Blade turned back to the controls. They were a standard set. With a little practice he knew he could tilt the lifter sharply. That would throw the soldier off-balance. No tricks now, though. The soldier sounded taut-nerved and much too ready to kill.

Moshra must have thought the same thing, but felt she had less to lose. The soldier backed toward the rear of the cabin, still gripping her tightly. As they came opposite the open door, Moshra went limp. At the same time she rammed her elbows wildly backward.

By pure luck one elbow caught the soldier in his groin. He howled and fired. His aim was wild, and he only hit the control panel. He fired again, and the beam scorched Blade's cheek.

Then Moshra's full weight came on the soldier. He lurched backward, lost his balance, and went out the door. Unfortunately he clutched Moshra's gown as he went, and dragged her with him.

Blade knew he wouldn't forget his daughter's scream as she fell, not if he lived to be a thousand years old.

He got to the door just as Moshra and the soldier vanished into the darkness below. He clung numbly to the door frame, until he heard Cheeky's cries and felt the lifter starting to wander all over the sky. Then he clamped an iron lid on what he felt and turned back to business.

The pilot was mercifully dead, and both sets of controls hopelessly wrecked. The pilot's parachute was also too badly burned to be used safely. Fortunately the copilot's chute was intact in its rack under the seat. Blade pulled it out and buckled it on. Then he took all the spare rope he could find in the cabin and tied Cheeky to the harness across his chest. The feather-monkey wasn't going to be comfortable, but he'd be safe, and Blade would have both hands free to control his parachute lines.

Cheeky made no protest. He sensed that the woman Moshra whom he'd never liked had meant something to his master and friend. He did not want to anger his master when he felt grief and loss. Also, he sensed even more strongly that there was danger coming, and his master was trying to save both of them from it. He wouldn't do anything to interfere with that, either. He'd lost Blade once, then found him again in a way he still didn't understand. He would go through almost anything rather than lose Blade again.

When Cheeky was securely tied in place, Blade pried open the floor plate which gave access to the main power cable to the lift-field generator. With a quick blast of his laser, he fused the cable. The generator died with a rumble and a screech, and the lifter nosed down for its final dive. As it did, Blade clutched the ripcord of his parachute and hurled himself through the door.

There was enough wind at ground level to take Blade on a merry ride as his chute dragged him across the ground. He finally spilled the air from it just as he reached the edge of a ravine and slid down it into a marsh. He got out of it as fast as he'd got in, but not fast enough to keep himself and Cheeky dry. Both of them were soaked to the skin in filthy, stinking water.

Cheeky ran around, jumping up and down to dry himself and raking the slimy mud out of his feathers with his paws. Blade sent him a mental message to be quiet, but otherwise ignored him.

Blade wanted to laugh, because he knew he might weep if he didn't laugh. Except that if he started laughing he might not be able to stop .... Finally he squatted on the ground and considered what to do next.

This return to Kaldak was breaking all records for danger and confusion. Things were likely to get worse before they got better, too, if they ever did get better. He didn't dare think about Moshra's death, but apart from that, he was stranded in probably hostile territory, a long way from the Kaldakan border. He wasn't even completely sure how to get there! If he took too long, Detcharn's "Day" might come before he could warn Kaldak. If he ran hostile Tribesmen, he and his warning might never reach Kaldak at all.

Things could be worse, however. He had the serum formula on him. The lifter's wreck would probably look like a normal crash. Finally, the soldier seemed to have been acting on his own, hoping for Detcharn's reward. There was a reasonable chance that Detcharn did not know and would not learn of Feragga's scheme until it was too late.

He'd have to move fast, though. That meant no searching for Moshra's body. She would have to lie out in the wind and the rain. His daughter would be a prey to scavengers until she rotted. His daughter- A spasm of dreadful rage knotted Blade's stomach, and he vomited himself empty. When he'd wiped his mouth, he stood up and called Cheeky to him. The feather-monkey jumped up onto Blade's shoulder in silence. He sensed even more strongly than before that his master was not at peace with the world.

