Fiction complete, p.47
Fiction Complete, page 47
He patched the worst slashes in his pant with a long thorn and a bit of vine, but the proud crimson tunic was a tattered wreck. It fluttered on his shoulders as he walked out into the open again.
On the ground, his sharp eye noticed trampled splinters of wood.
“The spear!” he muttered. “Funny—I can’t even remember when I dropped it.”
He searched the area, and finally dug up the copper spearhead with the toe of his boot. He put it in his belt and walked out to his fire beside the carcass of the loppa, feeling fairly fit although he knew he would be stiff and sore the next day. His fire still smouldered, and he piled on some dry sticks.
As The Star drifted lower on the sky, he began to worry.
“Someone should have come for me by now,” he told himself. “Unless—”
He finally banked the fire with turf and started out on foot for the junction of the brook and the creek. Walking made it seem quite a distance, and The Star was still lower, painting the eastern mountains gold and red, before he came in sight of the camp.
“Ho! It’s still there!” he exclaimed in relief.
Someone had seen him, for when he had gone a little way further, a figure showed against the dark tents, walking toward Yorgh. He wondered where all the carts were.
He was still a quarter of a mile from camp when the lone figure met him. It was Kwint, and he had changed somewhat in the four hours or so since they had parted. He wore a discolored swelling beneath his left eye, over which he peered at Yorgh.
“You can’t come back!” he said glumly.
“What?”
“Tefior sent me out to say they don’t think your latest joke was funny. They won’t let you come back.”
“Joke? What do you talk of, man?” demanded Yorgh.
“I suppose you meant just a little scare with that stampede, but it passed right below camp—where the wollies were kept!”
Yorgh realized then why Kwint had walked out to meet him. The tribe’s animals must have run their best as soon as the picket line went down, and it would take time to catch them.
He explained what had happened.
“Well . . . seeing the condition of you,” admitted Kwint, examining the tattered giant before him, “I myself believe it was really that way. But you know, Yorgh, it is said of you—”
“That I seldom speak in earnest,” Yorgh finished for him. “But I did what I could! Look at me! I am practically naked to the rays of The Star!”
Kwint was silent.
“Well, say something!” roared Yorgh.
The other kicked at the ground with the toe of his boot.
“Even so,” he murmured, “it would be best to stay out a few days, till we can tell your side of it around. They wanted to kill you!”
“Kill me!” gasped Yorgh.
It was a rough life they led, with brawling and even wounds when tribes mingled, but the one strict taboo was that no human might kill another—at least, not completely.
It was the law of all tribes, handed down with legends that they had come to The World from the stars and were once as numerous as the stars.
“I tried to quiet Moyt with my spear butt,” said Kwint, “for he was talking for hanging; but he is almost as big as you and knocked me down, as you can see. Then the boy came charging out of his father’s tent and pushed the cooking pot over on Moyt, for which Tefior beat him and tied him to the tent pole. And—this hurts me to say—the water wasn’t even hot!”
“And they all believed it of me?” said Yorgh despondently.
“Not all. Vaneen, I must say, tried to speak for you with others of us. But we were few to the numbers whose saddles you have greased or whose girls you have frightened out of swimming holes. Besides, we can’t find the wollies.”
“So they sent you to tell me not to come back?”
“Yes. I tried to bring my bow and a quiver of arrows for you when I saw how things were, but Tefior had them taken away.”
Yorgh’s face flushed, and he tugged angrily at his beard.
“I will go in and knock the old man’s jaw loose from his head!” he growled.
“Even if it does lose me all hope of his daughter. He has no right!”
In the end, however, Kwint dissuaded him. Yorgh was touched to find that his friend had brought his own cloak together with a bag of salt and a water-skin. They parted, and Yorgh trudged out to his fire again. On the way, he cut a tall,-straight sapling by the brook, about two inches thick, which he trimmed with his knife as he walked.
