Heinzelman rubbed his heavy chin. “In what parts live they?”
“It’s not a race; it’s an occupation.”
“Ah! There are none such among us; we pursue our own business. We are warriors, killers, eaters. And if I gave you the woman, tonight we should go hungry.”
Glystra came to a grim decision. He turned his head. “Bring out Abbigens.” To Heinzelman: “Electricians carry death in their every gesture.”
Abbigens had been thrust forward, and stood still as a pillar, his pale mouth sagging.
Glystra said, “If killing you did not serve a practical purpose, I’d probably march you all the way to Earth Enclave for de-aberration.” He raised the ion-shine. Abbigens’ face was like risen dough. He began to laugh wildly. “What a joke! What a joke on you, Glystra!” The violet ray snapped out, power crackled down the conductive channel. Abbigens was dead.
Heinzelman appeared faintly bored.
“Give me the woman,” said Glystra, “or I’ll bring this same death to you. I give you the corpse in her place.” He used the push-button rasp of authority. “Quick!”
Heinzelman looked up in faint surprise, hesitated, then made a motion to his men. “Let him have her.”
Nancy came limping forward, fell shaking and sobbing at Glystra’s knees. He ignored her. “Take your meat,” he said to Heinzelman. “Go your way and we go ours.”
Heinzelman had regained whatever composure he had lost. “I’ve seen those electrical clubs before. The Bajarnum of Beaujolais brings them down from the sky. But they kill no more certainly than our lances. Especially in the dark, when lances come from many directions and the club points in only one.”
Glystra turned to Morwatz. “Give the command to march.”
Morwatz stood back, jerked his arm up and down. “Forward!”
Heinzelman nodded, half-smiling. “Perhaps we shall meet again.”
The Great Slope was a shadow behind the western haze; the steppe spread as wide as an ocean, carpeted with blue-green bracken except where black-green furze filled the deeper hollows. And behind were the gypsies, a dark clot like flies on stale meat, the Cossacks squatting around the heavier mass of the Politburos on their zipangotes.
In late afternoon a dark shadow appeared in the distance. “Looks like trees, probably an artesian pond,” said Cloyville.
Glystra looked around the horizon. “It seems to be the only shelter in sight. We’d better camp for the night.” He looked uneasily toward the dark specks in the rear. “I’m afraid we’re in for more trouble.”
The shadow took on substance, became a copse of a dozen trees. Underneath was a carpet of blue-white moss and lush herbage. A dozen gypsy women scuttled from the shadows, hulking creatures in dirty black robes, to disappear over the lip of a nearby swale. A moment later a flock of fragile white creatures rose up on translucent wings and wheeled down-wind.
At the center of the copse was a small pond bordered by fat rust-colored reeds. A scattering of transparent bubbles, like jellyfish, lay in the mud of the rim. Glystra looked in suspicion at the water, which seemed brackish, but the Beaujolains drank it with relish. Beside the pond was a tall rick full of branches loaded with acorn-like fruit; beside the rick were tubs full of rank beer and a crude still.
The Beaujolains advanced eagerly to investigate the still. Morwatz ran shouting to stop them; reluctantly they turned back.
Glystra took a small cup from one of the packs, gave it to Morwatz. “Serve a measure to each of your men.”
There was a whoop of approval and a keg was broached. Glystra said to Pianza, “If we could serve them grog every night we’d never need to guard them.”
Pianza shook his head. “Just children. Very little emotional control. I hope they don’t become boisterous.”
“Liquor or not, we can’t relax. You and Cloyville take the first four hours, Bishop, Ketch and I will take the next four. Keep a sharp eye on the beast with the darts.” He went to change the bandage on Corbus’ neck but found Nancy there before him.
The Beaujolains, singing now, built a fire, and heaping on quantities of the branches from the rick, breathed in the aromatic smoke. Pianza called to Glystra in a worried voice. “They’re fighting drunk. I hope they don’t get any worse.”
Glystra watched in growing apprehension. The Beaujolains were pushing and shouting, trying to shoulder into the densest clouds of smoke, where they stood with faces wreathed in foolish smiles. When they themselves had been pushed aside, immediately they raised angry outcries, cursed, pushed and elbowed a way back into the smoke.
“Must be a narcotic,” said Glystra. “Big Planet marijuana. Got to put a stop to it.” He stepped forward. “Morwatz!”
Morwatz, red-eyed and flushed from his own indulgence in the smoke, turned a reluctant face to the call. “Get your men fed and bedded down; enough of the smoke breathing.”
Morwatz made a slurred acquiescence, and turning on his men, after a volley of curses, succeeded in bringing order to the camp. A tureen of porridge was prepared— wheat flavored with handfuls of dry meat and fungus.
Glystra went to squat beside Morwatz, where he ate a little apart from his troops. “What is that stuff?” He gestured toward the rick.
Morwatz looked a little sheepish. “It’s called zygage— a very potent drug, very valuable.” He puffed himself up. “Generally only the lowest castes inhale smoke—very vulgar, the crudest sensations—”
“How do you usually take it then?”
Morwatz breathed heavily. “Normally I do not take it at all. Far too expensive for a warrior. The Mercantils occasionally brew a potion, but its use leads to debility, so I am told. The soldiers will sleep well tonight, so you will observe. Zygage saps much vitality; smoke, potion or nose-salve, the user pays very dearly for his pleasure… But look you there, what manner of drug does your man take?”
Glystra turned his head. Bishop was swallowing his customary handful of vitamins.
Glystra grinned. “That’s a different kind of drug. It has little effect—makes Bishop think he’s healthy. He’d never know the difference if someone fed him chalk.”
Morwatz was puzzled. “Another strange and useless Earth custom.”
Glystra rejoined his companions. Nancy had served Corbus, then went to sit by herself among the zipangotes, as inconspicuous as possible. Glystra had not spoken to her since she had run to his feet from behind the Politburos.
From the fire came a sudden tumult of hoarse quarrelling. A soldier had quietly cast a new armful of the zygage branches on the flames, and Morwatz had come forward expostulating. The soldier, stumbling and red-eyed, cursed him back.
Glystra sighed. “Now it’s discipline. Well—” he rose to his feet “—I suppose we’ve got to make an example.”
Morwatz was pulling the smoking branches from the blaze; the soldier lurched up, kicked him. Morwatz fell face down into the coals.
Cloyville ran forward to pull at the screaming Morwatz; three soldiers leapt on his back, pulled him down. Pianza aimed the ion-shine, but held his fire for fear of shocking Cloyville. Beaujolains came at him from all directions. He aimed, fired: Snap—snap—snap. Three soldiers fell flat, shrivelled flesh. The others swarmed over him.
The clearing was suddenly alive with wild-eyed men, screaming and savage. One sprang at Ketch, toppled him. Glystra killed him with his ion-shine, then felt viciously strong arms seize him from behind, hurl him to the ground.
The Earthmen lay weaponless, arms lashed behind their backs.
Nearby Morwatz lay moaning from deep in his throat. The soldier who had first kicked him came forward, a tall man with concave cheeks, a pocked forehead, a split nose. He looked down, and Morwatz regarded him with glazing eyes and moans gradually ascending in pitch. The soldier deliberately drew his sword, punctured Morwatz’ neck— once, twice, three times, as if he were prodding a rock. Morwatz, gurgled, died. He turned, came to look at his captives, tapped Glystra’s chin with the reeking sword. He laughed. “Your death will not be at my hands. It’s back to Grosgarth for you, and there’ll be a reward to set us up as noblemen… Let Charley Lyssider have his will with you”