STAR GUARD

INTRODUCTION: THE MERCENARIES

When the dominant species of a minor nine planet system revolving about a yellow sun known as “Sol”—situated close to the fringe of the Galaxy—gained knowledge of space flight and came out into our lanes of travel there arose a problem which Central Control had to solve, and speedily. These “men,” as they called themselves, combined curiosity, daring, and technical skill with a basic will-to-compete against other races and species, an in-born thrust to conflict. Their answer to any problem was aggressive. Had this “will-to-battle” not been recognized at once for what it was and channeled into proper outlet, infinitesimal as their numbers were among us, we have been told that their influence might have torn asunder the peace of the stellar lanes and plunged whole sectors into war.

But the proper steps were taken at once and the Terrans were assigned a role which not only suited their nature but also provided a safety valve for all other belligerents among the systems which make up our great confederacy. Having been studied and carefully evaluated by Central Control psycho-techneers the Terrans were appointed to act as the mercenaries of the Galaxy—until such a time as these too independent and aggressive creatures would develop for themselves some less dangerous calling.

Thus there came into being the “Hordes” and “Legions” we find mentioned again and again in the various solar histories of the period. These organizations, manned by either “Archs” or “Mechs,” carried on a formalized warfare for any planetary ruler who desired to enhance his prestige by employing them to fight his battles.

The Archs who comprised the Hordes were limited to service upon primitive worlds, being equipped with hand weapons and fighting in personal combat. The Mechs of the Legions followed technical warfare, indulging in it, however, more as a game in which it was necessary to make one’s opponent concede victory, often without actual battle.

When still in the newly hatched stage “men” were selected to be either “Archs” or “Mechs” by rigid aptitude tests. After a period of intensive schooling in their trade they signed on for “enlistments” under field commanders. A portion of each payment made to the individual Horde or Legion commander by his employer was returned to their home world, Terra, as a tax. In other words, this system exported fighting men and the materials for war and became merchants of battle. Within a generation they accepted their role among us, apparently without question.

Three hundred years later (all students turn, please, to folio six, column two—the date of “3956 A.D.” is a reckoning peculiar to Terra, we use it in your source material for this section because all reading will be based upon certain accounts written by the Terrans themselves) a minor Horde was employed by a rebellious native ruler on Fronn. While so engaged this organization uncovered a situation which changed history for their species, and perhaps for the Galaxy as well. Whether this change will operate for the general good for us all remains to be seen.

(From a lecture in “Galactic History XX” delivered by Hist-Techneer Zorzi at the Galactic University of Zacan—Subject of the lecture: Minor Systems’ Contribution to Historic Changes—presented first on Zol-Day, 4130 A.D.—Terran reckoning.)

1 — Swordsman, Third Class

Because he had never been in Prime before Kana Karr, Arch Swordsman, Third Class, would have liked nothing better than to brace his lanky length against the wall of the airport and stare up at those towers thrusting into the steely blue of the morning sky. But to do that was to betray himself as a greenie, so he had to be satisfied with glances skyward taking in as much of the awesome sight as he could without becoming conspicuous. More than ever he resented the fate which had delivered him at Combatant Headquarters a whole month later than his recruit class, so that he would probably be the only newcomer among those awaiting assignment in the Hiring Hall.

Actually to be at Prime itself was exciting. This was the goal toward which ten years of intensive training had pointed him. He put down his war bag and rubbed his damp hands surreptitiously against his tight breeches; though it was a crisp early spring day he was sweating. The stiff collar of his new green-gray tunic sawed at his throat and the cheek wings of his dress helmet chafed his jaws. All his accouterments weighed more than they ever had before.

He was acutely conscious of the bare state of the belts crossing his shoulders, of the fact that his helmet was still crestless. The men who had shared the shuttle with him, scintillated with the gemmed loot of scores of successful missions, veterans every one of them.

Well—to achieve that status was only a matter of time, he repeated silently once more. Every one of these emblazoned figures now passing had stood there once, just as bare of insignia, probably just as uncertain inside as he now was—

Kana’s attention was caught by another color, blazingly alive among the familiar waves of green-gray and silver. As his lips made a narrow line, his blue eyes, so startlingly vivid in his dark face, chilled.

A surface mobile had drawn up before the entrance of the very building to which he had been directed. And climbing out of it was a squat man swathed in a brilliant scarlet cloak, behind him two others in black and white. As if their arrival had been signaled, the Terran Combatants on the steps melted to right and left, making a wide path to the door.

But that was not in honor, Kana Karr reminded himself fiercely. Terrans on their home planet paid no deference to Galactic Agents, except in a style so exaggerated as to underline their dislike. There would surely come a time when—

His fists balled as he watched the red cloak and his guardian Galactic Patrolmen vanish inside the Hiring Hall. Kana had never had direct contact with an Agent. The X-Tees, the non-human Extra-Terrestrials, who had been his instructors after he had proved capable of absorbing X-Tee and Alien Liaison training, were a different class altogether. Perhaps because they were non-human he had never really ranked them among those rulers of Central Control who had generations earlier so blithely termed the inhabitants of Sol’s system “barbarians,” not eligible for Galactic citizenship except within the narrow limits they defined.

He was conscious that not all his fellows were as resentful of that as he was. Most of his classmates, for example, had been content enough to accept the future so arbitrarily decided for them. Outright rebellion meant the labor camps and no chance to ever go into space. Only a Combatant on military duty had the privilege of visiting the stars. And when Kana had learned that early in his career, he had set himself to acquire the shell of a model Arch, discovering in X-Tee training enough solace to aid his control of the seething hatred for the fact that he was not allowed to range the stars as he willed.

The sharp note of a military whistle proclaiming the hour brought him back to earth and to the problem at hand. He shouldered his war bag and climbed the steps up which the Agent had gone a few moments before. He left his bag in the lockers by the door and took his place in the line of men winding into the inner hall.

The Mechs in their blue-gray coveralls and bubble helmets outnumbered the Archs in his particular section of that creeping line. And the few Archs near him were veterans. Consequently even when surrounded by his kind Kana felt as isolated here as he had in the street.

“They’re trying to keep the lid on—but Falfa refused that assignment for his Legion.” The Mech to his left, a man in his thirties with ten enlistment notches on his blade-of-honor, made no effort to keep his voice down.

“He’ll face a board for refusing,” returned his companion dubiously. “After all there’s such a thing as a run of hard luck—”

“Hard luck? Two different Legions don’t return from the same job and you talk about luck! I’d say that some investigating was called for. D’you know how many Legions have been written off the rolls in the past five years—twenty! Does that sound like bad luck?”

Kana almost echoed the other listener’s gasp. Twenty Legions lost in battle over a period of five years—that was pushing the luck theory too far. If the modern, expertly armed Legions which operated only on civilized planets had been so decimated, what of the Hordes that served on barbarian worlds? Had their “luck” been equally bad? No wonder there had been a lot of undercover talk lately, comment that the price Central Control set on space—the price that Terra had paid for almost three hundred years—was too high.

The man before him moved suddenly and Kana hurried to close the gap between them. They were at the enlistment barrier. Kana pulled at the lock on his armlet to have it ready to hand to the Swordtan on duty there. That strip of flexible metal, fed into the record block, would automatically flash on the assignment rolls all the necessary information concerning one Kana Karr, Australian-Malay-Hawaiian, age eighteen and four months, training: basic with X-Tee specialization, previous service: none. And once that went into Hiring there was no turning back. The Swordtan took the band, allowed it to rest on the block for an instant, and handed it back with the lackluster boredom of one condemned to a routine job.

Within there were plenty of empty seats—Mechs to the left, Archs to the right. Kana slipped into the nearest seat and dared to stare about him. Facing the tiers of seats was the assignment board, already blinking orange signals and, although he knew his number could not possibly come up yet, he felt he must watch that steady stream of calls. Most seemed to be for the Mechs—sometimes four and five arose together and went through the door at the far end.

The Archs—Kana leaned forward in his seat to count the men on his side. At least twenty Swordsmen First Class, with even two Swordtans among them, were there. And fifty or more Second Class rankers. But—his eyes sought for other crestless helmets—he was the only Third Class man present. The recruits who had preceded him out of Training must have been hired before he came. Wait—red light—

Two S-2 men got up, settled their tunics with a twitch and adjusted their belts. But before they moved into the aisle there was an interruption. The board flashed white and then off entirely as a small party of men tramped down to ascend two steps to the announcement platform.

A Combatant, lacking the crossed shoulder belts of a field man, but with four stars shining on the breast of his tunic, stepped out to face the murmuring Swordsmen and Mechneers. He was flanked by the red-cloaked Galactic Agent and the latter’s Patrolmen. Kana identified the three swiftly—humanoid. The Agent was a Sarmak native, the Patrolmen from Nyorai—the length of their slender legs unmistakable.

“Combatants!” the Terran officer’s parade ground trained voice snapped out, to be followed by instant silence. “Certain recent events have made it necessary to make this announcement. We have made a full investigation—with the able assistance of Central Control facilities—into the trouble on Nevers. It is now certified that our defeat there was the result of local circumstances. The rumors concerning this episode are not to be repeated by any of the Corps—under the rule of loyalty—general code.”

What in Terra! Kana’s amazement might not be openly registered on the masklike face presented him by the blood of his Malay grandfather, but his mind raced. To make such a statement as that was simply asking for trouble—didn’t the officer realize that? The Galactic Agent’s frown proved that he wasn’t pleased. Trouble on Nevers—this was the first he’d heard of it. But he’d wager half his first enlistment pay that within ten minutes every man in this hall would be trying to find out what were the rumors being so vigorously denied. It would spread like oil slick on a river.

The Agent stepped out, he appeared to be arguing with the officer. But here he could only advise—he could not give direct orders. And it was too late to stop the damage now anyway. If he had made this move to allay fear, the Combatant officer had only given it fresh life.

With a decided shake of his head the officer started back down the aisle, the three others having, perforce, to follow him. Once more the lights flickered on the board. But the hum of talk rose to a gale of sound as soon as the door closed behind the quartet.

Kana’s attention went back to the board just in time. Three more veterans had arisen on his own side of the hall, and, trailing their numbers, came the familiar combination he had answered to for the past ten years, almost more his name than the one his mixed island ancestry had given him.

Once through the other door he slackened pace, keeping modestly behind the rankers who had answered the same call. Third Class was Third Class and ranked nobody or nothing—except a cadet still in training. He was the lowest of the low and dared not presume to tread upon the heels of the man who had just stepped onto that lift.

The other was an Afro-Arab by his features—with maybe a dash of European blood bequeathed by one of the handful of refugees fleeing south during the nuclear wars. He was very tall, and the beardless, dark skin of his face was seamed with an old scar. But the loot of many campaigns blazed from his helmet and belts and—Kana squinted against the light to be sure—there were at least half a dozen major notches on his rank sword, although he could not be very far into his thirties.

They lined up in an upper hallway, the Archs who had responded to that last call. And the veterans presented a brilliant array. Both Arch and Mech who served in the field off Terra were accustomed to carry their personal savings on their bodies. A successful mission meant another jewel added to the belt, or inset in the helmet. A lean season and that could be sold for credits to tide its owner over. It was a simple form of security which served on any planet in the Galaxy.

It was two minutes after twelve before Kana came inside the assignment officer’s cubby. He was a badge Swordtan, with a plasta-flesh hand which explained his present inactive status. Kana snapped to attention.

“Kana Karr, Swordsman, Third Class, first enlistment, sir,” he identified himself.

“No experience”—the plasta-flesh fingers beat an impatient tattoo on the desk top—“but you have X-Tee training. How far did you go?”

“Fourth level, Alien contact, sir.” Kana was a fraction proud of that. He had been the only one in his training group to reach that level.

“Fourth level,” the Swordtan repeated. From the tone he was not impressed at all. “Well, that’s something. We’re hiring for Yorke Horde. Police action on the planet Fronn. Usual rates. You embark for Secundus Base tonight, transship from there to Fronn. Voyage about a month. Term of enlistment—duration of action. You may refuse—this is a first choice.” He repeated the last official formula with the weary voice of one who has said it many times before.

He was allowed two refusals, Kana knew, but to exercise that privilege without good reason gave one a black mark. And police action—while it covered a multitude of different forms of service—was usually an excellent way to get experience.

“I accept assignment, sir!” He pulled off his armlet for the second time and watched the Swordtan insert it in the block before him, pressing the keys which would enter on that band the terms of his first tour of duty. When he checked out at the end of the enlistment, a star would signify satisfactory service.

“Ship raises from Dock Five at seventeen hours. Dismissed!”

Kana saluted and left. He was hungry. The transients’ mess was open and being a combatant in service he was entitled to order more than just basic rations. But a dislike of spending pay he had not yet earned kept him to the plain fare he was allowed as long as he wore the Arch tunic. He lingered over the food, listening to the scraps of shop talk and rumor flying back and forth across the tables. As he had suspected the announcement made in the hiring hall had given birth to some pretty wild stories.

“Lost fifty legions in five years—” proclaimed one Mechtan. “They don’t tell us the truth any more. I’ve heard that Longmead and Groth refused assignments—”

“The High Brass is getting rattled,” commented a Swordtan. “Did you see old Poalkan giving us the fishy eye? He’d like to bring the Patrol in and mop up. Tell you what we ought to do—planet for some quiet in-fighting at a place I could name. That might help—”

There was a moment of silence. The speaker did not need to name his goal. All mankind’s festering resentment against Central Control lay behind that outburst.

Kana could stall no longer. He left the hum of the mess hall. Yorke Horde was a small outfit. Fitch Yorke, its Blademaster, was young. He’d only had a command for about four years. But sometimes under young commanders you had better advancement. Fronn—that was a world unknown to Kana. But the answer to his ignorance was easy to find. He made his way through the corridors to a quiet room with a row of booths lining one wall. At the back of the chamber was a control board with banks of buttons. He pressed the proper combination of those and waited for the record-pak.

The roll of wire was a very thin one. Not much known of Fronn. He ducked into the nearest booth, inserted the wire in the machine there, and put aside his helmet to adjust the impression band on his temples. A second later he drifted off to sleep, the information in the pak being fed to his memory cells.

It was a quarter of an hour later when he roused. So that was Fronn—not a particularly inviting world. And the pak had only sketched in meager details. But he now possessed all the knowledge the archives listed.

Kana sighed ruefully—that climate meant a tour in the pressure chamber during the voyage. The assignment officer had not mentioned that. Pressure chamber and water acclimation both. Serve him right for not asking more questions before he signed. He only hoped that he wasn’t going to be sick for the whole trip.

When he went up to return the pak he met a Mechneer standing by the selector—an impatient Mech whistling tunelessly between his teeth, playing with the buckle of his blaster belt. He was only slightly older than Kana but he carried himself with the arrogant assurance of a man who had made at least two missions, an arrogance few real veterans displayed.

Kana glanced back at the booths. He had been the only occupant, so what was the Mech waiting there for? He dropped the pak on the return belt, but, as he reached the door, its polished surface reflected a strange sight. The Mech had scooped up the pak on Fronn before it vanished into the bin.

Fronn was a primitive world, a class five planet. Any Combatant force employed there must be, by Central Control regulations, an Arch Horde, trained and conditioned for so-called hand-to-hand fighting, their most modern weapon a stat-rifle. No mechanized unit would be sent to Fronn where their blasters, crawlers, spouters would be outlawed. So why should a Mech be interested in learning about that world?

Idle curiosity about planets on which one could not serve was not indulged among Combatants. It was about all one could do to absorb the information one could actually use.

Now Kana wished that he had had a closer look at the thin face which had been so shadowed by the bubble helmet. Puzzled and somewhat disturbed he went on to the commissary to lay in the personal supplies his new knowledge of Fronn suggested it wise to buy.

Wistfully he regarded and then refused a sleeping bag of Uzakian spider silk lined with worstle temperature moss. And the gauntlets of karab skin which the supply corpsman tried to sell him were as quickly pushed aside. Such luxuries were for the veteran with enough treasure riding his belt to afford a buying spree. Kana must thriftily settle for a second-hand Cambra bag—a short jacket of sasti hide, fur-lined and with a parka hood and gloves attached, and some odd medicament and toilet articles, in all a very modest outfit which could easily be added to the contents of his war bag. And when he settled the bill he still had left four credits of his muster allowance.

The corpsman deftly rolled his purchases into a bundle. “Looks like you’re heading to some cold place, fella,” he commented.

“To Fronn.”

The man grinned. “Never heard of the place. Back of nowhere—sounds like to me. Look out they don’t stick a spear in you from behind some bush. Those nowhere guys play rough. But then you guys do too, don’t you?” He stared knowingly at Kana’s Arch uniform. “Yessir, kinda rough, slugging it out the way you do. Me, I’d rather have me a blaster and be a Mech—”

“Then you’d face another fighter with a blaster of his own,” Kana pointed out as he reached for the bundle.

“Have it your own way, fella.” The corpsman lost interest as a be-jeweled veteran approached.

Kana recognized in the newcomer the man who had preceded him to the assignment officer’s cubby. Was he, too, bound for Yorke Horde and Fronn? When the spider silk sleeping bag was slapped down on the counter for his inspection, and other supplies similar to Kana’s modest selection piled on it, he was reasonably sure that guess was correct.

At sixteen and a half hours the recruit stood beside his bag in the waiting section of Dock Five. So far he was alone save for the corpsmen who had business there and two spacer crewmen lounging at the far end. To have arrived so early was the badge of a greenie, but he was too excited under his impassive exterior to sit and wait elsewhere. It was twenty to seventeen before his future teammates began to straggle in. And ten minutes later they were swung up on the carry platform to the hatch of the troopship. Checking his armlet against the muster roll, the ship’s officer waved Kana on. Within five minutes he entered a cabin for two, wondering which of the bunks was his to strap down on.

“Well”—a voice behind him exploded in a boom—“either get in or get out! This is no time to sleep on watch, recruit! Haven’t you ever spaced before?”

Kana crowded back against the wall, snatching his bag away from the boots of the newcomer.

“Up there!” With an impatient snort his cabin mate pitched the younger man’s bag up on the top bunk.

Kana swung up and investigated. Sure enough, a small knob twisted, and a section of the wall opened to display a recess which would accommodate his belongings. The rich note of a gong interrupted his exploration. At that signal the veteran loosened his belts and his helmet, putting them aside. And Kana hurriedly followed suit. One bong—first warning—

He stretched out on the bunk and fumbled for the straps which must be buckled. Under the weight of his body the foam pad spread a little. He knew that he could take acceleration—that was one of the first tests given a recruit in training. And he had been on field maneuvers on Mars and the Moon—but this was his first venture into deep space. Kana smoothed his tunic across his middle and waited for the third warning to announce the actual blastoff.

It had been a long time since Terrans had first reached toward other worlds. Three hundred years since the first recorded pioneer flight into the Galaxy. And even before that there were legends of other ships fleeing the nuclear wars and the ages of political and social confusion which followed. They must have been either very desperate or very brave, those first explorers—sending their ships out into the unknown while they were wrapped in cold sleep with one chance in perhaps a thousand of waking as their craft approached another planet. With the use of Galactic overdrive such drastic chances were no longer necessary. But had his kind paid too high a price for their swifter passage from star to star?

Though a Combatant did not openly question the dictates of authority or the status quo, Kana knew that he was by no means alone in his discontent with Terra’s role. What would have happened to his species if, when they had made that first historic flight, they had not met with the established, superior force of Central Control? According to their Galactic masters the potentials of the Terran mind, body and temperament fitted them for only one role in the careful pattern of space. Born with an innate will to struggle, they were ordered to supply mercenaries for the other planets. Because the C.C. psycho-techneers believed that they were best suited to combat, their planet and system had been arbitrarily geared to war. And Terrans accepted the situation because of a promise C.C. had made—a promise the fulfillment of which seemed farther in the future every year—that when they were ready for a more equal citizenship it would be granted them.

But what if Central Control had not existed? Would the Agents’ repeated argument have proved true? Would the Terrans, unchecked, have pulled planet after planet into a ruthless struggle for power? Kana was sure that was a lie. But now if a Terran wanted the stars, if the desire for new and strange knowledge burned in him—he could buy it only by putting on the Combatant’s sword.

A giant hand squeezed Kana’s rib case against laboring lungs. He forgot everything in a fight for breath. They had blasted off.