As he set off, it occurred to Blade that he had one more card to play if he had to. If he found a Tribe who didn't shoot first and ask questions afterward, he could claim to be an enemy of Doimar. That might win him a safe-conduct through their lands, although he doubted if they would take him all the way to Kaldak. New enemies didn't always wipe out the memory of old wars.

And he'd certainly be telling the truth! He was an enemy of Doimar-above all, of one particular Doimari. If he'd known that he was going to die the next minute, Blade would have gone gladly if he could have spent his last moments killing his monstrous son.

Indeed, that goal might even be achieved if Blade could persuade, if not the Kaldakans then at least the Tribes, that they must take action against their enemy. Someone-anyone-had to see to it that every last rocket of Detcharn-and Detcharn himself-was destroyed.

Chapter 19.

Shangbari was the best hunter of the Red Cat Tribe. Others beside himself said this was so, and the sacred four-legged Red Cats gave no signs against it. So he was willing to believe it.

This meant he had to appear invincible in battle, always successful in finding game for the cooking fires of the Tribe, and afraid of nothing at all. Most of the time he succeeded, and he was able to hide the times he did not. Also, after the Doimar sky-killers came recently and slew so many of the Red Cats, Ikhnan the Chief forbade challenges and duels among the warriors.

"We have hardly the strength to keep the Red Cats from becoming a dead Tribe, like the Salamanders, the Gra.s.s Eaters, and the Tree Folk," Ikhnan said. "We have none to waste in fighting battles over small things."

"My reputation is not a small thing," Shangbari replied.

"It certainly will be very small, if you fight any duels over it," said Ikhnan. "I will see to that."

Shangbari took the threat seriously. Although Ikhnan was no more than twenty-one hunting seasons old, he was wise as a Grandfather and fearless as a Death Pig. What he promised, he would do, or die trying-and if Shangbari caused Ikhnan's death, he would not live to gain anything by it. The very women and children of the Tribe would tear his flesh from his bones and feed it to the sacred Red Cats, if the beasts did not turn up their black noses at it.

It did not help either that the Kaldakans and the Doimari between them had slain or driven away much of the game. Shangbari still brought back more than any other hunter, but not as much as before. Often it was not enough to feed all the hungry mouths in the villages of the Red Cats.

However, it was neither his reputation nor Ikhnan's nor the shortage of game making Shangbari uneasy today. As he walked softly under a sullen gray sky, his rifle held ready, he would have given much to know what kind of man he was tracking. Not knowing this was what made him uneasy.

Once he'd seen a footprint, where the man had stepped on soft ground without knowing it. The footprint showed a City boot, whether of Kaldak or of Doimar Shangbari could not tell. That should mean a City man, for the Tribes had never taken to City clothing as they had to City weapons.

Yet he'd seen only that one footprint. No City man had ever left so few traces of his pa.s.sage. Only a hunter of the Tribes could do that. In fact, Shangbari wondered if the man had left the footprint deliberately, as a sign for those tracking him. Did he want to be found? Was he mad? Or was he playing with Shangbari like a Red Cat with a mouse?

Shangbari drove that last thought from his mind. Soberly, he had to admit that he was closer to losing the trail than he'd ever been with a human quarry. Death Pigs were shrewder than a man in covering their trails, although if tracked down they could be trusted to charge headlong. It was a good thing that Death Pigs had no hands to hold rifles or even spears. Otherwise they would rule the land, not men.

Shangbari stopped at the edge of a field of long gra.s.s sloping down to a little stream. He raised his head and sniffed the air, then spread his ears as wide as he could. Any scent, any sound from his opponent would be more than he'd had for some time. As he sniffed and listened, he watched the field and the trees bordering it on three sides. He did not expect to see anything, but perhaps he could discover some of the places where the man had not gone. He felt foolish at hoping for so little, he, Shangbari, hunter of the Red Cats, but- He heard the sound, and a heartbeat later knew that it was behind him. He had no chance to do anything with this knowledge. A knee crashed into the small of Shangbari's back. A leg scythed his feet out from under him. And an arm like the branch of a great tree went around his throat, choking off his breath. Something went yeeeeep! shrilly in his ear.

