Manhounds of Antares

Chapter Fifteen

Along the jungle trail we left a fine old collection of traps.

There was no time I would spare to dig pits, but whenever we came across a natural hole that a few murs of labor might turn into a mantrap we happily spent that time, barbing the bottom with spikes, laying thin branches and many leaves across the top and sprinkling about the stinking detritus of the rain forest to camouflage the trap.

We constructed deadfalls, of a variety of patterns to make their discernment less easy. Rapechak entered into this work with great gusto. Turko had been badly knocked by the fall and although I had prodded his ribs, to his silent suffering, and found nothing broken, I was not happy that he did not have a broken bone in that magnificent body of his somewhere. I would not listen when he wanted to help with the trap making, and snarled at him to lie down and rest. “If you must show how brave and noble a Khamorro you are, Turko, keep your eyes on Mog. I don’t want her to run off.”

She had moaned and shrieked, but now she was silent, except to say, now and then: “No one escapes the manhounds, Dray Prescot, you nulsh. We are all dead.”

Whereat I shouted across: “Keep the old witch quiet, Turko, or, by thunder, I’ll gag her in her own foul breechclout!”

We left many pointed and cunningly positioned stakes along the trail. I hoped a manhound, loping after us, sniffing the scent from our baited shoes, would leap full onto the sharp point of the stake and so wriggle with the dark blood dropping down until he died.

I’d far rather see, I own, one of the hunters in that position, but I knew them. They used the manhounds to track and corral the quarry; then they stepped in with their beautiful and expensive crossbows, their swords and their spears.

Once, Mog shrieked at me, “You ninny, Dray Prescot! The shoes the guides give us are baited. The manhounds can pick up the scent a dwabur off! Why do you not kick off the shoes?”

“Quiet, you old crone!”

Rapechak took his shoes off and was about to hurl them into the jungle when I stopped him. His fierce beaked face swung down to look at me, and his eyes glared, ready for an instant quarrel. I had suffered much from Rapas in the past. But I was prepared to explain to this Rapechak.

“Later. Later we will dispose of the shoes. Not now.”

He would have argued, but I swung away, shouting about a tree trunk the halflings were trying to angle as a deadfall, and threatening to crush their own stupid brains out in the process. Rapechak put his shoes back on.

We could march for some distance yet. There was plenty of light from the Twins and later from She of the Veils; the enemy would be fatigued. Already, as seemed to be their custom, a Fristle man carried a Fristle woman. I didn’t want to have to help the two human girls, for I had Mog to worry about and, to a different degree, Turko. He was in great pain, but not a murmur of complaint passed his lips. And, to me a strange fact, he still looked handsome. Suffering sometimes ennobles and makes one look radiant; not often.

When I calculated that we would exhaust our strength without adequate return by pressing on, I told everyone to take off their shoes. We found a great tree and climbed into its lower branches and there with the rammed-in thorns formed our palisade and made camp. We ate the rest of the food, and water was found in a nearby stream. I looked at this bedraggled band.

“Rapechak,” I said. And, to a Brokelsh, “You, too, Gynor. Are you done yet, or are you for a little sport?”

They didn’t understand. When I explained, both Rapa and Brokelsh gave expressions of pleasure in their respective halfling ways.

We three, then, struck off along the trail where it turned along by a river. We had prepared stakes which we used to make of that trail a death trap, unless one went cautiously, and inspected every fold of leaf. Presently, after a bur or so, we came to a gorge into which the stream fell. We threw the shoes down, having rubbed them well along the brink.

“May all the manhounds go to the Ice Floes of Sicce!” said Gynor, the Brokelsh. He was strong and his black body-bristles sprouted fiercely.

We went back to the camp and Turko looked up and said, “Mog is still here, Dray Prescot,” to which I replied, “Good,” and so we all rested. We set watches, for that was prudent, here in the rain forests of Northern Faol.

In the morning, by first light, a mingling of opaline radiance, we set off again along the small trail leading off from the other side of the tree. Here we set no traps but pressed on as far and as fast as we might. Those of the slaves whose feet were in the worst condition had rags wrapped about them, and we all struggled and slipped through terrible country, half-naked, gleaming with sweat, for it was very hot, panting and plunging on. We looked very much like fugitives then.

At a resting place, when it was time to move on, for I would not stop to catch food and eat, Turko looked up as I lifted him.

“Leave me, Dray Prescot. I cannot go farther. I am done for.”

I ignored him and got him on my back.

Mog cackled as Rapechak, who understood I meant what I said, prodded her on.

“He is a fool, that Khamorro!” The old witch spat out the words. “Migshaanu the Pitiless witnessed it!

