brother,” he repeated stubbornly. “Were it not for him I would have long since died the death and my clan would never have known how or where that chanced.”
“In turn,” Fors spoke to this woman chief as equal to equal, “Arskane has stood between me and a worse passing-has he neglected to tell you that? But, Lady, you should know this-I am outlawed and so free meat to any man’s spear—”
“So? Well, the matter of outlawry is between you and your name clan-and not for the fingering of strangers. You have a white skin-but in the hour of danger what matters the color of a fighting man’s bone covering? The hour is coming when we shall need every bender of bow and wielder of sword we can lay orders upon.” She stooped and caught up a pinch of the sandy loam which ridged between her sandaled feet. And now she stretched out her hand palm up with that bit of earth lying on it.
Fors touched the tip of his forefinger to his lips and then to the soil. But he did not fall to his knees in the finish of that ritual. He gave allegiance but he did not beg entrance to a clan. The woman nodded approvingly.
“You think straight thoughts, young man. In the name of the Silver Wings and of Those Who Once Flew, I accept your fighting faith until the hour when we mutually agree to go our ways. Now are you satisfied, Arskane?”
Her clansman hesitated before he answered. There was an odd soberness on his face as he regarded Fors. Plainly he was disappointed at the mountaineer’s refusal to ask for clan standing. But at last he said:
“I claim him as a member of my family clan, to fight under our banner and eat at our fire—”
“So be it.” She dismissed them both with a wave of her hand. Already she looked beyond them to Jarl and was summoning the Star Captain imperiously.
Arskane threaded through the camp, giving only hasty greetings to those who would have stopped him, until he came to a tent which had two carts for walls and a wide sweep of woolen stuff for a roof. Round shields of rough-scaled skin hung in a row on mounts by the entrance-four of them-and above these warrior shields the wind played with a small banner. For the second time Fors saw the pattern of the widespread wings, and below those a scarlet shooting star.
A small, grave-eyed girl glanced up as they came. With a little cry she dropped the pottery jar she had been holding and came running, to cling tightly to Arskane, her face hidden against his scarred body. He gave a choked laugh and swept her up high.
“This is the small-small one of our hearthside, my brother. She is named Rosann of the Bright Eyes. Ha, small one, bid welcome my brother—”
Shy dark eyes peered at Fors and then little hands swept back braids which would in a few years rival those of the woman chief and an imperious voice ordered Arskane to “put me down!” Once on her two feet again she came up to the mountaineer, her hands outstretched.
Half guessing the right response Fors held out his in turn and she laid small palms to press his large ones.
“To the fire on the hearth, to the roof against the night and storm, to the food and drink within this house, are you truly welcome, brother of my brother.” She said the last word in triumph at her perfect memory and smiled back at Arskane with no little pride.
“Well done, little sister. You are the proper lady of this clan house—”
“I accept of your welcome, Lady Rosann.” Fors showed more courtliness than had been in his manner when he had greeted the chieftainess.
“Now,” Arskane was frowning again, “I must go to my father, Fors. He is making the rounds of the outposts. If you will await us here—”
Rosann had kept hold of his hand and now she gave him the same wide smile with which she had favored her brother. “There are berries, brother of my brother, and the new cheese and corn cake fresh baked—”
“A feast—!” He met her smile.
“A true feast! Because Arskane has come back. Becie said that he would not and she cried—”
“Did she?” There was an unusual amount of interest in that comment from her tall brother. Then he was gone, striding away between the tent lines. Rosann nodded.
“Yes, Becie cried. But I did not. Because I knew that he would be back—”
“And why were you so sure?”
The hand rugged him closer to the shield stands. “Arskane is a great warrior. That—” a pink-brown finger touched the rim of the last shield in the row, “that is made from the skin of a thunder lizard and Arskane killed it all alone, just himself. Even my father allowed the legend singer to put together words for that at the next singing time-though he has many times said that the son of a chief must not be honored above other warriors. Arskane -he is very strong—”
And Fors, remembering the days just past, agreed. “He is strong and a mighty warrior and he has done other things your legend singer must weave words about.”
“You are not of our people. Your skin”—she compared his hand with hers—“it is light. And your hair-it is like Becie’s necklace when the sun shines upon it. You are not of us Dark People—”
Fors shook his head. In that company of warm brown skins and black hair his own lighter hide and silver head-capping must be doubly conspicuous.
“I come from the mountains-far to the east—” He waved a hand.
“Then you must be of the cat people!”
Fors’ gaze followed her pointing finger. Nag and Lura sat together at a good distance from the sheep and the tough little ponies as they had apparently been ordered to do. But, at Fors’ welcoming thought, Lura came up, leaving Nag behind. Rosann laughed with pure delight and threw her arms around the cat’s neck, hugging her tight. The rumble of Lura’s purr was her answer and a rough pink tongue caressed her wrist.
“Do all you people of the mountains have the big cats for your own friends?”
“Not all. The cat ones are not so many and it is for them to choose with whom they will hunt. This is Lura who is my good friend and roving companion. And that yonder is Nag who runs with the Star Captain.”
“I know-the Star Captain Jarl, he who has the kind eyes. He talks in the night with my father.”
“Kind eyes.” Fors was a little startled at a description so at variance with what he thought he knew. Though Rosann probably did not see Jarl as he appeared to a mutant and tribal outlaw.
Smoke was rising from the line of fires and borne with it was the fragrance of cooking. Fors could not repress a single sniff.
“You are hungry, brother of my brother!”