He did have one last thought before he heard nothing more: had he been tracking a wizard, who could send his body from one place to another without touching the ground? Or had he even been tracking something which was not a man at all?

When Shangbari's senses returned, he was lying on his back in the gra.s.s, bound hand and foot. The bonds were snug but not painful, as if his captor wished him helpless but not uncomfortable.

At least it was good to think that. A wizard would not have needed ropes to tie a captive. A nonhuman or a hostile Tribesman would have probably killed him outright. So his captor might be none of these things.

Or at least he could hope so.

Shangbari studied his captor. He was certainly a City man, from the way he dressed, but he was paler-skinned than anyone Shangbari had ever seen. He was also half a head taller than the hunter, with muscles in proportion. Certainly he'd have needed no wizardry to bring Shangbari down. He had a Doimari Oltec rifle across his knees, and he was munching on a piece of Newtec food from a pack beside him.

Shangbari's rifle also lay beside him, apparently undamaged. Then Shangbari saw who or what was sitting by the rifle, which started him thinking about wizardry again.

The creature was shaped like a man, except for its tail, but it was only about two feet high. Also, though it had no sign of wings, it was covered with feathers like a bird. The City man might be human, but surely his companion was not. Might the companion be the wizard, and the City man his servant? That frightened Shangbari all over again.

Then he remembered tales of the Little Men, who lived fat in the south after the Burning Time. It was said that some Tribes had made friends with them, although no one living had ever met a man from one of those Tribes-or one of the Little Men, either. To be sure, the Little Men had been covered with fur, not feathers. But perhaps the tales did not tell everything about them?

Yes. It made sense. This was a man from the lost Tribes. He and the Little Man had come north, seeking-what? Impossible to guess. At least they had not killed him as he lay helpless.

The warrior's ears were sharp enough to catch Shangbari's sigh of relief. He looked at the hunter and smiled. "So you're awake. I'm sorry I hit you so hard, but I was in a hurry. I didn't want you to call for help." From the man's speech, he seemed to have learned the True Tongue in Kaldak.

"You have honor, then, to fight one against one?" If he did not, then Shangbari would have to force the man to kill him quickly.

"I have that honor. I also have no wish to fight you at all, without reason." That made sense, if he was seeking a new home in the north. Or perhaps his Tribe was so weak that his chief had sent him out with orders like Ikhnan's, not to fight unless there was good cause. Then for the first time the man seemed to notice Shangbari's ears.

"Do all your people have ears like yours?"

Shangbari had to laugh, and wiggled them. "Many, at least."

"Does your chief have them?"

Shangbari frowned. He did not understand what the man wanted, but so far the questions were not dishonorable. He nodded.

"And is your chief a young man, about twenty years old, with a wife and a baby?"

Again Shangbari thought of wizardry, and his frown deepened. There was still no dishonor, but could the warrior or the Little Man be drawing his thoughts from his head? Finally he nodded again.

"I hoped so. And did your chief once call himself a friend to the Seekers of Doimar, until a night when the Kaldakans came out of the sky to attack the Seekers? On that night, did not a warrior of Kaldak spare your chief and his wife and child, and tell them to flee because this was not their fight?"

Shangbari could barely breathe. Either his mind was being torn open by wizardry, or this warrior was nothing which any of the Tribes had any name for. No one outside the Red Cats-and only a few of them-knew the whole tale of the Night of the Seekers' Death. It was that Night which later brought the Doimari sky-killers, and broke forever the peace between the Red Cats and Doimar. Indeed, the men of Doimar were now greater enemies than those of Kaldak, until the blood debt was paid-if it ever was. Could this man have knowledge which would help the Red Cats pay that debt?

Shangbari decided he should lead this man to Ikhnan. This was a chief's and Grandfathers' matter, not one for even the finest hunter.

The man picked up Shangbari's rifle. "I want to go to your chief. I have things to say he must hear, and soon. If you will swear the most sacred oath you know, not to harm me or lead me astray, I will give you back your weapon. Two guns are always better than one, and also two sets of eyes."

