CHAPTER 17
The preparations for Foscar's funeral went on through the night. Awooden structure, made up of tied fagots dragged in from the woodland,grew taller beyond the big tribal camp. The constant crooning wail ofthe women in the tents produced a minor murmur of sound, enough to drivea man to the edge of madness. Ross had been left under guard where hecould watch it all, a refinement of torture which he would earlier havebelieved too subtle for Ennar. Though the older men carried minorcommands among the horsemen, because Ennar was the closest of blood kinamong the adult males, he was in charge of the coming ceremony.
The pick of the horse herd, a roan stallion, was brought in to bepicketed near Ross as sacrifice number two, and two of the hounds werein turn leashed close by. Foscar, his best weapons to hand and a redcloak lapped about him, lay waiting on a bier. Near-by squatted thetribal wizard, shaking his thunder rattle and chanting in a voice whichapproached a shriek. This wild activity might have been a scene lifteddirectly from some tape stored at the project base. It was verydifficult for Ross to remember that this was reality, that he was to beone of the main actors in the coming event, with no timely aid fromOperation Retrograde to snatch him to safety.
Sometime during that nightmare he slept, his weariness of bodyovercoming him. He awoke, dazed, to find a hand clutching his mop ofhair, pulling his head up.
"You sleep--you do not fear, Foscar's dog-one?"
Groggily Ross blinked up. Fear? Sure, he was afraid. Fear, he realizedwith a clear thrust of consciousness such as he had seldom experiencedbefore, had always stalked beside him, slept in his bed. But he hadnever surrendered to it, and he would not now if he could help it.
"I do not fear!" He threw that creed into Ennar's face in one hot boast.He _would_ not fear!
"We shall see if you speak so loudly when the fire bites you!" The otherspat, yet in that oath there was a reluctant recognition of Ross'scourage.
"When the fire bites...." That sang in Ross's head. There was somethingelse--if he could only remember! Up to that moment he had kept a poorlittle shadow of hope. It is always impossible--he was conscious againwith that strange clarity of mind--for a man to face his own deathhonestly. A man always continues to believe to the last moment of hislife that something will intervene to save him.
The men led the horse to the mound of fagots which was now crowned withFoscar's bier. The stallion went quietly, until a tall tribesman strucktrue with an ax, and the animal fell. The hounds were also killed andlaid at their dead master's feet.
But Ross was not to fare so easily. The wizard danced about him, ahideous figure in a beast mask, a curled fringe of dried snakeskinsswaying from his belt. Shaking his rattle, he squawked like an angrycat as they pulled Ross to the stacked wood.
Fire--there was something about fire--if he could only remember! Rossstumbled and nearly fell across one leg of the dead horse they werepropping into place. Then he remembered that tongue of flame in themeadow grass which had burned the horse but not the rider. His hands andhis head would have no protection, but the rest of his body was coveredwith the flame-resistant fabric of the alien suit. Could he do it? Therewas such a slight chance, and they were already pushing him onto thatmound, his hands tied. Ennar stooped, and bound his ankles, securing himto the brush.
So fastened, they left him. The tribe ringed around the pyre at a safedistance, Ennar and five other men approaching from differentdirections, torches aflame. Ross watched those blazing knots thrust intothe brush and heard the crackle of the fire. His eyes, hard andmeasuring, studied the flash of flame from dried brush to seasoned wood.
A tongue of yellow-red flame licked up at him. Ross hardly dared tobreathe as it wreathed about his foot, his hide fetters smoldering. Theinsulation of the suit did not cut all the heat, but it allowed him tostay put for the few seconds he needed to make his escape spectacular.
The flame had eaten through his foot bonds, and yet the burningsensation on his feet and legs was no greater than it would have beenfrom the direct rays of a bright summer sun. Ross moistened his lipswith his tongue. The impact of heat on his hands and his face wasdifferent. He leaned down, held his wrists to the flame, taking instoical silence the burns which freed him.
Then, as the fire curled up so that he seemed to stand in a frame ofwrithing red banners, Ross leaped through that curtain, protecting hisbowed head with his arms as best he could. But to the onlookers itseemed he passed unhurt through the heart of a roaring fire.
