CHAPTER V
Below them now stretched rolling grasslands, mile after green-gold mile. Afar, the darker green of shrubs and trees marked water-holes or fringed the meandering streams that glinted in the clear white light of Yoh, Lysor's midday sun. A fragrance—of flowers, of foliage—drifted upward even to the disc, high above it all, still gliding southward.
A paradise, it was. But a paradise apparently without human population. Craig still could find no sign of habitation—only the tiny, moving dots that were herds of some unknown animal grazing.
Then, off to the west, a thin wisp of smoke curled skyward.
Craig shifted his weight so that the disc wheeled towards the distant streamer. "Narla...."
The girl's blonde head moved just a fraction—barely enough to tell him that she, too, saw the far-off feather. That was all. She didn't speak.
A little of Craig's elation left him. Again, as a thousand times before, he wondered about the slim girl crouching on the disc between his feet.
She was Zenaor's daughter.
Yet ... she had also helped to bring him, Craig Nesom, into contact with the Baemae.
Whose side was she really on?
Or did she even know herself?
Craig wondered.
But whatever the answer, she was here with him, in his power—his weapon to break her father's grip on Lysor.
He should have been glad for it. It was what he'd sought, the thing he needed to help avenge his friends who'd died aboard the starship. Only somehow, now, it brought no sense of surging triumph. If anything, the thing he felt was guilt, an ugly gnawing of his own conscience because he'd forced her to come with him.
Ahead, a huddle of buildings came into view below the smoke-wisp.
Craig changed course a fraction.
The buildings showed clearer now—shanties straggling out behind a palisade, across a broad, hill-sheltered plain that sloped down gently to a river. For the first time, Craig could see people moving about.
He tilted the disc, coasting down towards the village in a long, looping arc.
But now those below glimpsed the saucer. A flurry of excitement flared. Fingers pointed. Men ran towards the largest of the buildings.
But not for shelter. For suddenly they were back again, out in the open, carrying discs. In seconds a whole company had taken to the air.
Craig banked sharply as they raced towards him.
But a fierce cry rang out from above him. He jerked around just in time to see a host of other discs slashing down out of the blue.
Then one peeled off, lanced closer. Craig glimpsed a lean, half-naked body ... bared teeth ... a fierce bronzed face.
The rider's arm snaked out. A long black whip flicked towards Craig. Before he could move, the lash twined about his upflung wrist.
The rider above twisted sharply. His disc sideslipped away from Craig.
The next instant the Earthman was flying through the air, jerked clear of his carrier by the whiplash.
Dimly, he heard Narla scream.
Then he was swinging free, like a plumb-bob on a string. Cold sweat drenched him. He clutched at the whiplash, clinging to it with both hands.
Now the disc from which he hung climbed in slow spirals, circling away from the village. Behind and below him Craig glimpsed Narla, similarly suspended, swinging pendulum-like below a second saucer.
The other discs drew in, grouping about the captives in loose formation. Still climbing, the whole flight topped the crest of the hills behind the village.
Here browsed a great herd of the animals Craig had seen grazing. Sweeping low over them, the discs wheeled towards a log stockade atop a knoll, hovered above it for a moment, and then settled slowly.
At last Craig's feet touched ground inside the stockade. Shaking, he sank to the grass, fumbling to free his wrist from the whiplash.
It came free. Scrambling up, he stumbled to where Narla lay in a crumpled, sobbing heap, and tugged loose the lash that held her.
She clung to him, sobbing, her whole body shaking.
Overhead, the discs still hovered almost motionless, making no move to land.
Anger flared in Craig. Instead of releasing the whip, he surged up suddenly, jerking on it with all his might.
The disc from which Narla had been suspended tilted sharply. The whipman pitched off, arms flailing, and sprawled spread-eagled in the grass.
Craig dived onto him before he could even catch his breath—pinning him, gouging at his throat.
But already the other discs were plummeting. Sinewy, work-worn hands dragged Craig back.
Then a bronzed young giant who wore a high ceremonial helmet that must once have belonged to some baron's guard came striding forward. "Hold, friend!" He was laughing.
Craig stared. "Bukal!"
"No other." The strapping Baemae gripped Craig's hand.
"But—the guards—I thought you dead."
"And so did I, for a while, there." Bukal chuckled. "But perhaps the gods have marked me to die in the pit with Vydys' rollers. For at the last moment somebody stumbled and I made it away through the alleys, found a new disc, and fled south, here, to my home village."
