Beast Master's Planet: Omnibus of Beast Master and Lord of Thunder (Beastmaster) (35 page)

“He’s going right ahead—”

Gorgol was on his feet, standing unsteadily with one hand braced against the wall of the tent. With the other he signed:

“Krotag—we ride for Krotag—”

“No!” Hosteen answered and saw the stiffness in Gorgol’s expression. The Terran indicated the mike. “We call the Peace Officer. He will bring in the law—”

“Off-world law!” Gorgol’s whole body expressed his contempt.

Logan pushed away from the table and stood, weaving, yet free of support, using both hands. His Norbie dress did not look strange as he gestured, and the smooth flow of his signs was akin to the ceremonial speech of a chief meeting.

“Last wet season there was Hadzap, who came down into the herds of Quade, not asking for hunter’s rights—which those of Quade’s clan would have freely granted as is the custom. But he came in secret, without speech, and slew, taking only hides. And these he carried to the Port and would have sold to off-world men, asking for those things that he believed would make him greater in the clan. Was this not a shame upon all those of the Zamle totem? Yet did Quade’s clansmen come to take Hadzap for judging under off-world laws? No—not so. Quade sent me to Krotag to ask for speech between one clan chief and another as is rightful custom. And Krotag replied—let it be so—you, Kavok, riding with me to report to Quade as was right and proper, for we are both sons to chiefs.

“Then Quade came and Krotag, and they sat down together. Quade telling of what had been done. But when he had finished, he rode out to your camp leaving Hadzap to the justice of Krotag, nor did he afterwards inquire what punishment had been set—for this is as it should be when chief deals with chief. Is this not so?”

“That is so,” assented both Norbies.

“You may say now that this evil committed by an off-worlder is greater than the evil wrought by Hadzap. In that you are right. But do not think that we do not also consider it an evil. Did not this person of no totem strike us down also, for he knew that we would have prevented him by force from what he would do. And the Peace Officer will deal with him after our laws, even as Hadzap was dealt with by yours, for this is a grievous act and one that will harm both settlers and Norbies.”

“This is truth,” Gorgol agreed. “Yet Krotag must be told—for he
gave you the right to ride here, and he, also, will be answerable to others for this evil act.”

“That is so,” Hosteen agreed. “Let one of you ride for Krotag, and we shall remain here, trying to call our Peace Officer through the air talker—”

“And you swear it on the blood that you will wait here?” Gorgol looked from Hosteen to Logan. “Yes, it is so, for you are not of those who give their word and then make nothing of it for reasons of their own. I ride—let Kavok stay—since other than Zamle men may come and he can talk under the truce pole should that be needful.”

They took alternate shifts at the com after Gorgol departed, trying to reach the Peaks office with their calls—but silence was their only answer. Nor did Hosteen’s periodic demands upon the ’copter bring any reply from Widders or Forgee. The Terran tried to deduce how far into the Blue the flyer could go before the two would have to return to escape the day heat—without much success.

“They could even set down somewhere in there and take cover,” Logan pointed out.

“Once a fool, always a fool—that’s what you think of the civ? That’s cannibal territory—he’s been warned—”

“Widders is the type who wouldn’t expect any danger from natives,” Logan retorted. “And he’s armed with about every possible defensive gadget he could find. I wouldn’t put it past him to have smuggled a blaster in on that ’copter! He’d believe he could stand off any Norbie attack.”

And Logan was entirely right. Widders would think himself invulnerable as a modern, civilized man coping with natives armed only with primitive weapons. But, as all civs from off-world, he would thereby seriously underestimate the Norbies if he relied on mechanics to defeat those who had mastered nature in the Arzoran outback.

“Sleeee—” The hissing whistle cut through the open door of the bubble tent and startled both men.

Hosteen went out. There had been no alert from Baku or Surra, which meant the newcomers must be known to both members of the team. But he was angry at himself for not having briefed both cat and bird to give warning of any arrival.

