It was such a small thing, a tag of ragged stuff looped about a length
of splintered sapling. Ross climbed stiffly over the welter of drift
caught on the sand spit and pulled it loose, recognizing the string even
before he touched it. That square knot was of McNeil's tying, and as
Murdock sat down weakly in the sand and mud, nervously fingering the
twisted cord, staring vacantly at the river, his last small hope died.
The raft must have broken up, and neither Ashe nor McNeil could have
survived the ultimate disaster.
Ross Murdock was alone, marooned in a time which was not his own, with
little promise of escape. That one thought blanked out his mind with its
own darkness. What was the use of getting up again, of trying to find
food for his empty stomach, or warmth and shelter?
He had always prided himself on being able to go it alone, had thought
himself secure in that calculated loneliness. Now that belief had been
washed away in the river along with most of the will power which had
kept him going these past days. Before, there had always been some goal,
no matter how remote. Now, he had nothing. Even if he managed to reach
the mouth of the river, he had no idea of where or how to summon the sub
from the overseas post. All three of the time travelers might already
have been written off the rolls, since they had not reported in.
Ross pulled the rag free from the sapling and wreathed it in a tight
bracelet about his grimed wrist for some unexplainable reason. Worn and
tired, he tried to think ahead. There was no chance of again contacting
Ulffa's tribe. Along with all the other woodland hunters they must have
fled before the advance of the horsemen. No, there was no reason to go
back, and why make the effort to advance?
The sun was hot. This was one of those spring days which foretell the
ripeness of summer. Insects buzzed in the reed banks where a green sheen
showed. Birds wheeled and circled in the sky, some flock disturbed,
their cries reaching Ross in hoarse calls of warning.
He was still plastered with patches of dried mud and slime, the reek of
it thick in his nostrils. Now Ross brushed at a splotch on his knee,
picking loose flakes to expose the alien cloth of his suit underneath,
seemingly unbefouled. All at once it became necessary to be clean again
at least.
Ross waded into the stream, stooping to splash the brown water over his
body and then rubbing away the resulting mud. In the sunlight the fabric
had a brilliant glow, as if it not only drew the light but reflected it.
Wading farther out into the water, he began to swim, not with any goal
in view, but because it was easier than crawling back to land once more.
Using the downstream current to supplement his skill, he watched both
banks. He could not really hope to see either the raft or indications
that its passengers had won to shore, but somewhere deep inside him he
had not yet accepted the probable.
The effort of swimming broke through that fog of inertia which had held
him since he had awakened that morning. It was with a somewhat healthier
interest in life that Ross came ashore again on an arm of what was a bay
or inlet angling back into the land. Here the banks of the river were
well above his head, and believing that he was well sheltered, he
stripped, hanging his suit in the sunlight and letting the unusual heat
of the day soothe his body.
A raw fish, cornered in the shallows and scooped out, furnished one of
the best meals he had ever tasted. He had reached for the suit draped
over a willow limb when the first and only warning that his fortunes had
once again changed came, swiftly, silently, and with deadly promise.
One moment the willows had moved gently in the breeze, and then a spear
suddenly set them all quivering. Ross, clutching the suit to him with a
frantic grab, skated about in the sand, going to one knee in his haste.
He found himself completely at the mercy of the two men standing on the
bank well above him. Unlike Ulffa's people or the Beaker traders, they
were very tall, with heavy braids of light or sun-bleached hair swinging
forward on their wide chests. Their leather tunics hung to mid-thigh
above leggings which were bound to their limbs with painted straps. Cuff
bracelets of copper ringed their forearms, and necklaces of animal teeth
and beads displayed their personal wealth. Ross could not remember
having seen their like on any of the briefing tapes at the base.
One spear had been a warning, but a second was held ready, so Ross made
the age-old signal of surrender, reluctantly dropping his suit and
raising his hands palm out and shoulder high.
"Friend?" Ross asked in the Beaker tongue. The traders ranged far, and
perhaps there was a chance they had had contact with this tribe.
