The Iron Breed (45 page)

That furred creature, the hurt one—it must have long since reached the tower. She wished she could remember why it seemed so familiar. The records of the First Ships, because of that destruction, often withheld just the details one needed most.

Oddly enough it came to her back in her own cabin, and from the strangest source. She had been fed by that feeling of nostalgia to open her small packet of allowed personal items. They were, perhaps to a stranger, a queer collection. There was a flower preserved between two-inch-wide squares of permaplast, its violet-blue as richly vivid as it had been when she had encased it. And a water-worn pebble that came from the stream outside her home at Veeve Station. She had kept it because the crystalline half was so oddly joined to the black stone. And then there was Putti—

Ayana stared now at Putti wide-eyed. There had always been Puttis—round and soft, made for children. They were traditional and common. She had kept hers because it was the last thing her mother had made before she died of the one illness on Elhorn they had found no remedy for. Puttis were four-legged and tailed. Their heads were round, with shining eyes made of buttons or beads, upstanding pointed ears, whiskers above the small mouth. Puttis were loved, played with, adored in the child world; their origin was those brought by children on the First Ships.

She had seen one of those original Puttis, also preserved in permaplast. And that one had been covered with fur.

Putti! She could not be right, to compare the soft toy with that muscular furred creature on the bridge. But Putti could have been made by someone trying to represent just such a creature in softer materials than flesh, blood, and bone. She was about to start up, to hunt Jacel and Massa with news of her discovery, when second thoughts argued against that. The resemblance, now that she studied Putti closely, grew less and less. She might make the connection in her own mind, but that was not proof. Putti, a toy—and a weapon-bearing primitive (if not an animal) skulking through buildings long deserted by her kind—No, it was foolish to expect the others to accept that suspicion.

* * *

Furtig held the platter of meat on his knee and tried to show proper manners by not stuffing his mouth or chewing too loudly. He was hungry, but there was Liliha, smoothing her tail as she rested on a thick cushion, now and then fastidiously flicking some small suggestion of dust from her fur. He could hear, just, her very muted throat purr, as if she were lost in some pleasant dream. But he did not doubt she was aware of every move he made. So he curbed his appetite and tried to copy the restraint of the In-born.

“The flyer”—she broke her self-absorption—“is in the air again. It does not hang above us but has headed toward the west. Dolar and two scouts saw it rise. There was a Demon in it.”

“It is not like the servants here then, able to go on its own?” Furtig wanted to keep her talking. Just to have Liliha sitting there while he ate, relaxed in the thought that he had won to safety through such adventures as most warriors never dreamed of, and that he had rested well and was ready to follow the outer trails again, was pleasing.

“So it would seem. They made it of pieces they brought in the sky-ship.”

Furtig marveled at her patience. He should have remembered that; Gammage had spoken of it the night before. But at that time Furtig had not been thinking too clearly. Now he glanced up hastily, but Liliha was not eyeing him with scorn.

“If they made it,” she continued, “then within these lairs may lie that which can also be used for the same purpose. Gammage has set those who watched the making into search for such.”

Privately Furtig did not doubt that, given the time and the means, the Ancestor and his followers would be able to duplicate the flyer. But then to find someone to fly in it—that was a different matter. Though he could imagine Gammage ready to make the attempt if offered the chance. He, himself, preferred to do his traveling—and any fighting—on the solid and dependable ground. But there were advantages to such craft. They could take a scout higher than any spy tree. Just as the Demon was now viewing the lairs from above.

On the other hand, unless the Demon had some unheard-of way of looking through solid roofs and walls, he would see only the lairs and not what or who moved in them under cover. Only in the open country could such servants be used to advantage.

Furtig swallowed the last mouthful of meat. Now he raised the bowl and lapped as mannerly as he could at the residue of good juices gathered in the bottom. The lair people lived well. They had fish, found in small inner lakes (made it would seem for no other purpose than to hold them in readiness to be eaten). And there were other places where birds and rabbits were preserved in runs, fed and kept safe until they were needed.