"So I see." Craig shook his head dazedly.
"As for you, just now, you were not recognized in time." The Baemae was suddenly apologetic. "You'll not begrudge it that we protect our village? After all, the barons have tried a hundred tricks to trap us—so now we bring all strangers here for scrutiny before we pass them on to full fellowship among us."
"Of course not." Craig matched the other's grin. "But is this"—he gestured to the log walls—"much of a prison?"
Bukal smiled grimly. Leading Craig to the nearest crevice, he pointed out between the logs. "The djevoda stand guard for us."
"The djevoda—?" Craig peered out.
They were strange creatures. Taller than two men they towered—heavy-bodied, six-legged, elephantine. Great tusks gleamed below broad, pig-like snouts.
"Watch!" Bukal commanded.
He drew an ornate dagger from his belt-harness as he spoke. Catching the sun in its jewels, he flashed a beam into the eyes of one of the creatures.
It was as if it were a signal. A roar like that of a maddened bull burst from the djevoda's great throat. Tiger-fast, avalanchal, it lunged up the slope of the knoll, straight for the stockade. The logs rocked under the impact of its hurtling body. A great tusk tore through a crack, bare inches from Craig's arm.
The Earthman leaped back, cursing.
His bronzed friend laughed again. "A wonderful creature, the djevoda. Tons of solid meat, ready for the slicing. But definitely not to be domesticated."
"So I see," Craig agreed, a trifle sourly.
"They charge movement on sight," his guide went on. "Killing them, save from directly above, takes a deal of doing. So, they roam these southern plains by hundreds. That's why this range was never settled, till Tumek gave the flying disc to the Baemae. But overhead, we're safe from them. We can herd them with our whips like cattle, or kill them at will with a bolt at the base of the brain. They feed us, clothe us, protect us, give us freedom...." He broke off. "But I talk too much of our own affairs. Tell me, how did you escape—and what of Tumek?"
Craig said, "Tumek ... is dead."
The laughter left the bronzed man's face. "Tumek dead—!" He cursed aloud. "How did it happen?"
Briefly, Craig told him ... showed him the crystal ... mentioned the ourobos.
Only one thing did he leave out.
Narla.
He didn't know why. It made no sense, even to him.
Yet somehow, he could not bring himself to reveal her lineage ... tell how she came to be here, put her forward in the role of hostage.
Bukal was frowning when Craig finished. "There's too much here I don't understand," he grunted. "Ourobos are not of Lysor, but of our sister-planet, Xumar—a loathsome, crawling horror beyond man's controlling. Innoculations with a rare oil will repel them, but no one has ever found a way to kill them. If Zenaor were mad enough to bring them here, to Lysor...." He shuddered and left his sentence hanging.
"And the crystal—?" Craig displayed it.
Again, the other shook his head. "For all I know, it might as well be nothing but a lamp-lens." He straightened, thin-lipped. "But at least we'll make our masters pay for Tumek! This very night!"
Pivoting as he spoke, he strode back towards the waiting discmen. "These two"—he gestured to Craig and Narla—"they are accepted. Take them to the village."
Only then did it dawn on Craig that the Baemae had asked not a question about the girl.
But there was little time for pondering on that. The men spun their discs; helped Earthman and girl to board them. The ground, the stockade, fell away.
Then the hills, too, lay behind, and they were gliding down beyond the palisade, into the village.
A withered crone led Craig and Narla to a hut. "Rest here, warrior—you and your woman. Tomorrow will be time enough to think of work and duty."
She left them, then, closing the door behind her as she departed.
Silence echoed through the room. Wordless, Craig turned to leave.
But Narla's voice stopped him: "Wait, Craig Nesom...."
He swung round. "What—?"
She said, "You didn't tell them that I was Zenaor's daughter. You let them believe I was your woman." A note of strain, of puzzlement, crept into her tone. "Why, Earthman? Why?"
Craig shrugged. "What point was there? Did it matter?"
"Yes, Craig." The grey eyes were thoughtful now. "Yes, it matters very much. You brought me here to use as a weapon against my father—yet now you keep my secret. Why?"
Craig shrugged again, not speaking.
"Because Zenaor's daughter would have received a different welcome, Craig; so very different. You know that, surely."
He nodded slowly. "Yes, I knew it."
"Then why—?"
