Dillians never sat; their bodies couldn’t stand the weight. So everybody else sat on the straw, Mavra reclining on her side. There was plenty of room.
After some small talk, Renard voiced what they all were thinking.
“Ah, excuse me, Tael, but—aren’t you a little young for all this?” he tried, as diplomatically as possible.
The woman didn’t take it badly. “Well, I admit I’m only fifteen, but I was born in the uplake mountain country of Dillia; my family has hunted and trapped on both sides of the border for a long time. I know every trail and pathway between here and Dillia, and that’s a pretty good ways.”
“And the Gedemondas?” Mavra prompted.
The Dillian shrugged. “They’ve never bothered me. You see them every once in a while—big white shapes against the snow. Never close—they’re always gone when you get there. You hear them, too, sometimes, growling and roaring and making all sorts of weird sounds that echo between the mountains.”
“Is it their speech?” Vistaru asked.
“I don’t think so,” Tael replied. “I used to, but when they asked me to do this guide job for you they fitted me with a translator, and I didn’t hear any difference. I’ve wondered sometimes whether they have any speech as we know it at all.”
“That could be bad,” Renard put in. “How can you talk to somebody who can’t talk back?”
She nodded. “I’m still excited about all this. We’ve tried off and on to communicate with them for the longest time; I’d like to be there when it’s done.”
“Ifit’s done,” Hosuru added pessimistically.
“I’m worried about the smoke from that thing,” Mavra said, cocking her head a little bit toward the stove. “Not the Gedemondas. The war parties. They have to be close by.”
The girl looked uncomfortable. “I’ve seen them already, but they just took a close look at me and went on. A few flying horses like yours, and some really strange, beautiful things that must have had orange and brown butterflylike wings three or more meters across. None of them landed.”
Vistaru looked concerned. “Yaxa and Agitar both. Advance scouts. We can’t stay here long.”
“We won’t,” Tael told them. “We’ll leave at first light up the Intermountain Trail in back of the base here. With any luck we’ll make Camp 43 shortly after noon, and from there we start getting into snow country—and the air thins.”
“How high is this camp?” Renard asked.
“Fifteen hundred sixty-two meters,” Tael responded. “But you’re already almost four hundred meters up. You wouldn’t know it, but the plain’s a slope.”
“We could fly up that far,” Vistaru noted. “We’re good to about eighteen hundred meters, and I think you said, Renard, that Doma’s good to about that.”
He nodded. “But that doesn’t help our guide, here. No wings for her.”
Tael laughed. “That’s all right. I told you I was mountain-born. Even better if we have a head start, but beyond Camp 43, flying will be difficult. I can start up this evening, and be there to meet you in the morning. That way we move even faster.” Her face darkened, and she looked at Mavra. “But you will have to be dressed far better than that. All of you, in fact. Frostbite will be a big problem.”
“We have some winter things,” Hosuru told her. “And I understood you were supposed to bring some stuff.”
She nodded, went over to a stall, and hauled out some tough fabric knapsacks. They were heavy, but she managed them without strain. Maybe she couldn’t fly, but she did add the muscle power that was their most conspicuous lack.
She sorted things out. Special form-fitting thermal wear to suit Latan contours, including transparent but tough and rigid shielding for the wings, appeared, and a heavy coat and gloves that sealed with an elastic of some kind fitted Renard. “You’ll also find these useful,” she said, tossing him some small objects which proved to be wrappings for his hooves, with a flat, spiked, disklike sole that would give him not only protection but better footing. She brought out some more clothes, also of the Latan model but larger and without the wing flaps. She looked a little puzzled. They were obviously for a biped with hands and feet.
Hastily, Mavra explained what had happened. The girl nodded sympathetically, but was plainly concerned.
“I don’t see how these can be cut down,” she said. “Your feet should do all right in the snow, like mine, but you should have some kind of wrapping. You haven’t got my protective skin layers and hair,” she pointed out.
“We’ll do whatever we can,” Mavra responded. “Renard will have to lead Doma once we get up there; I’ll ride her as long as possible. That should help.”
Tael was doubtful, but she was the guide, not the mission leader.
Renard went over to the door, peering out at the sky. No sign of strange or hostile creatures now; a few lazy birds, no more. But soon—who knew?
He wondered just how far off the driving forces were.
At the Palim-Gedemondas Border
The Yaxa came in for a landing with a great beating of its tremendous wings. Coming down, it saw the large number of troops and materiel now massed at the border. It looked good. Convincing.
It had been a long trip, and almost a fatal one. The creature touched the ground gently and went down on all eight tentacles toward the portable command center, a huge circuslike tent established just inside Palim. The Yaxa were born to the air; on the ground they looked awkward and lumbering, never quite properly balanced because of the long folded wings along their backs. In the air, however, they were the graceful masters.
The Yaxa entered the big tent, its huge death’s head, impassive as always, searching out someone of rank, finally spotting someone who would do over by the big situation map.
Communication between Yaxa was by a complex combination of noises from the thoracic regions and odd sounds made by antennae and slight wing rustles. Their names were untranslatable, so, when dealing with other races, they adopted nicknames that often were nonsense, ironic, or just plain crazy, and stuck to them for multiracial operations.
“Marker reporting in, Section Leader,” the newcomer said.
The section leader nodded. “Glad to see you back, Marker. We had begun to think that the enemy had gotten you.”
“It was close,” the advance scout said. “Those damned little blue men with their electricity and their flying horses. The Cebu are too clumsy to worry about, but even though the horses are slow and awkward, it only needs a touch to get you.”
The section leader knew this. She knew, in fact, as much about the physical, mental, and technological characteristics of the Makiem alliance as anyone could. The other side had had a much rougher trip than they; any force that could hammer its way through that much resistance so quickly was a force to be reckoned with.
“How far off are they?” the military commander inquired.
“Down the other side,” Marker responded. That meant at least three hundred kilometers, a good distance, and the plain that was the logical camp for the final campaign was only a hundred or so kilometers south of their present position. They would be first. “They’re a little slow with their airlift over Alestol, too. After all, they have to move everything they need a fair distance nonstop—more than either the flying horses or Cebu can normally fly. A lot of them are into exhaustion now; the ones who land soon find themselves put to sleep by those big, fat plants and then eaten. Don’t sell those Alestolians short, either—some of them have translators, would you believe, and they have a hypnotic gas as well. If one of those ones with a translator gets an Agitar or a Cebu, they’re sent back against their own people!”