The cave people might well think of that. Suppose they kept alive some of the creatures they hunted or netted, fed them in pens. Then when game became scarce and the weather ill for hunters, there would be food at hand. Yes, there were more things than Demon knowledge to be learned here in the lairs.

He ran his tongue along the bowl rim to gather up the last drop, then licked upper and lower lips clean.

“What of the Barker?” he asked.

He still believed that Gammage's plan of trying to make truce with Barkers would not work. But he was also wary of guessing the outcome of any of the Ancestor's plans. He had witnessed too much of what had been accomplished here for that.

“Dolar has sent a party with two of the rumblers. The Rattons fear those greatly, for they run forward, crunching all in their path, and cannot be turned aside in any way the Rattons have yet discovered. With those to break a path for our warriors we hope to free the Barker. In the meantime—Foskatt has found the other tapes, and they are being brought back. Ku-La is out of the healing place. Soon he will go to talk to his people.”

“As I must to the Elders of the caves.” Furtig stood up. He was no longer tired, nor was his fur matted by crawling through the dust of the ducts and then through the pelting of the storm. It was sleek and smooth. He fastened on his belt neatly, seeing that in the newly improvised loop there was still the lightning-bolt weapon of the Demons. Apparently that was yet his.

Such a weapon would impress the Elders. If he remembered rightly Gammage's words during that last meeting, he would be given other weapons to influence their decision. The sooner he took the trail to that purpose then, the better. He said so as he finished checking his belt.

“Well enough,” Liliha agreed. Her guidance would take them through the lairs to the best point from which to strike out for the caves.

Furtig had slept a long time, almost a full day. It was close on evening and shadows were painting larger and larger pools for concealment as, at last, the three of them threaded a way through silent corridors, past echoing rooms which might not have known life and use since the Demons died or fled. As a guide Liliha went first, wearing a pack between her slim shoulders and around her waist the same belt of tools and weapons as the warriors wore. Then came Furtig and Foskatt, ready to play rear guard if needed.

They must move their swiftest while under the protection of the lair roofs, Furtig thought. For he did not forget the flyer. Why the Demon had not killed them on the bridge was a mystery to him. And he did not want death to strike out of the sky now. It was difficult enough to fight at ground level.

If Demons could see in the dark, then even the coming of night would not aid them. To the end of the lairs they could keep under cover, descending to the underground ways when there was need. But Furtig did not forget that wide expanse of open between the lairs and the beginning of the growth that provided normal cover for his kind. He hoped the night would be cloudy when they reached that point.

Liliha brought them to a window from which they could see that open space. They were at the edge of the lairs. Furtig's sense of direction was in operation. They were to the north of that place where he had crossed before, but not too much so.

He studied the strip narrowly. His own fur was dark, not far different in shade from the withered grass. And Foskatt had the same natural adaptation to the country. It was different for Liliha. Not only was her fur lighter, but it was so thin a coating of fluff that she might well be sighted from above.

“Look you, woods warriors,” she said as he commented on that. She slipped off her pack and shook out something she had taken from it. Now she held not a small square but a mass of something—

Furtig shook his head and tried to concentrate on what she held. But it was no use—his keen sight failed him. He could not look at it directly! To do so made him queasy. He wanted to strike out, tear that disturbing substance from her.

But she was winding it about her. And where that stuff covered her body, he could no longer look. Finally only her head remained free of the distortion.

“Another Demon secret, and one but lately discovered. Gammage has but two of these, cut from a single one. When I wear this no one can look at me. Unless he wishes to have his eyes turn this way, that way, and his head whirl about. Now, do not worry about me, look to yourselves, warriors, and cross quickly. The flyer makes itself known by noise. If you hear it coming, take what cover the land offers. I shall meet you where the trees grow. Good traveling to you.”

Furtig could not look at her at all now. She had pulled a flap of the distorting stuff up over her head and become hidden. He had to turn away and knew she slipped out the window only by the faint sounds made by her going.