He kept his footing and stood facing that part of the tribal ringdirectly before him. He heard a cry, perhaps of fear, and a blazingtorch flew through the air and struck his hip. Although he felt theforce of the blow, the burning bits of the head merely slid down histhigh and leg, leaving no mark on the smooth blue fabric.
"Ahhhhhhh!"
Now the wizard capered before him, shaking his rattle to make adeafening din. Ross struck out, slapping the sorcerer out of his path,and stooped to pick up the smoldering brand which had been thrown athim. Whirling it about his head, though every movement was torture tohis scorched hands, he set it flaming once more. Holding it in front ofhim as a weapon, he stalked directly at the men and women before him.
The torch was a poor enough defense against spears and axes, but Rossdid not care--he put into this last gamble all the determination hecould summon. Nor did he realize what a figure he presented to thetribesmen. A man who had crossed a curtain of fire without apparenthurt, who appeared to wash in tongues of flame without harm, and who nowcalled upon fire in turn as a weapon, was no man but a demon!
The wall of people wavered and broke. Women screamed and ran; menshouted. But no one threw a spear or struck with an ax. Ross walked on,a man possessed, looking neither to the right or left. He was in thecamp now, stalking toward the fire burning before Foscar's tent. He didnot turn aside for that either, but holding the torch high, strodethrough the heart of the flames, risking further burns for the sake ofinsuring his ultimate safety.
The tribesmen melted away as he approached the last line of tents, withthe open land beyond. The horses of the herd, which had been driven tothis side to avoid the funeral pyre, were shifting nervously, the scentof burning making them uneasy.
Once more Ross whirled the dying torch about his head. Recalling how thealiens had sent his horse mad, he tossed it behind him into the grassbetween the tents and the herd. The tinder-dry stuff caught immediately.Now if the men tried to ride after him, they would have trouble.
Without hindrance he walked across the meadow at the same even pace,never turning to look behind. His hands were two separate worlds ofsmarting pain; his hair and eyebrows were singed, and a finger of burnran along the angle of his jaw. But he was free, and he did not believethat Foscar's men would be in any haste to pursue him. Somewhere beforehim lay the river, the river which ran to the sea. Ross walked on in thesunny morning while behind him black smoke raised a dark beacon to thesky.
Afterward he guessed that he must have been lightheaded for severaldays, remembering little save the pain in his hands and the fact that itwas necessary to keep moving. Once he fell to his knees and buried bothhands in the cool, moist earth where a thread of stream trickled from apool. The muck seemed to draw out a little of the agony while he drankwith a fever thirst.
Ross seemed to move through a haze which lifted at intervals duringwhich he noted his surroundings, was able to recall a little of what laybehind him, and to keep to the correct route. However, the gaps of timein between were forever lost to him. He stumbled along the banks of ariver and fronted a bear fishing. The massive beast rose on its hindlegs, growled, and Ross walked by it uncaring, unmenaced by the puzzledanimal.
Sometimes he slept through the dark periods which marked the nights, orhe stumbled along under the moon, nursing his hands against his breast,whimpering a little when his foot slipped and the jar of that mishap ranthrough his body. Once he heard singing, only to realize that it washimself who sang hoarsely a melody which would be popular thousands ofyears late
r in the world through which he wavered. But always Ross knewthat he must go on, using that thick stream of running water as a guideto his final goal, the sea.
After a long while those spaces of mental clarity grew longer, appearingcloser together. He dug small shelled things from under stones along theriver and ate them avidly. Once he clubbed a rabbit and feasted. Hesucked birds' eggs from a nest hidden among some reeds--just enough tokeep his gaunt body going, though his gray eyes were now set in what wasalmost a death's-head.
Ross did not know just when he realized that he was again being hunted.It started with an uneasiness which differed from his previousfever-bred hallucinations. This was an inner pulling, a growingcompulsion to turn and retrace his way back toward the mountains to meetsomething, or someone, waiting for him on the backward path.
