“Then Quade came and Krotag, and they sat down together. Quade telling of what had been done. But when he had finished, he rode out to your camp leaving Hadzap to the justice of Krotag, nor did he afterwards inquire what punishment had been set—for this is as it should be when chief deals with chief. Is this not so?”
“That is so,” assented both Norbies.
“You may say now that this evil committed by an off-worlder is greater than the evil wrought by Hadzap. In that you are right. But do not think that we do not also consider it an evil. Did not this person of no totem strike us down also, for he knew that we would have prevented him by force from what he would do. And the Peace Officer will deal with him after our laws, even as Hadzap was dealt with by yours, for this is a grievous act and one that will harm both settlers and Norbies.”
“This is truth,” Gorgol agreed. “Yet Krotag must be told—for he gave you the right to ride here, and he, also, will be answerable to others for this evil act.”
“That is so,” Hosteen agreed. “Let one of you ride for Krotag, and we shall remain here, trying to call our Peace Officer through the air talker—”
“And you swear it on the blood that you will wait here?” Gorgol looked from Hosteen to Logan. “Yes, it is so, for you are not of those who give their word and then make nothing of it for reasons of their own. I ride—let Kavok stay—since other than Zamle men may come and he can talk under the truce pole should that be needful.”
They took alternate shifts at the com after Gorgol departed, trying to reach the Peaks office with their calls—but silence was their only answer. Nor did Hosteen’s periodic demands upon the ’copter bring any reply from Widders or Forgee. The Terran tried to deduce how far into the Blue the flyer could go before the two would have to return to escape the day heat—without much success.
“They could even set down somewhere in there and take cover,” Logan pointed out.
“Once a fool, always a fool—that’s what you think of the civ? That’s cannibal territory—he’s been warned—”
“Widders is the type who wouldn’t expect any danger from natives,” Logan retorted. “And he’s armed with about every possible defensive gadget he could find. I wouldn’t put it past him to have smuggled a blaster in on that ’copter! He’d believe he could stand off any Norbie attack.”
And Logan was entirely right. Widders would think himself invulnerable as a modern, civilized man coping with natives armed only with primitive weapons. But, as all civs from off-world, he would thereby seriously underestimate the Norbies if he relied on mechanics to defeat those who had mastered nature in the Arzoran outback.
“Sleeee—” The hissing whistle cut through the open door of the bubble tent and startled both men.
Hosteen went out. There had been no alert from Baku or Surra, which meant the newcomers must be known to both members of the team. But he was angry at himself for not having briefed both cat and bird to give warning of any arrival.
It was not until the riders filed out of shadows into the open floor of the canyon that Hosteen recognized Krotag heading a party of warriors. The Terran waited in the path of light from the doorway, not advancing to meet the chief when he dismounted. He must take his cue from Krotag. This was no time for excuses or explanations. The native leader must have had the story from Gorgol—and he must already have been on his way here or he would not have arrived so soon after the messenger left. What action he would take was his decision, and according to custom Hosteen must wait for the Norbie’s verdict.
The Terran stepped back as Krotag came up, allowing the chief to enter the tent, and then he gave way for a second tall figure.
Unlike the warriors, this native wore no arms belt or protective shield collar of yoris fangs. Instead, his bony frame was covered with a striking tunic fashioned of black-and-white feathers woven skillfully into a net foundation of frawn yarn. His horns were stained dead black, and each of his deep-set eyes were encircled by an inch-wide ring of black paint, which gave his face a skull-like aspect, daunting to the beholder. In addition to his feather tunic, he wore a short knee-length cloak, also a feathered net, but this of a brilliant yellow-green. And around his neck, on white cords, was slung a small black drum.
“I see you who wears the name of Krotag.” Hosteen signed formal salutation.
“I see you—stranger—”
Not a good beginning, but one he had to accept. Hosteen looked at the Drummer.
“I see also the one who can summon the bright sky arrows,” he continued. “And this one also wears a name?”
Silence, so complete that they could hear from outside the stir of a horse. Then the Drummer’s hands came out before him, palms up, while those black-ringed eyes caught and held Hosteen’s in a compelling stare.
Hardly aware of his action, the Terran raised his own hands, moved them out until palm met palm, and so they stood linked by the touch of flesh against flesh, Hosteen and the Norbie medicine man. Once before in his life the Amerindian had felt a power, not human and far beyond the control of any man, fill and move him. Then he had been swept up and used by that power to bring prisoners out of a Nitra camp. But at that time he had deliberately evoked the “medicine” of his own people. And now—
Words came out of him, words the Drummer could not understand—or could he?
“I have a song—and an offering—
In the midst of Blue Thunder am I walking—
Now to the straight lightning would I go.
Along the trail that the Rainbow covers—
For to the Big Snake, and to the Blue Thunder
Have I made offering—
Around me falls the white rain,
And pleasant again will all become!”
Bits, fragments, dragged from the depths of memory by some power—perhaps borrowed from this Drummer. No true Song, just as Hosteen was no true Singer, yet those words stirred the power where it lay coiled deep in his body—or his mind.
Hosteen blinked. The maze of colors that had rippled before his eyes was gone. He fronted an alien face with round skull-set eyes. Only for a moment was there a flicker in those eyes, a belief or an emotion or a thought that matched what Hosteen felt. Then it was gone, and Hosteen was only a Terran settler fitting his hands to those of a Norbie medicine man. The hands drew away from his.
“This one wears the name of Ukurti. You are one who can also summon clouds—younger brother.”
“Not so.” Hosteen disclaimed any wizard powers. “But on my world, and long ago, my grandfather was such a one. Perhaps he laid upon me something of his own at his passing—”
Ukurti nodded. “That is as it should be, for it is a burden laid upon us who have the strength to pass it to those who can bear it well in their own time. Now there are other matters—this one who has taken the airways into the medicine country rashly and against the laws of your people and mine. This, too, is a part of your burden, younger brother.”
Hosteen bowed his head. “This burden do I accept, for it is partly by my doing that he came into this country, and his rashness and evil are as mine.”
“That one has gone in—he will not return.” Krotag’s gestures were emphatic, but he eyed Hosteen with a mixtures of wonder and exasperation.
“That is not for our deciding,” corrected Ukurti. “If he is found, you, my younger brother, must deal with him—that we lay upon you.”
“That do I accept—”
There was a crackle of sound, not from without but from the mike before Logan. He jerked it up to mouth level.