III
AFTER uncovering the embers and building up the fire again, he rigged sticks to roast as much meat as he thought he could carry, and carved the end of the pole to fit his copper spearhead. The Star had set and it was nearly dark by the time he got the metal tip fitted on and secured with the narrow strip of leather that had bound Kwint’s cloak.
With the alert senses of one who lives in the open, Yorgh looked up before the girl came within a hundred yards.
He watched wonderingly as she plodded out of the dusk and up to his fire. The flames put copper glints in her hair, like rays of The Star on water, but her features were set in a harsh expression.
“You walked out?” asked Yorgh cautiously.
Vaneen curled her lip at him.
“Thanks to you!” she said, and the “you” was like a blow.
“Some meat?” invited Yorgh, trying not to show his hurt.
“No.”
He considered. On the whole, even putting the best possible interpretation on it, be did not think he could call the girl’s visit friendly.
“They didn’t chase you out too, did they?” he asked mildly.
“My father sent me!” she all but spat at him. “He found me with something of yours, and nothing would do but I must get the accursed thing out of camp to fling in your face before nightfall!”
She took her hand from the belt of the blue dress, and Yorgh saw the gleam of the metal stick from the desert.
“It’s already dark,” he said hastily.
Vaneen sneered and dropped the object at his feet. Yorgh showed no resentment, thinking that she was beautiful even with a sneer. He could think of any number of girls whose faces became twisted and ugly with anger, but not Vaneen.
“Are you going back?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“I think you ought to sit down and make yourself comfortable with a steak.”
Vaneen glared at him.
“I can’t sit down and be comfortable, if you must know!”
“Why not?”
“My father took a stick to me when he found out that thing belonged to you.” Yorgh peered at her, and saw that she did not joke.
“If Moyt hadn’t been there to stop him, I probably couldn’t have even walked out here. You made a fine, merry day, Yorgh!” The hunter rested his chin on his hand and looked down at the aimless patterns he was tracing in the dust with the end of the metal cylinder.
Time had been, he reflected, that he would have thought it funny to hear of Vaneen’s being turned upside down and having some of the haughtiness knocked out of her. Once, even, he might have felt sorry for her afterward, or been enraged at the thought of Moyt’s being there to ogle—or, worse, to intercede.
At the moment, he merely felt weary and discouraged.
“As you like,” he said, “but it’s dark out there, and a long way back.”
He drew a circle in the dust and sliced it into quarters. After a moment, Vaneen turned back to the fire from staring across the dark plain. The long grass looked light gray in the dim light of Kioto, largest of The World’s three moons. Lax would not rise till early morning, and tiny Atropo was so seldom seen that walking in its “light” was proverbial.
“Here,” said Yorgh, “you can have my cloak for a cushion.”
Vaneen stared expressionlessly at the tatters of his fine red tunic, and he could not tell what she thought.
“I have my own,” she said, and unslung it from the back of her belt.
She threw the cloak about her shoulders and eased herself to the ground with just a hint of extra care.
Maybe the old fish did beat her, thought Yorgh. I’ll pull his straggly beard for him one of these days!
He cut off a portion of juicy loppa meat for her, and placed Kwint’s water-skin and salt between them. Then he went back to peeling the remaining bark from his crude spear.
He caught Vaneen watching him with her hand close to the small knife in her belt. Yorgh snorted.
“Go to sleep!” he said.
I can recall when she’d have needed a spear, Yorgh thought, but I just don’t have any spirit tonight.
He rolled himself in his cloak and stretched out. Something dug into his ribs, and he found the metal cylinder under him.
YORGH held it up before his eyes a moment, and muttered a few obscenities. He could remember nothing but bad luck since the moment he had found it.
A twig snapping in the flames caught his attention. He hefted the metal instrument in his palm, then tossed it into the fire.
He slept better than he expected. Once or twice, instinct awakened him in time to replenish the fire.
The last time he awoke, he found himself already halfway to his feet in the mist of dawn as Vaneen’s scream was choked off by a hairy hand slapped across her mouth.