“Maybe-just a little—”
Rosann flushed. “I am sorry. Again have I let my tongue run and not remembered the Three Duties. Truly am I shamed—”
Her fingers tightened on his and she pulled him under the entrance flap of the tent.
“Down!”
Fors’ heels struck against a pile of thick mats and he obediently folded up his long legs and sat. Lura collapsed beside him as Rosann bustled about. Before Fors could even make out the patterns of the hangings on the walls Rosann returned, carrying before her a wide metal basin of water from which rose steam and the spicy scent of herbs. A towel of coarse stuff lay over her arm and she held it ready as Fors washed.
Then came a tray with a spoon and bowl and a small cup of the same bitter drink he had brewed under Arskane’s direction in the museum. The corn mush had been cooked with bits of rich meat and the stimulating drink was comforting in his middle.
He must have dozed off afterward because when he roused it was night outside and the crimson flames of the fire and the lesser beams of a lamp fought against the shadows. A hand placed on his forehead had brought him awake. Arskane knelt beside him and there were two others beyond. Fors levered himself up.
“What—” He was still half asleep.
“My father wishes to speak with you—”
Fors gathered his wits. One of the men facing him now was a slightly older edition of his friend. But the other wore about his throat a pair of silver wings fastened to a chain of the same stuff.
The chieftain was smaller than his sons and his dark skin was seamed and cracked by torrid winds and blistering suns. Across his chin was the ragged scar of an old and badly healed wound. Now and again he rubbed at this with a forefinger as if it still troubled him.
“You are Fors of the mountain clans?”
Fors hesitated. “I was of those clans. But now I am outlaw—”
“The Lady Nephata gave him earth—”
Arskane was both interrupted and effectively silenced by a single sharp look from his father.
“My son has told us something of your wanderings. But I would hear more of this Plainsmen encampment and what chanced with you there—”
For the second time Fors repeated his outline of recent events. When he had finished the Chief favored him with the same sort of intimidating glare which had worked on his son a few minutes before. But Fors met it forthrightly.
“You, Ranee,” the Chief turned to the young man with him, “will alert the scouts against this trouble and make the rounds of the western outposts every hour. If an attack offers, the two beacons on the round hills must be fired. That you must keep ever in the minds of the men—”
“You see, rover”—the Chief spoke over his shoulder, addressing a shadow near the door, and for the first time Fors noted a fourth man there—“we do not go to war as to a banquet-as these Plainsmen seem to do. But if it be necessary then we can fight! We who have faced the wrath of the thunder lizards and taken their hides to make our shields of ceremony—”
“Do not greatly fear the lances of mere men.” The Star Captain appeared faintly amused. “Perhaps you are right, Lanard. But do not forget that the Beast Things are also abroad and they are less than men-or more!”
“Since I have ordered the war drums for more than the lifetime of this my youngest son, I do not forget one danger when faced by another, stranger!”
“Your pardon, Lanard. Only a fool tries to teach the otter to swim. Let war be left to the warriors—”
“Warriors who have sat too long at their ease!” snapped the chieftain. “To your posts, all of you!”
Arskane and his brother went, the chieftain stamping out impatiently after them. Fors started to follow.
“Wait!”
There was the crack of a whip in that one word. Fors stiffened. Jarl had no power of command over him-not even the faintest shadow of power if he was an outlaw. But he dropped his hand on Lura’s head and waited.
“These people,” Jarl continued with the same harsh abruptness, “may be broken between two enemies. It is not in their nature to back trail and in their own country there has been nothing they could not vanquish. Now they have come into this new land and fight on strange territory against those who are familiar with it. They face worse than they can imagine-but if that truth is told them they will not believe it.”
Fors made no comment and after a moment the Star Captain went on:
“Langdon was my good friend always, but there was a streak of rashness in him and he did not always see the road ahead with clear eyes—”
At this criticism of his father Fors stirred but he did not speak.
“You have already, youth that you are, broken the clan laws-going your own way in pride and stubbornness—”
“I ask for nothing of the Eyrie’s giving!”
“That is as it may be. I have twice heard your tale-you have a liking for this Arskane, I think. And you have eyes and a talent for getting under the skin of a man. This Marphy is one whom we might well remember. But Cantrul is a fighting man and of a different breed. Give him something to fight and he may be more open to other thoughts when the victory lies behind him. Very well, it is up to us to give him something to fight-something other than this tribe!”
“What—?” Fors brought only the one word out of his vast amazement.
“Beast Things. A well-baited trail could lead them north to the Plains camp.”
Fors began to guess what was coming. He swallowed, his mouth and throat suddenly dry. To be bait for the Beast Things, to run north a pace or two before the most hideous death he knew-
“Such a task could be only ours alone—”
“You mean-not tell Lanard?”
“It would be best not. The plan would have no merit in their eyes now. You-you are an outlaw-a stranger who might well have little stomach for a fight not his. If you were to desert this camp, run away—”
Fors’ nails bit into the palms of his balled fists. To appear a skin-saving coward in Arskane’s eyes-just because Jarl had dreamed up so wild a plan-And yet part of him acknowledged the point of the Star Captain’s reasoning.
“If the Plainsmen and this tribe fight-then it may well follow that the Beast Things shall finish off both of them.” “You do not have to point it out to me as one and one are two,” Fors spat out. Somewhere a childish voice was humming. And the brother of that child had brought him whole out of the valley of the lizards.
“When do I march?” he asked the Star Captain, hating him and every word he himself spoke.