“You speak our tongue,” the priest observed as they walked back to the trees.
“It was taught to me before I was sent here,” Vorgens said. “Actually, it’s not much different from my own native language.”
By the time they got back to the grove, Mclntyre was itting up with his back against a tree, his splinted and bandaged left arm sticking out awkwardly at his side. The two Komani warriors stood some distance away, aloof and impassive.
“By glory, it’s Mac!” Giradaux shouted as they approached. “You’re alive, sarge!”
“Well, if you made it, soldier,” Mclntyre shot back, “did you think I wouldn’t?”
Giradaux ran up to the sergeant and squatted beside him. “Are you okay, Sarge?”
“Broke my arm when they got the cruiser. How about you?”
“Knocked out by the blast. That’s all.”
Vorgens joined them as the priest went to the two warriors. “You two are in the same outfit?”
“Not now, sir,” Mclntyre answered. “But I broke this pup into the service a coupla years ago.”
“I see,” Vorgens said. “Sergeant, do you feel strong enough to walk? The priest tells me that the Komani want to take us to their headquarters.”
Mclntyre grunted. “I guess I’ll hafta walk, then … or be dragged.”
“I’ll help you, Sarge,” Giradaux offered.
“Get your trench-diggin’ hands off me!” Mclntyre bellowed. “You think a busted arm means I’m helpless?”
“No, Sarge.” Giradaux grinned.
Mclntyre struggled to his feet and stood at attention. “All right, sir. I’m ready to go.”
The sun was nearly at zenith as the little band of men started their journey. The beginning was easy enough— down the reverse slope of the hills they had been in most of the morning. The sun’s warmth was tempered by cool breezes and frequent clumps of trees that threw dense shade. They stopped briefly after an hour’s march and ate a scant meal: a few dried vegetables, a lump of something like bread, and water from a running stream.