It was not until the riders filed out of shadows into the open floor
of the canyon that Hosteen recognized Krotag heading a party of warriors. The Terran waited in the path of light from the doorway, not advancing to meet the chief when he dismounted. He must take his cue from Krotag. This was no time for excuses or explanations. The native leader must have had the story from Gorgol—and he must already have been on his way here or he would not have arrived so soon after the messenger left. What action he would take was his decision, and according to custom Hosteen must wait for the Norbie’s verdict.

The Terran stepped back as Krotag came up, allowing the chief to enter the tent, and then he gave way for a second tall figure.

Unlike the warriors, this native wore no arms belt or protective shield collar of yoris fangs. Instead, his bony frame was covered with a striking tunic fashioned of black-and-white feathers woven skillfully into a net foundation of frawn yarn. His horns were stained dead black, and each of his deep-set eyes were encircled by an inch-wide ring of black paint, which gave his face a skull-like aspect, daunting to the beholder. In addition to his feather tunic, he wore a short knee-length cloak, also a feathered net, but this of a brilliant yellow-green. And around his neck, on white cords, was slung a small black drum.

“I see you who wears the name of Krotag.” Hosteen signed formal salutation.

“I see you—stranger—”

Not a good beginning, but one he had to accept. Hosteen looked at the Drummer.

“I see also the one who can summon the bright sky arrows,” he continued. “And this one also wears a name?”

Silence, so complete that they could hear from outside the stir of a horse. Then the Drummer’s hands came out before him, palms up, while those black-ringed eyes caught and held Hosteen’s in a compelling stare.

Hardly aware of his action, the Terran raised his own hands, moved them out until palm met palm, and so they stood linked by the touch of flesh against flesh, Hosteen and the Norbie medicine man. Once before in his life the Amerindian had felt a power, not human and far beyond the control of any man, fill and move him.
Then he had been swept up and used by that power to bring prisoners out of a Nitra camp. But at that time he had deliberately evoked the “medicine” of his own people. And now—

Words came out of him, words the Drummer could not understand—or could he?

“I have a song—and an offering—

In the midst of Blue Thunder am I walking—

Now to the straight lightning would I go.

Along the trail that the Rainbow covers—

For to the Big Snake, and to the Blue Thunder

Have I made offering—

Around me falls the white rain,

And pleasant again will all become!”

Bits, fragments, dragged from the depths of memory by some power—perhaps borrowed from this Drummer. No true Song, just as Hosteen was no true Singer, yet those words stirred the power where it lay coiled deep in his body—or his mind.

Hosteen blinked. The maze of colors that had rippled before his eyes was gone. He fronted an alien face with round skull-set eyes. Only for a moment was there a flicker in those eyes, a belief or an emotion or a thought that matched what Hosteen felt. Then it was gone, and Hosteen was only a Terran settler fitting his hands to those of a Norbie medicine man. The hands drew away from his.

“This one wears the name of Ukurti. You are one who can also summon clouds—younger brother.”

“Not so.” Hosteen disclaimed any wizard powers. “But on my world, and long ago, my grandfather was such a one. Perhaps he laid upon me something of his own at his passing—”

Ukurti nodded. “That is as it should be, for it is a burden laid upon us who have the strength to pass it to those who can bear it well in their own time. Now there are other matters—this one who has taken the airways into the medicine country rashly and against the laws of your people and mine. This, too, is a part of your burden, younger brother.”

Hosteen bowed his head. “This burden do I accept, for it is partly
by my doing that he came into this country, and his rashness and evil are as mine.”

“That one has gone in—he will not return.” Krotag’s gestures were emphatic, but he eyed Hosteen with a mixtures of wonder and exasperation.

“That is not for our deciding,” corrected Ukurti. “If he is found, you, my younger brother, must deal with him—that we lay upon you.”

“That do I accept—”

There was a crackle of sound, not from without but from the mike before Logan. He jerked it up to mouth level.

“Come in—come in!”

“TRI calling base camp—”

Hosteen leaped across the tent and tore the mike from Logan’s grasp.

“Storm here—come in TRI—”

“—sighted the LB. Going down for look—on side of mountain—” The din of static half drowned out the words.

Hosteen made an urgent hand signal to Logan and watched his brother snap on the locater. If Widders kept talking, that ought to give them a fix on the present position of the ’copter.

