How long that crab’s journey took he could not have testified, but it seemed to him that he had been at it for at least an hour when the sight of black-green foliage set him turning to face the cliff. A bundle of roots protruded from the bank within reach and he began to climb. Dried clay powdered his face and he wiped his eyes with one hand while he held on with the other. His nails tore and broke and his uniform was plastered with dust and clay, but he wormed his way up into the embrace of a thorny bush.
“Terra?” He kept his voice low. But at the answer to his question he pushed forward recklessly. That moan could only have been born of real suffering.
His forward spring brought him to the very edge of the thicket facing west. Collapsed half over a fallen tree, veiled from the Llor riders by only a thin screen of brush, was a limp body.
Kana hardly dared to touch the body when he saw the extent of the burns which had charred away most of the green-gray tunic. Flamer wound! He shrank from causing the torture he knew his grip must bring as with infinite horror he raised the other. The blackened, seared body writhed out of his hold and a moan sounded the wounded man’s pain. Gritting his teeth, Kana took hold for the second time and fought the other’s feeble attempts to pull free. At last he turned the heavy head to the light. The flamer had not touched the face and though it was contorted and twisted with agony, Kana knew who it was he supported in his arms.
“Deke! What—what have they done!”
6 —IF THE FAITH BE BROKE—
The dark eyes struggled to focus. It was as if Deke Mills came haltingly back from a long distance, driven by some overwhelming sense of duty.
“All—dead— Hart Device— Tell Hansu—Hart Device—”
Kana nodded. “I should tell Hansu that Hart Device is responsible?”
Deke’s eyes gave assent. “No—not alone. Galactic—agent—hiding— Burned us down.” Some spark of strength steadied his voice. “Tried—tried to get Yorke to renegade too. When he said no—flamed us from behind. All dead—thought me dead too. Agent came—looked. I saw him clear—agent—tell Hansu—C.C. backing Device. Crawled—crawled—hours and hours crawled. They had just flamers—no big stuff. Tell Hansu—flamers—”
“There’s a Galactic Agent with them and they have C.C. arms,” Kana repeated with cold steadiness.
For a long moment Mills lay quiet in his hold, summoning up strength.
“Tell Hansu—C.C.behind it—wipe us out if they can. Mustn’t be cut off here. Back to ships—report—Combat—report—”
One of the charred stumps of hands stirred, pawed at Kana’s sleeve.
“I’ll tell him, Deke,” he hastened to promise.
“From behind—no chance—Hart Device—” Mills’ whisper thinned and then died. Then he said quite clearly and coherently:
“Give Grace, Comrade—!”
Kana swallowed, his mouth dry. For an instant he was back again in the chapel on Terra, half the Galaxy away from this Fronnian wood. He had been drilled in the Ritual, he knew what had to be done. But somehow, in spite of all the solemn instructions, he had never really expected to be called upon to give the Last Grace—
Deke’s pain-filled eyes held his. His duty done, he was waiting for the release from the world of agony which held him. Mills knew what his wounds meant. Nothing could be done for him even by the Medicos on Secundus. And he could not be transported there. Slowly, trying not to add to Mills’ pain, Kana lowered the other to earth and opened his own tunic to reach the slender knife all Combatants wore on their breasts. This was the “Grace” of the fighting man—to be carried with him awake or sleeping all his life—to be used for one purpose only.
Kana drew the steel into the light. He raised the plain cross hilt to his lips and said the proper words, hearing his own voice as if it belonged to a stranger, knowing that Deke’s twisted lips were trying to shape the same plea.
“—so do I send thee home, brother-in-arms!” Kana ended, he could not delay any longer.
The knife slipped into the place instruction had taught him to seek. Then he was alone—left to slip that wet blade back in its sheath. It could not be cleaned except in the earth of Terra. There was one thing more—the husk which had been Deke Mills must not be left for the Llor and it was beyond his power to carry the body back to camp.
From his belt Kana unhooked a cartridge. With great care he unscrewed its cap and placed it on the body. Then he threw himself back toward the cliff. The blast came in a sheet of flame before he was quite over the bank. When that fire died Deke Mills would never be found.
Kana inched his way upstream at the fastest pace he could manage, trying to keep his mind blank of all but Mills’ message to Hansu. With Yorke and the other Swordtans murdered, Trig Hansu now commanded the Horde.
He found the end of a rope dangling over the bluff below the sentry post and with its aid got up to the camp. At the top he found not only Mic but Hansu waiting for him. Downriver a pillar of black smoke penciled into the sky and the Llor were gathering at the edge of the wood. Kana made his terse report.
“They flamed Yorke and the rest from behind when Yorke would not agree to join them. A C.C. Agent watched the whole thing secretly. Hart Device leads the Mechs. Deke was mortally wounded but crawled—as far as the wood over there. He said he saw C.C. flamers but none of their big stuff—thought that they were out to get us all.”
Hansu’s expression did not change at the name of the renegade Mechmaster or at the mention of the Agent. And almost before Kana finished speaking he was giving orders to the handful of veterans nearby.
“Dolph, you take over Team One, Horvath, Team Two. Prepare to move out. And send Bogate here.”
Hansu asked one more question of Kana in a low voice:
“Mills?”
Kana found no words to answer that. He drew out the Grace Knife to display its stains. Behind him, through his sick misery, he heard Mic’s breath catch. But Hansu made no comment. And he asked nothing more.
It was Mic who helped Kana sling his rifle and shoulder his pack, guiding him back to the busy camp. The gear they had discarded the night before was being built, under Bogate’s orders, into a wall of supplies stretching from one lamp line to another. Except for the men working to erect that barrier the Combatants were lining up to the west, facing the mountains.
“Done, sir!” Bogate saluted Hansu. Five of the Terrans were stationed at intervals along the discarded baggage, and each cradled in his hand one of the fire cartridges.
“Ready with those beasts?” demanded Hansu.
The squad which had herded the pack guen to the far side of the camp shouted an affirmative.
“Men”—Hansu wheeled to face the teams— “you all know what has happened. If the faith be broke, then so is the contract which bound us. Yorke and the others were murdered, shot down from behind by flamers. Mills lived long enough to warn us. You know that it is not superior numbers, or strength of arms, that wins a war. The side which goes in with the will to victory has the advantage. When we march out of here we have to cross a hostile planet. Every native may be ranged against us. But unless we can reach Tharc we have very little chance. Remember this—our lives are at stake, yes. But the Combatant whose single aim is to keep alive usually dies in the first charge. To die is our common lot, no man escapes that. But if we die in the tradition of the Hordes—that is a good ending for any of us.
“They believe that they have us walled in, that we cannot break out of their cage of mountains, river and troops. But we shall show them that they dare not underestimate a Swordsman. With this fire to cover our tracks we shall head west—into the mountains. Before the death of Skura they told us that the mountains were to be feared, that the natives there have never submitted to the Gatanu’s rule and are dangerous. If that is so we may find allies—at least we shall be headed in the right direction. Whoever wants to keep alive must aim at victory. It is the winners who kill and the losers who are killed!”
The Horde greeted that statement with a cheer as Hansu signaled the men by the barrier. Squalling guen were sent running wild toward the Llor who milled around beyond the boundaries of the camp. And the Fronnian troopers were forced to scatter before the loose animals, trying to head them away from their own lines. But the guen, with the diabolical tempers of their kind, attacked the cavalry mounts whenever they came in contact.