The spear twirled, and the younger stranger effortlessly leaped down the
bank, paddling over to Ross to pick up the suit he had dropped, holding
it up while he made some comment to his companion. He seemed fascinated
by the fabric, pulling and smoothing it between his hands, and Ross
wondered if there was a chance of trading it for his own freedom.
Both men were armed, not only with the long-bladed daggers favored by
the Beaker folk, but also with axes. When Ross made a slight effort to
lower his hands the man before him reached to his belt ax, growling what
was plainly a warning. Ross blinked, realizing that they might well
knock him out and leave him behind, taking the suit with them.
Finally, they decided in favor of including him in their loot. Throwing
the suit over one arm, the stranger caught Ross by the shoulder and
pushed him forward roughly. The pebbled beach was painful to Ross's
feet, and the breeze which whipped about him as he reached the top of
the bank reminded him only too forcibly of his ordeal in the glacial
world.
Murdock was tempted to make a sudden dash out on the point of the bank
and dive into the river, but it was already too late. The man who was
holding the spear had moved behind him, and Ross's wrist, held in a vise
grip at the small of his back, kept him prisoner as he was pushed on
into the meadow. There three shaggy horses grazed, their nose ropes
gathered into the hands of a third man.
A sharp stone half buried in the ground changed the pattern of the day.
Ross's heel scraped against it, and the resulting pain triggered his
rebellion into explosion. He threw himself backward, his bruised heel
sliding between the feet of his captor, bringing them both to the ground
with himself on top. The other expelled air from his lungs in a grunt
of surprise, and Ross whipped over, one hand grasping the hilt of the
tribesman's dagger while the other, free of that prisoning wrist-lock,
chopped at the fellow's throat.
Dagger out and ready, Ross faced the men in a half crouch as he had been
drilled. They stared at him in open-mouthed amazement, then too late the
spears went up. Ross placed the point of his looted weapon at the throat
of the now quiet man by whom he knelt, and he spoke the language he had
learned from Ulffa's people.
"You strike--this one dies."
They must have read the determined purpose in his eyes, for slowly,
reluctantly, the spears went down. Having gained so much of a victory,
Ross dared more. "Take--" he motioned to the waiting horses--"take and
go!"
For a moment he thought that this time they would meet his challenge,
but he continued to hold the dagger above the brown throat of the man
who was now moaning faintly. His threat continued to register, for the
other man shrugged the suit from his arm, left it lying on the ground,
and retreated. Holding the nose rope of his horse, he mounted, waved the
herder up also, and both of them rode slowly away.
The prisoner was slowly coming around, so Ross only had time to pull on
the suit; he had not even fastened the breast studs before those blue
eyes opened. A sunburned hand flashed to a belt, but the dagger and ax
which had once hung there were now in Ross's possession. He watched the
tribesman carefully as he finished dressing.
"What you do?" The words were in the speech of the forest people,
distorted by a new accent.
"You go--" Ross pointed to the third horse the others had left
behind--"I go--" he indicated the river--"I take these"--he patted the
dagger and the ax. The other scowled.
"Not good...."
Ross laughed, a little hysterically. "Not good you," he agreed,
"good--me!"
To his surprise the tribesman's stiff face relaxed, and the fellow gave
a bark of laughter. He sat up, rubbing at his throat, a big grin pulling
at the corners of his mouth.
"You--hunter?" The man pointed northeast to the woodlands fringing the
mountains.
Ross shook his head. "Trader, me."
"Trader," the other repeated. Then he tapped one of the wide metal cuffs
at his wrist. "Trade--this?"
"That. More things."
"Where?"
Ross pointed downstream. "By bitter water--trade there."
The man appeared puzzled. "Why you here?"
"Ride river water, like you ride," he said, pointing to the horse. "Ride
on trees--many trees tied together. Trees break apart--I come here."
The conception of a raft voyage apparently got across, for the tribesman
was nodding. Getting to his feet, he walked across to take up the nose
rope of the waiting horse. "You come camp--Foscar. Foscar chief. He like
you show trick how you take Tulka, make him sleep--hold his ax, knife."
