Fors flung himself to the left and went down on one knee. He slashed up at the legs of the mount which came at him, slashing viciously with all his strength. Then he was up again with one hand twisted in the legging of the rider who stabbed down at him. He caught the blow on his sword and managed to hold on to the blade although his fingers went numb with the shock.
The rider catapulted into his arms and fingers dug into his cheeks just below his eye sockets. There were tricks for close fighting, tricks which Langdon had passed to his son. Fors got on top and stayed there—or at least he did for a few victorious moments until he glimpsed a shadow sweeping in from the left. He dodged, but not quickly enough, and the blow sent him rolling free from the body of his opponent. He blinked painfully at the sky and was levering himself up on his elbows when a circle of hide rope dropped about his shoulders snapping his arms tight to his body.
So he sat dumbly in the grass. When he moved his ringing head too suddenly the world danced around in a sickening way.
“—this time no mistake, Vocar. We have taken two of the swine—the High Chief will be pleased—”
Fors picked the words out of the air. The slurring drawl of the Plainsmen’s speech was strange but he had no difficulty in understanding it. He raised his head cautiously and looked around.
“—ham-strung White Bird! May night devils claw him into bits and hold high feast with him!”
A man came tramping away from a floundering horse. He walked straight to Fors and slapped him across the face with a methodical force and a very evident desire to hurt. Fors stared up at him and spat blood from torn lips. The fellow had a face easy to remember—that crooked scar across the chin was a brand not to be forgotten. And if fortune was at all good they would have a future reckoning for those blows.
“Loose my hands,” Fors said, glad that his voice came out so steady and even. “Loose my hands, tall hero, and worse than night devils shall have your bones to pick!”
Another slap answered that, but before a second could be struck his assailant’s wrist was caught and held.
“Tend your hose, Sati. This man was defending himself as best he knew. We are not Beast Things from the ruins to amuse ourselves with the tormenting of prisoners.”
Fors forced his aching head up another inch so that he could see the speaker. The Plainsman was tall—he must almost top Arskane’s height—but he was slighter and the hair tied back for riding was a warm chestnut brown. He was no green youth on his first war trail but a seasoned warrior. Lines of good humor bracketed his well-cut mouth.
“The other one is now awake, Vocar.”
At that call the war chief turned his attention from Fors. “Bring him hither. We have a long trail to follow before sundown.”
The floundering horse was stilled with an expert knife. But Sati arose from that task with the blackest of scowls for both captives.
Lura! Fors tried to glance across the grass without betraying interest or concern. The big cat had disappeared and since his captors did not mention her, surely she had not been killed. They would have been quick enough to claim her hide as a trophy. With Lura free and prepared to act there was a chance they might escape even yet. He held to that hope as they lashed his right hand fast to his own belt and fastened the left by a punishing loop to the saddle of one of the riders. Not to Sati’s he was glad to note. That warrior had swung onto the horse of the man Arskane had killed with the ball loops.
And the southerner had taken other toll too. For there were two bodies lashed to nervous led horses. After some consultation two of the band went ahead on foot leading the burdened mounts. Fors’ guard was the third in line of march and Vocar with Arskane at his side came near the end.
Fors looked back before the jerk at his wrist started him off. There was blood on the southerner’s face and he walked stiffly, but he did not appear to be badly hurt. Where was Lura? He tried to send out a summoning thought and then closed his mind abruptly.
There had long been contact between the Eyrie and the Plainspeople. These men might well know of the big cats and their relationship with man. Best to leave well enough alone. He had no desire at all to watch Lura thrash out her life pinned to the hard earth by one of those murderous lances.
The line of march was westward, Fors noted mechanically, forced to keep a loping run as the horse he was bound to cantered. The sun was hard and bright in their faces. He studied the paint marks of ownership dabbed on the smooth hide of the animal beside him. It was not a sign used by any tribe his people knew. And the speech of these men was larded with unfamiliar words. Another tribe on the move, maybe roving far distances. Perhaps, like Arskane’s people, they had been driven out of their own grounds by some disaster of nature and were now seeking a new territory—or maybe they were only driven by the inborn restlessness of their kind.
If they were strange to this country their attitude of enmity against all comers was not so to be wondered at. Usually it was only the Beast Things who attacked without declaring formal war—without parley. If only he wore the Star—then he would have a talking point when he faced their high chief. The Star Men were known—known in far lands where they had never walked—and none had ever raised sword against them. Fors knew the bite of his old discontent. He was not a Star Man—he was nothing, a runaway and a wanderer who did not even dare claim tribe protection.
The dust pounded up by the hoofs powdered his face and body. He coughed, unable to shield his eyes or mouth. The horses went down a bank and splashed through a wide stream. On the other side they turned into a well-marked trail. A second party of riders issued out of the brush and shouted questions made the air ring.
Fors was a center of attention and the newcomers stared at him curiously. As they discussed him with a frankness he tried to ignore, he held firmly to the rags of his temper.
He was not like the other one at all, was the gist of most of their comments. Apparently they already knew of Arskane’s people and had little liking for them. But Fors, with his strange silver hair and lighter skin, was an unknown quantity which intrigued them.
The combined troops at last rode on, Fors thankful for the breathing spell he had been granted by the meeting. Within a half mile they came into their camp. Fors was amazed at the wide sweep of tent rows. This was no small family clan on the march, but a whole tribe or nation. He counted clan flags hung before the sub-chieftains’ tent homes as he was led down the wide road which divided the sprawling settlement into two parts. He had marked down ten and there were countless other to be seen fluttering back from this main path.
At the sight of the dead the women of the Plains city set up the shrill ritual wailing, but they made no move toward the prisoners who had been released from the saddle ties to have their hands lashed behind them and to be thrust into a small tent within the shadow of the High Chieftain’s own circle.
Fors wriggled over on his side to face Arskane. Even in that dim light he could see that the southerner’s right eye was almost swollen shut and that a shallow cut on his neck was closed with a paste of dust and dried blood.
“Do you know this tribe?” Arskane asked after two croaking attempts to shape the words with a dust-clogged tongue.
“No. Both the clan flags and their horse markings are new to me. And some of the words they use I have never heard before. I think that they have come a long way. The tribes the Star Men know do not attack without warning—except when they go against the Beast Things—for always are all men’s swords bare to them! This is a nation on the march—I counted the banners of ten clans and I must have seen only a small portion of them.”
“I would like to know what use they have for us,” Arskane now said dryly. “If they did not see profit in our capture we would now be awaiting the attention of the death birds. But why do they want us?”