"Because there's been too much of blood and killing." He lashed out the words in sudden fury, out of all proportion. "I wouldn't turn in a dog to be tormented...."
The girl came to him, through the shadows, till she was close ... so very close. "Then ... it was not for anything that you felt towards me that you saved me?"
She swayed as she spoke—swayed forward, against him. He could feel the slow beat of her heart, the measured pressure of her breathing. The fragrance of her hair rose in his nostrils.
"No," he said. "No. There was nothing."
For a long, long moment she stood still, not moving. Then, very softly, she said, "You lie, Craig Nesom!"
Something inside Craig let go like a taut spring snapping. "Damn you—!" he choked, and crushed her to him, hard against him.
She came willingly, body warm and vibrant; eyes closed, lips parted.
Red lips ... softer than any dream of Vydys.
Craig drank deep of them.
Then, at last, the kiss was ended. They stood there, breathing hard, clinging to each other in the semi-darkness; and Narla said, "They spoke truly, Craig Nesom. I am—will always be—your woman."
He kissed her again, then, while a knot drew tight in his belly, and his throat swelled, and his eyes stung.
But all he could whisper was "Narla ... Narla...."
Outside someone knocked on the door.
Craig stiffened; straightened. "What is it?"
"It's me Bukal. Roh's coming up. Would you raid with us?"
Craig looked at Narla.
Pain was in her eyes, but her voice stayed steady: "Your life's your own, voyager. And ... I'll be waiting."
Craig called, "I'm coming, Bukal!"
They kissed again, and then he left her, striding out into the pale green light of the ebbing day.
Over by the disc-shed, men were working—stacking the saucers one upon the other till they formed neat cylinders, each half-a-dozen discs high.
Laughing, bronzed Bukal gestured to them. "You see, Craig? These are our weapons! Why should we kill, when we can hurt the cursed barons worse by sending their serfs through the skies to freedom?"
Craig nodded.
Another man came up. "We're ready, Bukal."
"Good!" The Baemae leader strode to the shed and caught up a disc. "Here, Craig. Lend a hand!"
Following his lead, Craig dragged a single saucer out into the open and spun it till it hovered on the wave-force.
"Now lash it fast atop a unit."
Moving the saucer to the nearest pile, Craig tied it down. A tilt—a shove—and all seven saucers took the air.
A man scrambled aboard each cylinder as it rose.
"North, now!" cried Bukal. "We'll see how the Lady Vydys likes running her estates without the Baemae!"
Vydys—!
Dark loveliness, rising from a dead guard's corpse with her knife still dripping blood.
Craig shuddered.
Only then they were rising, circling, and there was no time for thoughts or shudders. High through the emerald sky they flashed while the hills fell away and the village vanished. Koh's green ball sank from sight beyond the horizon. Roh climbed afar, tinting Lysor's fields all blue and purple.
And still they raced north, the night wind whipping at hair and garments.
Then, far below, a black line scarred the grasslands. Craig caught a faint shout: "The barrier!"
Again, he was above the land of the Kukzubas barons.
Ahead, the stocky Bukal waved a sweeping signal. Discs slipped earthward.
Another signal. They dropped lower ... lower ... came at last to ground in the shadow of a grove of great sefopp trees.
Out of the murk, the dim figure of a burly man hurried towards them. "Thank the gods, you've come!"
Craig could see Bukal stiffen. "Why? Is there trouble?"
"Is there anything but trouble?" the other shot back, hoarse-voiced. "Someone betrayed your contact man to the Lady Vydys when she arrived back from Torneulan this morning. He died by her own hand in the torture chambers."
Bukal cursed. "Did he talk?"
"Would I be here if he had?" the burly man snarled back. He scrubbed his palms on the front of his loose Baemae tabard. "The others are waiting for me to bring the word of your coming."
"Then get them!"
The burly man vanished into the shadows.
Bukal pivoted back to his helpers. "Hurry! Unlash the saucers!"
In seconds, the cargo of discs was spread out. Already, more men from the estate shuffled from the grove's blackness.
Then the burly man, too, returned. "All here," he grunted.
Bukal shot a quick glance around. "No women—?"
"No." The man shifted. "We thought you'd want fighters."
"Fighters—?" Bukal stiffened. "What do you mean? Why would we need fighters?"
The burly one fumbled. "Why ... to meet Zenaor's raiding party...."
"Raiders—!"