Yorgh groped for his spear. All he could see, at first, were legs of wollies surrounding the fire.
The spear was not where he had left it; it was in the hands of a slim, black-bearded man in a fur cap who sat on the nearest wolly. He watched Vaneen’s writhings with amused admiration, but kept one eye on Yorgh.
The big hunter sensed men behind him, and leaped forward. The dark man looked surprised, and slid backwards off his mount just in time to escape the clutch of Yorgh’s big hands on his leg. Two bodies thudded into Yorgh from the rear, pinning him momentarily against the animal.
Then the wolly sidestepped and Yorgh reached around to grasp the men holding him.
Raydowers from the mountains, he thought, and swung them off balance, around in front of him, and together with a soggy crunch. Then he dropped them.
The man in the fur cap was just bouncing to his feet, the wolly having shuffled over his head. Yorgh snarled and drove at him, pulling out his bronze knife. More men came from behind, not in time to stop him, but in time for one to hang on his arm. The dark man swung the butt of the spear, and it cracked on the side of Yorgh’s skull.
When he came to, all he could see was long, oily wool. He squirmed, and found that he was tied face down across a wolly. Someone was telling someone else to be careful about kicking dirt over the fire.
Twisting his head, Yorgh found that he could see the fire, and some of the mountain men sitting their wollies beyond it. Vaneen was among them, not bound, but looking disheveled and resentful.
“Ah, coming around?” asked a voice.
The legs of a wolly moved into Yorgh’s sight.
“I am Ueln, of the Raydower tribe,” said the man in the fur cap. “I didn’t expect you back so soon. You have a hard head.”
Yorgh looked up at him painfully and grunted.
“We are going over to the brook to water the wollies,” said Ueln, “and to attend to other things before we start for the mountains. If you behave I will let you ride in the saddle.”
“All right,” said Yorgh, feeling he ought to make some answer to disguise the fact that he was not yet thinking very dearly.
“You promise not to try to ride away?”
“Where would I ride to?” grumbled the hunter.
As soon as he realized the explanation that remark would entail, he wished he had remained silent. Further questioning, however, was forestalled by a cry from the man at the fire.
He ran to Ueln, holding up a gleaming object.
“What’s this?” asked the Raydower leader.
Yorgh grimaced, and let his head drop.
“Keep it,” he said. “I make you a gift of it.”
Ueln hesitated. He moved his wolly forward a pace to call to Vaneen.
“It’s his good luck charm,” said the girl sourly.
“So?” Ueln hefted the metal cylinder in his hand thoughtfully. “What kind of luck has he been having?”
When no one answered him, Ueln leaned back, tossed a leg over the wolly’s front shoulders, and slid gracefully to the ground as if to search the fire more thoroughly. Unfortunately, his foot landed upon a thick piece of dust-covered fat discarded from the roast of the night before.
Yorgh looked up to see the Raydower sitting on the ground with much the same expression as when the hunter had lunged at him. This time, he held the metal stick instead of Yorgh’s spear.
After a moment, he climbed to his feet and looked around at his men. None of them laughed.
The dark man stepped over to Yorgh, and the latter felt the metal object thrust into the pouch on his belt before Ueln cut him loose so he could sit astride the saddle.
“I’ll let you keep your precious charm,” said the Raydower. “I like my questions answered by people, or things, I can see.”
Although the mountains thrust far out into the grasslands at that point, it took the better part of the day to pass through the foothills. Yorgh soon found out why the band was in a hurry when Ueln admitted to him that the long strings of wollies led at the rear had been “found” on the plain.
“But what could we do?” asked the Raydower. “Jayn sent us out to see what you had worth trading or stealing.”
“Jayn?”
“She is our chief, since her father died and She will not marry lest she lose the title to her husband.”
“Couldn’t you persuade her? You look like a man.”
“I am her cousin,” said Ueln stiffly.
“Oh,” said Yorgh, and rode on in silence.