He spoke like an experienced warrior, and Shangbari saw no reason to doubt that he was one. "By the spirits of my prey, the true shooting of my rifle, and my faith in the hunter's oath, I swear to guard you as I would my brother, until you have said all that you have to say to Ikhnan, Chief of the Red Cats," Shangbari replied.

The Little Man jumped up and down, clapping his hands and going yeep-yeep-yeep as though he understood and approved. With a City knife, the warrior cut Shangbari's bonds, then pulled him to his feet with one hand and gave him his rifle with the other.

"Do you wish more beer?" said Ikhnan.

Blade shook his head. He'd already drunk more than enough of the rough Tribal beer while telling Ikhnan his tale. "You have already done far more than the Laws for welcoming guests demanded of you."

Ikhnan smiled grimly. "But not as much as you could have wished, or perhaps expected?"

"You are a wise leader of your people," said Blade with a shrug. "You would be wiser if you believed me more."

"That I doubt," said Ikhnan. "Though you say you did not join the sky-riders of Kaldak of your own will, yet you came among us as one of them."

"I did. And I did little harm to your people, and much to the Doimari, who are the enemies of everyone except themselves."

"That is so. But that only gives me a reason to let you return to Kaldak with your tale. It does not give me reason to let the remaining warriors of the Red Cats follow you into the jaws of the Seekers."

Blade was annoyed enough to think of several things it wouldn't be wise to say out loud. Perhaps he should give up and accept Ikhnan's offer of a guide to the Kaldakan border. That would save him a few days in getting back. Would that be enough if it took him weeks to convince the Kaldakans they should act? "Cadet Commander Voros" was probably under sentence of death for six or seven different crimes.

He would even need some luck to escape being shot on sight.

Then he heard a familiar yeeeeping behind him, the scrabble of Cheeky's paws, and the pad-pad-pad of some other animal about the same size. Ikhnan's eyes opened wide and his mouth opened wider, as he looked past Blade. Blade turned around, to see Cheeky walking into the tent with one of the sacred Red Cats following respectfully behind him. They sat down, Cheeky scratched the Red Cat behind its ears, and the beast started to purr!

Blade reached out a hand to pet the cat-and got b.l.o.o.d.y claw marks on his wrist for his pains. Then Cheeky yeeeeped angrily, jumped up and down, and pulled the Red Cat's tail hard. It laid its ears back, and for a moment Blade thought he would have to rescue Cheeky. The Red Cats had ferocious tempers, and this one was nearly as big as Cheeky.

The Red Cat and Cheeky glared at each other for a moment. Then slowly the Red Cat relaxed. A moment later it went over to Blade and licked the blood off his wrist, purring like a small outboard motor. Then, while Ikhnan looked as if his eyes were going to fall out of their sockets, the Red Cat climbed onto Blade's lap, curled its tail around itself, and went to sleep. Cheeky gave a small yeeep of satisfaction and hopped up onto Blade's shoulder.

With a heroic effort at self-control, Ikhnan spoke. "Is that Fija?"

Blade grinned. "How should I know? Ask Cheeky."

Ikhnan swallowed. "You said that as if-he might answer-like a man. Is he-?"

"He is not one of the Little Men of the tales I have heard here in the Land," said Blade. "That I can swear. As to what else he is-much I do not know myself, and most of the rest is not my secret but his."

Ikhnan swallowed again. "I am sorry to seem-less than a warrior-before you. But-"

Blade waved away the apologies. "I myself have soiled my breeches, facing what I did not understand. Suppose you tell me what makes you uneasy. Then I will know what questions of yours I can answer."

Ikhnan nodded. "It is simply that Fija is the most evil-tempered of all the Red Cats. It is as if he wanted to feed on human flesh all the year around. No other man has been able to touch Fija without being clawed or sometimes bitten. As for his being a friend of any other living creature-I am not yet sure that what I saw was really what happened."

"I didn't know that about Fija. But Cheeky-well, he's a friendly little chap. He probably convinced Fija that he was no rival for food or females. Then it wasn't hard to persuade him that any friend of Cheeky's also ought to be a friend of Fija's."