2 — FIRST TESTING

Kana must have blacked out, for when he was again aware of his surroundings he saw that his cabin mate was maneuvering across their quarters, getting his “space legs” in the weak gravity maintained in the living sections of the ship. Lacking his helmet, his tunic open halfway down his broad chest, the veteran had lost some of his awe-inspiring aura. He might now be one of the hard-visaged instructors Kana had known for more than half his short life.

Space tan on a naturally dark skin made him almost black. His coarse hair had been shaved and trimmed into the ridge scalp lock favored by most Terrans. He moved with a tell-tale feline litheness and Kana decided that he would not care to match swords with him in any point-free contest. Now he turned suddenly as if sensing Kana’s appraising stare.

“Your first enlistment?” he snapped.

Kana wormed free of the straps which imprisoned him and dangled his feet over the edge of the bunk before he replied.

“Yes, sir. I’m just up from Training—”

“Lord, they send ’em out young these days,” commented the other. “Name and rank—”

“Kana Karr, sir, Swordsman, Third Class.”

“I’m Trig Hansu.” There was no reason for him to proclaim his rank, the double star of a Swordtan was plain on his tunic. “You signed for Yorke?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Believe in beginning the hard way, eh?” Hansu jerked a jump seat from its wall hollow and sat down. “Fronn’s no garden spot.”

“It’s a start, sir,” Kana returned a bit stiffly and slipped down to the deck without losing a one-hand hold on the bunk.

Hansu grinned sardonically. “Well, we’re all heroes when we’re first out of Training. Yorke’s a trail hitter and a jumper. You have to be con to keep up in one of his teams.”

Kana had a defense ready for that. “The assignment officer asked for a recruit, sir.”

“Which can mean several things, youngster, none of them complimentary. S-Threes come cheaper on the payroll than Ones or Twos—for example. Far be it from me to disillusion the young. There’s mess call. Coming?”

Kana was glad that the veteran had given him that invitation, for the small mess hall was crowded with what seemed to his bedazzled eyes nothing but high ranks. There was gravity enough so that one could sit in a civilized fashion and eat—but Kana’s stomach did not enjoy the process any. And soon such sensations would be worse, he thought grimly, when he had to go through pressure conditioning before landing on Fronn. He regarded the noisy crowd about him with a growing depression.

A Horde was divided into teams and teams into doubles. If a man didn’t find a double on his own but was arbitrarily paired by his commander with a stranger, some of the few pleasures and comforts of Combat field service were automatically endangered. Your double fought, played, and lived by your side. Often your life depended upon his skill and courage—just as his might upon yours. Doubles served years of enlistments together, moving in a firmly cemented partnership from one Horde or Legion to another.

And who in this glittering gang would choose to double with a greenie? The situation would probably end by his being assigned to a veteran who would resent his inexperience and provide him with the makings of a tough jump right from the start. Waugh—he was getting space blues tonight! Time to change think-tracks for sure.

But that subtle unease which haunted him all that long and eventful day lingered, coming to a head in a strange and horrifying dream in which he ran breathlessly across a shadow landscape trying to avoid the red ray of a Mech blaster. He awoke with a choked gasp and lay sweating in the darkened cabin. Hunted by a Mech—but Mechs did not fight against Archs. Only—it was some time before he was able to sleep again.

The beams of the ship’s artificial day brought him to life much later. Hansu was gone, the contents of his war bag spilled out on his empty bunk. A wicked needle knife, its sheath polished smooth by long wear against the bare skin of its owner’s inner arm, caught Kana’s eye. Its unadorned hilt was designed for service. And its presence among the gear meant that Kana was now sharing the quarters of a man practiced in the deadliest form of Combatant in-fighting. The recruit longed to pick it up, test its perfect balance and spring for himself. But he knew better than to touch another’s personal weapons without the express permission of the owner. To his fellows that act was a direct insult which could lead only to a “meeting” from which one of them might never return. Kana had heard enough tall tales from the instructors at Training to make him familiar with the barracks code.

He was a late arrival at mess and ate with apologetic speed under the impatient eye of the stewards. Afterwards he went on to the small lounge deck where the Combatants sprawled at leisure. There was a card game in progress, and the usual circle of intent players about a Yano board. But Trig Hansu was a member of neither group. Instead he sat cross-legged on a mat pad, a portable reader before him, watching the projection of a pak.

Curious, Kana edged between the gamesters to see the tiny screen. He caught sight of a fraction of landscape, dark, gloomy, across which burden-bearing creatures moved from left to right. Hansu spoke without turning his head.

“If you’re so curious, greenie, squat.”

Feeling as hot as a thruster tube Kana would have melted away but Hansu pushed the machine to the right in real invitation.

“Our future.” He jerked a thumb at the unwinding scene as the recruit dropped to his knees to watch. “That’s a pak view of Fronn.”

The marchers on the Fronnian plain were quadrupeds, their stilt legs seemingly only skin drawn tightly over bone. Packs rested on either side of their ridged spines and knobby growths fringed their ungainly necks and made horn excrescences on their skulls.

“Caravan of guen,” Kana identified. “That must be the west coastal plains.”

Hansu pressed a stud on the base of the reader and the screen blanked out. “You asked for indoctrination on Fronn?”

“From the archives, sir.”

“The enthusiasms of the young have their points. And you’re just out of Training. Specialization—knife—rifle—?”

“Basic in everything, sir. But specialization in X-Tee—Alien Liaison mostly—”

“Hmm. That would explain your being here.” Hansu’s comment seemed obscure. “X-Tee—I wonder what they spring on you in that nowadays. What about—” He swung sharply into a series of questions, delivered rapid fire, which were certainly very close in their searching value to what Kana had faced back in Training before he had been granted his mark of proficiency. When he had answered them to the best of his ability—having to say frankly, far too many times, “I don’t know”—he saw Hansu nod.

“You’ll do. Once you get a lot of that theory knocked out of your head, and let experience teach you what you should really know about this game, you’ll be worth at least half your pay to a Blademaster.”

“You said that X-Tee specialization explained my assignment, sir—?”

But the veteran appeared to have lost interest in the conversation. The Yano game broke up in a noisy if good-natured argument, and Hansu was tapped on the shoulder by one of his own rank and urged into the group reforming for a second round.

And because he had not answered that question Kana began to note more carefully the caliber of the men about him. These were not only veterans, but long-service men with a high percentage of stars. The scraps of conversation he overheard mentioned famed commanders, Hordes with long lists of successful engagements. Yet Fitch Yorke was a comparative newcomer, with no fame to pull in such men. Wouldn’t it have been more normal for them to refuse enlistment under him? Why the concentration of experience and skill in an obscure Horde on an unknown planet? Kana was certain that Hansu, for one, was an outstanding X-Tee expert—

But during the next few days he saw little of the veteran, and the landing on Secundus after the boredom of the trip could not come soon enough.

The temporary quarters assigned to Yorke’s men was a long hall, one end of which was a mess station while the other was tiered with bunks. With a hundred men dragging in supplies and personal equipment, greeting old comrades, sharing Horde rumor and Combat news, the room was a hurricane of noise and confusion. Kana, not knowing just where to go, followed Hansu down the length of the room. But when the Swordtan turned to join a glittering circle of his peers, the recruit was left to hunt a dim corner suitable to his inexperience and general greenness.

There was not much choice. The S-Threes congregated in the least desirable section by the door. And with a sense of relief Kana noted several whose uniforms were as bare of ornament as was his own. He tramped over and claimed a top bunk by tossing his war bag up on its pad.

“D’you see who just mustered in?” one of his neighbors demanded of the young man beside him. “Trig Hansu—!”

A low whistle of astonishment became words. “But he’s top brass! What’s he doing in this outfit? He could claim shares with Zagren Osmin or Franlan. Yorke should be flattered to get the time of day from him.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve heard he’s strange in some ways. He’ll cut a top outfit any time to get off the regular travel lanes and visit a new world. He’s space whirly over exploring. Could have had a Horde of his own long ago if he hadn’t always been jumping off into the black. And, besides, brother, haven’t you noticed something else about this particular crowd? Yorke’s snaffled himself more than one big name in this pull-out. Hello—” He noticed Kana’s bag and now he turned smartly to survey its owner.

“So—something new here. A nice greenie out to make his fortune or die on the field of glory. What’s your name and condition, greenie?”

There was no bite of sarcasm in that demand and the speaker did not outrank Kana very far in either years or service.

“Kana Karr, S-Three—”

“Mic Hamet, S-Three—that clay-clawer resting his sore feet over there is Rey Nalassie, also of our lowly rank. First assignment?”

Kana nodded. Mic Hamet’s dark red hair was roached in the scalp ridge, but his unusually fair skin was reddened rather than tanned by exposure and there was a spattering of freckles across his somewhat flat nose. His friend uncoiled long legs and rose to a gangling six-foot-two, his lantern-jawed face solemn, though his sleepy gray eyes displayed humor and interest.

“They scraped us out of a rotation depot. We had bad luck a while back. Rey got bit by a bug during our last stretch and we had to default out of Oosterbeg’s Horde four months short. So we were flat enough in the purse to sign on here when the assign officer looked at us as if we were slightly better than muck worms.”

“You doubled yet, Karr?” asked Nalassie in a husky voice.

“No, I was delayed in leaving Training. And all the fellows who shipped out of Prime with me were vets—”

Mic lost his half grin. “That’s tough luck. Most of us Threes are paired already and you wouldn’t want to double with either Krosof or the rest—”

“Heard tell that if you come in solo, Yorke puts you with a vet,” Rey volunteered. “Got a theory youth should be tamed by age—or something of the sort.”

“And that’s worse than tough,” broke in his partner. “You shouldn’t team up with anyone until you know him. I’d play it single as long as I could, if I were you, Karr. You might be lucky enough to find some good fella who’s lost his partner. Stick with us until you do double if you want to—”

“And a very good way to stay out of trouble with the jeweled ones”—Rey nodded toward the rankers’ side of the hall—“is to get out of here.” He put on his helmet and buckled the chin strap. “They aren’t going to muster until morning, we can still have a night on the town. And, fella, you haven’t seen excitement until you’ve seen the leave section of Secundus.”

Kana was enthusiastic until he thought of the leanness of his purse. Four credits wouldn’t even pay for a meal in a base town—he was sure of that. But, as he shook his head, Mic’s fingers closed on his arm.

“No quibbling, fella. We’ll be a long time in the back country and we aren’t comfortable, shipping out with credits sticking to our fingers. We’ll stand you—then when you get your first star, you can repay in kind—that’s fair enough. Now, quick about it, before someone gets the idea of putting the younger generation to labor for the good of their souls!”

Beyond the walls of the Combat area a typical leave town had grown up. Taverns, cafes, gambling establishments catered for all ranks and purses, from Bladermasters and Mechmasters to recruits. It was certainly no place to visit with only four credits, Kana thought again as he blinked at the light of the gaudy signs lining the street before them.

And, to his discomfort, the ideas of his guides were not modest. They steered him by the cafes he would have chosen and dragged him through a wide door where Terran gold-leaf was overlaid with the sea-green shimmer of Trafian scale lac. Their boots pressed flat the four-inch pile of carpets which could only have been woven on Caq, and the walls were cloaked with the tapestries of Sansifar. Kana balked.

“This is strictly a glitter boy’s shop,” he protested. But Mic’s hold on him did not relax and Rey chuckled.

“No rank off field,” Mic reminded him sardonically. “S-Threes and Blademasters—we’re all the same in our skins. Only civilians worry about artificial distinctions—”

“Sure. In Combat you go where you please. And we please to come here.” Rey sniffed the scented air which stirred the shining arras, shaking the figures on them to quivering life. “By the Forked Tail of Blamand, what I wouldn’t give to be in on the sacking of this! And here comes mine host’s assistant.”

The figure loping toward them was one of the skeleton-lean, big-headed natives of Lupa. He greeted them with a professional smile, disclosing the double row of fangs which tended to make Terrans slightly nervous, and inquired their pleasure in a series of ear-taxing growls.

“Nothing big,” Mic returned. “We have muster tomorrow. Suppose you let us trot around by ourselves, Feenhalt. We won’t get into trouble—”

The Lupan’s pointed grin widened as he waved them on. When they passed through a slit in the curtain to the next room Kana commented:

“I take it you’re known here?”

“Yes. We got Feenhalt out of a hole once. He isn’t a bad old Lupan. Now—let’s mess.”

They escorted Kana through a series of rooms, each exotic in its furnishings, each bizarrely different, until they came to a chamber which brought a surprised exclamation out of him. For they might have stepped into a section of jungle. Gigantic fern-trees forested the walls and looped long fronds over their heads, but did not exclude a golden light which revealed cushioned benches and curving tables. Among the greenery swooped and fluttered streaks of flaming color which could only be the legendary Krotands of Cephas’ inner sea islands. Kana, meeting such travelers’ tales in truth, bemusedly allowed his companions to push him down on a bench.

“Krotands? But how—?”

Mic’s knuckles rapped and drew a metallic answer from the bole of the fern tree immediately behind them. Kana reached out to find that his fingers slid over a solid surface instead of rough bark. They were in a clever illusion.

“All done with mirrors,” Mic assured him solemnly. “Not that it isn’t one of the best bits of projecting Slanal ever designed. Feenhalt’s got the business head—but it’s his boss who thought up this sort of thing. Ha—food.”

Plates arose out of the table top. Warily Kana tasted and then settled down to hearty stoking.

“It’ll be a long time before we get another feed like this,” Rey observed. “I heard Fronn’s no pleasure planet.”

“Cold to our notion—and the native culture is feudal,” Kana supplied.

“ ‘Police action,’ ” mused Mic. “Police action doesn’t match a feudal government. What is the set-up—kings? Emperors?”

“Kings—they call them ‘Gatanus’—ruling small nations. But their heirship is reckoned through the female line. A Gatanu is succeeded by his eldest sister’s son, not his own. He is considered closer kin to his mother and sisters than to his father or brothers.”

“You must have studied up on this—”

“I used a record pak at Prime.”

Rey looked pleased. “You’re going to be an asset. Mic, we’ve got to keep our paws on this one.”

Mic swallowed a heroic bite. “We sure have. Somehow I am visited by a feeling that this jump is not going to be foam-pad riding, and the more we know, the better for us.”

Kana glanced from one to the other, catching the shadow glimpse of trouble. “What’s up?”

Mic shook his head and Rey shrugged. “Blasted if we know. But—well, when you’ve trotted around the back of beyond and poked into places where a ‘man’ is a mighty weird animal, you get a feeling about things. And we have a feeling about this—”

“Yorke?”

The morale of any Horde depended upon the character of its Blademaster. If Yorke could not inspire confidence in those who followed him—

Mic frowned. “No, it’s not Fitch Yorke. By all accounts he’s a master to latch to. There have been a lot of the glitter boys beside Hansu to sign up for this jump—you can always tell by that how a Blademaster stacks. It’s a feeling—you get it sometimes—a sort of crawling—inside you—”

“Somebody kicking at your grave mark,” Rey contributed.

Mic’s big mouth twisted in a grin aimed at himself. “Regular mist wizards, aren’t we? Step right up—read your future for a credit! Fronn isn’t going to be any worse than a lot of other places I know. Through? Then let’s show our greenie Feenhalt’s private rake-off. Only time the old Lupan showed any imagination—And, flame bats, does it ever pay off!”

Feenhalt’s flight of imagination turned out to be a gambling device which enthralled a large selection of Combatants. A pool sunk in the floor of a room was partitioned into sections around a central arena. In each of the small water-filled pens sported a fish about five inches long, two-thirds of that length was mouth lined with needle teeth. Each fish bore a small colored tag imbedded in its tail fin and swam about its prison in ferocious fury. The players gathered about the pool studying the captives. When two or more had chosen their champions, credit chips were inserted in the slots on the rim and the pen doors opened, freeing the fish to move into the arena. What followed was a wild orgy of battle until only one warrior remained alive. Whereupon the bettor who had selected that fish collected from those who had sponsored the dead.

No more attractive game could have been devised to snare credits from the Combatants. Kana measured the twisting finny fighters carefully, at last choosing a duelist with an excellent jaw spread and a green tail disc. He bought a credit chip from the house banker and knelt to insert the releasing coin in the lock of the pen.

A meaty, hair-matted hand splayed against his shoulder and Kana only caught himself from landing in the pool with a back-wrenching twist.

“Outta th’ way, little boy. This here’s for men—”

“Just what—!” Kana’s words ended in a cough as Mic’s fist landed between his shoulders and someone else jerked him away from the man who had taken his place and his fish. The fellow grinned up at him maliciously. Then, as if he expected no more trouble, he turned back to encourage the fighter released by the recruit’s chip.

All the good humor was gone from Mic’s face and even Rey’s dancing eyes were sober as they moved Kana away, holding him motionless between them in an “unarmed in-fighting” grip against which he knew better than to struggle.

“We blast—now—” Mic informed him.

“Just what”—he began again—“do you think—”

“Fella, you might have dug your own grave there. That was Bogate—Zapan Bogate. He has twenty duel notches on his sword—eats greenies for breakfast when he can get them.” Mic’s words were light but his voice deadly serious.

“Do you think I’m afraid—” Kana smarted.

“Listen, fella, there’s a big difference between being prudent and alive, and kicking a Zartian sand mouse in the teeth. You don’t last long after the latter heroic deed. You can’t be given a yellow stripe for ducking a run-in with Bogate—you’re just intelligent. Someday one of the big boys—Hansu or Deke Mills or somebody like that—is going to get annoyed with Bogate. Then—man, oh, man—you’ll be able to sell standing room at the fracas to half the forces and be a billion-credit man! Bogate is sudden and painful death on two crooked feet.”

“Besides being about the best scout who ever sniffed a trail,” cut in Rey. “Bogate at play and Bogate in the field are two different characters. The Blademasters tolerate the one on account of the other.”

Kana recognized truth when he heard it. To return and tackle Bogate was stupid. But he still protested until they were interrupted by Hansu. The veteran, followed by two base policemen, bore down upon them.

“Yorke men?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Report to Barracks—on the quick. Blast-off has been moved up—” He was already past them to round up more of the Horde.

The three started back to the Combat area at a trot.

“Now what?” Rey wanted to know. “Last I heard we launched at noon tomorrow. Why all the hurry? We haven’t even had muster line yet.”

“I told you,” grunted Mic, “that there was a smell about this—not perfume either. Octopods! That dinner we downed—and pressure chamber conditioning coming up! We’re going to be might sorry we ate, mighty sorry.”

With this dire prophecy still ringing in his ears Kana collected his war bag from the bunk he had not had a chance to occupy and took his place with Mic and Rey on the hoist platform to be slung on board the transport. Counted off by fours Kana found himself sharing a pressure chamber with his two new acquaintances and a supply man—the latter obviously bored by his juvenile company. They stripped to their shorts, submitted to shots from the medico. And then there was nothing left to do but strap down on the bunks and endure the ensuing discomfort.

The next few days were anything but pleasant. Slowly their bodies were forced to adapt to Fronn, since the planet was not going to adapt to them. It was a painful process. But when they landed on that chill world they were ready for action.

Kana still lacked a double. He clung to Mic and Rey as they had advised, but he knew that sooner or later that threesome must be broken and he would be assigned a partner. He was shy of the veterans, and the three or four other S-Threes who were not yet paired for muster-line were not the type he desired to know better. Most of them were older men with experience who were incorrigible enough to remain permanently in the lowest ranks. Good in the field, they were troublemakers in barracks and had shifted from one Horde to another at the end of each enlistment with the relieved sighs of those who had just served wafting them on their separate ways. Kana continued to hope that he would not draw one of them as a double.

The Terrans’ first sight of Fronn was disappointing. They planeted at dusk, and, since Fronn was moonless, marched through darkness to the squat, rough-hewn stone building which was to serve them as temporary barracks. There were no fittings at all in the long room and the three sat on their war bags, wondering whether to unroll sleeping bags or wait for further instructions.

Rey’s long nose wrinkled in disgust as he moved his boots from a suspicious stain on the dirty floor. “I’d say we got this place second hand—”

“Second hand?” Mic asked. “Closer fifth. And most of the others before us were animals. This is a Fronnian cow barn if my nose doesn’t deceive me.”

