The faces were different from the Wendow’s, however, and the skins were even darker. Their features were broad, their noses somewhat bigger and even more aquiline, and the eyes had a slight Mongolian cast. They looked like, and probably were, Amerindians. The chief could have been Sitting Bull if he’d been wearing somewhat different garments and astride a horse.
The foreguard passed out of sight. The outriders and the women and children, most of whom were walking, went by. The women wore their shiny raven’s-wing hair piled on top of their heads, and their sole garments were leather skirts of ankle-length. Many wore necklaces of clam shells. A few carried papooses on back packs.
Anana suddenly gave a soft cry. A man on a gregg had come into sight. He was tall and much paler than the others and had bright red hair. Urthona said, “It’s not Kickaha! It’s Red Ore!” Anana felt almost sick with disappointment. Her uncle turned and smiled at her. Anana decided at that moment that she was going to kill him at the first opportunity. Anyone who got that much enjoyment out of the sufferings of others didn’t deserve to live.
Her reaction was wholly emotional, of course, she told herself a minute later. She needed him to survive as much as he needed her. But the instant he was of no more use to her …
Urthona said, “Well, well. My brother, your uncle, is in a fine pickle, my dear. He looks absolutely downcast. What do you suppose his captors have in mind for him? Torture? It would be almost worthwhile to hang around and watch it.”
“He ain’t tied up,” McKay said. “Maybe he’s been adopted, like us.”
Urthona shrugged. “Perhaps. In either case, he’ll be suffering. He can spend the rest of his life here with those miserable wretches for all I care. The pain won’t be so intense, but it’ll be much longer lasting.”
McKay said, “What’re we going to do now we know Kickaha’s not with them?”
“We haven’t seen all of them,” Anana said. “Maybe …”
“It isn’t likely that the tribe would have caught both of them,” Urthona said impatiently. “I think we should go now. By cutting at an angle across the woods, we can be on the beach far ahead of them.”
“I’m waiting,” she said.
Urthona snorted and then spat. “Your sick lust for that leblabbiy makes me sick.”
She didn’t bother to reply. But presently, as the rearguard passed by, she sighed.
“Now are you ready to go?” Urthona said, grinning.
She nodded, but she said, “It’s possible that Ore has seen Kickaha.”
“What? You surely aren’t thinking of… ? Are you crazy?”
“I’m going to trail them and when the chance comes I’ll help Ore escape.”
“Just because he might know something about your leblabbiy lover?”
“Yes.”
“Urthona’s red face was twisted with rage. She knew that it was not just from frustration. Distorting it were also incomprehension, disgust, and fear. He could not understand how she could be so much in love, in love at all, with a mere creature, the descendant of beings made in laboratories. That his niece, a Lord, could be enraptured by the creature Kickaha filled him with loathing for her. The fear was not caused by her action in refusing to go with them or the danger she represented if attacked. It was-she believed it was, anyway-a fear that possibly he might someday be so perverted that he, too, would fall in love with a leblabbiy. He feared himself.
Or perhaps she was being too analytical-ababsurdum-in her analysis.
Whatever had seized him, it had pushed him past rationality. Snarling, face as red as skin could get without bleeding, eyes tigerish, growling, he sprang at her. Both hands, white with compression, gripped the flint-headed spear.
When he charged, he was ten paces from her. Before he had gone five, he fell back, the spear dropping from his hands, his head and back thudding into the grass. The edge of her axe was sunk into his breastbone.
Almost before the blur of the whirling axe had solidified on Urthona’s chest, she had her knife out.
McKay had been caught flat-footed. Whether he would have acted to help her uncle or her would never be determined.