Swiftly Hosteen signed the facts he had learned in his explorations and what Najar had told him. Gorgol watched the Terran’s fingers with a growing expression of resolution.
“If Ukurti says that this is an ill thing,” Gorgol’s own hands replied, “then will Krotag and those who ride with Krotag listen, for Ukurti is one having wisdom, and always we have hearkened to his drum. To say that one with a twisted mind is using things left by Those-Who-Have-Gone to make him great—that, too, one can believe. And this is true—if he is known to be one who steals from the past to give himself power, then will the tribes turn from him and listen no more to his drumming.”
“But how may it be proved that he is such a one? And do we have the time?” Hosteen countered. “Already he drums raids for the plains. And once there is even one such foray, there will be war—war without truce between your people and mine. Always there have been those among my kind who have mistrusted yours.”
“That is true.” Gorgol’s fingers made an emphatic sign of agreement. “And once the war arrow is sped, who can recall it to the quiver? But there is also this—outside this place lies the hand of the Dry. Water secrets we have, but not enough to sustain any large parties through the Peaks. And those who so venture cannot so do in straight lines but must go from one hidden spring to another, using much time. Were men to march today, it would be”—he spread out his fingers, curled them back into his palms, and opened them out again three times—“these many suns before they would reach the plains.”
“Would Krotag listen to you?” Hosteen demanded.
“I am a warrior with scars. In the voice of the clan, I have my speech right. He would listen.”
“Then if we can get out of here, get you on the other side of the mountain where you can meet with Krotag and Ukurti—?”
Gorgol stared past Hosteen into the brilliance of the parched land beyond. “Krotag would listen—and beyond Krotag stands Kustig of the Yoris totem, and beyond Kustig, Dankgu of the Xoto standard.”
“And if all those listened, the Shosonna would break their peace poles and have no part of this?”
“It might be so. And if the Shosonna marched, then would follow the Warpt of the north and perhaps the Gouskla of the coasts—”
“Splitting Dean’s army right down the middle!” Hosteen took fire, but Gorgol’s expression was still a sober frown.
“With truce poles broken, there might be another kind of war, for these wild men of the Blue are tied to the medicine here and will fight to uphold it.”
“Unless Dean can be proved a false Drummer—”
“Yes. And here are two trails.” Gorgol turned away from the “window.” “I must find the place of the Zamle totem and you this one who is of your people but a doer of evil.”
“And to do those things, we must have a way back through the mountain,” Hosteen added.
They held a council of war in the green heart of the valley, Najar, Hosteen, and Gorgol sitting together, Baku and Surra nearby. Storm translated between Gorgol and the off-world veteran as they pooled what knowledge they had of the inner ways. And Najar thought he might be able to guide them to the village side of the heights if he could reach a mid-point within that he had located during his own wanderings. They ate of the fruit from bush and tree, and Hosteen slept, his head pillowed against Surra’s furry side, the soft purring of the cat lulling him into a deeper and more restful slumber than any he had known since he left the plains to begin this wild adventure.
It was dark when Gorgol awakened him, and they went to the hole beneath the rock, which was Surra’s private exit from the valley. Baku objected with a scream of anger when Hosteen called her to push through with them, and he had to wheedle her into furling wings and taking a footway. Only his firm statement that he and Surra were leaving not to return and that she would remain alone finally brought the eagle to obey, though fierce clicks of her beak made very plain her opinion of the whole maneuver as they crept back through the crack.
Baku settled on Hosteen’s shoulder once they reached the passage, her eyes like harsh sparks in the light of the torch. Surra took the lead, setting a gliding pace that brought the men to a fast walk.
The cat was retracing the way by which she had brought Hosteen in, but long before they reached the place where Dean had vanished into thin air, Najar uttered an exclamation and caught at the Beast Master’s arm.
“Here!” He was looking alertly about him with the air of a man who had come across some landmark. “This is the way—”
Hosteen recalled Surra, and the party turned into a side tunnel, Najar was now leading. To Hosteen, one of these unmarked passages was much like another, but he knew that just as he had been trained and conditioned to be the leader of a team, so had the Reconnaissance scouts been selected, trained, and psycho-indoctrinated for their service as pathfinders and “first-in” men.
Najar displayed no hesitation as he threaded from one way to another and crossed several small caverns with the certainty of one treading a well-defined trail. Then they stood in a hollow space and saw near its roof a slit of light. Najar pointed to that.
“Opening made by a landslide. This place is a natural cave and opens on the mountainside.”
Hosteen had his hand on the first hold to climb to that door when he heard an odd cry from Najar. He half turned and saw the other’s face illuminated in the torch Gorgol held. The scout was glaring at Hosteen, his eyes pure hate as he flung himself at the Beast Master, the momentum of his body jamming Storm against the cave wall.
The Amerindian strove to roll his head and his shoulders to avoid blows he knew were meant to kill. Then the torchlight snapped off, and they were in the dark.
“You dirty Xik liar!” Najar spat almost in Hosteen’s face. “Liar—!”
He was choked off in mid-breath, his body jerked away from Hosteen’s. Gasping, holding his arm where one of those nerve deadening blows had landed, the Beast Master leaned limply against the rock. A furred body pressed against his leg. He reached down, took the torch from Surra’s mouth, and snapped it on.
Gorgol stood, his arm crooked about Najar’s throat, the Terran castaway hugged back to the native’s chest, his struggles growing weaker as the Norbie exerted pressure on his windpipe.
“Don’t kill him!” Hosteen ordered.
Gorgol’s grip loosened. He let the off-worlder collapse against him. He transferred his hold to the other’s arms, keeping him upright to confront the man he had attacked.
“Why?” Hosteen asked, rubbing feeling back into his arm.
“You said—settler world—no Xik—war over here—” Najar might be helpless in Gorgol’s prisoning hand, but his spirit—and his hate—were unbeaten. “There’s a recon-broadcaster out there!”
Hosteen stared at him blankly—not that he doubted Najar’s word or now wondered at the other’s reaction. A Recon scout had an induced sensitivity to certain beamed waves, a homing device that was implanted in him through surgery and hypnotic conditioning. If Najar had caught a recon-beam, he would not be mistaken. But to Hosteen’s knowledge the nearest recon-broadcaster was at Galwadi or the Port. Unless—unless Kelson or some other authority was moving into the Blue!
“I told you the truth,” he said. “But—maybe—maybe we’re already too late. The Patrol could have been called in.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN