No-Fur was silent. His active, nimble mind was scurrying down the vistas opened up by the dead prophetess. Giant Killer, Giant Killer. Even in his most grandiose dreams he had never seen himself thus. And what was that name? Shrick? He repeated it to himself — Shrick the Giant Killer. It had a fine swing to it. As for the rest, the End, if he could kill the Giants then, surely, he could stave off the doom that they would mete out to the People. Shrick, the Giant Killer—
“It is a name that I like better than No-Fur,” said Wesel.
“Shrick, Lord of the Outside. Shrick, Lord of the World. Shrick, the Giant Killer—”
“Yes,” he said, slowly. “But the End—”
“You will go through that door when you come to it.”
The campaign against Tekka’s People had opened.
Along the caves and tunnels poured the nightmare hordes of Shrick. The dim light but half revealed their misshapen bodies, limbs where no limbs should be, heads like something from a half-forgotten bad dream.
All were armed. Every male and female carried a spear, and that in itself was a startling innovation in the wars of the People. For sharp metal, with which the weapons were tipped, was hard to come by. True, a staff of Barrier material could be sharpened, but it was a liability rather than an asset in a pitched battle. With the first thrust the point would break off, leaving the fighter with a weapon far inferior to his natural armory of teeth and claws.
Fire was new to the People — and it was Shrick who had brought them fire. For long periods he had spied upon the Giants in the Place-of-Little-Lights, had seen them bring from the pouches in their fur little glittering devices from which when a projection was pressed, issued a tiny, naked light. And he had seen them bring this light to the end of strange, white sticks that they seemed to be sucking. And the end of the stick would glow, and there would be a cloud like the cloud that issued from the mouths of the People in some of the Far Outside caverns where it was very cold. But this cloud was fragrant, and seemed to be strangely soothing.
And one of the Giants had lost his little hot light. He had put it to one to the white sticks, had made to return it to his pouch, and his hand had missed the opening. The Giant did not notice. He was doing something which took all his attention — and strain his eyes and his imagination as he might Shrick could not see what it was. There were strange glittering machines through which he peered intently at the glittering Little Lights beyond their transparent Barrier. Or were they on the inside of the Barrier? Nobody had ever been able to decide. There was something alive that wasn’t alive that clicked. There were sheets of fine, white skin on which the Giant was making black marks with a pointed stick.
But Shrick soon lost interest in these strange rites that he could never hope to comprehend. All his attention was focused on the glittering prize that was drifting ever so slowly toward him on the wings of some vagrant eddy.
When it seemed that it would surely fall right into the doorway where Shrick crouched waiting, it swerved. And, much as he dreaded the pseudolife that hummed and clicked, Shrick came out. The Giant, busy with his sorcery, did not notice him. One swift leap carried him to the drifting trophy. And then he had it, tight clasped to his breast. It was bigger than he had thought, it having appeared so tiny only in relationship to its previous owner. But it wasn’t too big to go through the door in the Barrier. In triumph Shrick bore it to his cave.
Many were the experiments that he, eager but fumbling, performed. For a while both he and Wesel nursed painful burns. Many were the experiments that he intended to perform in the future. But he had stumbled on one use for the hot light that was to be of paramount importance in his wars.
Aping the Giants, he had stuck a long splinter of Barrier material in his mouth. The end he had brought to the little light. There was, as he had half expected, a cloud. But it was neither fragrant nor soothing. Blinded and coughing, Wesel snatched at the glowing stick, beat out its strange life with her hands.
Then — “It is hard,” she said. “It is almost as hard as metal—”
And so Shrick became the first mass producer of armaments that his world had known. The first few sharpened staves he treated himself. The rest he left to Wesel and the faithful Big-Ears. He dare not trust his wonderful new power to any who were not among his intimates.
Shrick’s other innovation was a direct violation of all the rules of war. He had pressed the females into the fighting line. Those who were old and infirm, together with the old and infirm males, brought up the rear with bundles of the mass-produced spears. The New People had been wondering for some little time why their chief had refused to let them slaughter those of their number who had outlived their usefulness. Now they knew.
The caves of the New People were deserted save for those few females with newborn.
And through the tunnels poured the hordes of Shrick.
There was little finesse in the campaign against Tekka’s people. The outposts were slaughtered out of hand, but not before they had had time to warn the Tribe of the attack.
Tekka threw a body of picked spearmen into his van, confident that he, with better access to those parts of Inside where metal could be obtained, would be able to swamp the motley horde of the enemy with superior arms and numbers.
When Tekka saw, in the dim light, only a few betraying gleams of metal scattered among Shrick’s massed spears, he laughed.
“This No-Fur is mad,” he said. “And I shall kill him with this.” He brandished his own weapon. “His mother gave it to me many, many feedings ago.”
“Is Wesel—?”
“Perhaps, my son. You shall eat her heart, I promise you.”
And then Shrick struck.
His screaming mob rushed along the wide tunnel. Confident the Tekkan spearmen waited, knowing that the enemy’s weapons were good for only one thrust, and that almost certainly not lethal.
Tekka scowled as he estimated the numbers of the attackers. There couldn’t be that many males among the New People. There couldn’t—And then the wave struck.
In the twinkling of an eye the tunnel was tightly packed with struggling bodies. Here was no dignified, orderly series of single combats such as had always, in the past, graced the wars of the People. And with growing terror Tekka realized that the enemy spears were standing up to the strain of battle at least as well as his own few metal-tipped weapons.
Slowly, but with ever mounting momentum, the attackers pressed on, gaining impetus from the many bodies that now lay behind them. Gasping for air in the effluvium of sweat and newly shed blood Tekka and the last of his guards were pressed back and ever back.
When one of the New People was disarmed he fell to the rear of his own front line. As though by magic a fresh fighter would appear to replace him.
Then — “He’s using females!” cried Trillo. “He’s—”
But Tekka did not answer. He was fighting for his life with a four-armed monster. Every hand held a spear — and every spear was bright with blood. For long heartbeats he parried the other’s thrusts, then his nerve broke. Screaming, he turned his back on the enemy. It was the last thing he did.
And so the remnant of the fighting strength of the Tribe of Tekka was at last penned up against one wall of their Place-of-Meeting. Surrounding them was a solid hemisphere of the New People. Snarl was answered by snarl. Trillo and his scant half dozen guards knew that there was no surrender. All they could do was to sell their lives as dearly as possible.
And so they waited for the inevitable, gathering the last reserves of their strength in this lull of the battle, gasping the last sweet mouthfuls of air that they would ever taste. From beyond the wall of their assailants they could hear the cries and screams as the females and children, who had hidden in their caves, were hunted out and slaughtered. They were not to know that the magnanimous Shrick was sparing most of the females. They, he hoped, would produce for him more New People.