“LB all right—going down!”

“Widders—Widders, wait!” But Hosteen knew that his protest would never be heeded by the men out there. Logan’s fingers relayed the information to the Norbies.

“So he has found what he has sought,” the Drummer replied. “It may be that his quest wins the favor of the High Dwellers after all. We shall wait and see—”

Hosteen clung to the mike, calling at intervals, but without raising a reply—until, at last, it came with forceful clarity.

“We are going to look for evidence of any survivors. Forgee—Forgee!” The voice grew as shrill as a Norbie pipe, carrying a note of surprise that deepened to alarm. “No! Fire—fire down the mountain. Forgee—they’re coming—Storm! Storm!”

“Here!” Hosteen tried to imagine what was happening out there.

“Fire at ’em, Forgee. Got that one!”

“Widders! Are you under attack?”

“Storm—we can’t hold ’em off—the fire’s spreading too close. We’re going to make a run for it—can hold out in the cave—”

“Hold out against what?” There was no answer from the mike.

“Those-Who-Drum-Thunder have answered,” Krotag signed. “This is the end of the evil doer.”

“Not so. They may still be alive,” Hosteen protested. “We can’t leave them there—like that—”

“It has been decided.” Krotag’s reply was final.

“You,” Hosteen appealed to Ukurti, “have said this man is my burden. I cannot leave him there—without knowing the truth of what has happened to him—”

Again it was as if the two of them stood apart from space and time in some emptiness that held only Norbie medicine man and human—that they were in contact in a way Hosteen could never explain.

“The truth was spoken—the burden is yours, and you are not yet loosened from it. These off-worlders have no part of what lies in the Blue, and they have been punished. But I do not think that the pattern is yet finished. The road lies before you; take it without hindrance—”

“If my brother walks this road, then do I also,” Logan’s, hands flashed.

Ukurti turned on the younger man the measuring regard of his paint-ringed eyes. “It is said rightly that brother should shoulder brother when the arrows of war are on the bow string. If this is your choice, let this road be yours also and no one—save the High Dwellers—shall deny it to you.”

“This is spoken on the drum?” Using finger speech, Krotag asked Ukurti.

“It is spoken on and by the drum. Let them journey forth and do what is set upon them. No one can read the path of his beyond-travel. This is a thing to be done.” His fingers tapped a small patter of notes on the drum head, a rhythm that sent a crawling chill up Hosteen’s back.

From the dark beyond the doorway came Surra, slinking belly to earth, her eyes slitted, her ears tight to her skull. And behind her, Baku, her beak snapping with rage—or some other strong emotion.
Last of all Gorgol, stalking like a sleep walker, his eyes staring wide before him. The Drummer gave a last tap and broke the spell.

“Go—you all have been chosen and summoned. Upon you the burden.”

“Upon us the burden,” Hosteen agreed for all that strangely assorted group of rescuers.

CHAPTER EIGHT

M

irage?” Logan asked dazedly, perhaps not of his gaunt, hard-driven companions but of the very world about them.

Having won through the cauldron of rocky defiles on foot, for the way they had come was not for horses, it was indeed hard to believe in this valley—the land sloping gently before them, widening out in the distance until they could no longer see the wall heights that guarded it to the west because here the yellow and yellow-green vegetation of the river lowlands was lush. There was no sign of the searing Big Dry cutting down grass and bush. And in the distance there was the shimmer of water—either a curve of river or a lake of some size.

Gorgol braced himself on his folded arms and surveyed the countryside with an expression of awe, while Hosteen sat up, his back against a rock wall still warm enough to feel through his shirt, though this was twilight. Three, four, five days they had spent in hiding, the nights in winning through to this point, where the Blue was at last open before them.

And on the last night only Gorgol’s knowledge of the outback had saved them. All water gone, the Norbie had searched the ground on hands and knees, literally smelling out a clue, until he scooped the soil from a small depression. He buried there a hollowed reed with a twist of dried grass about its tip, sucking at the other end with an effort that left him gasping, until after a half hour of such labor he brought liquid up from the source he alone suspected.