“The Demons,” remarked Foskatt, “seem to have an answer for any problem. Let us hope that such answers can, in turn, be used against them. She is well gone. It is indeed a kind of hiding I am glad we do not have to deal with often. To the trail then, clan brother!”

The window was wide enough to let them slip through together. Furtig crouched on the ground almost happily. It was good to feel fresh soil and not pavement, the ways of the Demons. He did not look ahead yet, having no wish to see some eye-twisting shimmer in the moonlight covering Liliha's going. His hunter's training took over, and he fell back into the patterns he had learned as a youngling.

It was difficult to keep on listening for the beat in the sky, the possible return of the flyer. Once within the screen of the brush beyond the open, Furtig rose to his full height and gave a purring sigh of relief.

“For so far,” Foskatt echoed his feeling, “we have done well. But—”

Furtig swung around. He had picked up a scent that was not Liliha's. No, this was strong and rank. He was downwind of a Tusker, probably more than one. And that surprised him, for Tuskers had no interest in the lairs, very little curiosity about their past, and were seldom to be found hereabouts.

There was still a truce between the People and the Tuskers. And they shared the same territories, since the Tuskers fed upon roots and vegetation. Though the Tuskers were meat, they had no appeal for the People, they were far too formidable to be prey.

Furtig could hear now that low grunting which was Tusker speech. None of the People could imitate it, any more than Tusker throat and tongue could shape the proper words of a warrior. But they understood sign language and could answer it.

A warning? Did the Tuskers know of the flyer? It might be well to suggest that they keep under cover.

Furtig uttered a low wailing cry to announce his coming. And without waiting to see if Foskatt followed, swung into the heavy, disagreeable scent which would lead him to the grubbing ones.

When he reached them, they were in battle formation, their big heads, weighed down by the great curved tusks which named them, low to the ground. The older warriors stood still, watching with their small red eyes. One or two of the younger ones on the back fringes of the party pawed the soil, kicking it up in warning.

They were not a full family party as Furtig had expected. There were no females or younglings behind that outer defense of one great Elder and such of his male offspring as had not yet gone to start their own families. Furtig knew that Elder—the seam of an old scar across his nose marked him. Unlike the People the Tuskers had kept to four feet, never learning to walk on two. Also they used no weapons except those nature provided. But mind to mind they were no less than warriors of the caves or the lairs.

Furtig saw that that they were deeply angered and would have to be approached with care. For the temper of such as Broken Nose was uncertain when he was in such a mood. Furtig advanced no closer, but sat down, curling his tail over his feet in a peace sign.

The younger Tuskers snorted. One pawed again, wrinkling lips to show fangs. Furtig paid them no attention. It was Broken Nose who ruled here. Having waited for a small time to show that he had not only come in peace but for good reason, he held out his hands and began to try to tell the complicated story of the Demons' landing, of the flyer, in a series of signs.

One of the younglings grunted and his neighbor shouldered him roughly into silence. Encouraged, Furtig ran through his signs slowly, began to tell the same tale again. This was no exchange of general news about the countryside; he must improvise signs to explain things totally new to both their peoples.

And having told it twice, he could only wait to see if he had been clever enough to get his message into a form Broken Nose could understand. For a very long moment he waited and his heart sank. The boar made no move. It could be Furtig had failed. He was about to begin again when Broken Nose grunted.

One of the younger of his band moved forward a little. He squatted clumsily on his haunches, balancing so he could raise one hoofed foot from the ground to gesture or use to draw in the leaf mold.

It was a complicated business that exchange of information. But at last Furtig thought he had the story, and his fur stiffened and he hissed.

The Tuskers had witnessed the landing of the Demon ship, though its final settling to the ground had been hidden by the lairs. The unusual flashing of fire had alarmed Broken Nose. He was old and wily enough to know that suspicion and safety went hand in hand. So he had sent his females and younglings into what he believed good hiding in a rock-walled place where there was but one entrance, which would be well defended by two nonbreeding females, both formidable opponents. Then he, with his warriors, had set out to discover the meaning of the strange fire.