He looked to Gorgol for enlightenment. The young Norbie had flattened himself out on an overhanging rock from which he could get the fullest view of the other native, his chin supported on the injured arm, his features impassive, but his cat-eyes were much alive. Then his lips drew flat against his teeth in the humourless grin that signified anger or battle excitement among his kind, and his other hand, resting on the rock next to the Terran, made the finger-sign for Nitra.
Was that a hidden scout travelling alone? Or did he act as the advance ranger for a war party? Norbie custom allowed for either answer. A youngster out on a personal hunt for a warrior trophy could prospect these ranges on his own. Or a raiding party might have marked down this hidden valley and its secret herds and decided to make the Butchers their prey. From these terraces with their thick cover an ambush attack by expert bowmen could cause a good deal of trouble.
Gorgol’s fingers moved again. “One only –”
Though the Terran could not speak Gorgol’s language, nor the native do more than imitate the team call, Storm had discovered that he could convey information in a sketchy way, or ask a question with extravagant movements of his lips and be half-understood. He held his lenses still but turned his head to ask:
“War party?”
Gorgol dipped his chin and moved his head from side to side in emphatic negation.
“One only.”
Storm longed for Surra. He could have set the dune cat to shadow that warrior, make sure in her own way that he was the only one of his kind along the terraces. Now the Terran’s own plan for trailing those three riders must be revised. Without Surra to run interference it would be folly to venture down into the lower reaches of the valley and perhaps be cut off from the pass. Yet he wanted to see where those riders were headed.
The Terran worked his way along the small plateau, passing once more the very dead yoris, to reach the northernmost tip. There he dared to get to his feet and lean back against a rust-red finger of rock, sure that he was a part of the stone to anyone who was more than a few rods away.
This valley was surely a wide expanse, roughly in the outline of a bottle, of which the south was the narrowest part. And the outlaws could, and probably had, camouflaged everything at ground level. He could pick out no buildings, no indication that this was anything but virgin wilderness.
Except for that one thing planted there, stiffly upright, sending small sparks of reflected sunlight through a masking of skilfully wrought drapery, a piece of work that made Storm grant those below very full marks.
He judged that sky-pointing length narrowly, knowing that its landing fins must now be sunk well below the surface of the meadowland. That meant that a great amount of labour had been expended – as well as pointing to the fact that the pilot who had ridden down his ship’s tail flames into that constricted area had been a very expert one. From the appearance of the drapery it must have been some time since the ship had been landed and apparently built into the general surroundings. If he could see the thing stripped, he might be able to identify the type – though with that slender outline it was no cargo carrier – Storm believed it might be a scout or a very fast courier and supply ship, the kind a man might latch onto during the break-up immediately before surrender for a fast getaway. Whatever its kind, Storm knew that on its scarred side he would find only one symbol. But was he now spying on a secret and well-established colony, set up while the Xiks were still powerful, or just a hideaway for holdouts who had fled the order to lay down their arms?
Gorgol came up beside him. “Nitra go –” He flicked a finger north. “Maybeso hunt for trophies –” His hand remained outspread, his gaze centred on the half-hidden ship. Then his head snapped around and his astonishment was very plain to read.
“What?” he signed.
“Faraway sky thing.” Storm used the native term for space ship.
“Why here?” countered Gorgol.
“Butchers – evil men bring –”
Again the thin-lipped fighting grin of Norbie anger stretched Gorgol’s mouth.
“Faraway sky thing no come Norbie land.” He strained the fingers of his right hand to join the left in making that protest “Norbie drink blood faraway men – talk straight – swear oaths of warriors. Faraway ship thing only come one place on land – not near mountains where Those-Who-Drum-Thunder be angry! Faraway men not talk straight – here sky thing too!”
Trouble! Storm caught the threat in this. The Norbies allowed the space port to be located well away from the mountains that to them were sacred. And the treaty that had made the settlers’ holdings safe to them allowed only that one place of landing and departure for off-world ships. To let the rumour get started that there was a second port right in the heart of their mountains would be enough to break every drink-blood tie on Arzor.
Storm let his lenses swing from their strap, held out his hands to focus Gorgol’s attention.
“I warrior –” He underlined that statement by drawing his index finger along the faint scar line on his shoulder. “Gorgol warrior –” With the same finger he touched the other’s bandaged forearm gently. “I get warrior scar, not from Nitra, not from other tribe like mine – I get wound fighting evil men –of that tribe!” He made a spear of his finger, stabbing the air toward the grounded space ship. “Gorgol wounded by those evil men – from there!” Again he pointed. “They are of those who eat THE MEAT –” He added the worst symbol the sign language contained.
Gorgol’s yellow eyes held the Terran’s unblinkingly before he signed:
“Do you swear this by Those-Who-Drum-Thunder?”
Storm drew his knife from his belt, pushing its hilt into the Norbie’s hand and then drew it up by the blade until the point pricked the skin encircled in the necklace on his breast.
“Let Gorgol push this home if he does not believe I speak true,” he signed slowly with his free hand.
The Norbie drew back the knife, reversed it with a flip of his wrist and proffered the hilt to the Terran. As Storm took the blade from him, he replied, “I believe. But this – bad thing. Faraway man fight evil men his kind – or oath broken.”
“It is so. What I can do, I shall. But first we must know more of these men –”
Gorgol looked down into the valley. “Nitra hunts – and the night comes. In the day we can move better – you have not the eyes that see in darkness –”
Storm knew an inward relief. If the Norbie had wanted to keep up with the scout, now it would have been hard not to agree. But this suggestion coming from the native fitted in with the Terran’s own wishes.
“Big cat –” Storm suggested, “get well – be able to hunt Nitra while we watch evil men –”
Gorgol agreed to that readily, having seen Surra in action. And with a last detailed examination of the concealed ship, which told him no more than he had learned earlier, Storm started back to the outer valley, to plan an active campaign.
10
Although it was close to dark when they returned to the outer valley, Storm set about building a screen of rocks behind which they could shelter a night fire, with Gorgol’s one-handed aid. There was, of course, the cave in which he had been imprisoned. But that was the width of the valley away. And, in addition, he shrank from experiencing again its turgid air and the faint exhalation of stale death he recalled only too vividly.
Rain had been turned loose to graze. Should the stallion be sighted from the heights by any lurking Nitra or outlaw sentry he would be thought a stray from the destroyed Survey camp. And with Surra on guard there was no danger of a thief getting close enough to steal the mount. Perhaps he could even be used as bait in some later plan.
Storm suggested as much to Gorgol and the Norbie agreed with enthusiasm. Such a horse as Rain was a treasure – a chief’s mount – a trophy to be flaunted in the faces of lesser men.
There remains the road –” Storm’s fingers moved in the firelight after they had eaten. The path that we found today is not for herd-driving. We must discover their other road –”
“Such a way does not lie through this valley,” Gorgol answered with conviction.
Their explorations before the flash flood seemed to confirm that. The Survey party had discovered no evidence of frawn-grazing around the mounds. Storm drew his knife and with the point began to scratch out a map of the valley as he knew it – in its relation to the outlaws’ hold. He explained as he went and the Norbie, used to his own form of war and hunting maps, followed with concentration, correcting, or questioning.