The call Kana had been dreading came at last, doubles were to register at the table a Swordtan had set up at the far end of the room. Rey and Mic, after a word of encouragement, got in line.

Kana hesitated, not knowing just what to do, when the harsh rasp of a new voice startled him. Zapan Bogate and another of the same type had fallen into line near him. A third of their pattern stood beside Bogate grinning.

“Jus’ a greenie—don’t know what to do next. Poor little lost greenie. You, Sim, go and take him by the hand. He needs his nurse—”

Kana tensed. With Bogate’s encouragement Sim shuffled forward, his brutal face twisted in a wry grimace he might have intended as a smile.

“Poor little greenie,” Bogate repeated, his voice rising so that half the line were turning to see the sport. “Sim’s gonna look after him, ain’t you, Sim?”

“Sure am, Zap. Come along, greenie—” His hairy paw caught Kana’s sleeve.

What followed was mostly sheer reflex action on the recruit’s part. The disgust which that touch aroused in him triggered his move. His hand chopped down across the other’s wrist, striking the hand from its hold. As Sim goggled, Bogate stepped out of line, his small eyes gleaming with sadistic joy.

“Seems like the greenie don’t favor you, Sim. Whatta we do to greenies who don’t know what’s good for them?”

Kana thought he was alert but Sim surprised him. He had not expected the hulking bully to follow code custom. Sim’s slap across his face had power enough to swing him half around, blinking back tears of pain. As he regained his balance Kana’s mind was working feverishly. Barracks duel—just the sort of encounter these bullies wanted—legal enough so no watching Combatant would dare to interfere.

He had a single advantage. They would expect him to choose the usual weapons—swords with shielded points. Thanks to his study of the record-pak on Terra he had an answer which would give him a chance to escape a nasty mauling.

He and Sim were now surrounded by a circle of expectant spectators. Kana tasted the sweet flatness of blood from the lip the other’s slap had scraped against his teeth.

“Meet?” Automatically he asked the proper question.

“Meet.”

“Give me your sword, Sim. I’ll cap it for you,” Bogate ordered genially.

“Not so fast.” Kana was glad that his voice sounded so even and unhurried. “I didn’t say swords—”

Bogate’s grin faded, his eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Guns is out—not on active service, greenie.”

“I choose bat sticks,” returned Kana.

A moment of utter and uncomprehending silence was his first answer.

3 — FORWARD MARCH

Those Archs who had been longer on Fronn began to understand, though Sim apparently did not. As he glanced to Bogate asking for direction, Hansu elbowed his way into the center of the circle. Behind him was another man, much younger, but bearing himself with the same unselfconscious authority.

“You heard him,” Hansu said to Sim. “He’s chosen bat sticks. And you’ll meet here and now. We want this over before we march out.”

Sim was still bemused and, seeing that, Kana began to hope. Blunted swords were one thing—a man could be maimed or even killed when he faced an expert in such warfare. But armed with one of those wands made of a highly poisonous wood which left seared welts on human skin—the whips used by Fronnian caravan men to subdue the recalcitrant guen—he had a chance, and maybe more than just an even one.

Kana unbuckled his helmet strap and found Mic’s hand ready to receive the headgear as he discarded it. Rey edged up to help him unfasten his cross belts.

“Know what you’re doing, fella?” he asked in a half whisper as Kana shed his tunic.

“Better than Sim does, I think,” Kana returned, peeling off his shirt.

His first little spark of hope was growing into steady confidence. Sim was still confused and Bogate’s grin had been wiped from his ugly face. The young man who had followed Hansu disappeared. But before Kana had time to shiver in the chill of the unheated building he was back, carrying in gloved hands two of the bright crimson bat sticks. Seeing what he held, those who knew Fronn gave him quick room.

Kana drew on a gauntlet and gripped the nearest stick. They were of equal weight and reach. And, as the circle of spectators moved out to give them room, the recruit believed that Sim’s battered face now registered a certain uneasiness.

They came on guard at command, using the canes as they would the heavier and more familiar steel. But where a duelist must fear only the blunted point of the sword, here the slightest touch would bring pain. Their boots made faint whispering sounds as they circled, the sticks meeting with a thud as they thrust and parried.

Kana, after the third pass, knew that he was facing a master swordsman, but he also guessed that the relative lightness of this strange weapon was bothering Sim and that his opponent was not quite sure of himself or aware of the potentialities of the cane he wielded.

There was a single stroke which would put an end to the duel. Kana wondered if Sim realized that. A raking sweep across arm muscles—the resulting pain would make that limb useless for minutes. He concentrated on achieving that, his world narrowed to the cane he was using and the swaying, dodging body before him. Sim had abandoned the more obvious attacks and was settling down to a semi-defensive action, apparently content to leave experimentation to Kana, thereby displaying more shrewdness than Kana had credited to him. With none of his confidence shaken, but more warily, Kana circled—using the traditional thrusts and parries which were a beginner’s. Sim must be drawn into the open in the belief that he faced a novice.

Something struck him in the short ribs and glanced along his flesh. It brought with it a blaze of agony almost as bad as a blaster burn. Kana set his teeth as, encouraged by that scoring, Sim’s defense changed to an attack the recruit found hard to meet. He was forced back, giving ground willingly enough with a single aim in mind—to reach that point on the muscled arm before him.

Sim’s cane got home again, up the angle of Kana’s jaw. The younger man shook his head dazedly, but a leap back bought him a moment in which to pull himself together. That sharp retreat must have given Sim the idea that his opponent’s nerve was breaking, for now he bored in with a wild whirlwind of blows. There came the moment Kana had waited for, his cane drew a torturing line across Sim’s sword arm just below the shoulder. And, more unprepared than Kana had been, the older man cried out, clawing at the red welt, his cane rolling across the floor to strike against Kana’s boot. The recruit brought his stick up in formal salute.

“Satisfied?” He asked the traditional question.

Sim was speechless with pain as he nodded, though the hatred in his small eyes fought with the agony of his hurt. Since he could no longer hold his weapon he must concede, but he was far from satisfied.

Kana became aware of the buzz of talk about them. Snatches of conversation informed him that these connoisseurs were discussing his exploit from every possible angle. He dropped his cane to the floor and raised his hand to the burn on his jaw.

“Don’t touch that, you young fool!” snapped the voice of authority. The young man who had provided the canes pushed Kana’s hand away and began dabbing delicately at the welt with a yellow grease. As it spread across the reddened skin Kana felt a coolness draw out the fire. He stood patiently while they doctored the slash on his side and then shrugged into the shirt Mic brought him.

“All right, all right!” Hansu’s deep growl cut through and across the din. “The show’s over—”

But as the others shuffled back into line the Swordtan stood between Kana and Sim, eyeing them both with a steel-based coldness. “For brawling in barracks,” he announced, “three days’ field pay fine! And if either of you have any clever ideas about trying it again—you’ll deal with me!”

Kana, unable to don his helmet because of his jaw, gave ready agreement to keep the peace, and Sim’s mumble was also accepted.

“You—Lozt, go in with Daw.” Hansu jerked a thumb to the end of the line. And Sim, nursing his limp arm, obediently passed Bogate to take the indicated place beside a dark, wiry veteran. Kana remained where he was.

“I’ll answer for this one,” the younger veteran spoke up and Kana sensed that this had been decided between his two superiors. Still uninformed as to who his partner was, he followed along.

“Mills and Karr,” Hansu set them down together on the muster roll as members of the team he himself commanded.

“Mills”—there was something familiar in that name. Kana went back to claim his bag trying to recall where he had heard it before and ran into a highly excited Mic and an equally amazed Rey.

“Let me touch you,” Mic greeted him. “Maybe some of that luck will rub off. I can sure use it!”

“You must have been born with a sword in your hand and a star in your mouth!” contributed Rey. “How do you rate Deke Mills for a double, greenie?”

Deke Mills! Again that name almost rang a gong, but still he couldn’t remember.

“Great Blades!” Mic’s eyes and mouth were circles of astonishment. “I don’t believe he knows what has happened to him! Somebody ought to teach greenies the facts of life before they ship them out into the cruel, cold world. Deke Mills, fella, is a star-double-star. He’s nudging people like Hansu for top honors. Space, he could have his pick of doubles out of the whole Horde! He might have partnered Hansu if Yorke hadn’t insisted that Trig command a team.”

Kana swallowed. “But why—” His mouth was suddenly dry.

“Not for your pretty blue eyes anyway,” Mic told him. “He was unattached and so were you. Yorke’s rule is a vet with a greenie where there’s last minute choosing to be done. You’re lucky in that you were at the right place at the right time. Lucky, you’re dripping with the stuff!”

“I’d rather stay with you two.” Kana spoke the truth. To double with a notable such as Deke Mills was the last thing he wished. He would do everything wrong, and all his mistakes would be magnified in such exalted company. At that moment he would almost rather have walked beside Sim.

“Cheer up.” Mic grinned. “We’re in the same team. And Mills is acting as one of Hansu’s aides—you may not see too much of him after all.”

“Better cut along,” warned Rey. “There’s Mills by the door. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Kana scooped up his bag, wincing as he moved his head. Yes, the young veteran stood by the door talking to a handful of rankers. Kana hurried, beginning to wish that he had used his privilege and refused this assignment.

It was close to midnight, ship time, when he joined Mills. Outside there were rays of a dull bluish light, weak and dim to Terran eyes. Kana gathered that instead of remaining in the odorous barn for the night the Combatants were moving out of the Fronnian town to the camp site the first comers had established.

The street was roughly paved and drawn up there was a line of light, two-wheeled carts. Each was pulled by a gu—most of which were bubbling ill temperedly—granted plenty of room by the alien soldiers. As Kana followed Mills’ example and tossed his bag into the leading cart he passed close to the first Fronnian he had seen in the flesh.

This was a Llor, one of the dominant race on the continental land masses. Humanoid in general appearance the native stood a good seven feet. In a climate where the Terrans were glad to wear double-lined winter clothing, the Llor was bare to the waist. But nature had provided him with a coat of thick curly hair, close in texture to the wool of a sheep, from which came a pungent, oily odor only apparent to those from off world. This hairy covering was thinner on the face—an odd face to non-Llor eyes for the nose was bridgeless and represented by a single nostril slit, while the eyes bulged from their round sockets in a singularly disconcerting stare. The mouth was small and round, and if the Llor possessed any teeth they were not visible. His only garment, save for a harness which supported a sword and a hand gun, was a short kilt made of strips of tanned hide, each hardly wider than a thread of fringe. Boots with pointed toes, the tips of which were capped with wicked metal spikes, were laced to his knees.

As the Combatants loaded their baggage aboard the cart the Llor lounged at ease, chewing on a section of purple-blue cane and spitting noisily at intervals. When the bags of six men had been piled on the vehicle he tended, he straightened, prodded the snarling gu with a bat stick and the cart creaked on, the Terrans falling in behind.

Blue lamps fastened to the blank, windowless walls of the structures they passed afforded enough light to march along the street, but the footing was rough.

“This is Tharc, capital city of Skura’s province.” Mills’ voice rose over the clatter made by the metal wheels of the cart. “Skura’s Chortha of the Western Lands. And he aims on being Gatanu—that’s why we’re here.”

“Assignment officer said this was to be police action,” Kana returned.

Maybe this was the trouble Mic had sensed back at Secundus. There was a wide difference between policing a turbulent border for a rightful ruler and supporting a rebel chieftain in a bid for a throne.

“Since Skura claims to be the rightful heir, this could be loosely termed police action—”

But Kana thought he detected a dry note in Mills’ voice. Had he made a bad error already in uttering a statement which could be taken as a criticism of Yorke’s hiring orders?

“Gatanu Plota’s sisters were twins. There is some dispute as to who was the elder. Each had a son—so now there’s a disagreement over the proper heir. Plota is dying of the shaking sickness—they give him three months more at the most. Skura’s party is out of favor at court and Skura was sent here last calm season. He’s more an exile than a Chortha. But he made a treaty with Intergalactic Trading for some mining rights and collected enough ready cash to deal with Yorke. The I.T. has been trying to get a foothold here for a long time—the local trade is an iron-tight monopoly of a sort. So they were only too glad to underwrite Skura’s bid for the throne. Oh, it’s a gamble all right, but if Skura becomes Gatanu he’ll pay double what Yorke could collect elsewhere for the same length of service.”

“Whom do we fight?”

“S’Tork, the other nephew. He’s less of a fire-eater than Skura and has the more conservative nobles and most of the Wind Priests behind him. But he’s no fighting man and has no following of troops. Here an army is built around the household warriors of the nobles. And if a lord is not personally popular enough to attract unattached warriors, well, he hasn’t an army. Very simple. Skura thinks that with the Horde under his flag it may not even come to battle—that he will be able to bluff the opposition right off the field—”

The pavement ended abruptly at the walls of Tharc and the wagon trundled on into the ankle-deep dust of a road which was hardly more than a caravan track. They passed under the fangs of a portcullis, out of Skura’s capital and into the open country.

A line of guen waited with their merchant owners for open passage into Tharc. Kana noted that these travelers were somewhat shorter than the giant Llor soldiers. Also they were completely muffled in thick hooded robes and stood apart, as silent and featureless as ghosts, to let the Terrans past.

The Horde camp was a mile beyond, the yellow camp lights making a welcome break in the darkness of the moonless night. Under their glow Kana found the tent assigned him, unrolled his bag, and crawled in for a few hours’ rest.

There followed a week of intensive drill to shake down the newly assembled Horde into fighting trim—during which Kana was either too occupied with field problems, or too bone tired physically to speculate about his surroundings and the future. But some ten days later they lined up in marching order in the grim gray pre-dawn which on Fronn seemed chillier and more foreboding than the same hour on Terra. The Horde were to move east, toward the distant range of mountains which divided this western province from the rich central plains which the ambitious Skura already thought of as his own.

Kana had to admit that the rebellious Chortha was a perfect example of semi-barbarian war leader. Followed by a troop of fast-riding cavalry, mounted on the hard-to-control male guen, he had pounded through the Combatant camp area on numerous occasions. His popularity with his own people was wide and each day witnessed the arrival of more nobles and their personal retinues to swell the ranks of the native army encamped beyond. Daily, also, the caravans of draft guen wound in to dump supplies or reload material to be transported on to the mountains.

This morning Kana was on point marching duty with Rey, as one such assembly of hooded, muffled drivers and complaining animals shuffled by, raising a thick dust. Once the supply train was on its way, the Horde would swing out too, not on the same trail but across country—with the point men the only contact with the road.

Kana burrowed his chin into the soft lining of his high jacket collar, glad that he had selected one with the fur-lined hood which covered head and ears. The cold of the Fronnian dawn was cruel.

“There goes the last one—” Rey’s words came in a puff of milky air as he raised his signal gun and fired a bright red burst into the dark sky.

With rifles resting in the crooks of their arms, the two Terrans fell into the springy, ground-covering stride of Combatants on march along the edge of the road. Within seconds they caught up to the rearmost gu and were rapidly overtaking the head of the caravan when Kana’s attention centered upon one of the robed drivers. He had never seen any of the traders without their figure-concealing garments, but he knew that they were a different race from the hairy Llor who ruled the land.

The Llor cultivated the ground, lived in cities under a loosely feudal government, and were fighters. But these traders, who held a monopoly on both transportation and barter of goods, were another breed. A race nurtured on far sea islands, great mariners and travelers—far roving, but making no permanent settlements on land, they were named Venturi and kept entirely to themselves on the mainland, conducting business only through one of their number in each group who was elected to what they apparently considered the unenviable post of liaison man. The Venturi remained therefore anonymous and ghostly creatures as far as the Terrans were concerned, featureless in their hoods, one exactly like another as to height and gliding walk. Only now—here was one who was different. Where his fellows glided as if they progressed on skates, this one strode. He was not leading a gu either—but journeyed, with empty hands, a little to the right of the regular procession.

Kana’s eyes narrowed as he slowed step to keep behind the stranger. It was almost as if this robed wayfarer were not actually one of the Venturi at all. Then Rey drew even with the hooded stray and abruptly the other’s pace altered to the gait of his companions. Kana hurried to catch up with Nalassie. They reached the top of a rise. A thicket lay below. The two Swordsmen had either to take to the road to pass it or make a wide detour north. Kana murmured, hardly above a whisper:

“North!”

Rey looked surprised but asked no question. Instead he obediently set a course which would put the thicket between them and the caravan.

“There’s a stranger among the Venturi,” Kana explained.

Rey slung his rifle and squatted down on the moist turf, detaching a scout’s speecher from his belt. “I’ll report.”

Kana kept on at a steady trot, determined to catch up with the supply train and watch the suspect. He was counting the hooded figures to be sure his man was still among them when Rey joined him.

“Llor cavalry heading toward this road a mile on. If there’s anything wrong, they’ll handle it. We’re to keep out of trouble with the Venturi.”

They followed along with the caravan. It was full day now and the sun streaked the sky with yellow. Ahead mounted men milled around some disturbance in the center of the road.

Kana and Rey quickened pace to see what was the matter. A gu was down in the dust, kicking and bearing its formidable fangs at the Llor troopers who were holding consultation over it.

The caravan halted, allowing the Venturi leader to advance alone. He was met halfway by the commander of the troop and, after some moments’ talk, he returned to his party for a second conference which led to a second merchant going on to the stricken gu. The Llor spread out, leaving only their officers by the animal. Some, Kana noted, drifted back so that they were now on a line with the supply train. It must be that they were engaged in some stratagem—as if they dared not become openly involved in the accusation or search of the Venturi party.

Their trap was sprung with a sudden shout from one of the troopers. He had dismounted and now his gu jerked its head loose from his grip on the reins and, blowing a green foam from its mouth and nostrils, dashed straight for the beasts of the caravan, its rider running with it, making futile grabs for the reins.

Before the oncoming fury of the maddened cavalry mount the heavier-burdened guen went wild, pulling free from their leading cords, or dragging the Venturi with them. One of the hooded figures, without any gu, took to his heels and fled in a pounding run straight for the point where Kana and Rey stood watching. Kana was tempted to tackle the fugitive, but the orders had been clear—this job was to be left to the Llor.

The troopers who were along that side of the road fanned out and rode to surround the fleeing trader. One of them whirled over his head a loop of shining stuff which curled through the air to ring the runner. He changed step, stumbled when trying to check his speed, and went down with a crashing force. Some of the Llor dismounted and walked toward the captive confidently, as if they expected no further resistance.

But the man on the ground writhed to a sitting position. And a second later a bolt of red fire struck down the nearest trooper. With a shriek of agony the Llor plunged across the loose soil.

“Flamer!” Rey yelled.

Both Terran rifles centered and two shots cracked almost as one. The trapped man jerked and fell back to earth with a heavy limpness which told them no more bullets were needed.

A Llor wearing the half circle of an under officer was on the scene, using the butt of his riding bat to roll over a hand weapon of dull metal—one which had no business on Fronn. With that out of reach of the dead hand two of the troopers stripped off the Venturi robe. A Llor lay there, there was no mistaking the curled pelt and the pop eyes of the masquerader.

“This—” the Llor officer touched the flamer with his bat. “Do you know of this?” he spoke slowly in Space Trade Talk.

“It is a firearm—very bad,” Kana answered. “We do not use them.”

The officer nodded. “Then where get?” he wanted to know, reasonably enough.

Kana shrugged. “This one—he is not of yours?”

The commander of the troop pushed through the ring of his men and bent to stare at the slack face of the native. Then with his own hand he tore away the belt of the fringed kilt. Reversed, the buckle bore an orange-red arrow-shaped mark.

“News-seeker of S’Tork,” he identified. Then, lapsing into the native tongue, he gave a series of orders which set the troopers to rolling the body into a torn robe and lashing it on the back of a protesting gu.

To the Terrans’ surprise nothing was said to the Venturi. The road was cleared and the supply train plodded on, not one of its guardians turning to look at the group about the spy. The flamer remained in the dust until the commander approached the Combatants and indicated it with the spurred toe of his boot.

“You take—”

It was more an order than a request. But Kana wanted nothing more than to do just that. This was a problem which must be taken straight to Yorke. What was the latest and most deadly weapon of the Galactic Patrol doing on Fronn in the hands of an enemy spy?