Ross hesitated. This Tulka seemed friendly now, but would that
friendliness last? He shook his head. "I go to bitter water. My chief
there."
Tulka was scowling again. "You speak crooked words--your chief there!"
He pointed eastward with a dramatic stretch of the arm. "Your chief
speak Foscar. Say he give much these--" he touched his copper
cuffs--"good knives, axes--get you back."
Ross stared at him without understanding. Ashe? Ashe in this Foscar's
camp offering a reward for him? But how could that be?
"How you know my chief?"
Tulka laughed, this time derisively. "You wear shining skin--your chief
wear shiny skin. He say find other shiny skin--give many good things to
man who bring you back."
Shiny skin! The suit from the alien ship! Was it the ship people? Ross
remembered the light on him as he climbed out of the Red village. He
must have been sighted by one of the spacemen. But why were they
searching for him, alerting the natives in an effort to scoop him up?
What made Ross Murdock so important that they must have him? He only
knew that he was not going to be taken if he could help it, that he had
no desire to meet this "chief" who had offered treasure for his capture.
"You will come!" Tulka went into action, his mount flashing forward
almost in a running leap at Ross, who stumbled back when horse and rider
loomed over him. He swung up the ax, but it was a weapon with which he
had had no training, too heavy for him.
As his blow met only thin air the shoulder of the mount hit him, and
Ross went down, avoiding by less than a finger's breadth the thud of an
unshod hoof against his skull. Then the rider landed on him, crushing
him flat. A fist connected with his jaw, and for Ross the sun went out.
He found himself hanging across a support which moved with a rocking
gait, whose pounding hurt his head, keeping him half dazed. Ross tried
to move, but he realized that his arms were behind his back, fastened
wrist to wrist, and a warm weight centered in the small of his spine to
hold him face down on a horse. He could do nothing except endure the
discomfort as best he could and hope for a speedy end to the gallop.
Over his head passed the cackle of speech. He caught short glimpses of
another horse matching pace to the one that carried him. Then they swept
into a noisy place where the shouting of many men made a din. The horse
stopped and Ross was pulled from its back and dropped to the trodden
dust, to lie blinking up dizzily, trying to focus on the scene about
him.
They had arrived at the camp of the horsemen, whose hide tents served as
a backdrop for the fair long-haired giants and the tall women hovering
about to view the captive. The circle about him then broke, and men
stood aside for a newcomer. Ross had believed that his original captors
were physically imposing, but this one was their master. Lying on the
ground at the chieftain's feet, Ross felt like a small and helpless
child.
Foscar, if Foscar this was, could not yet have entered middle age, and
the muscles which moved along his arms and across his shoulders as he
leaned over to study Tulka's prize made him bear-strong. Ross glared up
at him, that same hot rage which had led to his attack on Tulka now
urging him to the only defiance he had left--words.
"Look well, Foscar. Free me, and I would do more than _look_ at you," he
said in the speech of the woods hunters.
Foscar's blue eyes widened and he lowered a fist which could have
swallowed in its grasp both of Ross's hands, linking those great fingers
in the stuff of the suit and drawing the captive to his feet, with no
sign that his act had required any effort. Even standing, Ross was a
good eight inches shorter than the chieftain. Yet he put up his chin and
eyed the other squarely, without giving ground.
"So--yet still my hands are tied." He put into that all the taunting
inflection he could summon. His reception by Tulka had given him one
faint clue to the character of these people; they might be brought to
acknowledge the worth of one who stood up to them.
"Child--" The fist shifted from its grip on the fabric covering Ross's
chest to his shoulder, and now under its compulsion Ross swayed back and
forth.
"Child?" From somewhere Ross raised that short laugh. "Ask Tulka. I be
no child, Foscar. Tulka's ax, Tulka's knife--they were in my hand. A
horse Tulka had to use to bring me down."
Foscar regarded him intently and then grinned. "Sharp tongue," he
commented. "Tulka lost knife--ax? So! Ennar," he called over his
shoulder, and one of the men stepped out a pace beyond his fellows.