But Ross kept on, fearing sleep now and fighting it. For once he hadlain down to rest and had wakened on his feet, heading back as if thatcompulsion had the power to take over his body when his waking will wasoff guard.
So he rested, but he dared not sleep, the desire constantly tearing athis will, striving to take over his weakened body and draw it back.Perhaps against all reason he believed that it was the aliens who weretrying to control him. Ross did not even venture to guess why they wereso determined to get him. If there were tribesmen on his trail as well,he did not know, but he was sure that this was now purely a war ofwills.
As the banks of the river were giving way to marshes, he had to wadethrough mud and water, detouring the boggy sections. Great clouds ofbirds whirled and shrieked their protests at his coming, and sleek wateranimals paddled and poked curious heads out of the water as thistwo-legged thing walked mechanically through their green land. Alwaysthat pull was with him, until Ross was more aware of fighting it than oftraveling.
Why did they want him to return? Why did they not follow him? Or werethey afraid to venture too far from where they had come through thetransfer? Yet the unseen rope which was tugging at him did not grow lesstenuous as he put more distance between himself and the mountain valley.Ross could understand neither their motives nor their methods, but hecould continue to fight.
The bog was endless. He found an island and lashed himself with his suitbelt to the single willow which grew there, knowing that he must havesleep, or he could not hope to last through the next day. Then he slept,only to waken cold, shaking, and afraid. Shoulder deep in a pool, he wasaware that in his sleep he must have opened the belt buckle and freedhimself, and only the mishap of falling into the water had brought himaround to sanity.
Somehow he got back to the tree, rehooked the buckle and twisted thebelt around the branches so that he was sure he could not work it freeuntil daybreak. He lapsed into a deepening doze, and awoke, still safelyanchored, with the morning cries of the birds. Ross considered the suitas he untangled the belt. Could the strange clothing be the tie by whichthe aliens held to him? If he were to strip, leaving the garment behind,would he be safe?
He tried to force open the studs across his chest, but they would notyield to the slight pressure which was all his seared fingers couldexert, and when he pulled at the fabric, he was unable to tear it. So,still wearing the livery of the off-world men, Ross continued on hisway, hardly caring where he went or how. The mud plastered on him by hisfrequent falls was some protection against the swarm of insect life hispassing stirred into attack. However, he was able to endure a swollenface and slitted eyes, being far more conscious of the wrenching feelingwithin him than the misery of his body.
The character of the marsh began to change once more. The river wassplitting into a dozen smaller streams, shaping out fanlike. Lookingdown at this from one of the marsh hillocks, Ross knew a faint surge ofrelief. Such a place had been on the map Ashe had made them memorize. Hewas close to the sea at last, and for the moment that was enough.
A salt-sharpened wind cut at him with the force of a fist in the face.In the absence of sunlight the leaden clouds overhead set a winterlikegloom across the countryside. To the constant sound of birdcalls Rosstramped heavily through small pools, beating a path through tangles ofmarsh grass. He stole eggs from nests, sucking his nourishment eagerlywith no dislike for the fishy flavor, and drinking from stagnant,brackish ponds.
Suddenly Ross halted, at first thinking that the continuous roll ofsound he heard was thunder. Yet the clouds overhead were massed no morethan before and there was no sign of lightning. Continuing on, herealized that the mysterious sound was the pounding of surf--he was nearthe sea!
Willing his body to run, he weaved forward at a reeling trot, pittingall his energy against the incessant pull from behind. His feet skiddedout of marsh mud into sand. Ahead of him were dark rocks surrounded bythe white lace of spray.
Ross headed straight toward that spray until he stood knee-deep in thecurling, foam-edged water and felt its tug on his body almost as strongas that other tug upon his mind. He knelt, letting the salt water stingto life every cut, every burn, sputtering as it filled his mouth andnostrils, washing from him the slime of the bog lands. It was cold andbitter, but it was the sea! He had made it!
Ross Murdock staggered back and sat down suddenly in the sand. Glancingabout, he saw that his refuge was a rough triangle between two of thesmall river arms, littered with the debris of the spring floods whichhad grounded here after rejection by the sea. Although there was plentyof material for a fire, he had no means of kindling a flame, having lostthe flint all Beaker traders carried for such a purpose.