4 — CLASSIC MOVE TO DISASTER

On the top of the upturned provision box which served the Blademaster for a table lay the evidence. Fitch Yorke sat on a bed roll, his head and shoulder resting against the knotty trunk of a wind-twisted tree, his blond hair bright against the dark purple-blue of the bole as he chewed reflectively on a stick and regarded the flamer with a brooding frown. But Skura was not inclined to take the matter so quietly.

The Llor rebel leader strode back and forth across the blue clay soil, crushing the calm season ridges in it with grinding boot soles, as if he nursed some spite against the land itself.

“What say you now?” he demanded. “This is not yours. But it is off world. So—then from where?”

“I want to know that also, Highness. This is against our law. But you did not find it in our hands—it was brought by a news-seeker of the enemy.”

The “Yaaah” that burst from his woolly throat was more the roar of a hungry feline than an assent. “Evil from S’Tork—could else be expected? Against this—what good are swords—rifles? Are even the weapons of your so-fine Swordsmen strong when they face a fire that cooks and kills? We do not fight with flame. When I take much treasure to Secundus and ask who will give me aid in battle, I am told ask this or that fighting lord—but not such a one, or such a one—for on Fronn only certain ones may fight. So I give up the treasure and you come. Now—S’Tork numbers among his warriors those who have fire weapons! This is not clean dealing, Terran. And we Llor do not welcome double tongues—”

Skura paused before the flamer and Yorke. “Also”—the woolly head swung around and the pop eyes raked across Kana and Rey— “when the news-seeker was in our hands and could be questioned—what chances? Terran bullets send him speechless into the final shadows. Did you not want him to answer us, Blademaster?”

Yorke did not accept the challenge. “These”—he pointed to the flamer— “are very deadly, Highness. Had not my men killed, none of yours might have lived. I regret that we could not question that spy. Now we can only get our answers from S’Tork’s camp—”

“Steps have been taken along that trail. If that refuse from the craw of a byll has indeed such arms we shall know it.” Without another word Skura mounted his gu and pounded out of the Terran camp, with his personal guard left several lengths behind as usual, kicking at their mounts with the spur tips of their boots.

When Skura vanished in a cloud of blue dust Hansu and Mills materialized out of the background and Yorke lost his languid pose.

“Well?” One eyebrow slanted inquiringly toward the Blademaster’s hairline.

“Better have it out now, rather than later,” Hansu returned. “Somebody must be working out of season and with real backing. “That’s Galactic Patrol stuff—”

“Who?” Yorke spit out a bit of twig.

“Some Mech down on his luck,” suggested Mills, “or—”

“Or somebody out to do a little empire building on his own,” Hansu concluded for him. “We won’t know until Skura’s spies can report back.”

“Arms and men—or just arms? That can be pretty important.” Yorke got to his feet. “Either way—it’s a mess.”

Hansu shrugged. “Just arms and we have a better chance.”

“You think this could be a show-down? Well—could be, could be. But if they think they have us rigged for a smash they’d better revise their plans.” The Blademaster did not appear disturbed. “We might even get an answer to the old question too. What if Arch were matched against Mech? On a world such as this the nature of the country would be on our side. A light, highly mobile force against a mechanized division. Strike and away before the heavier body can move—” He looked almost eager to begin such an experiment.

“All right.” Hansu picked up the flamer, and his soberness was in contrast to the other’s momentary enthusiasm. “Maybe we can have a chance to prove how good we are. But no one can read the future. And this gun gets de-commissioned right now!”

Yorke walked away and then Hansu held his own court of inquiry. Painstakingly Rey and Kana were taken over the events of the past few hours from Kana’s noting of the hooded spy to his death.

“Next time see if you can nick a man in a less vital spot,” was the Swordtan’s comment when they had finished. “I’d give a month’s pay to have a few words with that one. Dismissed.”

The flamer disappeared and there were no more references to it during the next few days. The Horde was in the foothills of the mountains, winding along paths worn by the clawed feet of the guen. Giant rock ledges layered black and white added to the gloom of the passage. The air, which was rarefied even on the plains, grew more tenuous. And, in spite of their conditioning on the trip to Fronn, the Combatants were left gasping after each stiff climb. Overhead the sky in daytime held a yellowish tinge and an icy wind licked at them from the snow fields of the peaks.

Seven Fronnian days’ travel brought them over the hump and to the down slopes leading to the rich eastern section of the continent. Between the heights and the sea lay only these plains—unless one ventured north to meet another arm of the mountain range.

There had been a few skirmishes with royal outposts. But the three pass forts commanding their road had been abandoned before the rebels reached them, a circumstance which did not relieve Terran minds. Long years of battle training had taught them to be highly suspicious of anything easy. And added to this worry were the rumors that they might just be heading into a trap. The one encounter with the spy had been built into a brush with a group of armed Mechs. And even wilder stories were beginning to make the rounds of the night camps. While Yorke and his officers presented an impassive front, the Combatants kept apart from their native allies—and the service took on the aspect of an engagement from which the off-world fighters would be only too glad to withdraw.

One mid-day Kana accompanied Deke Mills in a tedious climb to the crest of a pinnacle which would afford them a clear view of the road ahead. As Mills adjusted the screw on his far vision lenses, Kana cupped his gloved hands about his eyes and tried his unaided sight. There was a glint below which could only be light striking metal—and it moved.

“They’re waiting for us down there,” Mills agreed. “Two—three royal standards. Three companies at least. There go Skura’s mounted scouts. Wait—they’re waving a flag! Parley?”

Kana could just make out those dots drifting down the mountain road to clot in a black blot.

“Yorke should know about this. Tell him they’ve signaled for a parley and it looks as if Skura is going to oblige—”

Kana slid down to locate the Blademaster at the foot of the pinnacle, occupied with a native map, his three Swordtans in consultation. At the news of the parley Yorke mounted the riding gu Skura had given him and rode off after the native van while Kana climbed back to Mills.

“Look!” The young veteran thrust the glasses into Kana’s hands. “Over there—to the left. What do you make of that?”

Kana looked. There was a small body of the Llor rebels riding forward to meet a handful of royalists. But another group had dismounted and were making their way undercover to half circle the conference spot.

“An ambush? But they’re meeting under a parley flag!”

“Just so.” Deke Mills’ voice was dry.

For a long moment there was little action below. The conferring leaders, mounted on guen, remained under the wind-whipped parley standard. Then the hidden rebels struck. The group of officers became a melee of fighting Llor and guen. Rebels dragged unsuspecting royalists from their mounts, leaving some limp upon the ground and pulling others with them back into the shelter of the rocks. As the angry enemy tried to follow, those in ambush covered the kidnappers with a wave of fire from their air rifles until the royalists were forced to retire in confusion. And the parley streamer beat the air over ground occupied only by the dead. The surprise had been as successful as it was treacherous.

The two Terrans, shocked by this drastic betrayal of a code which had been ingrained in them from their earliest days of training, climbed down to join their fellows.

“Something up?” Mic, quick to sense their tension, asked as they scrambled by him.

Kana nodded but Mills did not pause to explain. What that act of violence might mean to the Combatants no one could guess. It might even lead to a complete repudiation of their contract with Skura and their speedy return to Secundus.

Quick as they were about returning to the command post they arrived only seconds before Yorke. The Blademaster’s face was an emotionless mask, but the set of his mouth, the gleam in his eyes, showed his worry.

Mills made his report and when he had finished Yorke laughed, though the sound held no mirth. “Yes”—his voice cut across the silence of the group— “it is true. Hansu, Bloor”—he jerked a beckoning finger at the two senior officers— “come along. This is the time for us to talk too. And”—his eyes swept the circle of Swordsmen— “you, you and you—” Kana realized with a start as Mills prodded him in the ribs that he was one the Blademaster had selected, together with Deke and Bogate. A pace or two behind the officers they trotted downhill.

Deke unslung his rifle, a gesture the other two copied. Accurate as the air rifles of the Llor were, the men who used them had neither the skill nor the startling marksmanship of the Terrans. If Yorke needed any show of force to back his meeting with Skura he was going to have it.

They found the rebel leader in a rocky defile where the caravan trail of the mountains widened into a respectable road. Llor mounted and on foot provided an audience for the scene in the center of that dusty track. Three royalist officers, bloody from minor wounds, their arms strapped behind them, were lined up before Skura who was haranguing them in the native language. He paused as the Terrans pushed through the ring of his men. It was impossible for any Combatant to read expression on the furred face of the rebel leader, but it was plain that Skura did not relish the arrival of Yorke.

Together the three Swordsmen planted themselves and their rifles in open view. It might be possible that they would be called upon to use those arms.

Yorke edged his gu on until he was abreast of Skura. The Llor about the leaders pulled back. They had seen too many examples of Terran shooting to wish to provide targets.

“Highness, what have I seen—this is not the proper way of war—” Yorke’s voice was not pitched for speech-making but it carried well.

“I am Gatanu, the Gatanu makes war as he pleases,” Skura returned. “These serve S’Tork. Men of mine have they killed, so—”

His hand moved in a swift gesture. Steel flashed in the air and the three royalists fell forward as their dark blood splattered as far as Skura’s boots.

Yorke’s mouth was a single hard line. “That was ill done, Highness. From evil springs evil.”

“So? On your world you do as custom rules. Customs are different here, off-worlder!”

The Llor leader was within his rights. And Yorke could make no answer. One of the rules of the Combat forces was not to question any native dealings with each other according to the established customs of the alien world. Perhaps on Fronn the desecration of a parley flag was accepted as a regular move in war time. But Kana heard Bogate mutter:

“No luck outta this—no luck for us when there’s blood on a truce flag.”

The Blademaster turned and rode away and in a compact group the Terrans fell back to their own force. But added to their constant suspicion was now another disturbing thought. War as they knew it was governed by certain unbreakable rules. Should these few laws to which they had always sworn allegiance be broken, what might be the end?

There was a council of war to which a representative from each team was summoned, while the remainder of the Combatants stood to their arms and prepared for trouble, suspecting attack now not only from the royalists but from their so-called allies as well.

By dawn the decision was made. Since Skura had quoted custom their contract held and under it they must go into battle with the rebels. The royalists had been beaten out of the foothills and the rebel forces were spreading out in long pinchers. Skura had some companies of infantry but guen cavalry was his preferred arm and his few regiments of foot moved as light wings to the heavier Terran Horde. According to his intelligence the royal army opposing them was small. The majority of the great lords of the plains had not yet chosen sides. A quick victory over this force—it was really only the household troops S’Tork had managed to marshal against them—would bring the nobles to declare for the rebels and the whole of the plains would fall to Skura with only a few isolated mopping-up expeditions to be sent against lords stubbornly holding for his cousin.

The shrill fluting of the Llor war trumpets sounded across the rolling country. And the rebels appeared confident of the outcome of the battle as small detachments of foot trotted up to join the wings of the Terran company, and troops of cavalry rode on to establish contact with the enemy.

The Horde stripped for action. Gone were the ornaments and the attention-catching trappings. They were in a uniform green-gray battle dress which blended with the patches of bare soil as they took cover.

Kana stretched his legs along a slight hollow and rested the barrel of his rifle on a conveniently crooked limb of the runty bush which gave him cover. Overhead a flock of flying creatures zigzagged and screeched their fear and anger at this invasion of their private world.

The plan of battle was simple, but one classic in Llor tradition. The pincher claws of the cavalry would attempt to encircle the enemy and herd them in toward the center where they must face the devastating fire of the Archs. And since S’Tork’s inferior force had been unwise enough to offer battle the rebels saw no reason why the maneuver should fail, for the only answer to it was retreat.

Kana looked around as Mills crawled up to join him. The veteran surveyed the recruit’s choice of position critically before he gave unspoken approval by settling down to pick his own loop-hole in the cloaking foliage. Under the blast of the trumpets there was a low rumble of sound, the deep-throated shouting of the Llor battle slogans. Mills grinned at Kana.

“The flag’s up—here we go!”

Their view of the battle was necessarily limited. And for what seemed like a very long period of time only the distant growl gave any indication that a struggle was in progress. Then came a burst of riders out of a small coppice. They milled about, apparently uncertain. But the color of their trappings was not to be mistaken. These were royalists who had been hunted into the waiting jaws of the trap in which the Terrans were the teeth.

Another group came out of the wood, and in this several mounts ran free and wild, dodging the men who strove to catch their reins. A dismounted Llor ran lightly from cover and behind him hobbled another, using a lance as a crutch. The hesitating troop which had preceded these strays broke in two. One, the smaller portion, dressed ranks, drew swords and rode back into the trees; the other, keeping very little order, came on down the valley. Kana picked his target before the fellow came into reasonable range. Here there were no war trumpets, no battle songs, but the hidden line of the sharpshooters tensed. And, as the party of fugitives passed that outcrop of rock which gave the Combatants a range marker, a withering blast of fire tore them out of their saddles, sending the guen mad with fear. One or two broken figures crawled along the ground, but not a rider passed that rock.

Kana could not close his eyes, though his insides twisted. This proved to be very different from firing at humanoid robots set to dash and dodge across a carefully marked rifle range—which had been his only test of marksmanship before. A second ago he had fired at a good target—that was all the squeeze of the trigger had meant to him then. The Llor he had centered his sights upon had had no identity as a living creature. But—! He gagged and fought against a rising push of nausea. He was given little time to examine his muddled emotion for a second wave of royalists had been beaten out of the woods. This time they were mingled with their pursuers, whirling in a mounted dance of death with a detachment of the rebels who hacked them downslope to the lines of the dead the Terrans had shot. But the enemy were giving a good account of themselves, there were almost as many empty saddles among the rebel band.

“Skura!”

Kana had not needed Mills’ identification. The rebel chieftain was unmistakable as he beat and slashed his way to the leader of the loyalist troop. That officer, as imposing physically as the would-be Gatanu, accepted battle with the same eagerness. And, while their followers struggled around them, the two leaders settled down to expert saber work. The royalist was bleeding from a slash high on one shoulder but it did not impair his efficient swordplay. As yet Skura was untouched.

The ring of tempered metal upon metal carried to the Terrans, but they continued to hold their fire. There was too much chance of shooting the wrong man in the melee. The gu ridden by the royalist attempted to use its teeth on Skura’s mount. And in one such lunge it jerked its rider out of position. Skura’s blade bit deep into the other’s forearm and the royalist’s sword fell from helpless fingers. Skura had just raised his blade to deliver the death stroke when he himself crumpled, collapsing over his gu’s head into the dust.

Perhaps only the Terrans saw that pencil of flame spray from the wood to strike down the rebel leader in the moment of his triumph. The Llor who, seconds before, had been locked in a death struggle were shocked into quiet, all staring at Skura. Then, with a wild wail of horror and despair, his followers attacked, killing ruthlessly. Two royalists escaped into the woods. The rest were dead.

“That was a flamer!” Kana’s voice was swallowed up in the cries of the Llor.

They had gathered up the Chortha’s body and were tying it in the saddle. Then they rode north. Mills got to one knee to watch them go.

“That’s the end of the war,” he remarked.

As if his observation were a signal, the piercing whistle of recall brought the Combatants out of line, withdrawing to secondary positions. Alert and ready the Terrans waited out the afternoon. But what Mills had said at the moment of Skura’s fall proved to be true. The death of the rebel chieftain demoralized his followers, the war was at an end and the Llor avoided the off-world men. The Combatants suspected that minor rebels were trying to make deals. And at that moment the future of the Horde was bleak. However, when such defeats had occurred before in Combatant history, the Horde or Legion retained by the defeated leader had always been given free access to its transport ships and allowed safe conduct off the planet.

Soldiers are largely conservative, ruled by custom, and since custom was now on their side and they were freed from an entanglement most of them had come to regard as risky, there was a feeling of relaxation, of “Well, the worst is now over,” in the Horde camp that night. They kept a patrol about the environs of their position, and there was no slacking on guard. But the death of Skura, who had left no heir to rally his men, absolved them from their pledged support. And now, with something of a holiday lightheartedness, they looked forward to a speedy return to Tharc where the transports waited.

The only gloomy reaction to the events of the afternoon was the realization that the shortness of the campaign would mean only basic pay. But Kana and some others sensed that the future might not be so bright.

The recruit noted that Yorke, the three Swordtans, and some veterans, including Mills, did not drag out their bed rolls that night. And when he was roused for second guardpost duty in the very early morning he saw the light still shining in the small tent where the officers had gathered.

Skura had been killed with a flamer—which meant that at least one more illegal weapon was in the hands of the enemy. Who had brought the arms to Fronn and why? Kana puzzled over that as he took his post. The chill black of the Fronnian night was alive with sounds which might or might not signal danger. But a circle of guard lamps set at intervals around the camp made a barrier of light.

Flying things attracted there and blinded by the radiance beat around the lamps, making a funnel of winged bodies down to the very lens. Hunting these bemused tidbits came larger creatures, some on four legs and some on two, others skimming on wings themselves. This was rich feasting and not a few vicious quarrels ensued.

Suddenly the low-hanging branches of a bush were pushed aside and a man stepped out into the full beam of the light, halting as if he wanted to be recognized. And the newcomer was no Fronnian.

Kana’s rifle went up until its sights covered that swaggering design of crossed rockets on the breast of the stranger’s tunic. A Mech—in full uniform! Kana whistled for the guard and snapped:

“Stand where you are—hands up!”

The other laughed. “Not planning to do anything else. I’ve a message for Yorke.”

5 — Morning After

A slap across his sleeping bag shocked Kana into groggy wakefulness some hours later. Mills towered over him.

“Hit dirt,” the veteran commanded brusquely. “We’re pulling out.”

Pulling out they were and with unusual speed. Kana had barely time to throw his bag on a cart already moving. And he was still rubbing the smart of sleep out of his eyes as he fell in with his team. They were marching in “hostile country” order he noticed—scouts out on the wings. And Terran drivers, not Llor, prodded the baggage guen into action. In fact in all that winding column there was not a native Fronnian to be seen. Nor were they headed back into the mountains toward Tharc, but instead following a trail which led away at right angles, north along the foothills.

The new road dwindled into the faintest of tracks within a mile or so. From the exasperated comments voiced about him Kana gathered that none of the lower rank Combatants knew where they were headed or why. And more than once he caught muffled suggestions about the mysterious troubles which had recently overwhelmed other Hordes and Legions light years from home. In spite of their usual fatalism, the morale of the mercenaries might be seriously affected if the situation continued.

Perhaps this new move was the result of that visit the Mech had paid their camp in the early morning. But the confidence the Terrans had shown after Skura was slain was fast changing to a growing uneasiness.

After a space the trace they followed grew so narrow that it seemed they must abandon the carts. Two of the scouts came in to report, a native with them, a Llor of the petty officer class, wearing a stained bandage about his head, one arm in a grimy sling. Rumor rippled down the ranks.

“There’s a big river ahead—and no bridge—”

Before that news had reached the tail of the last team the call to general council was whistled. Yorke’s voice, clippy and tinny, came through the speakers.

“Men, the situation is not promising. We were informed that S’Tork has enlisted the services of Mech renegades—how many we do not yet know. We have not been offered safe conduct, and we cannot return to Tharc without it. Until we can make a treaty and enforce the recognition of our position under general Combat usage, we must mark time. We shall send a message to Secundus—”

“And who’s going to grow a space drive and fly it there through space?” Kana heard someone ask grimly in a half whisper.

“We have information,” Yorke was continuing, “that there is another mountain gap to the north which we may cross if we cannot come to terms—we are now heading toward that. In the meantime we must do nothing to arouse the enmity of the royalists, give them any reason for declaring that we fought on after the death of Skura. Under no provocation, no matter how severe, is any Swordsman to use his weapon against a Llor—until this order is countermanded. We shall continue in ‘hostile country, plan three’ until further notice. Change the loads on the large carts to back-packs for the guen. Only the three small handcarts can be used from this point on. We shall establish a night camp beside the river—”

The use of resisting guen for pack animals was not easy. And it was nearly twilight before the detachment of which Kana was one, pulling and batting their snarling beasts down to the lighted area of the camp the van had set up, gained the river. The site of the Terran position was on a bluff above the dark, oily water which washed the clay bank with unwholesome ripples. And an almost vertical descent plunged into a powerful current. They need not fear a surprise attack from that direction.