He was shorter and much younger than his chief, with a boy's rangy
slimness and an open, good-looking face, his eyes bright on Foscar with
a kind of eager excitement. Like the other tribesmen he was armed with
belt dagger and ax, and since he wore two necklaces and both cuff
bracelets and upper armlets as did Foscar, Ross thought he must be a
relative of the older man.
"Child!" Foscar clapped his hand on Ross's shoulder and then withdrew
the hold. "Child!" He indicated Ennar, who reddened. "You take from
Ennar ax, knife," Foscar ordered, "as you took from Tulka." He made a
sign, and someone cut the thongs about Ross's wrists.
Ross rubbed one numbed hand against the other, setting his jaw. Foscar
had stung his young follower with that contemptuous "child," so the boy
would be eager to match all his skill against the prisoner. This would
not be as easy as his taking Tulka by surprise. But if he refused,
Foscar might well order him killed out of hand. He had chosen to be
defiant; he would have to do his best.
"Take--ax, knife--" Foscar stepped back, waving at his men to open out a
ring encircling the two young men.
Ross felt a little sick as he watched Ennar's hand go to the haft of the
ax. Nothing had been said about Ennar's not using his weapons in
defense, but Ross discovered that there was some sense of sportmanship
in the tribesmen, after all. It was Tulka who pushed to the chief's side
and said something which made Foscar roar bull-voiced at his youthful
champion.
Ennar's hand came away from the ax hilt as if that polished wood were
white-hot, and he transferred his discomfiture to Ross as the other
understood. Ennar had to win now for his own pride's sake, and Ross felt
_he_ had to win for his life. They circled warily, Ross watching his
opponent's eyes rather than those half-closed hands held at waist level.
Back at the base he had been matched with Ashe, and before Ashe with the
tough-bodied, skilled, and merciless trainers in unarmed combat. He had
had beaten into his bruised flesh knowledge of holds and blows intended
to save his skin in just such an encounter. But then he had been
well-fed, alert, prepared. He had not been knocked silly and then
transported for miles slung across a horse after days of exposure and
hard usage. It remained to be learned--was Ross Murdock as tough as he
always thought himself to be? Tough or not, he was in this until he
won--or dropped.
Comments from the crowd aroused Ennar to the first definite action. He
charged, stooping low in a wrestler's stance, but Ross squatted even
lower. One hand flicked to the churned dust of the ground and snapped up
again, sending a cloud of grit into the tribesman's face. Then their
bodies met with a shock, and Ennar sailed over Ross's shoulder to skid
along the earth.
Had Ross been fresh, the contest would have ended there and then in his
favor. But when he tried to whirl and throw himself on his opponent he
was too slow. Ennar was not waiting to be pinned flat, and it was Ross's
turn to be caught at a disadvantage.
A hand shot out to catch his leg just above the ankle, and once again
Ross obeyed his teaching, falling easily at that pull, to land across
his opponent. Ennar, disconcerted by the too-quick success of his
attack, was unprepared for this. Ross rolled, trying to escape
steel-fingered hands, his own chopping out in edgewise blows, striving
to serve Ennar as he had Tulka.
He had to take a lot of punishment, though he managed to elude the
powerful bear's hug in which he knew the other was laboring to engulf
him, a hold which would speedily crush him into submission. Clinging to
the methods he had been taught, he fought on, only now he knew, with a
growing panic, that his best was not good enough. He was too spent to
make an end. Unless he had some piece of great good luck, he could only
delay his own defeat.
Fingers clawed viciously at his eyes, and Ross did what he had never
thought to do in any fight--he snapped wolfishly, his teeth closing on
flesh as he brought up his knee and drove it home into the body
wriggling on his. There was a gasp of hot breath in his face as Ross
called upon the last few rags of his strength, tearing loose from the
other's slackened hold. He scrambled to one knee. Ennar was also on his
knees, crouching like a four-legged beast ready to spring. Ross risked
everything on a last gamble. Clasping his hands together, he raised them
as high as he could and brought them down on the nape of the other's
neck. Ennar sprawled forward face-down in the dust where seconds later
Ross joined him.