This was the sea, and against all odds he had reached it. He lay back,his self-confidence restored to the point where he dared once more toconsider the future. He watched the swooping flight of gulls drawingpatterns under the clouds above. For the moment he wanted nothing morethan to lie here and rest.
But he did not surrender to this first demand of his over-driven bodyfor long. Hungry and cold, sure that a storm was coming, he knew he hadto build a fire--a fire on shore could provide him with the means ofsignaling the sub. Hardly knowing why--because one part of the coastlinewas as good as another--Ross began to walk again, threading a path inand out among the rocky outcrops.
So he found it, a hollow between two such windbreaks within which was ablackened circle of small stones holding charred wood, with some emptyshells piled near-by. Here was unmistakable evidence of a camp! Rossplunged forward, thrusting a hand impetuously into the black mass of thedead fire. To his astonishment, he touched warmth!
Hardly daring to disturb those precious bits of charcoal, he dug aroundthem, then carefully blew into what appeared to be dead ashes. There wasan answering glow! He could not have just imagined it.
From a pile of wood that had been left behind, Ross snatched a smalltwig, poking it at the coal after he had rubbed it into a brush on therough rock. He watched, all one ache of hope. The twig caught!
With his stiff fingers so clumsy, he had to be very careful, but Rosshad learned patience in a hard school. Bit by bit he fed that tiny blazeuntil he had a real fire. Then, leaning back against the rock, hewatched it.
It was now obvious that the placement of the original fire had beenchosen with care, for the outcrops gave it wind shelter. They alsoprovided a dark backdrop, partially hiding the flames on the landwardside but undoubtedly making them more visible from the sea. The siteseemed just right for a signal fire--but to what?
Ross's hands shook slightly as he fed the blaze. It was only too clearwhy anyone would make a signal on this shore. McNeil--or perhaps both heand Ashe--had survived the breakup of the raft, after all. They hadreached this point--abandoned no earlier than this morning, judging bythe life remaining in the coals--and put up the signal. Then, just asarranged, they had been collected by the sub, by now on its way back tothe hidden North American post. There was no hope of any pickup for himnow. Just as he had believed them dead after he had found that rag onthe sapling, so they must have thought him finished after his fall inthe river. He was just a few hours too late!
Ross folded his arms across his
hunched knees and rested his head onthem. There was no possible way he could ever reach the post or his ownkind--ever again. Thousands of miles lay between him and the temporaryinstallation in this time.
He was so sunk in his own complete despair that he was long unaware offinally being free of the pressure to turn back which had so longhaunted him. But as he roused to feed the fire he got to wondering. Hadthose who hunted him given up the chase? Since he had lost his own racewith time, he did not really care. What did it matter?
The pile of wood was getting low, but he decided that did not mattereither. Even so, Ross got to his feet, moving over to the drifts ofstorm wrack to gather more. Why should he stay here by a useless beacon?But somehow he could not force himself to move on, as futile as hisvigil seemed.
Dragging the sun-dried, bleached limbs of long-dead trees to his halfshelter, he piled them up, working until he laughed at the barricade hehad built. "A siege!" For the first time in days he spoke aloud. "Imight be ready for a siege...." He pulled over another branch, added itto his pile, and kneeled down once more by the flames.
There were fisherfolk to be found along this coast, and tomorrow when hewas rested he would strike south and try to find one of their primitivevillages. Traders would be coming into this territory now that theRed-inspired raiders were gone. If he could contact them....
But that spark of interest in the future died almost as soon as it wasborn. To be a Beaker trader as an agent for the project was one thing,to live the role for the rest of his life was something else.
Ross stood by his fire, staring out to sea for a sign he knew he wouldnever see again as long as he lived. Then, as if a spear had struckbetween his shoulder blades, he was attacked.
The blow was not physical, but came instead as a tearing, red pain inhis head, a pressure so terrible he could not move. He knew instantlythat behind him now lurked the ultimate danger.