Kana strode along the bank, looking at the flood. From the white foam collars wreathing the rocks there he judged that the current was too swift to grant them an easy crossing. As his eyes trailed bubbles downstream he saw dancing dots of light moving through the blackness of the night, coalescing on the same bank farther east. Another camp? Then the Horde’s line of march must have been paralleled by a detachment of Llor.

Luckily the Horde carried their own rations. Natives who themselves depended upon the natural produce of their land could not readily gauge the superior mobility of an army for whom the supply problem consisted of a relatively small amount of condensed food tablets and other concentrated rations, weeks’ needs being carried easily in an individual’s own belt pouch. The ancient “scorched-earth” policy would not be effective against Terrans—unless they could be kept from their base for a period comprising months.

“Dumb woolly heads!” As Kana dropped down by Mills and Mic he heard Sim’s thick voice rumble, “What do they think they can do—”

“It’s not what the fur faces are gonna do.” That was Bogate. “Skura wasn’t killed by no fur face. I was there. I tell you, fellas, he got burned right through the middle—neat and clean! Me, I’m a Swordsman, and a ten-year man, and I know better’n to spit in the face of a flamer!”

“Flamer?” questioned someone. “But if they have flamers they’d have cut us to pieces back there. And we were winning until Skura took it.”

“Lissen.” Bogate’s voice overbore the other’s. “I saw what I saw! That was a Mech that was marched in to see Yorke last night. And he wasn’t no observer either! What if S’Tork has a whole renegade Legion hid back there?”

“You’re talking feathers and fluff!” challenged one of his companions. “A whole Legion turned bad—why, they couldn’t have set course for here without Prime knowing it!”

Bogate’s sardonic bark of laughter cut that down. “There’s a million-trillion ways you can beat the High Brass back at base—and you know it. Just because it ain’t never been done before, is no sign that some smart guy can’t pull it off. Lookit here, a Mechmaster what wanted to, could grab hisself off a world like this—set up as Control Commissioner or something. Ain’t that right, Mills?”

Deke Mills slapped away one of the flyers drawn by the lamps. “Entirely true, Bogate. And you’re also right in that exactly that is what may be happening now. If so”—he paused and then continued—“if so we must be prepared to fight our way off-world.”

Several voices protested and then sank to silence under Bogate’s growl.

“Ain’t you bumble-wits got it into your heads yet that when a fella breaks the top laws he ain’t gonna let tongues wag if he can help it? We go back to Secundus and shoot off our mouths about flamers and Mechs here and the mop-up crew is gonna head straight to Fronn to see what’s what. Think, can’t you. Who’s liable to have flamers—what kinda support these here renegade Mechs got?”

The sudden tense silence which answered him was that of men who were beginning to think and didn’t like it.

Due to Hansu’s use of Mills as his aide, Kana’s acquaintance with his double was not a deep one. He messed with and shared the quarters of Rey and Mic, meeting with Mills only when duty brought them together. But now he ventured to ask his quiet companion a question.

“This could reach clear to Prime, couldn’t it?”

Mills did not turn his head. But a second later he snapped:

“Explain that!”

Kana described the actions of the Mech in the information library, retailing his belief that the man was waiting for the pak on Fronn.

“No Legion badge on his helmet?”

“No, sir. I thought he might have just signed up. But why—” He fell silent but his thoughts were very busy.

How could any Mech be recruited for illegal service on Prime? S’Tork must be backed by more than a mere handful of renegades!

“Yes—why and how.” Mills’ whisper added to his formless apprehension. “This is a case of going into battle blindfolded.” The veteran got to his feet and Kana trailed him.

They were, the younger Swordsman discovered, making a circuit of the camp, passing from post to post. When they reached the east Mills gave the password and stepped beyond the brilliance of the lamps into the night. As their eyes adjusted Kana located the bluish haze of the Llor encampment. Contrary to their usual custom the Fronnian forces were keeping their torches ablaze. But they had not advanced any toward the Terran site.

A single moment of study was enough to satisfy Mills. He tramped south, stopping now and then to study the darkness. Farther off was another barrier of lights across the road over which they had just come. The Llor had cut off any possible retreat.

To the west stood the mountain wall. There were no gleams of blue on the heights. The Terran camp was not yet ringed in—or did the Llor believe that the mountains themselves were barrier enough? They might consider that they had the off-world army pinned down with the mountains and the river and the two bodies of their own troops.

Mills reached the last post, but he did not turn back into camp. “Hansu tells me,” he began abruptly, “that you’re an AL man. What do you make of the Llor—of this situation? Surely they must know they haven’t bottled us up. We could blow them out of our way whenever we wanted to show strength. They have something in reserve—they must have!”

“You can never tell about a feudal civilization with alien natives. Skura was inclined to overestimate his own powers. This is the first time a Combat force has been on Fronn.” Kana shrugged. “You know that X-Tee, Alien Liaison, is pure guesswork at times. We can’t get inside the skull of a creature whose whole mental processes may be different. The Llor, it’s my guess, are either just what they outwardly appear to be—simple barbarians—or else—”

“Or else,” Mills caught him up, “something so tortuously complicated that we shall never be able to cope with them. Or they may have expert advice and assistance—”

“From a Mech Legion?”

“I don’t see how they could have that! The transportation problem to Fronn alone—! Why, no troopship can clear for anywhere in the Galaxy without a sealed route-tape to its known destination. And yet that Mech on Prime was taking indoctrination for this planet—Prime! Right where the least rumor of such a move should damn it from the start. And suppose a Legion, or a part of a Legion has turned rotten—why select Fronn for their operations? What does a frontier world possess that would make such a risk within the bounds of profit?”

“What sort of mineral rights did Skura sell Interplanetary to raise the pay for Yorke, sir?”

Deke Mills squared around to face Kana, amazement in his eyes. Almost, the younger Swordsman thought, as if a gu had addressed him in good Basic.

“Out of the mouths of greenies,” he said. “Mineral rights, trading rights, and maybe a good chance for a double cross all around with the Terrans to blame everything on! Lord of Space! That could be the answer to a lot of questions. Mechs could be smuggled in on trade ships—flamers provided—everything! But”—he stared thoughtfully at Kana— “you keep your mouth shut on that bright idea, understand? We already have enough rumors flying around now without adding one so logical it can be believed.”

“Then you think we’ve more than renegades against us, sir?”

“Alien reasoning—how do we know how their minds work? The C.C. doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to. They’ve never even tried to know what makes us tick. We’re the slightly comical, childish mercenaries—with minds that don’t match their pattern charts. So they fit us into the general scheme of things and try to forget us. And because we have functioned in that niche, they’ve stopped worrying about us. Their idea of a Terran has become so much of a set figure that they do not see us as we are at all, but as they think we are—two very different things. You know”—Mills paused for a moment as if a new thought had struck him— “that in a way gives us a protective covering. We’ve learned things which would surprise the Galactic Agents. So these Trade boys—non-Terran, of course—Terra cannot trade—figure out a neat, strictly illegal scheme—and they don’t stop to think of our part in it at all. We’re just pieces to be shoved around on a game board. But what will happen if we begin to make moves on our own? We should try just that—”

Kana tensed. Was Mills choosing to pass along real information? Did the Terrans have some way of fighting back against the protective parentalism of C.C. which might even now keep them earthbound? The odd sixth sense which was part of the make-up of any A.L. man quivered into life. He thought of questions—ten—twenty of them—he wanted to ask. But there was no time, for in the camp Swordsmen were moving among the tents and saddled guen stood in the light marking Yorke’s headquarters.

“Do we march?” Kana hurried to catch up with Mills.

Before the Blademaster’s tent were the three Swordtans and a group of under officers. It was plain there was an argument in progress and at last Yorke turned impatiently from Hansu and reached for the reins of his gu.

“Until I return you’re in command,” he said.

A party of three Llor, high-ranking nobles by their war harness, were waiting, the lamps painting their furred faces with a slightly sinister shadow. The other two Swordtans mounted, but the Llor leader was in no hurry to leave. He gestured at Hansu and asked a question. Yorke answered, and still the Llor did not move. Yorke’s gaze fastened on Mills. He beckoned the young veteran forward. Hansu nodded and snapped the Swordtan’s insignia from his helmet, passing it to Deke.

“You’re my deputy. The Llor demand that all our High Brass attend. And they’ve seen you at our conferences in the past so you can pass as an officer. But—” perhaps Kana was the only one who saw that the fingers which passed the badge from one man to another closed bruisingly tight on Mills’ hand— “watch out.” Mills mounted a gu and the small cavalcade swept off. Their progress across country was marked by the blue of the Fronnian torches as they sped eastward to the camp of the royalists downriver.

Hansu wasted no time after Yorke left. Working by quiet orders passed from man to man, the Combatants went into action. The tents were left standing. But all other gear was sorted and skeleton packs of one change of clothing, blankets and cold-weather wear, were assembled by each man. Medical kits were passed out, along with rations and spare ammunition. Then the men turned in, half a team at a time, for a few hours’ sleep. When Kana roused in the early morning the camp presented the appearance of having been sacked by the enemy.

Everywhere the war bags of the Swordsmen gaped, their less useful contents spilled. The force was now prepared to move fast and keep moving. Hansu must expect trouble.

With the rising sun the Terrans could see the hide tents of the royalists on the river bank to the east, and sight the clustered standards of the troops which had followed them through the foothills. The lamps on the barrier were switched off but not dismounted from their bases. For if the Horde had to travel light, these, too, must be left behind.

Hansu had stationed men along the river. Their principal occupation, as Kana observed from an eastern sentry post, was to toss in bits of wood fastened to cords in order to study the current. After about an hour of this they straggled back to report. But Kana knew that to cross the stream here, especially if they were forced into that act under fire, was suicide.

It should not come to that. The Llor had asked to treat. Yorke would return with the safe conduct and the Horde would march back to Tharc. If the Llor followed the rules of Combat that was all they could do—If.

Llor rode leisurely down the mountain road, holding their guen to an ambling pace. All wore the royalists’ badges, though, as they made a detour about the Terran camp, Kana was not the only one to suspect that the majority had not been on that side of the conflict three days before. They were armed but their weapons were sheathed and slung. And they appeared content to ride slowly to the river, shouting remarks which no Combatant deceived himself into believing were complimentary.

“That woolly-face with the blue sash—” Mic squatted beside Kana in the outpost— “I could make him change his mind about stupid Terrans—with just one squeeze of the trigger—”

The Llor belted with the blue sash was gesturing, gestures which were rankly insulting on any planet. He was escorted by a choice group of friends whose howls of delight led him on to bigger and worse efforts. Mic’s sights covered in turn several important points of the comedian’s anatomy as he sighted for the shot he could not make.

“Aren’t you here ahead of time?” asked Kana.

“Oh, I’m not your relief. We’re to double up on the posts from now on, Hansu’s orders. There’s a nasty smell rising, and it isn’t all from wool either. Yorke’s been gone almost ten hours. It doesn’t take that long to sign a retreat treaty. You bring your pack with you?”

Kana kicked the roll by his feet. “Sure. But Hansu won’t march until he hears from Yorke—”

“I don’t think so. Now—just what is that?”

The sun of Fronn was pale and feeble compared to the Sol which warmed Terra, but it did give light and now behind the milling Llor, from the edge of a small thicket on the river bank, those pale rays were reflected by some bright surface directly toward the Terran lines in a regular rhythm.

Three letters of their own native tongue, a cry for aid so old that its origin was long ago lost in the mists of Terra’s war-torn past—a signal only one of their own kind would send! Kana laid down his rifle.

“Take over!” He moved before Mic could stop him. His hours of duty at this post had not been wasted. There was a way, if not an easy one, to get down to that coppice without venturing into the open now patrolled by the Llor.

Kana lowered himself over the edge of the cliff, kicking for holds with the toes of his battle boots. Fly-
fashion he was able to crawl down to the few inches of beach. There was about a foot of sand and gravel between the base of the cliff and the rushing water. With his back to the wall, hidden from anyone above unless he leaned far enough over to sight him, Kana fought his way by inches along the stream. Once or twice the lapping water curled about his toes and he dug his fingers into the soil at his back for a hold. The worst was losing his sense of direction, for he had to stop every few feet and look up for the trees which were his goal.

How long that crab’s journey took he could not have testified, but it seemed to him that he had been at it for at least an hour when the sight of black-green foliage set him turning to face the cliff. A bundle of roots protruded from the bank within reach and he began to climb. Dried clay powdered his face and he wiped his eyes with one hand while he held on with the other. His nails tore and broke and his uniform was plastered with dust and clay, but he wormed his way up into the embrace of a thorny bush.

“Terra?” He kept his voice low. But at the answer to his question he pushed forward recklessly. That moan could only have been born of real suffering.

His forward spring brought him to the very edge of the thicket facing west. Collapsed half over a fallen tree, veiled from the Llor riders by only a thin screen of brush, was a limp body.

Kana hardly dared to touch the body when he saw the extent of the burns which had charred away most of the green-gray tunic. Flamer wound! He shrank from causing the torture he knew his grip must bring as with infinite horror he raised the other. The blackened, seared body writhed out of his hold and a moan sounded the wounded man’s pain. Gritting his teeth, Kana took hold for the second time and fought the other’s feeble attempts to pull free. At last he turned the heavy head to the light. The flamer had not touched the face and though it was contorted and twisted with agony, Kana knew who it was he supported in his arms.

“Deke! What—what have they done!”

6 —IF THE FAITH BE BROKE—

The dark eyes struggled to focus. It was as if Deke Mills came haltingly back from a long distance, driven by some overwhelming sense of duty.

“All—dead— Hart Device— Tell Hansu—Hart Device—”

Kana nodded. “I should tell Hansu that Hart Device is responsible?”

Deke’s eyes gave assent. “No—not alone. Galactic—agent—hiding— Burned us down.” Some spark of strength steadied his voice. “Tried—tried to get Yorke to renegade too. When he said no—flamed us from behind. All dead—thought me dead too. Agent came—looked. I saw him clear—agent—tell Hansu—C.C. backing Device. Crawled—crawled—hours and hours crawled. They had just flamers—no big stuff. Tell Hansu—flamers—”

“There’s a Galactic Agent with them and they have C.C. arms,” Kana repeated with cold steadiness.

For a long moment Mills lay quiet in his hold, summoning up strength.

“Tell Hansu—C.C.behind it—wipe us out if they can. Mustn’t be cut off here. Back to ships—report—Combat—report—”

One of the charred stumps of hands stirred, pawed at Kana’s sleeve.

“I’ll tell him, Deke,” he hastened to promise.

“From behind—no chance—Hart Device—” Mills’ whisper thinned and then died. Then he said quite clearly and coherently:

“Give Grace, Comrade—!”

Kana swallowed, his mouth dry. For an instant he was back again in the chapel on Terra, half the Galaxy away from this Fronnian wood. He had been drilled in the Ritual, he knew what had to be done. But somehow, in spite of all the solemn instructions, he had never really expected to be called upon to give the Last Grace—

Deke’s pain-filled eyes held his. His duty done, he was waiting for the release from the world of agony which held him. Mills knew what his wounds meant. Nothing could be done for him even by the Medicos on Secundus. And he could not be transported there. Slowly, trying not to add to Mills’ pain, Kana lowered the other to earth and opened his own tunic to reach the slender knife all Combatants wore on their breasts. This was the “Grace” of the fighting man—to be carried with him awake or sleeping all his life—to be used for one purpose only.

Kana drew the steel into the light. He raised the plain cross hilt to his lips and said the proper words, hearing his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger, knowing that Deke’s twisted lips were trying to shape the same plea.

“—so do I send thee home, brother-in-arms!” Kana ended, he could not delay any longer.

The knife slipped into the place instruction had taught him to seek. Then he was alone—left to slip that wet blade back in its sheath. It could not be cleaned except in the earth of Terra. There was one thing more—the husk which had been Deke Mills must not be left for the Llor and it was beyond his power to carry the body back to camp.

From his belt Kana unhooked a cartridge. With great care he unscrewed its cap and placed it on the body. Then he threw himself back toward the cliff. The blast came in a sheet of flame before he was quite over the bank. When that fire died Deke Mills would never be found.

Kana inched his way upstream at the fastest pace he could manage, trying to keep his mind blank of all but Mills’ message to Hansu. With Yorke and the other Swordtans murdered, Trig Hansu now commanded the Horde.

He found the end of a rope dangling over the bluff below the sentry post and with its aid got up to the camp. At the top he found not only Mic but Hansu waiting for him. Downriver a pillar of black smoke penciled into the sky and the Llor were gathering at the edge of the wood. Kana made his terse report.

“They flamed Yorke and the rest from behind when Yorke would not agree to join them. A C.C. Agent watched the whole thing secretly. Hart Device leads the Mechs. Deke was mortally wounded but crawled—as far as the wood over there. He said he saw C.C. flamers but none of their big stuff—thought that they were out to get us all.”

Hansu’s expression did not change at the name of the renegade Mechmaster or at the mention of the Agent. And almost before Kana finished speaking he was giving orders to the handful of veterans nearby.

“Dolph, you take over Team One, Horvath, Team Two. Prepare to move out. And send Bogate here.”

Hansu asked one more question of Kana in a low voice:

“Mills?”

Kana found no words to answer that. He drew out the Grace Knife to display its stains. Behind him, through his sick misery, he heard Mic’s breath catch. But Hansu made no comment. And he asked nothing more.

It was Mic who helped Kana sling his rifle and shoulder his pack, guiding him back to the busy camp. The gear they had discarded the night before was being built, under Bogate’s orders, into a wall of supplies stretching from one lamp line to another. Except for the men working to erect that barrier the Combatants were lining up to the west, facing the mountains.

“Done, sir!” Bogate saluted Hansu. Five of the Terrans were stationed at intervals along the discarded baggage, and each cradled in his hand one of the fire cartridges.

“Ready with those beasts?” demanded Hansu.

The squad which had herded the pack guen to the far side of the camp shouted an affirmative.

“Men”—Hansu wheeled to face the teams— “you all know what has happened. If the faith be broke, then so is the contract which bound us. Yorke and the others were murdered, shot down from behind by flamers. Mills lived long enough to warn us. You know that it is not superior numbers, or strength of arms, that wins a war. The side which goes in with the will to victory has the advantage. When we march out of here we have to cross a hostile planet. Every native may be ranged against us. But unless we can reach Tharc we have very little chance. Remember this—our lives are at stake, yes. But the Combatant whose single aim is to keep alive usually dies in the first charge. To die is our common lot, no man escapes that. But if we die in the tradition of the Hordes—that is a good ending for any of us.

“They believe that they have us walled in, that we cannot break out of their cage of mountains, river and troops. But we shall show them that they dare not underestimate a Swordsman. With this fire to cover our tracks we shall head west—into the mountains. Before the death of Skura they told us that the mountains were to be feared, that the natives there have never submitted to the Gatanu’s rule and are dangerous. If that is so we may find allies—at least we shall be headed in the right direction. Whoever wants to keep alive must aim at victory. It is the winners who kill and the losers who are killed!”

The Horde greeted that statement with a cheer as Hansu signaled the men by the barrier. Squalling guen were sent running wild toward the Llor who milled around beyond the boundaries of the camp. And the Fronnian troopers were forced to scatter before the loose animals, trying to head them away from their own lines. But the guen, with the diabolical tempers of their kind, attacked the cavalry mounts whenever they came in contact.

Falling into “hostile country” order the Horde moved out. Puffs of flame blossomed along the wall of abandoned supplies, providing a thick smoke to hide their going. And the heat of the fire would keep back the Llor for some time.

The Terran line of march followed the river where there was little cover. And within half a mile the stream sank deeper as outcrops of black and white rock grew more frequent. Kana took his turn at hauling the small carts which transported such of the general supplies as they had to have. There were two of these and the material they carried might mean the difference between life and death for the men they rolled among.

It was close to twilight when Kana released his hold to a relief and, rubbing his rope-chafed hands, fell back into line. So far Hansu had given no orders to camp. They ate as they marched, hard rations, and sipped the water from their canteens. There had been no signs of pursuit. But the Blademaster evidently intended to put as many miles between them and their last camp as was humanly possible.

The river stopped them for the second time. Sunk now in a deep gorge, it sliced across their route. They would either have to cross or turn back. In the last dwindling light of day they made camp, taking advantage of the rough ground to conceal their bed rolls. It was then that Kana was summoned to report to Hansu.