They rode out of a narrow pass to see cultivated fields in a long valley. Yorgh’s eyes was caught by the village nearby. It was built of rock and had the most permanent look he had ever seen.
He dismounted stiffly when ordered, before one of the houses. Bruises unnoticed after the kromp had tossed him had made themselves felt during the ride. Two of Ueln’s riders pushed Yorgh through the open doorway on the heels of their leader.
They entered a hall evidently used for meals and other gatherings. From the smell of the flambeaux on the stone walls, Yorgh judged that the Raydowers traded with the Sea People for fish oil.
THEN he looked at the woman sitting in the big, carved chair on the dais along one walk She was attended by several men, armed, and a few women who were very obviously chosen for being less beautiful.
She was dark of hair and eye, and bore a certain resemblance to Ueln. Yorgh thought she must be a year or two older than himself. Then, as he was led closer, he saw that it was more likely five.
Jayn swept Vaneen up and down with a cold glance, but let her frank stare linger on Yorgh’s broad shoulders and golden beard. Ueln fidgeted impatiently.
“Is this what you were sent to get?” Jayn asked him.
Her voice was not as musical as Vaneen’s, Yorgh reflected, but it had a husky undertone that promised much. He saw that she took great care with her person, as befitted her position. Her long robe was dark and cleverly sewn to boast of every curve of her handsome body. It was belted at the waist by a girdle of the polished, light-blue stones for which the mountain people were famous. Yorgh wondered if her lips were naturally as red as they appeared.
Ueln had been explaining why he had not liked to leave behind two who might talk, especially as one was a hunter who could have trailed him. Jayn shrugged.
“I will decide how well you have done, Ueln, when we have counted the wollies. As for this pair, I am not entirely displeased.”
She rose and walked across the dais to look down on them. Following her glance, Yorgh saw that the blue dress which had looked so well on Vaneen two nights ago was much the worse for rough treatment. Jayn stared contemptuously at the rents in it.
“Well, girl,” she asked, “what can you do to make yourself useful?”
Vaneen gave her back stare for stare, saying nothing. Jayn tapped a small foot impatiently. Then she said something to make the men behind her grin.
“Come, come!” she snapped. “Where would you earn your keep—in my kitchen, or in one of the buildings housing our young men?”
Right there, Yorgh decided, was where he would have readied up and struck her, had she been a man and speaking to him. Women, it seemed, were wiser, especially in judging each other.
“Your kitchen,” said Vaneen evenly, but Yorgh knew that the day might come when Jayn would regret the affair.
So did the Raydower woman, apparently, for there was a hard look in her eye as she watched the girl led away. Then it softened as she turned to Yorgh.
“Untie him and clean him up, Ueln,” she directed. “And get him something to wear in place of that awful rag. You had no need to be so rough with him.”
Ueln bit his lip, glaring at the remnants of Yorgh’s crimson tunic. He turned on his heel and stalked toward the stairs flanking the entrance.
One of the riders touched Yorgh’s elbow, and he followed, seething undecidedly between the twin stings of being called ragged and of having it implied that a man the size of Ueln could have been rough with him.
He was led up one of the two flights of stone stairs which to him were a wonder, and to a small room with a straw-covered wooden bed. Ueln drew his knife and cut the cord on Yorgh’s wrist.
“There’s a pool along the trail a way,” he said. “Tomorrow, you can swim and dean up in the morning with the other riders. I’ll see if I can find a tunic big enough.”
“I have nothing to give you for it,” said Yorgh, unable to avoid feeling sorry for the man at being received so casually after his hard ride, unless you want to keep the knife you took from me as payment.”
“Never mind,” said Ueln. “You’ll earn it before long, if I know Jayn.”
“What do you mean?” asked Yorgh warily.
“She isn’t a bad wench, in her way,” Ueln muttered. “It’s just that she tries so hard to keep us all under her thumb because so many have been at her to marry. She would rather continue to be chief.”