"You said that as if you believed it .... No, I am sorry. Forgive me for seeming to doubt your word, as I have doubted my own eyes." Ikhnan smiled thinly. "Still, I will not trust the-Cheeky's powers enough to pet Fija myself, even if I do become your friend."

Ikhnan looked embarra.s.sed. "Cheeky's friendship with Fija is a sign that I must do more than I would before. Yet-I still cannot simply arm my warriors and send them against Doimar at your word." He straightened up. "Voros. If you were among the sky-riders of Kaldak, you must have had friends there. Perhaps even friends among their chiefs?"

"Yes. Have you heard of a Monitor Bekror?"

Ikhnan jumped. "His land begins not more than four days from where we sit. But-he is one of the mightiest enemies the Tribes have. No friendship for you would-"

"That remains to be seen. He is no friend to the Tribes, but he is a friend to me. He is also an enemy of my enemies in Kaldak. To spite them, he might even be willing to aid Tribesmen who were not going to fight him. Do you think I can ask you not to use any aid you get from Bekror against anyone except Doimar? I have told you several times that Doimar is now a greater enemy to the Tribes than Kaldak has ever dreamed of being!"

"And I believe you. Now. But what I believe does not matter. Without some help from someone, the Red Cats cannot do as you wish. We had five hundred warriors. Now we have less than two hundred, and fewer than that with weapons fit to use against Doimar. If I send half my warriors with you and they do not return, the Red Cats will be too weak to stand against anyone. It would not matter who slew them. The Tribe would die, to the last infant."

Blade was silent. Ikhnan was a proud warrior confessing weakness, and could do without pointless remarks for a while.

Finally Blade said, "I would not ask that. It is something no honorable man could ask."

"Thank you." Ikhnan swallowed more beer, which seemed to clear his head. "I and five other warriors will travel with you to the house of Monitor Bekror. You and he shall speak. If he offers us weapons to use against Doimar, I shall swear by anything he asks not to use them against him. Will he find that just?"

Bekror would, if he believed Blade at all. If he didn't, there wasn't much Blade could do about it. He and the Tribesmen could hardly steal enough Newtec or Oltec gear to make Ikhnan willing to send his warriors against the rocket base.

Then Blade would have to convince someone else in Kaldak, if he wanted to smash Detcharn's schemes before they literally got off the ground. He would also have to do it fast, or even the serum formula wouldn't be in Kaldakan hands fast enough to do any good!

Chapter 20.

The Sky Master's daughter Baliza closed the door behind her and looked across the tapestry-hung room to the great bed. Monitor Bekror was already in it, propped up on a stack of pillows. He had a book in his lap and a jug of beer with two cups on the carved wooden table beside the bed. He looked as if he might be dozing, but Baliza knew that appearances could deceive.

She locked the door, snuffed out all the lamps except the one by the bed, and started undressing. She took her time about it, since the night was warm, and there was no great hurry to get under the blankets and into Bekror's arms. Also, he said he liked to watch her slowly stripping herself down from a soldier into a love-G.o.ddess.

The first time she'd come to him, she'd thought he might have been flattering her, when all he really needed was the extra time to become aroused. After all, he would never see fifty again. Now she knew that when he said she was a work of art, he was simply telling the truth as he saw it.

When she was naked, she padded across to the bed. Bekror handed her a full cup of beer. As she drank she suddenly felt his hand between her thighs, where it tickled most. She jumped and spilled half the beer over her shoulders and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Bekror sat up and started licking the beer off her skin. As his lips closed around her nipples, she put down the cup and wound her fingers in his hair to pull his head against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Meanwhile his hand was still busy between her thighs, doing more than tickling.

At last she had to pull free, sweep the blankets aside, and scramble into bed. As Bekror's arms went around her, she let desire fill her and let out a soft moan of antic.i.p.ation. Perhaps Bekror was not everything he'd been as a young man. But in the time since he'd been a young man he must have bedded a great many women. The women had taught him much, and he remembered all of it.

He didn't even mind the fact that she was taller and probably stronger than he was. "More to get a good hold on," was the way he put it.

She had been instructed by Geyrma to come to Sclathdan to get to the bottom of the rumors that Bekror was forming an alliance with the Tribesmen.