"Yes. Had you no warning?" The informer choked on his own spittle. "Vydys herself brought the word. Last night an alien from another system stole Zenaor's daughter and disced south with her. Now Zenaor swears—"
Bukal swung round, eyes blazing. "Earthman! Is this true?"
Numbly, Craig nodded.
"That girl! Zenaor's own daughter!" Bukal choked with fury. "You brought her to our village! You gave no warning!"
Craig held his voice chill: "So? Could you ask for a better hostage?"
"No. Not if we had known. But now—" Bukal broke off and whirled round. "You"—this to the burly man—"take your people and head south to protect our village. The rest of us will run the barrier and try to intercept the raiders. As for you, alien"—he turned back to Craig, eyes hot and scornful—"you'll go south also. But as prisoner, not one of us."
Craig looked to the others; searched their faces.
Their eyes held no mercy.
"All right, you. Come on!" The burly man started towards Craig.
Craig whipped up his fire-gun and laid the barrel hard along the other's temple.
The man slumped to the ground.
Craig said tightly, "To hell with the lot of you! I'm no man's prisoner!"
"Curse you, alien!" Bukal took a quick step forward.
Craig leveled the fire-gun at the flat, bronzed belly.
Bukal halted.
Craig flicked the weapon's muzzle to the nearest of the Baemae. "You! Spin me a disc!"
Seconds stretched to eternity. Then the man's eyes fell. Wordless, he shuffled through the echoing silence, tilted up a disc, and whipped it round.
The magnetic currents caught it; held it, hovering.
Craig vaulted aboard it. "Death's waiting for the man that follows...."
He threw his weight to one side, then back again. Rocking, the saucer swirled upward.
Again he tilted; sent it careening around the far end of the line of trees.
Behind him, Bukal shouted an order. There was a rush of feet, a flurry of movement.
Craig leaned far out, so that the disc almost doubled on its course, sliding back on the other side of the masking sefopp trees. Then, dropping it swiftly back to the ground, he leaped off and dragged it into the shadows.
Saucers sped past the end of the grove, riders and discs alike silhouetted dimly against the blue-black sky. Craig crept deeper into the undergrowth, flat on his belly.
More aching tension. More seconds dragging by, turning into minutes.
Then discs swept down again. Craig heard someone rasp, "He's gone, Bukal. We couldn't spot him." And then Bukal, cursing: "We can't wait any longer. Not with Zenaor prowling."
Again, discs tilted skyward. All of them, this time.
Silence once more, broken only by the whisper of breeze and trees, the chirp of insects.
Craig crept back to his own saucer and wheeled it out into the open. Ten seconds later he, too, was climbing into Lysor's dark night sky.
Climbing—to what end, with every man's hand against him? Bukal or Zenaor, Baemae or barons, one and all sought his blood.
All but Narla.
Somehow, he had to reach her.
Grim, tight-lipped, he set a course southeast, veering just far enough north of the village so that he might pass Vydys' serfs undetected. Their very numbers might slow them. There was at least a bare chance that a lone man might reach Narla ahead of them.
Only then, as he sped on, he caught a sound.
He hesitated, straining his ears.
The noise came again—a muffled, rhythmic clanking.
Craig veered a fraction; raced towards the sound.
Below Craig, dots appeared against the blue-grey shimmer of the grasslands ... dots that crawled grimly, steadily southward.
He knew, then—knew what the dots meant, and the clanking. A chill ran through him.
These were heavy vehicles in motion! This was Zenaor's column, grinding towards the village. They'd passed the barrier far ahead of Bukal.
And Vydys' serfs would never stand a chance against their power, their numbers.
That left it up to him.
Only what could one man do?
Cursing, Craig circled far ahead of the raiders—searching the rolling hills below, praying for some miracle of terrain, some inspiration.
But no miracle came. There were only the grasslands, the great straggling herds of the djevoda.
The djevoda—!
Craig came up short. Here was his miracle! Here his allies!
Sideslipping his disc in a flashing arc, he surveyed the ground beyond the column.
The vehicles were following the low ground, moving towards a pass of sorts in the hills that sprawled east and west across their path.
Craig raced south again. A long way south, till at last he passed above the distant range and swept down on its far side.
How long did he have? An hour? Or only half that?
A knot of djevoda moved restlessly as his disc's shadow fell across them.
Craig slashed back closer.
Rumbling their irritation, the huge, ungainly beasts turned west, drifting towards the pass.
Craig searched out another, larger group and turned it, too. Then another. Another.