“You were down to the stream edge back there. Current bad?”

“Slick and fast, sir. And I think deep too. It must be even deeper here.”

“Hmm—” Hansu dropped to his knees and wriggled forward to the rim of the drop. He brought out a pocket flash and lowered it by a cord into the depths, revealing the surface of the cliff as it descended.

The river had cut that gorge, and at times it must have been a wider and stronger stream, for it left in its passage a series of ledges—a giant’s staircase, marking the stages of its sinking. Not very wide and unfortunately far apart—they were still ledges and so promised a means of winning down to the water. The light oscillated above the racing flood and the vicious fangs of boulders made up rapids which choked half its bed. Landslides had partially dammed the stream, leaving a residue in stones too big for the water to tear away. To try to swim that would be asking for a smashed and broken body. And the light’s rays were too limited to show what awaited on the other side. Hansu coiled the rope, loop by loop, bringing up the light.

“We’ll have to wait for daylight,” he said impatiently. “A Galactic Agent—you are sure Mills said that?”

Kana could only repeat what he had been told. Then he added: “The Llor are confident, sir—a lot too confident. Wouldn’t they have to be pretty sure of their backing before they turned on us?”

Hansu made a sound which had little in common with real laughter. “Oh, yes, we have reputations. But then they must have advisers to whom such reputations are merely amusing. The Llor are fighting men and if the advantages appear to lie on their side, they are going to do just as they please. Skura murdered his enemies even under the parley flag, this will be more of the same. Maybe it’s all an old Fronnian custom. However”—his lips drew back in what was close to a lion’s snarl— “they had better not make too many bright plans for the future—even acting under C.C. advice!”

“What do you know about the Cos?” the Blademaster demanded a minute later, snapping Kana out of some dark thoughts.

“They are mountain natives, aren’t they, sir? There wasn’t much about them in the pak on Fronn. I got the impression that they’re not of the same race as the Llor and that they are deadly enemies of the plains dwellers. But they aren’t Venturi either.”

“They’re a pygmy race—at least the Llor consider them so. And they are deadly—to anyone who tries to invade their territory. Use poison darts and mantraps. But whether we’re headed into Cos country now, I don’t know. And their quarrel may be only with the Llor—there’s always that hope. Anyway, we have no choice but to advance. And now you’re going to work, Karr.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re attached as Alien Liaison man from now on. Figure out what you need for a ‘first contact pack’ and get it together tonight. We’ll have no time in the morning and you must have the kit ready to use. Bogate!”

The veteran, a black blot in the deepening night, moved up.

“You take scout tomorrow. Karr here will be the AL man for your party.”

“Yes, sir.” There was no indication that Zapan Bogate had ever seen Kana before. “How many men?”

“Not more than ten. Wide scout—hostile country. I want a con job all the way—”

“Yes, sir! Con it is!”

The feeble illumination in the camp came from hand flashes muffled in spider silk. But it was enough to guide Kana to his place with Mic and Rey. He hunched down, drawing his one blanket about his shoulders, and tried to think coherently. As AL man with the advance scouts tomorrow he would have to have some kind of a trade kit—trade was always the easiest form of contact with unknown tribes. But he knew so little about the Cos—pygmies, perpetual enemies of the Llor, addicted to poison darts and mantraps to keep their mountain territory sacrosanct. The common offerings—food—adornment. This problem should have been foreseen before they burned the excess baggage. If the Combatants had obeyed orders they had already stripped themselves of the very things he would need.

Food— Almost all aliens had an innate curiosity about off-world food, especially if they lived in a rugged country on a near-starvation diet. And of all Terran foods there was one in particular which the Combatants always carried with them, one grown only on their native world, which most extraterrestrial life relished. Intersystem Traders had been trying to export it for years. But the Terrans had ruled it a military supply and so controlled its production—keeping it for the troops and a few of their favored alien friends. As a bargaining point it had been too precious to destroy back at the last camp. Their ration of it must be lashed on one of the carts he had helped to drag. He should ask the Medico for a supply.

Ornaments—the veterans had stripped their wealth from the dress uniforms. Each man would carry his own in a waist treasure belt. Kana must beg for the showiest pieces. Well, no time to lose. Neither Mic nor Rey owned anything worthwhile. But there was the whole camp to canvass.

Kana dropped his blanket wearily and started off on his task, his first quarry being the Medico. Crawfur heard his plea and then detached one of the small boxes from the nearest cart. Kana signed for a packet as big as his hand—a packet which would have brought the equivalent of a deputy-control officer’s pay for half a year had it been offered for sale in the black markets on half a dozen different planets.

And on hearing of the other need Crawfur unhooked one of the pockets of his own belt and contributed to the cause a Ciranian “sunstone” which drew light from a muffled lamp to make a warm pool of fire in the donor’s hand.

“Might as well take this. My neck’s worth more than that. Don’t hesitate to ask—we all know what we may be up against. Tal, Kankon, Ponay.” He roused his assistants and explained.

When Kana left the group he had the packet of sugar, the sunstone, a chain of Terran gold about a foot long, a ring made in the form of a Zacathan water snake, and a tiny orb of crystal in which swam a weird replica of a Poltorian lobster fish. He returned to his own place half an hour later the breast of his tunic bulging with glittering treasure, rings on every finger and arm bands braceleting his arms. The loot was sorted out under a lamp. This and this and this were eye-catching “come-on” pieces to be displayed as a lure. But this and that and that should be reserved as personal gifts to win the favor of chieftains or war leaders. He made up three packets according to their future use and put them away before he curled up and tried to sleep. Without the bright rim of the lamps about the campsite the heavy dark of the Fronnian night walled them in—they might be within a giant box trap, the lid slammed down upon them.

Kana could see those icy sparks of light which were the stars—suns which warmed strange worlds. And somewhere, overshadowed by the brilliance of so many others, Sol had its place, while around its yellow glory wound in their orbits the worlds he knew best.

Green earth. Out here there were other green worlds, as well as blue, red, white, violet, yellow—but none of them wore just the same tint of green as that which covered Terra’s hills. Terra—man’s home. Mankind had come late into space, and had been pushed to one side of the game Central Control managed. But there were many worlds where native life had never reached intelligence. What if man had been allowed to spread to those—to colonize? What if the very ancient legends of his race were true and there had been earlier trips into deep space from which the voyagers had never returned? Were there worlds where once Terran colonies had taken root? Where he could find his own distant kin free of the Central Control yoke, men who had won the stars by their own efforts?

He drifted into sleep thinking of that. But then he was crouched in a Fronnian thicket, a bloody knife in his hand—

“—up!” Kana rolled over. The dawn was gray and above him Bogate, rifle slung over his shoulder, marching supplies in place, stood, his thumbs hooked in his waist belt, his helmet gleaming in the growing light.

Kana rolled his own kit together hurriedly. The AL packets he crowded into the front of his tunic where he could reach them easily.

“Moving out now?”

“Shortly. Draw your rations and fall in.”

Hansu and a picked party equipped with ropes were already busy at the rim of the canyon. Three men had worked their way, ledge by ledge, to the sliver of beach far below. There they took turns, one roped to another, wading and swimming out into the flood, wedging native lances and driftwood between the boulders, trying to make a barrier which might save a man, swept from his feet, from being washed away. It was plain that Hansu was determined to get them across the river.

The pioneers below had fought their way less than half the distance across when Kana, together with Bogate’s scouts, started down. They fastened rifles, packs, and other supplies into waterproof coverings which were lowered on a makeshift platform faster than they climbed. Kana was dangling on a rope between two ledges when a shout which was half scream tore at his ears and nerves. He did not turn his head—he dared not. A moment later the rope a few feet to his right, taut seconds before with the weight of the scout who had crawled over the rim beside him, slapped the rock loosely—that weight gone.

Even when his boots rested on the next ledge Kana did not look down. He rested, spread-eagled against the wall, his fingers gritting on the rock, the sweat dripping from his chin.

Three ledges more and he reached the shingle. The men who had preceded him were still gazing downstream, a bewildered horror in their eyes. But there was no time to mourn as there had been none to save. Bogate slid down the last length of rope and was shouting orders:

“Get your gear, you Lothurian leaf eaters! We cross over and then we go up—and we do it in space time!”

They did it—if not in space time—with the loss of another man, sucked under by the current and smashed against a rock, then by some freak of the flood flung contemptuously back at them limp and broken. But roped, sometimes thrown off their feet and carried downstream, fighting from one boulder to the next, they got across. Another of their company, nursing an arm snapped like a twig during his final two-foot fight for the shore, remained there to watch the guide ropes they had left for those following.

Up the cliff they crept from handhold to handhold, shaking with effort, their fingers slippery with sweat, their hearts and lungs laboring. Salt stung in their eyes and the rawness of their hands, but they climbed.

Kana concentrated on the foot of earth immediately before his eyes, and then on the next higher and the next. This had gone on for hours—would go on and on without end.

Then a hand closed about the wrist he had extended for a fresh hold. He was lifted with a yank which brought him sliding on his face across the lip of the wall to lie panting in tearing gasps, too bone weary to reach for the canteen of water his mouth and throat craved.

He sat up as Bogate came along. There was a coil of rope about his waist—that must be knotted to other lengths, the whole dropped to form a ladder for the Horde.

Kana drank and was able to scramble to his feet when their rifles and packs were hoisted. Nor was he the last to fall in as Bogate gave the signal to move on—into the dark future of the mountains.

7 — THE BADLANDS

As they left the river the rest of the scouts fanned out. Only Kana continued with Bogate. He was a supernumerary in this operation, his duties beginning if and when they found traces of intelligent life. To his surprise, instead of ignoring his presence entirely, Bogate waited for him to catch up, asking:

“Just what do we look for?”

“Hansu thinks we may find Cos—they’re a pygmy race supposed to inhabit these mountains—hate the Llor and are highly dangerous—use poison darts and build mantraps.”

Bogate’s reply to the sketchy information was a grunt. The wind was rising in gusts which whistled eerily between the heights, propelling the migrating puff-balls—circular masses of spiky vines which traveled so until they found water where they could root for a season. Of a sickly, bleached, yellow-green, they were armed with six-inch thorns and the Terrans granted them the right of way. This was the start of the Fronnian windy season. And to fight across the ranges during that period was to front dangers no Llor would willingly face.

A weird moaning rose to a shriek among the rocks far above them as the wind was forced through crevices and cracks. But for the most part the scouts were sheltered from the full blast by the ridges.

Here the soil was a mixture of gravel and clay, liberally salted with the rocky debris of slides. Each side canyon or gully had to be blazed with a fluorescent brand so that the Horde would keep to the main trail. They detoured around boulders taller than a man until Kana began to wonder why such a large number of landslides should occur in the length of a single dried watercourse. Suddenly the answer to that lay before his eyes and it was grim.

Sun flashes reflected from something half buried in the soil. He knelt to scrape away the earth. A Llor sword protruded from under a rock. And its haft was still encircled by the finger bones of a skeleton hand!

“Smashed flat—like a bug!” was Bogate’s comment. The veteran’s eyes narrowed as he looked along the way they had come and then on up the slit at the dusky shapes of the mountains. He had been too well trained by warfare on half a hundred planets not to mistake clues.

“Rolled rocks and caught ’em. Neat. This Cos work?”

“Might be,” Kana assented. “But it was a long time ago—” He was interrupted by a shout which sent Bogate sprinting ahead.

The narrow canyon they had chosen to follow widened out into an arena—an arena where a deadly game had once been played and lost. Bones brittle with years carpeted the arid floor. And Llor skulls, very human looking, mingled with the narrow, fanged ones of guen, were easy to identify in the general litter, but not one skeleton was unbroken or entire. Kana picked up a rib, the bone light in his fingers. He had been right—those deep indentations could only be the marks of crushing molars. First there had been a killing and then—a feasting! He pitched the bone away.

Keeping aloof from the mass of ghastly relics the Terrans walked around the wall of the valley. There were no weapons in that gray waste, no remains of Llor war harness. Even the trappings of the guen were missing. The dead had been stripped completely. And since they lay unburied, the massacre must have gone unavenged.

“How long ago, d’you think?” Bogate’s throaty bellow was subdued.

“Maybe ten years, maybe a hundred,” Kana returned. “You’d have to know Fronnian climate to be sure.”

“They got caught bunched,” Bogate observed. “Larsen,” he snapped at the nearest scout, “climb up and use the lenses—cover us from above from now on. I’ll take point on the other wall. The rest of you—go slow. Soong, report back on the speecher. We haven’t seen nothin’ livin’ so far. But we don’t want our fellas caught like this!”

At a snail’s pace they progressed to the far end of the valley of death, threading the narrow opening there as if they feared any second to hear the roar of an avalanche. But Kana, taking notice of the barren countryside, thought that the Cos would not ordinarily inhabit that section. The slaughter behind them might be the sign of some war—if Cos had caused that havoc. The tooth marks on the rib continued to haunt him. Some primitive peoples ate enemy dead, believing that the virtue of a brave foe could be so absorbed by his slayer. But surely those scars on the bone had never been left by the molars of a humanoid race!

There were other meat eaters in plenty on Fronn. The ttsor, large felines, the hork, a bird or highly evolved insect (the record-pak had not been certain) a smaller species of which was tamed and used by the nobles of the land for hunting, much as the ancient lords of his own world had once flown their falcons for sport. Then there were the deeter, whose exact nature was uncertain for they were nocturnal and dug pits to trap their prey. But those mysterious creatures inhabited the swamp jungles of the southern continent. Which left—the byll! But he had thought that those highly dangerous, huge, flightless birds were only to be found on the plains where their speed in the chase earned them their food. More dangerous than the ttsor—who did not willingly attack—the bylls were twelve feet of bone, muscle, wicked temper, and vicious appetite.

This mountain country was bare of vegetation except for a few clumps of knife-edged grass, withered and sear from the long dryness of the calm season. On the plains this grass was ruthlessly burnt off by the Llor, but in these mountain gullies it flourished in ragged patches to slash the skin of the unwary.

The scouts took hourly breaks, ate ration tablets, drank sparingly from their canteens and pushed on. The country about them looked as rugged as a lunar landscape in their own system, lacking all life. It was when the dried stream bed they followed branched into two that Bogate called a halt. Both of the new canyons looked equally promising, though one angled south and the other north. The Terrans, shivering a little in the bite of the wind from the snow peaks, were undecided.

Bogate consulted his watch and then compared its reading with the length of the shadows beyond the rocks.

“Quarter of an hour. We split—return here at the end of that time. You”—he indicated four of the scouts— “come with me. Larsen, you take the rest south.”

Kana scrambled up the wall of the northern fork, lenses slung around his neck. Zapan Bogate was in the lead and had gained on his companions. The man immediately below Kana was having heavy going. Slides blocked his assigned route and he had to make frequent detours.

It was by sheer chance that Kana caught that flicker of movement behind Wu Soong. A rock shadow bulged oddly. He swung his rifle and shouted a warning. Soong threw himself flat behind a rock and so saved his life. For the ugly death which had been stalking him struck—empty air.

Kana fired, hoping to hit some vital spot in that darting red body. But the thing moved with unholy speed, its long scaly neck twisting with reptilian sinuosity. He was almost certain he had hit it at least twice but its frenzied darts at the rock where Soong had gone to earth did not slow. No longer silent, it shrieked its furious rage with a siren blast which tore their ears.

A burst of white fire enveloped the byll. When that cleared the giant bird lay on the ground, headless but still struggling to move its shattered legs.

“Bogate,” Kana shouted down, “those things sometimes hunt in packs—”

“Yeah? Fire the recall, Harv,” he ordered one of the awe-stricken men. “That ought to bring Larsen. We’ll stick together. If there’s any more of them, stalkin’ us in crowds, we’re gonna be ready for ’em. And not all scattered out so close to dark.”

Soong made a wide circle around the body of the byll to join the others as Bogate gave Kana an order.

“You keep an eye out—cover us back to the forks.”

From then on they investigated every shadow, every crevice in the canyon walls. It was with a sigh of relief Kana saw them back to the fork where Larsen and his men waited. Bogate put them all to work at once, rolling up good-sized boulders, erecting a breastwork which should stop any byll’s charge.

“Those things hunt at night?” he wanted to know.

“I don’t know. By rights that one shouldn’t have been back here in the mountains at all. They’re meat eaters and their regular territory is the central plains.”

“Meaning that if they do come here, it’s because they can hunt?”

Kana could only nod in agreement. As arid as the country seemed to be, it must harbor life—enough life to attract the bylls.

Since a fire was out of the question—they dared show no lights—the scouts huddled together behind the wall of their temporary fort. The mountains cut off the light of the sinking sun. In the gloom Kana found himself listening—for what he did not know.

The wind rose again to swoop and wail. But through their hours of travel the Terrans had become so accustomed to its moans that they no longer heeded it. In one of the infrequent intervals of quiet, when the mountain blasts died, Kana listened again. Had he heard—? But nothing stirred beyond the wall.

They slept in fitful snatches, two of their number on watch in turn. Kana was dreaming when an elbow in his ribs brought him into full wakefulness and Soong’s sibilant whisper warmed his ear.

“Look!”

Up and far ahead was a wink of light—a light which flickered to prove that it was no star. And to its left—another! Kana used the lenses. Those were fires right enough—beacons! In all he counted five. And beacons on those heights could only mean that someone was alert to the Terran invasion of this mountain territory. Not the royalists—the flames were not the blue of Llor torches. As he watched one winked and disappeared, then it blinked out again—off and on—in a pattern. There was no mistaking the meaning of that—signals! Would that exchange of information lead to such a one-sided battle as had taken place in the arena they had crossed that day?

“Signals!” Bogate was awake and watching also. “They must have spotted us!”

Kana heard rather than saw the veteran scramble over the wall. A moment later a growl from the dark relayed the other’s displeasure. Kana climbed the barrier to look back along the route they had come. He saw then what had brought that grunt out of Bogate. High on the cliffs which walled the canyon was a speck of light. But they had no more than sighted it than it disappeared, not to be seen again. An answer to the signal ahead?

The veteran cleared his throat with a rasp. “Maybe that was ‘orders received.’ ” He parroted the official phrase. “Soong, use the speecher. Tell Hansu about those signals—”

“Well,” he added a few moments later, “the show must be over for tonight—”

He was right, three of the fires ahead were gone, and the two remaining seemed to be dying. Kana shivered as icy fingers of wind pried within his coat. Were they going to walk into trouble?

“Camp answered,” Soong reported out of the dark. “They saw a fire a little ahead of them, but not the others. Told ’em about the byll, too. They’re at this end of the bone valley.”

“Good enough. Turn in. We’ll go on tomorrow.”

In the morning Bogate chose the southern fork of the old river for exploration. Since Tharc lay to the south, it was logical to head in that direction. Whether the presence of byll in the other valley influenced his decision, or the fact that the fires they had watched had been to the north were points he did not discuss with the rest of the scouts.

Their new path was clearer of rock slides than any they had found so far and within a half mile Kana noticed an upward slope. They were climbing at last, instead of burrowing at the bottom of rock-walled slashes.

But they had not been an hour on their way before they came upon their first trace of the mountaineers. Luckily their experience with the byll had made them overly cautious and they were constantly alert to any faint indication of the abnormal. Larsen, who was in the lead, stopped abruptly at the edge of a wide, smooth expanse of sand. When Bogate came up the scout pointed to a curious depression in the center of the strip.

Kana, recalling one of Hansu’s warnings about the Cos, spoke first:

“Might be a trap—”

Bogate looked from the recruit to the depression. Then he walked away to choose a stone, under the weight of which he staggered, waddling up to plop his burden onto that smooth surface.

There was a crack. Sand and stone together rushed down into a gaping hole. Kana inched up to look. What he saw made his insides twist as his imagination leaped into action. It was a trap, all right, a vicious, deadly trap. And the captive who fell into it would die a lingering death on the spikes artfully planted below.

The Terrans exchanged few words as they crept around the edge of the pit. On the other side Soong reported on the speecher, informing the Horde of this new risk.

From then on their progress slowed to a crawl. Not only must they watch for bylls, but every smooth patch of ground underfoot became suspect. They tested three more such stretches by Bogate’s method, to have the last open again into darkness, this time a darkness from which such a frightful stench arose that they made no attempt to examine it closer.

