Their trap was sprung with a sudden shout from one of the troopers. He had dismounted and now his gu jerked its head loose from his grip on the reins and, blowing a green foam from its mouth and nostrils, dashed straight for the beasts of the caravan, its rider running with it, making futile grabs for the reins.
Before the oncoming fury of the maddened cavalry mount the heavier-burdened guen went wild, pulling free from their leading cords, or dragging the Venturi with them. One of the hooded figures, without any gu, took to his heels and fled in a pounding run straight for the point where Kana and Rey stood watching. Kana was tempted to tackle the fugitive, but the orders had been clear—this job was to be left to the Llor.
The troopers who were along that side of the road fanned out and rode to surround the fleeing trader. One of them whirled over his head a loop of shining stuff which curled through the air to ring the runner. He changed step, stumbled when trying to check his speed, and went down with a crashing force. Some of the Llor dismounted and walked toward the captive confidently, as if they expected no further resistance.
But the man on the ground writhed to a sitting position. And a second later a bolt of red fire struck down the nearest trooper. With a shriek of agony the Llor plunged across the loose soil.
“Flamer!” Rey yelled.
Both Terran rifles centered and two shots cracked almost as one. The trapped man jerked and fell back to earth with a heavy limpness which told them no more bullets were needed.
A Llor wearing the half circle of an under officer was on the scene, using the butt of his riding bat to roll over a hand weapon of dull metal—one which had no business on Fronn. With that out of reach of the dead hand two of the troopers stripped off the Venturi robe. A Llor lay there, there was no mistaking the curled pelt and the pop eyes of the masquerader.
“This—” the Llor officer touched the flamer with his bat. “Do you know of this?” he spoke slowly in Space Trade Talk.
“It is a firearm—very bad,” Kana answered. “We do not use them.”
The officer nodded. “Then where get?” he wanted to know, reasonably enough.
Kana shrugged. “This one—he is not of yours?”
The commander of the troop pushed through the ring of his men and bent to stare at the slack face of the native. Then with his own hand he tore away the belt of the fringed kilt. Reversed, the buckle bore an orange-red arrow-shaped mark.
“News-seeker of S’Tork,” he identified. Then, lapsing into the native tongue, he gave a series of orders which set the troopers to rolling the body into a torn robe and lashing it on the back of a protesting gu.
To the Terrans’ surprise nothing was said to the Venturi. The road was cleared and the supply train plodded on, not one of its guardians turning to look at the group about the spy. The flamer remained in the dust until the commander approached the Combatants and indicated it with the spurred toe of his boot.
“You take—”
It was more an order than a request. But Kana wanted nothing more than to do just that. This was a problem which must be taken straight to Yorke. What was the latest and most deadly weapon of the Galactic Patrol doing on Fronn in the hands of an enemy spy?
4 — CLASSIC MOVE TO DISASTER
On the top of the upturned provision box which served the Blademaster for a table lay the evidence. Fitch Yorke sat on a bed roll, his head and shoulder resting against the knotty trunk of a wind-twisted tree, his blond hair bright against the dark purple-blue of the bole as he chewed reflectively on a stick and regarded the flamer with a brooding frown. But Skura was not inclined to take the matter so quietly.
The Llor rebel leader strode back and forth across the blue clay soil, crushing the calm season ridges in it with grinding boot soles, as if he nursed some spite against the land itself.
“What say you now?” he demanded. “This is not yours. But it is off world. So—then from where?”
“I want to know that also, Highness. This is against our law. But you did not find it in our hands—it was brought by a news-seeker of the enemy.”
The “Yaaah” that burst from his woolly throat was more the roar of a hungry feline than an assent. “Evil from S’Tork—could else be expected? Against this—what good are swords—rifles? Are even the weapons of your so-fine Swordsmen strong when they face a fire that cooks and kills? We do not fight with flame. When I take much treasure to Secundus and ask who will give me aid in battle, I am told ask this or that fighting lord—but not such a one, or such a one—for on Fronn only certain ones may fight. So I give up the treasure and you come. Now—S’Tork numbers among his warriors those who have fire weapons! This is not clean dealing, Terran. And we Llor do not welcome double tongues—”
Skura paused before the flamer and Yorke. “Also”—the woolly head swung around and the pop eyes raked across Kana and Rey— “when the news-seeker was in our hands and could be questioned—what chances? Terran bullets send him speechless into the final shadows. Did you not want him to answer us, Blademaster?”
Yorke did not accept the challenge. “These”—he pointed to the flamer— “are very deadly, Highness. Had not my men killed, none of yours might have lived. I regret that we could not question that spy. Now we can only get our answers from S’Tork’s camp—”
“Steps have been taken along that trail. If that refuse from the craw of a byll has indeed such arms we shall know it.” Without another word Skura mounted his gu and pounded out of the Terran camp, with his personal guard left several lengths behind as usual, kicking at their mounts with the spur tips of their boots.
When Skura vanished in a cloud of blue dust Hansu and Mills materialized out of the background and Yorke lost his languid pose.
“Well?” One eyebrow slanted inquiringly toward the Blademaster’s hairline.
“Better have it out now, rather than later,” Hansu returned. “Somebody must be working out of season and with real backing. “That’s Galactic Patrol stuff—”
“Who?” Yorke spit out a bit of twig.
“Some Mech down on his luck,” suggested Mills, “or—”
“Or somebody out to do a little empire building on his own,” Hansu concluded for him. “We won’t know until Skura’s spies can report back.”
“Arms and men—or just arms? That can be pretty important.” Yorke got to his feet. “Either way—it’s a mess.”
Hansu shrugged. “Just arms and we have a better chance.”
“You think this could be a show-down? Well—could be, could be. But if they think they have us rigged for a smash they’d better revise their plans.” The Blademaster did not appear disturbed. “We might even get an answer to the old question too. What if Arch were matched against Mech? On a world such as this the nature of the country would be on our side. A light, highly mobile force against a mechanized division. Strike and away before the heavier body can move—” He looked almost eager to begin such an experiment.
“All right.” Hansu picked up the flamer, and his soberness was in contrast to the other’s momentary enthusiasm. “Maybe we can have a chance to prove how good we are. But no one can read the future. And this gun gets de-commissioned right now!”
Yorke walked away and then Hansu held his own court of inquiry. Painstakingly Rey and Kana were taken over the events of the past few hours from Kana’s noting of the hooded spy to his death.
“Next time see if you can nick a man in a less vital spot,” was the Swordtan’s comment when they had finished. “I’d give a month’s pay to have a few words with that one. Dismissed.”
The flamer disappeared and there were no more references to it during the next few days. The Horde was in the foothills of the mountains, winding along paths worn by the clawed feet of the guen. Giant rock ledges layered black and white added to the gloom of the passage. The air, which was rarefied even on the plains, grew more tenuous. And, in spite of their conditioning on the trip to Fronn, the Combatants were left gasping after each stiff climb. Overhead the sky in daytime held a yellowish tinge and an icy wind licked at them from the snow fields of the peaks.
Seven Fronnian days’ travel brought them over the hump and to the down slopes leading to the rich eastern section of the continent. Between the heights and the sea lay only these plains—unless one ventured north to meet another arm of the mountain range.