Across the hills, Zenaor's column was creeping closer. Sweat rilled down Craig's back. He crowded his growing herd of djevoda harder.
The beasts were angry now—bellowing their rage through the stillness of the night; lunging at him, tusks high, when he swept too close.
If he should slip or fall—! He shuddered.
Then the first of the creatures began to funnel into the mouth of the pass. Craig raced his saucer back, moving up others to press in behind the leaders.
Now, again, the clanking of Zenaor's carriers drifted to Craig. He maneuvered his disc in a tight spiral—climbing, climbing.
The grasslands fell away below him. The range spread out like a problem in tactics set on a sand table: here were the djevoda, straggling into the pass. Beyond the hills, Zenaor's column twisted towards them, snake-like, as if hastening to join battle.
Already, the lead vehicles were swinging south into the rift.
Craig plummeted down ahead of the first djevoda.
Roaring, they fell back.
The Earthman raced away in a monstrous circle—driving in the beasts, crowding them together in a milling herd that numbered hundreds.
The column was in the pass now, hurrying forward faster, as if its commanders realized the danger of such close quarters.
Craig rounded up the last straggling djevoda ... hovered just above and beyond them, waiting.
Down the pass, lights gleamed. Drifting dust set Craig to coughing. The rumble and clanking echoed like distant thunder.
Craig dropped to one knee on his disc; brought out his fire-gun.
The approaching lights shone brighter. A beam sprayed across the first of the djevoda.
The creatures' great, tusked snout-heads lowered. Huge feet churned up choking clouds of dust.
Craig held his breath.
The lead carrier rocked over a bump. Metal clanged on metal. The lights flashed into the djevodas' eyes.
It was a signal. With a deafening roar, a djevoda lunged forward.
The carrier's brakes screamed.
But already the mountainous beast was thundering down upon it. Like an avalanche of flesh and bone, it crashed into the vehicle. Screams clashed with the shriek of rending metal.
Craig blazed with the fire-gun at the packed, elephantine mass of animated death below him.
Bellowing with rage and pain, the whole herd swept forward—on into the pass, following the already-charging leaders.
More carriers braked and crashed into each other.
Then the herd was upon them, smashing at them. Green fire seared through the night, mingling with the crashing thunder of some other, heavier weapon. Craig glimpsed a djevoda torn asunder in mid-stride, its six massive legs gone suddenly limp and sprawling.
But no human power could stop that hurtling, murderous tidal wave of flesh. Through the whole column the djevodas raged—crushing carriers, overturning them, stomping them to masses of shapeless metal.
At the far end of the pass, the last of the vehicles wheeled about in blind, desperate haste. Engines roaring, they raced for the safety of the open grasslands.
Only then, flashing shapes lanced down out of the skies to the north. Men dropped from discs onto carrier-tops, clamping their capes across the vision-slits.
Vehicles ground to a halt. Crews stumbled out, hands high in panic and surrender.
Craig surged to his feet; sent his own disc climbing.
Too late. For now saucers hung above him, too, hemming him in ... saucers ridden by Bukal's lean, bronzed raiders.
And there was Bukal.
"Craig, friend—!" he shouted. "Hold, Craig Nesom!"
Craig stood rigid atop his disc.
But then the other was beside him, waving and laughing. "Can you forgive me, Craig? Without this blow you've struck, without the firing-sounds to guide us, we'd never have caught up with this column."
"And ... Narla—?"
Bukal swept the whole sky with his gesture. "Go to her, Earthman! After this night's work I'd even give you Zenaor!"
He signaled as he spoke. The discs above Craig moved aside.
His throat all at once too tight to speak, Craig waved back and spiraled his own disc upward.
But as he did so, another saucer swept down—a saucer ridden by a woman he'd never seen before, a woman with an anguished, strain-taut face. "Alien!" Her voice broke ragged. "Where is Bukal?"
"Here, T'clar!" He glided up beside her. "What is it? Is there trouble?"
"The village—" Again her voice broke, and for a moment Craig thought she was going to faint. Then, rallying, she burst out, "Bukal, the men from the estate of Lady Vydys—"
"Yes, T'clar—?"
"They were her guards, not of the Baemae."
A numb horror gripped Craig. He hardly heard the rush of words between them.
But ... he had to know.
He blurted: "The woman who was with me—Narla—"
And then, the answer: "Alien, it was she they came for. Now they are gone again—and she is with them!”