“Do we now journey straight to someone’s front door?” Soong shifted the weight of the speecher from one hip to the other.

“If we do—he’s the sort who doesn’t welcome visitors.” Kana’s attention was divided between the cliffs which walled in the stream bed and its flooring—death might come suddenly from either direction. And he was the AL man—the one supposed to contact the opposition. But none of the training he had known prepared him for a situation such as this—bare mountains which showed no signs of life—and these unmanned defenses against invaders. You couldn’t contact an enemy who wasn’t there. The Cos—if Cos they were—plainly pinned their faith on the devices of the weak or few in number—devices which would kill at a distance without involving too closely those who used them. If he could only bring about a meeting, convey to the mountaineers the idea that the Horde, winding its way into their jealously guarded territory, had no quarrel with them—on the contrary was now arrayed against their own ancient enemy, the Llor.

He was reasonably sure that any Cos spying on them would be stationed on the heights. And when the scouts took their break at the end of an hour’s advance, he approached Bogate with a plan of his own. The veteran surveyed the tops of the cliffs uneasily.

“I dunno—” He hesitated. “Yeah, if they’re spyin’ they’re up there—I’ll grant you that. But they may be miles away—and we can’t lie around waitin’ for you to prowl, huntin’ for somethin’ which maybe ain’t there. We’ll see later—”

Kana had to content himself with that half promise. But the country offered an argument on his behalf not many minutes later. They rounded a curve and found themselves fronted with a wall of rock down which the vanished river must once have crashed in spectacular falls. Bogate waved to Kana.

“Well, here’s a place where somebody’s gotta climb. Suppose you do it and see what you find. Take Soong with you.”

They shucked off their packs, taking only their rifles, and began the ascent—not up the water-worn face of the falls but along the relatively rough cliff to the left. After he finished this enlistment, Kana thought as he crept fly-wise from handhold to handhold, he would be qualified for service with a crack mountaineering Horde.

When they reached the top they faced west again. Here once more was the bed of the stream, but it was narrower than in the canyon below. And not too far ahead the somberness of the rock was broken by patches of yellow-green vegetation which promised moisture.

“There is something—” Soong pivoted slowly, studying the landscape.

Kana sensed what bothered his companion. He, too, felt as if they were under observation. Together they surveyed every foot of the rocky terrain. Nothing moved and the wind tore at them, whirling dust devils before it over the edge of the falls. They were alone in a dead world—and yet something watched! Kana knew it by a twitching between his shoulder blades, a cold crawling which roughened his skin with nervous tension. They were being watched—with a detached, non-human curiosity.

“Where is it?” Soong’s voice came plaintively between the howls of the wind.

Kana knelt in the sand and brought out his number one package for trade contact. He selected a bare stretch of stone and laid out upon it the pieces he believed flashy enough to catch the eye and pin the attention of any native. Then he pulled Soong with him to the far left, picking out concealment well above the stream bed.

As the minutes passed Kana began to wonder if his nerves had misled him. The gold chain, the handful of bright stones drew the weak sunlight to make a flashing pool of fire which would have attracted the attention of any watcher, would have brought him out of cover had he been of any race the Terrans knew.

“Lord of Space!” Soong’s voice hissed between his teeth.

Something had moved at last. A shadow floated with liquid, feline grace between two rocks and stood above the trade station. Kana’s breath caught. A ttsor! That greenish fur—treasured by the Llor for mantles of state—could not be mistaken. The round skull with its large brain case, the fringed ears— A tail, able to grasp and hold, whipped around and selected the gold chain from the display, holding it up before the large yellow eyes. The ttsor sniffed at the rest of the collection, using the giant thumb claw of one paw to spread then around, and dropped the chain. It was not interested in what had no food value.

Kana’s hand shot out to depress the barrel of Soong’s rifle.

“It won’t attack—don’t shoot!”

The ttsor stiffened, its body tense, its head pointed upstream. Then in an eye wink it was gone and they saw it speeding away, up out of the river bed to the heights.

A sound reached them above the moan of the wind—a muffled roar Kana could not identify. He looked upstream. Then he whirled and grabbed for Soong, dragging him back from the lower part of the valley which was now a deadly trap. Together they ran for the cliff. Kana saw the white faces of those below turned up to him. Soong fired into the air—the three spaced warning signals—and Kana waved his arms trying to urge the others back against the canyon walls. His message must have made sense for they scattered and ran—some to one side and a few to the other. How many made it he did not have a chance to see before the black wall of water poured over the lip of the falls to hide the scene in a wild welter of spray.

The flood arose to lap at Kana’s boots, lashed at him with spray. Shoulder to shoulder with Soong he wedged himself between anchoring rocks. Again the unseen mountaineers had used nature to defend their country, had turned loose this flood to rid their land of invaders. Soong was busy with the speecher trying to warn the Horde marching along the path of disaster.

8 —DEATH BY THE WATER—DEATH BY FIRE

Out of the foam below broke the head and shoulders of a man fighting his way to safety, tugging a weaker struggler behind. They groped to the air and clung, braced against boulders, as the waters dashed over them. And across the canyon Kana thought he saw another dark figure reach safety. Did only three survive?

With Soong he angled down the wall and helped drag Bogate and the half-conscious Larsen out of the grip of the flood. Shivering, the four wedged themselves on a narrow ledge, only a foot or so above the stream which showed no signs of shrinking. Bogate shook his head, as if to clear away some mist as tangible as the spray still drenching them.

“Somebody musta pulled a cork,” Larsen commented between coughs.

“D’you see anything up there?” Bogate wanted to know.

“Just a ttsor. It gave us warning of the flood. If it hadn’t been for that, we’d have been caught—”

“And so would we.” Larsen pulled at the sodden collar of his coat. “This is a booby trap to end ’em all. What about the boys downstream?”

“Sent ’em a message,” Soong answered. “Whether they got it in time—” There was no need for him to complete that sentence.

A faint hail came from across the canyon and they sighted a waving arm. Bogate carefully levered himself to his feet.

“Hooooah!” His bull roar rang out.

There was a welcome answer, three of them. But there was no way to cross the turbulent river and join forces. So they began to travel back toward the forks in two parties, the water between. Kana and Soong still had their rifles but their packs were gone. The chill air stiffened the wet clothing on the Combatants’ shivering bodies. At the sinking of the sun they crouched in a hollow between two pinnacles of rock where the worst of the wind blasts were fended off, and so spent the night. Once a mournful, lowering call echoed down from the peaks. Kana took it for the hunting cry of a ttsor. But the presence of that lion-like creature here argued that, for all its apparent barrenness, there was life to be found in the badlands. For the ttsors ate not only meat but fruit and grains—perhaps here they raided the mountainside villages of the Cos.

If the Combatants slept that night it was under the drug of sheer exhaustion. And when Kana roused with the coming of light his legs and arms were so painfully cramped that he had to pinch and beat life back into his numb limbs. But across the canyon one of the other refugees waved a salute from a headland.

They began again that creeping journey along the jagged teeth of the heights. Below the river still spun, flicking around the old slides. And, even as Kana watched, a section of the cliff wall, undermined, gave way—tossing rocks and clay out into the current. So warned, they back-tracked from the rim. But here, for every mile of progress east, they traveled almost as much over or around obstacles, skirting side chasms, flanking butts and peaks. It was snail journeying and their hands left smears of blood on the stone. Even the incredibly tough Ciranian  reptile hide of their boots showed scars and scratches.

And a fear which none mentioned rode them. That morning when Soong had tried to reach the Horde with the speecher he had raised no answer. At every rest interval while they panted in the thin air, he bent over the obstinate machine, fingering the keys with relentless energy, but never getting a faint click in reply.

Kana thought he knew what had happened, his imagination painting a very stark picture. The Horde had come up the river bed—to meet head on that flood, speeding even more as the ground sloped. The Terran force must have been caught, to be swept away to as final an end as the older Llor army had met in the valley of bones!

So vivid was this picture that, as they approached the fork, Kana lagged behind, unwilling to look for the debris of such destruction. But Soong’s shout of discovery drew him against his will.

One of the light carts was jammed into the rocks just below them, twisted almost out of shape. Bogate’s wide shoulders sagged as he hunched perilously over to view the wreckage. As they stared at the evidence which blighted their hopes, a wild shout drew their attention across to where those on the other side of the river were excitedly pointing behind them at the other fork. Bogate straightened, his lusty strength coming back.

“Maybe some of ’em made it!”

Two of the scouts on the other side had disappeared, but the third continued to wave.

“The problem of getting across remains,” Larsen pointed out. “We can’t swim that—”

“We got across the other river, didn’t we?” Soong demanded. “What we did once we can do again.”

They could do anything now! The knowledge that some of the Horde must have escaped was a stimulant which sent them to perch on stones just above water level while Bogate lowered one of the rifles, stock first, to test the pull of the river, only to have it almost ripped out of his grasp.

Across the water a knot of men appeared, among them Hansu. They were burdened with coils of rope and split into two groups, leaving one directly across from the marooned scouts. The Blademaster and the others went upstream, uncoiling rope as they clambered above the water line.

Here the gap, through which the water must enter the wider bed, was deeper and narrower than at any other point along its sweep from the falls. Hansu’s men fastened the rope end to an unwieldy bundle and tossed it into the flood. Soong and Bogate, rifles ready, lay belly down on the rocks. The bundle flashed downstream and they plunged their rifles in to capture it. There was a breathless instant when it seemed that it might escape—then all four of them had it and the rope end it brought them was safely in their hands, linking them to the party across the river.

To fight through those few feet of water was a nightmare of effort. In his turn Kana brought up against a half-sunken rock with force enough to make his head swim with pain. Then hands reached out to drag him in. Coughing up brackish water, he lay on a spit of gravel until they pulled him to his feet. The rest of the trip to the other valley was a mechanical obeying of orders, of being led. And he did not really rouse until he found himself lying on his back, a pack under his head, while Mic and Rey stripped off his soaked clothing and rubbed him down with a blanket.

Mic scowled. “What’d you do up there—blow a dam?”

“Sprung a trap—I think,” Kana sputtered the words over a cup of hot brew Rey thrust upon him. There was a fire blazing not too far away and the glow of warmth within and without his shivering body was pure luxury.

“So. Well, we have one of the trappers—”

Kana’s eyes followed Mic’s finger. Across the fire squatted a figure neither Llor nor Terran. About four feet tall, the creature was almost completely covered with a thick growth of gray-white hair. About its loins was a brief kilt of supple ttsor fur and it wore a thong necklet from which depended several thumb claws of the same felines. Even more expressionless than the less woolly Llor, the prisoner stared unblinkingly into the fire and paid little or no attention to his surroundings.

“Cos?”

“We think so. We caught him feeding a signal fire up on the cliffs night before last. But so far we haven’t been able to get anything out of him. He doesn’t answer to trade talk, and even Hansu’s Llor can’t bring an answer out of him. We pull him along, he sits when we stop—he won’t eat—”

As he talked Mic opened his pack and pulled out spare clothing while Rey contributed more. Kana gratefully donned the donations, watching his own clothes steam before the fire.

“Good thing our warning reached you in time—”

Mic did not quite meet his eyes. “The flood caught five of the men—a cart got hung up on a rock and they were working to free it. Then we lost three crossing the first river and a couple when the fur faces jumped us later—”

“The Llor followed you?”

“Part way. They faded out when we reached the bone valley. I suppose that gave them an idea of what they could expect. Anyway they chased us in and there’s no going back that way—unless we want to fight the whole nation. The rebels are all loyal royalists now and only too ready to attack the nasty Terran invaders—” There was a bitter undertone to that.

“What’s it like up ahead?” Rey wanted to know.

Swiftly Kana outlined what he had seen. As he spoke their faces grew bleak. But before he had finished Hansu strode up to the fire.

“See any Cos signs above the falls before that water came?” the Blademaster demanded.

“No, sir. We saw nothing but a ttsor and it gave us the alarm. I’d laid out a trade packet on a rock because we felt as if we were being watched. The ttsor came down to look it over and then—”

But Hansu was staring across the flames at the captive Cos. “All we need to know is locked up in that round skull over there—if we could just pry it out. But he won’t eat our food, he won’t talk. And we can’t keep him until he starves. Then they would have good reason to strike back at us.”

The Blademaster went around to stand beside the prisoner. But the white-wooled pygmy never changed position nor gave any indication that he was aware of the Terran commander. Hansu went down on one knee, slowly repeating some words in the sing-song speech of the Llor. The Cos did not even blink. Kana reached for the trade packets he had carried so long, made a hasty selection, and passed on a small package of sugar and a stone-set wrist band.

Hansu held the gemmed circlet into the light before the sullen captive, turning it so that the stones flashed. The offering might have been totally invisible as far as the Cos was concerned. Nor when the sugar cake was held within sniffing distance did he make any move to investigate. To him the Terrans and their gifts did not exist.

“He’s a stone wall and we’re up against him,” Hansu said. “We can only—”

“Let him go, sir, and hope for the best?” Kana’s X-Tee training suggested that.

“Yes.” Hansu stood up and then pulled the Cos to his feet. Compelling the captive by his great strength, the Blademaster marched the pygmy to the edge of the Terran camp and a good hundred yards beyond. There he released the mountaineer’s arm and stepped away.

For a long space the Cos remained exactly where he had been left—he did not even turn his head to see if they were watching him. Then, with a skittering movement, the speed of which left the Combatants agape, he was gone, vanishing at the far side of the canyon. Somewhere a stone rattled, but they saw nothing of the trail he took.

The Horde camped there for that night and, though they watched the mountains ahead and the cliffs walling them in, there were no more signal fires.

“Maybe,” Mic suggested hopefully, “uncorking that river was their biggest gun. When they saw that it didn’t work, they went into hiding, to let us gallop by—”

“We don’t know how their minds work,” Kana warned. “To some species—take ours for example—a failure such as that is merely a spur to try again. To another type it would signify that their Gods, or Fate, or whatever Power they believe in, is opposed and they should forget the whole project. The future may depend upon that Cos we freed and the report he makes. But we shall have to be prepared for anything.”

Soon after the march began the next morning they passed the site where the byll had been killed. The carcass had been torn apart and largely devoured by unseen scavengers in the night. But the severed head, with its toothed bill gaping, was a grim warning. One of the duties of the flankers was to keep close watch against sneak attacks from the carnivorous birds.

Close to mid-day they came upon a pool fed by water seeping through the left canyon wall, perhaps from the river flowing down the other fork. Here they filled their canteens after purifying the liquid and washed some of the dust from their hands and faces. This grit, borne by the wind, was in their mouths as they ate, inflamed their eyes, and sifted down between clothing and skin to prove a minor torture.

Alert to the danger which might come from above, the scouts reported a second major attack before it got underway. The Cos, relying upon methods which had served them well in the past, sent boulders crashing down. But none of the rough missiles killed, for those who attempted to so bombard the winding snake of the Horde’s advance were picked off by sharpshooting flankers and woolly bodies crashed along with the rocks while others fled. Ahead, on a mesa-like formation, was a rude fortification which so commanded their line of march that the Terrans dared not try to pass.

This time the Cos made no attempt to hide their presence. With the coming of evening beacons blazed in the fort—forming a barrier of light about it much as the camp lamps of the Combatants had done for them on the plains. There could be no storming this from below. Facing the Horde the rise to the mesa top was steep and an ominous row of boulders ready for use fringed the rim. Hansu whistled for a gathering.

“We have to take that fort,” he began baldly. “And there’s only one way in—from the top.” He took off his helmet and threw into it black and white pebbles. “Lot-choice—”

Lot-choice it was. Kana grabbed a pebble with the rest, holding it concealed in his hand until the word of command. In that moment he found that the stone he held was black, as was Rey’s—while Mic, to his disappointment, had a white one.

Hansu gave a detailed inspection to the band who were to make the climb. The volunteers stripped themselves of all trappings except one belt. Their rifles were slung over their shoulders and each man wore his sword-knife and carried five of the explosive fire cartridges.

They used the deep shadows at the floor of the canyon to cloak their withdrawal from the main command, back-tracking on their path of the afternoon to a point where the flankers had reported the cliffs scalable. There, utilizing the last scrap of twilight before the night clamped down, they started up. And, once on top, the fort lights not only provided them with a guide but a certain amount of illumination. Their advance was a slow creep. To run into a Cos sentry would be fatal. As a warning of that the Terrans had their sense of smell—luckily the wind blew toward them. The oily body odor of the Llor, distinguishable at several feet by off-world noses, was multiplied fourfold in that given off by the Cos. The mountaineers could literally be smelled out of ambush, a betrayal of which they were unaware.

The ominous reek filled Kana’s nostrils. He drew his legs under him and reached out to tap Rey’s shoulder, knowing that that silent warning would be passed down the crawling Terran line. A Cos was ahead, slightly to the left. With his head raised to follow the scent, Kana wriggled on. He felt Rey’s fingers on his ankle as the other joined him. The Cos must be located and eliminated, efficiently and without giving any warning to the fort.

Kana lined up a neighboring pinnacle with the lights of the fort. His nose told him that the Cos must be there, and it was a logical position from which to watch not only the cliff but the Horde below.

Then he saw what he was searching for—a blob of black outlined against the fort beacons, the hunched head and shoulders of the mountaineer sentry. Kana tensed for a spring as he unhooked the carrying strap of his rifle. With that timing and precision in attack he had been drilled in for most of his life, he uncoiled in a leap, bringing the strap about the woolly throat of the sentry. A single jerk in the proper direction and the Cos went limp. Kana eased the body to the ground with shaking hands. The trick had worked—just as the instructors had assured them that it would. But between trying it on a dummy and on a living, breathing creature there was a vast gulf of sensation. He pulled the strap away with a twitch and rubbed his hands along his thighs, trying to free his flesh from the feel of greasy wool.

“All right?”

“Yes,” he answered Rey and took the rifle the other offered him, making a business of re-attaching the strap.

There were no more sentries sighted. And at last the Terran force gained the point they wished—to the west and above the fort.

The center building of that eagles’ nest was familiar in shape, though in bad repair. When the Cos had taken over this stronghold they used for its core an earlier fortification or outpost erected by the Llor. The handful of brush and stone huts grouped around the half-ruined watchtower and the wall of loose stones were their own additions—neither displaying any great skill in military engineering.

From below sounded the shrilling of Terran battle whistles. And by the fires of the Cos they could see the white forms of the mountaineers manning the wall, levering into place their rocky ammunition, ready to roll it down to meet any frontal attack. Kana snapped open one of the fire cartridges and pitched it at the nearest brush-roofed hut.

To the yellow flames of the Cos beacons were added the bursting stars of the Terran fire balls, flaring up to turn the hut into an inferno. The startled Cos, caught between the Horde below and this new menace, ran back and forth. And that moment of indecision finished them, though the end did not come from the Terran attackers but from within their own stronghold.

Out of the fires a black shadow came to life, sweeping straight up into the night. It hovered over the fort and red death rained from it. Cos, their wool afire, plunged blind and screaming over the drop or ran to meet death head on. But the strange flying thing spiraled skyward, flitting over the valley to lay more bombs in the ranks of the Horde.

The Terrans on the heights tried to catch the swooping wing in the sights of their rifles, firing in wild fury at its outline. Under their concentrated blast the wing staggered, tried to level off, and then hurtled on into the night, leaving a scarlet path of destruction which not only engulfed the fortress of the Cos but the Horde pocketed below.

9 — SHOW OUR TEETH AND HOPE

At dawn the Terran force held the fort, but the price had been high. A quarter of the Horde had either died quickly in the bombing raid of the unknown aircraft or were granted grace for hideous wounds during the hours which followed. So the victory bore more the shade of a defeat.

“Where did the Cos get that wing?” Mic, his left arm a roll of shielding plasta-flesh to his shoulder, was not the only one to ask that.

The alien machine was proof that there must have been strangers hidden in the Cos stronghold, either inciting the mountaineers against the Terrans, or as spectators. Combatants inspected the ruins of the fort while parts of it still blazed, searching for evidence of the origin of the flyers, but the flames had left them no readable clues.

“That wing never got away unharmed,” Rey reiterated to any who would listen. “It must have crashed—it was sideslipping when it went out of sight!”

