“Death! There has been too much of death!” My voice rose ever louder.
Once more there skimmed by my head a weight of hand-thrown stone.
“I come in trust,” growled Murri. “But this one surely could not understand cat talk.”
There was silence, broken only by the click of yaksen hooves. The small herd was moving.
“Stay then.” The words were now lost in a heavy coughing and I heard a scrambling sound as if he who had spoken was now gone. All the taut readiness went out of my body and I fell rather than seated myself on the rock surface, depending upon the few small sounds my ears could pick up to assure me that, for the moment, there was to be no other attack.
Chapter 12
THE FIRST STREAKS of pre-dawn were washing out the stars. Twice I had called upon Mani but the cat had not answered. That he was on the hunt I could be sure and a yaksen was no easy prey, especially if more than one were to be found. Their thick fur gave them some protection, and the heavy horns with which they met any assault, head down, were danger, for they fought in head fashion, the males and barren females surrounding the calves and any nursing mothers. While Murri, as large as he seemed when one compared him to a kotti, was not nearly the size nor had the brutal strength of his sire and dam.
There had been no sound since that scrambling which had marked the retreat of whoever had challenged us, he and the beasts whose scent had so surely drawn Murri. Somewhere and not too far away was an algae pool, that I could smell, inferior as my senses were compared to Murri’s. My body’s need for what that offered grew so strong I could no longer withstand it.
It was my turn to thread a way among tall spikes of rock. As the light grew stronger I could see that many of these had been worked upon by chisel and hammer. More than half of them were fashioned into cat guardians, their faces turned towards the death plain from which I had come.
The first were roughly made, with very little skill to give them life, but, as I worked myself inward, that skill improved, as if the artist learned by his mistakes. Yet there was a sameness in position and raise of head which argued that the one carver had wrought them all.
Finally I was confronted by a line of such, fast-wedged into an opening before two towering walls. The guardian cats were not so well based here and it was apparent that some had been fashioned elsewhere and brought to this place, packed into a wall one against the other.
I shed my pack, attaching one end of my rope to it, and set myself to a climb. The rough rock was scorching my skin, still not yet completely recovered from the torments of the journey. However, I doggedly fought my way to the head of the largest cat and looked down.
There was an algae pond right enough, but an ill-tended one. Here had been no careful pruning to discourage growth which forced out that more edible kind which was meat and drink for my species. While in other places the nourishing kinds had been too close-cropped, as if a herd had not been properly moved.
There were yaksen here and, in the morning light growing ever stronger, it was plain that they had been neglected for some time although they were not the smaller species which roamed free. Their heavy coats were matted and, with some animals, dragged on the ground, adding crushed algae and even small stones to a burden from which they could not clear themselves. Now and then one of the beasts would utter a small cry of complaint and strive to reach some weighty mat, biting fruitlessly at the foul caking of hair.
Of men there were no signs. Save on the opposite of the pool there was a hut of sorts—certainly no house such as any man of respect would claim, its walls a crazy patchwork of stones of all sizes, each fitting at rude angles into any space where it might be forced. On its crown was a reasonably smooth place and there was a patch of green-blue color, showing vividly against the red-yellow of the veined rocks.
Such a woven rug could have come only from Vapala, where, it was said, there were growing things not rooted in pools, which put forth tall stems to delight the eyes with new colors.
From Murri there was no signal which concerned me, but the yaksen were bunched together. Now and then a young bull would toss head and give voice to a bellow which was more an expression of uneasiness than any challenge.
By the door of that patch-upon-patch hut there was movement as a man came into the open, an algae-gathering basket in hand. His body was thin and old and I could see the most of it for he wore a kilt of fringed bits of rags, as if that garment was the last of a hard-used wardrobe.
His hair was an upstanding ragged mop, strands of which fell to his sharp-boned shoulders, giving him the look of those sand devils of childish tales. In one hand he held a staff much shorter than the one which served me, lacking metal tipping and edges. That he needed it for support was apparent as he tottered down to the pool.
“Ancient One—” His accent, in spite of the grating notes of his voice, had been that of the son of some House, no common trader. I did not know what title to give him. “Ancient One, I am no enemy of yours.”
His head was chocked a little to one side as if so he could hear me the better.
“Not Vapalan then. Kahulawen to be sure. Traders? Have you wandered from those who now follow you? This is a forgotten place, you will find no succor here. There was—” He paused, frowning. His eyebrows were very bushy and beneath this overhang I could sight that one eye carried a fog-film. “There was a sandcat—
“There is—my almost brother. It was his people who gave me aid when I needed it. They have accepted me as friend.”
“Sooooo—” He drew the word out until it was near a hiss— such as Murri might give. “And I suppose now you will say that you are Emperor-to-be? If it is difficult to be a man, how much more difficult it must be to be a ruler. It has been a long time. The ancient ones—Karsawka—and by all rumors Zacan—should now also be waking. But there is nothing for you here, even though you carry the mask. Leave me in peace. I have nothing for the aiding of heroes, no matter how powerful they once were.”
“You have what any can offer, Ancient One. I am no hero but I need food and drink—
“If you are truly son of the Essence, that Karsawka who will be once more as testify the very ancient songs—” he frowned again and his expression was of one trying to remember, “then what man can deny you? Many songs have grown from your deed.” Then he did what I never could imagine such an elder doing. He flung back his head and sang. There was no rusty coarseness in that singing— no break or difficulty. To close my eyes was to listen to some bard fit to eat at the Emperor’s table.
“From the sand draw the light. From the rocks learn the strength, In the storm wind walk without shelter. There is that in the land which enters in. And such holds two lives within it.
That which is gone, that which is to come. Walk swiftly in the chosen way, For the time of shadows is upon the kin. Only he who shares life can live it.”
I recognized the song, not in itself but for what it was—a puzzle. The Vapalans, who consider themselves the only truly civilized members of the five nations, have a taste for such, binding into words some hidden meanings to which only few have a clue. Some of the cliques and Houses among them have refined this to the extent that only a handful out of their whole land may understand—no one from outside their mesa country can hope to know the meaning.
As his last word was echoed faintly back from some distance the bard leaned forward on his staff, that feat of song seemingly having weakened him. He was regarding me intently as if I were enough a countryman of his to see to the heart of his “tangle.”
“Truly,” I said and I meant it from the heart, “that is bard gift. Never have I heard its like—
“Never is perhaps right.” There was a scoffing note in a voice once more hoarse, perhaps even more so from the strain which had just been forced upon it. “There are bards and bards, stranger. Of them all the great ones are of Vapala.” He continued to stare at me under his bushy eyebrows as if striving to detect any protest I might raise.