“Where there’s one of those,” Mic returned, “there’re probably more. Space demons! With those they can fly over and dust us whenever they want to! But why haven’t they done that before?”

Kana put a pack behind Mic’s good shoulder and settled his back against that support. “Lack of supplies may be the answer. Probably they haven’t enough machines to chase us. We forced that one into the open by firing the fort huts. And I think Rey’s right, it crashed on ahead. Anyway—from here on we don’t have to march down the middle of a canyon, providing them with a perfect target.”

For that was the Terrans’ greatest discovery—the well-defined road running along the cliff straight west from the Cos fort. And Hansu was determined to get his mangled command up out of what might prove to be a deathtrap. The Combatants licked their wounds and explored the fort, sending scouts out along the road, well into the second day. The number of Cos bodies found within the enclosure was fewer than they expected and there were no Aliens among them.

“An expendable rearguard,” Hansu deduced.

In the end the corpses of the enemy were carried to the small central area of the fort and given the same burial granted the Terran dead—total destruction in the flames. Beneath ground level, in a chamber hollowed from the rock of the mountain, they found a cistern of water and a line of bins filled with grain and dried fruits. The grain could not be eaten by Terrans, Medico Crawfur announced, but the fruit was not harmful and they chewed its leathery substance as a welcome variation to ration tablets.

On the third day they reorganized and combined the shrunken teams and took up the march in good order. But there was no longer any talk about a quick return to Secundus. By unspoken consent discussion of the future was limited to that day’s journey and vague speculation concerning the next.

“Just show our teeth and hope—” was the way Mic put it as he started out between Kana and Rey. “If we could only get out of this blasted tangle of rocks!”

But there was no end to the rocks as the trail from the fort climbed higher. Taking his turn Kana became one of the scouts ranging ahead. They were working their way up the slope of a peak which had once been volcanic. And now patches of snow laced the ground. Kana chanced upon a break in the wall of that cone, a place where they might normally expect opposition. But the pass was undefended. And accompanied by Soong he halted to look down into a hollow, the deepest part of which lay at least a Terran mile below. Cupped there was a lake and the yellow-green of Fronnian flora patterned small, regular fields, while a village of stone-walled, domed huts clustered by the water. Nothing moved in those fields, no smoke hung above the village. It might have been deserted an hour—or a century—before.

The scouts spread out, making their way down the side of the bowl—alert and ready. But all they flushed out of the tall grass was a khat, one of the stupid rodents that furnished the main meat supply of Fronn. Crossing small fields carpeted with the stiff stubble of grain, they came to the lake.

Soong pointed to the shore line where deep marks were scored in the mud.

“Boats— And not too long ago.”

“Can’t see any. Maybe they went that way—”

A long finger of water angled south toward the wall of the crater. Whether it washed the outer wall of the cone they could not be sure. But no boats were to be seen. And further exploration proved that, except for a khat or two, and four small guen penned in a corral, the valley was empty.

So the Horde came down in peace. The finger of lake draining south was discovered to enter a break in the wall and from signs the Terrans were inclined to believe that the inhabitants of the valley had fled in that direction.

But the most exciting discovery was made just beyond the village—a mass of wreckage—the flying wing! No evidence of the other-world origin of the pilot remained. But the machine was not Terran Mech—as they had suspected all along.

Their nearest to an expert on machines, El Kosti, spent several hours pulling at the jumble of wires and metal with a company of Combatants to lend assistance.

“This came from Ciran,” he reported to Hansu. “But there are modifications I can’t identify. I’d say it might originally have been a trade scout—though I couldn’t swear to it. But it is not Terran stuff.”

Back again to the thought that there was some cloudy conspiracy—that C.C. was moving against them. Why? Because they were Terran mercenaries? Kana wondered about that. Was Yorke’s Horde with its quantity of trained veterans marked down in someone’s book as being expendable—to be wiped out so that its loss would cause trouble back home? Was pressure thus being brought to bear to force mankind out of space? He watched Hansu taking careful visa shots of the wreck as Kosti pointed out those portions of the machine which most clearly indicated its probable origin. The Blademaster was collecting evidence—but would he ever be allowed to present it to the authorities? Did he honestly believe that any of them would reach Secundus—let alone stand in Prime’s hall of justice to testify to this act of treachery?

Hut by hut they searched the village. Only trash remained in the rooms, along with pieces of furniture too large or heavy for refugees to move. Three explorer ration paks were discovered in the refuse, proving that at least one other-world visitor had been there recently. But these were standard paks which revealed nothing about the one who had used them—he could have been from one of twenty different planets.

Without boats or the means of making a raft the Terrans could not use the water exit from the crater valley. But there was a second road leading on southwest and they took it. From that day on the march became a nightmare. The windy season was on them and the storms brought swirling clouds of snow to hide the trail. Some of the men were lost in a single hour’s march, dropping out of line never to be sighted again, in spite of the efforts to keep the lines moving and intact. Some frankly gave up, and could not be beaten to their feet after a rest, drifting into that fatal sleep which meant death. Had they not been mercenary trained, bred to withstand severe physical strain from their childhood, perhaps none of them would have won through. As it was they lost fifty men before they came to the western slopes of the range. Now the mere fact that they were going down again, with the plains of Tharc before them, gave them a renewal of spirit and kept them going on stumbling feet.

At least they had to fight only one thing at a time. Since the battle at the fort they had not sighted the Cos. The mountaineers must have gone into hiding during the storms.

On the fifth day after they left the crater valley, Kana was weaving weakly as he set one foot carefully before the other. He made his way down a ravine and crossed bare ground, glad to miss the crunch of snow. The walls of the tiny valley cut off the worst of the wind and he leaned against the bank to catch his breath. A trickle of water flowed past him southwest.

“Down!” He said the word aloud, savoring it, enjoying its meaning. Now the mountains lay behind, the plains were open to them.

But not yet were they out of the broken “badlands” which encumbered this side of the range also. In the wilderness of mesas and knife-edged valleys there were the colored splotches of vegetation, growing quickly on the moisture fed by the winds. But there was no discernible sign of a road or of any other evidence of civilization. They could only continue to march south, heading for the level land enclosing Tharc.

Kana stumbled along beside the thread of stream, following the defile simply because he could not now summon the strength necessary to climb out of the ravine. Plants uncurled leaves to the sun. A spray of tiny green blossoms, hung on delicate, lacy stems, bowed to meet the water.

“Yaah—!”

Kana came around in a half crouch, his rifle ready, to see Soong pick himself out of the stream, swearing at the greasy mud. Looking up at Kana his round ivory face split into a wide grin.

“We have come out of winter into spring. Now I think we shall live.”

“For a while,” Kana conceded thoughtfully. He was tired, so tired he wanted to drop down on the earth where he stood and rest—forever.

“Yes, we live. And perhaps that shall disappoint some. Ho, now a river—in truth a river!”

Soong was right. The tricklet spilled out to join a river. Here the flood ran clear so that the Terrans could see the flat stones and gravel which floored its bottom. And the watery reach lacked the fury of the mountain courses they had met.

“Not deep—this one we can wade. Fortune displays a smiling face at last!” Soong squatted down and ventured to test the temperature of the fluid with a forefinger, withdrawing it quickly. “Born in snow, yes. We shall have very cold feet—”

They walked along the bank for a distance. Out of the withered drifts of last season’s grass a khat exploded with a muffled snuffle of panic. It skidded to the edge of the water, slipped on clay and, wildly kicking, plunged over. Its struggles continued in the water, keeping it afloat.

From the opposite bank shot a vee of ripples heading for that point of disturbance. The khat shrieked, a cry of agony almost human with pain and terror. Blood rilled out to stain the water and other lines of ripples converged toward it.

The Combatants stood aghast at the sight. But the struggle ceased seconds after it had begun. On the stones at the bottom lay clean-picked bones.

Lazily, glutted, three small forms floated. They were six-limbed, frog-headed creatures, but their jaws were the jaws of rapacious carnivores, and their four eyes, set in a double row above those vicious jaws, were black beads of ferocious, intelligent hunger.

Kana moistened his lips. “Tif.”

“What—?” Soong shied a stone at the small monsters. They glided off a foot or two, but they did not return to the opposite bank. Instead they lingered just out of range, their attention fixed on the Terrans—waiting—watching—

“Bad news,” Kana answered Soong’s half question. “You saw what happened to that khat. Well, that will happen to any living thing that tries to cross water where tif live.”

“But there’re only three and none of them are more than a foot long—”

“Three of them we can see. And where there’re three—there’re more. They travel in schools. Three in sight may well mean three hundred in cover, ready to attack when there’s meat enough!”

No, there was no way of judging how many of the frog-devils infested the river. And there was no practical way of getting across a stream so guarded. If the record-pak on Prime had not been so limited in its information! Or if the Terrans only had friendly natives to provide them with advice.

The limpid water seemed very peaceful, but as the Combatants moved downstream the tif swam effortlessly to parallel their path. Now and then the little monsters were joined by others of their species, come from the shadows below the banks, who paddled out to confer with the three in mid-stream, eye the Terrans for themselves, as if estimating their bulk, before retreating again to their hidden dens.

“Spreading the word—meat on the hoof—” Kana stopped.

The shallow river had widened as they followed it south, and now it was islanded with dry-topped rocks forming an irregular path. The Terran scout studied these—stepping stones? Could some sort of net be rigged above and below to keep off the tif? A few of the men might be able to cross here, leaping from rock to rock. But the whole Horde, burdened with disabled and wounded, could not do it. The problem would have to be turned over to that handful of experts in survival Hansu had gathered on his staff—veterans who pooled knowledge gained on a hundred different worlds to keep them and their comrades alive on this one.

But suddenly the breeze brought a familiar reek to his nostrils. He had not scented that since the night at the Cos fort. Kana threw himself down behind a bush and Soong landed beside him a moment later.

Almost directly across the river a tall Llor rode out on a sand spit. He carried no lance but balanced an air rifle across his saddle, thus proclaiming his rank as a regular of the royalist guard, rather than a warrior-follower of some provincial noble. The trooper dismounted to approach the water gingerly, inspecting the ripples before he struck down into them with the butt of his weapon. Plainly he was aware of the tif.

But safe on the sand he sat cross-legged, taking out a length of purple cane to chew while he waited. The Terrans flattened themselves every time the Llor’s glance swung carelessly across their too-thin cover. There was no hope of withdrawing unseen now.

The Llor spat pieces of pulped cane into the water and once or twice threw stones at the clustering tif. More and more ripples headed for that tongue of gravel as beneath the surface the small masters of the river gathered. Now and then the Llor watched them and gave birth to that snorting sound which served his race for laughter. But, Kana noted, he was careful to stay away from the water.

A mewling cry brought the trooper to his feet. Out of the woods came a party of riders. The one in the van wore a short scarlet cloak lined with ttsor fur and carried before him on a perch attached to his saddle a trained hork—thus identifying himself as a member of the Gatanu’s own household. But among the other riders was the hooded, robed figure of a Ventur.

The noble did not dismount, but his guard did, pulling the trader with them. For, astonishingly enough, the Ventur was a prisoner, his hands lashed at his back. The Llor held a conference with their scout, their leader going so far as to ride out on the spit to peer curiously into the water, while the guards urged their captive to the bank.

Then, to the horror of the watching Terrans, they calmly picked up the smaller trader and flung him into the stream where the water was now whipped to a foam by the swarming tif.

Kana’s first avenging shot snapped the noble out of his saddle—to plunge into the river headfirst. Methodically the Terrans fired in volleys, picking off the murderers on the far bank. Five of the party were down before the other three fled for the protection of the trees. But none of the fugitives reached that grove.

There was a continued flurry in the water where the tif greeted this rare abundance of meat. Kana dared not look at the place where the helpless Ventur had fallen. Death in battle was commonplace—he had been trained to believe that it would be his own end. But the callous cruelty he had just witnessed was to him a terrifying thing.

“By Klem and Kol’.” Soong twitched at his sleeve and pointed to the river.

Something struggled there, flopping about—hampered by sodden robe and bound hands. And in an ever-widening circle about the Ventur floated tif, limp and belly up. Kana leaped to the top of the nearest rock and then to the next. A stripped Llor skull snarled up at him as he jumped the water gap which cradled it. The Ventur was on his feet, winding toward the sand spit where a moment later Kana and Soong joined him. Kana drew his knife.

“I cut those—” he said in the trade tongue, motioning to the hide thongs which bound the other’s arms.

The Ventur retreated a step. His struggle to gain the shore had not dislodged his masking hood. Unable to read anything from the gray expanse, broken only by the eye-holes, Kana did not follow him.

“Friend—” Kana used that word with all the emphasis he could give it. He pointed to what was left of the Llor noble. “Enemy of us—enemy of you—”

The Ventur might be considering that point. Suddenly he wheeled and backed toward the Terrans, extending his bound wrists as far as he could. Kana sawed through the wet thongs.

His hands free, the Ventur caught the dangling reins of the noble’s mount. An unusually well-trained and therefore highly valued animal, it had not bolted with the rest. The Ventur mounted somewhat awkwardly. His hooded head turned from the river to the bodies of the Llor on its banks and the skeletons in the water where the tif, replete, still floated, their menacing eyes on the prey they could not reach.

One hand groped beneath the robe and came out with a small damp bag. A finger which was closer to a green-gray claw indicated the lazily swimming death and then the inert bodies of the tif which had threatened it. It motioned as if sowing something from the bag on the stream. When Kana nodded, the bag was tossed to him and the Ventur kicked the gu into a racking gallop back into the woods.

“Is that something to knock out the tif?” Soong questioned. “Do you suppose they knew he had it when they threw him in?”

“I don’t think so, or they would have taken it from him. Maybe its effects are permanent—those floating over there haven’t come to—”

The tif which had attacked the Ventur to their own undoing still drifted belly-up, their wicked mouths open. And Kana noticed that their active fellows avoided them. The bag in his hand might grant the Horde a safe crossing.

And so it did. The gritty white powder it contained, strewn on the water upstream, kept off the tif until the Terran force was across. Whether the poison had a permanent effect the Combatants never learned, but as the rearguard trailed through the shallows tif bodies bumped the stepping stones and washed ashore on the spit.

Hansu identified the insignia of the Llor dead as that of the Household Corps. But he was more interested in the trouble between the Ventur and the guardsmen. The great deference paid the hooded ones on the march of Skura’s troops east had underlined the belief that then the Llor wanted in no way to antagonize their silent transport specialists. Yet now a Llor noble had calmly ordered one of the Venturi thrown to a horrible death. Somehow the balance of power must have shifted amazingly during the days when the Horde had been fighting across the mountains—shifted to embolden the Llor to show an arrogant contempt for those they had respected for generations. Events certainly suggested that the Llor now had backing so strong that they believed they could make themselves the undisputed rulers of all Fronn. And was that support more than a renegade Mech Legion?

As the Combatants marched on, through valleys which spread out to the level lands of the plains, their alert uneasiness increased. Here the armored, moving fortresses of the Mechs could operate to the greatest advantage. Scouts spent hours each day watching the sky as well as the country before them for signs of aircraft. But since the clash with the party of Llor at the tif river they sighted no enemy. This land appeared to be left to the ttsor, the byll, and the wild khat upon which the two preyed.

On the second day after the Terrans had crossed the river their scouts sighted a village. It was a small frontier settlement, semifortified, ringed with corrals. Here the wild guen of these northern plains were rounded up once a year, sorted, and the duo-yearlings sold after a minimum of training. The pens were full now and a mounted force could move faster. Hansu decided it was wise to turn cavalry and the Combatants altered their line of march, heading for the town.

10 — TO THE SEA

As the Horde spread out in a half-arc across the eastern approach to the town, the first signs of life, other than the restless guen in the corrals, showed in a band of Llor, some riding, some trudging humbly on foot, headed from the domed houses toward the Terran lines. The foremost rider waved over his head a hastily constructed parley flag.

Remembering the fate of Yorke and his officers, neither Hansu nor any other of the Combatants moved from the cover they had taken on the first sight of the Llor. Apparently disconcerted by meeting with only empty landscape the Llor leader reined in his gu and sat, waving the flag at the brush and trees, his followers clustered timidly about him—trying to face in all directions at once.

“Lords—War Lords of Terra—” called the leader, addressing the empty air. And his words lengthened oddly until “Terra” might well have been “terror.”

Without rising to view Hansu answered:

“What would you, Corban?” giving the other the honorary title of a headman of a city.

“What would you, Lords of Terra?” countered the Llor. He handed the flag to one of his companions and sat, his hands on his thighs, facing in the direction of the Blademaster’s voice. “Do you bring us war?”

“We war only when it is offered us. Where open hands hold no swords, we show palms in return. We but wish to travel the road to our homes.”

The Llor swung out of his saddle and started to the Terran lines. One of his followers attempted to detain him, only to be pushed aside as the Fronnian, his hands held ostentatiously before him, advanced.

“My hands are open, Lord. I close no road to you.”

Hansu arose to meet him, holding his own palms up.

“What would you then, Corban?”

“Word that my village will not be trodden into the earth, nor the blood of my people shaken wet from your swords, War Lord.”

“Has not the war banner been raised against us?” countered the Blademaster.

“Lord, what have little men to do with the fine words of Gatanus and nobles? He who sits on the hork-winged bench means little to us—there are always those to gather taxes in his name, whatever it may be. We wish only to live and depart not into the Dark Mists before our time. And stern things have been said of you off-world ones—that you fight with fire those who deny you what you would take. Therefore come I to treat with you for the life of my village. Grain is yours, and the fruits of our fields—and whatever else you wish. Guen also—if it be your will to strip our pens of the newly caught wild ones. Only take your fill and go!”

“Then what if the Gatanu’s men come and say unto you, ‘You have fed the enemy and given him guen to ride upon. You are one with him’?”

The Corban shook his head. “How can they in truth say that? For you are an army of men trained in strange and horrible forms of warfare. Nay, all of Fronn knows that nothing can stand against the might of your swordarms. For you fight not only blade to blade after our custom, but with fire which sears from a great distance and with death rained from the air. Some of you crawl in mighty fortresses of metal, lying snug within their bellies as they creep across the ground and crush your enemies under their weight! These things are widely known. So the Gatanu’s men cannot believe that a village guard would dare deny you anything you desired. Therefore, I entreat you, Lord, take what you will and go—leaving us our lives!”

“You have seen the Terran fortresses which creep, the machines which fly through the air?”

“Not with my eyes, Lord. For I am an outland man—though Corban of men who do not flinch from hunting the ttsor on foot, nor from snaring the guen of the dales. But in the south all men have seen these wonders and the word has spread to our ears.”

“These are then to be found about Tharc?”

“Yes, Lord, there are many of your wonderful machines there now. You wish to join them? It is well. But I entreat you—take what you want and go.”

Hansu dropped his empty hands. “Good enough. We shall not invade your village, Corban. Send us supplies and one hundred guen—those broken to saddle use. And we shall not be deceived if you give us wild ones, but if you do we shall come and choose for ourselves.”

The Corban raised his hands to his breast and then to his forehead in the salute a vassal renders his lord. “War Lord, it shall be even as you say. We shall bring you a conqueror’s share and thank you for your mercy.”

The Llor party went back to the village and Hansu addressed the shrunken Horde.

“—that’s the picture. From this fellow’s description there must be a full Mech Legion at Tharc. They have heavy stuff as well as wings with them.”

“What about Truce Law?” called a voice from the ranks.

“Let’s face it. Truce Law was broken when they flamed Yorke and the rest. Mech renegades aren’t alone in this—they couldn’t have brought in heavy stuff without help—a lot of it. And now they believe they can settle us whenever they wish. I don’t care how much backing they have—they don’t dare let any news of this get back to Prime. So their first move will be to shut us away from the ships at Tharc.”

Shut off from Tharc—bottled up on Fronn—unable to get away. Kana watched the uncertainty mirrored on the faces of those about him begin to change to something else—a grim determination. Generations ago the weaklings, the irresolute, had been weeded and bred out of the Combatant strain. The mercenaries were, by the very nature of their trade, fatalists. Few lived to retire, or even to go into semi-service at the base. And they had followed many lost causes to the end. But this was a new experience. The code which to them was a creed, an unshakeable belief, had been flouted. And for that someone was going to pay!

“We’ll get ’em—” The words were drowned out in a growl of assent.