He attacked the great kham Chimche when Chimche would have broken you like a reed, Prescot! And now look at him, his guts caved in.”

I said to Turko: “I believe you attacked Chimche, Turko, and for this I thank you. Now do not prattle like a baby onker. I will not leave you for the manhounds.”

“So be it, Dray Prescot.”

I could not tell him that great kham or not, Chimche would have been a dead man if he had fought me, without Turko’s assistance which, truth to tell, had thrown me off balance. A fighting-man, used to the melee, as it is known among my fighting clansmen, keeps the eyes in the back of his head well open all the time. As witness poor Alex Hunter, back there on a beach in Valka. And that seemed a long time ago, by Zair!

That day we hurried on rapidly, and turn and turn about the stronger helped the weaker. I noticed the two girls, who claimed to be rich merchant’s daughters, kept close to me. Beyond learning that their names were Saenda — the fair one — and Quaesa — the dark one — and that they came from different parts of Havilfar and already were putting on airs, one claiming superiority over the other, only to have some other remarkable fact brought to life in opposition, I took no notice of them except to see they kept up with the party.

My plans had gone disastrously wrong, all because of those fool Khamorros, although Turko was a Khamorro and was proving a tough and reliable companion.

Although, as you will instantly see, I have forged ahead in this story; for at this time Turko was badly injured, in great pain, and a liability on our onward progress. Once he saw that I did not mean to abandon him he remained quiet and did not suggest I leave him again. Mog, however, mentioned the idea more than once, having discovered how much more pleasant travel was across my shoulder than struggling and stumbling through the gloomy aisles of the forest.

And perhaps, if you guess I did this to spite the Star Lords — you would not be wrong. We were attacked by a species of risslaca, all squamous and hissing and tongue-flicking and claw-clicking; but I was able to slide the thraxter into an eye, and then into the thing’s scale-white belly, and so dispatch it. Turko stared up at the fight from where I had dumped him beside the almost-invisible trail. When it was all over, he grunted as I lifted him, whereat I said: “I would not cause you pain, Turko. For the sake of Opaz, man, tell me!”

All he would say was: “It is better than lying on the ground and rotting and being eaten by ants or snapped up by a risslaca such as you have just slain.”

Oh, yes, he was tough, was Turko!

After a time, he said, “You have handled a sword before.”

“Yes.”

“The trick with the knife, when Nath sought to slay the old witch. That was clever.”

Truth to tell, I had looked back at that old Krozair trick and knew it to be not at all bad. I had not been using the great Krozair longsword which, with its two-handed grip, is suitable for the quick subtle twitchings and flickings necessary, and I had been aiming for a flashing sliver of a knife and not a clothyard shaft. Yes, that had been something of a little Jikai. I said, “A knack, Turko. Now, rest as best you may.”

Presently Rapechak, prodding Mog, pressed up to my side.

“I will carry Turko the Khamorro, if he will allow, Dray Prescot, if you will take charge of this — this-”

Rapechak rubbed his thin shanks and glared at Mog. “She is a devil from the Ice Floes of Sicce, by Rhapaporgolam the Reaver of Souls!”[2]

I did not chuckle, although I believe my lips ricked up.

“And what do you say, Turko?”

He faced a struggle, then, did Turko the Khamorro. Only later when I learned more about the Khamorros and the awful power their belief in their khamster sanctity has over them could I realize that for a Rapa to touch a Khamorro was far worse than, for instance, the touch from an Untouchable of old India.

Not understanding all this at the time, I said, “Rapechak has shins that are black and blue from the old witch. I shall not allow her so to maltreat me. Let Rapechak carry you for a space, Turko, my friend.”

Turko yielded. He said something under his breath, and I caught the trailing words: “. . Morro the Muscle’s recompense and atonement.”

We pressed on, for by this time the Manhounds of Antares lolloped on our back trail, and the traps would only hold them up for as long as they were stupid enough not to do the obvious. When I caught a glimpse through a gap in the overhead cover of a skein of fluttrells winging past, and ordered instant stillness until the magnificent flying beasts and their armed riders had passed, I suspected that they must be a part of the manhunters’ search.

“Fluttrells and vollers,” cackled Mog. “They will catch us, you nulsh, Dray Prescot, and rip our throats out and feather us with barbs for their sport.”

“Maybe,” I said, making it a casual statement. “But they will be sorry they found us, that I promise you.”

So, with many rests that grew more frequent and of longer duration, we pressed on. I caught one of the little jungle palies, similar to the plains species but with zebra-striped hindquarters, and we all ate. By the time Far and Havil sank and the Twins appeared and we made camp we were pretty well done for. A complete night’s rest was imperative.

At this camp I took the opportunity of making a bow. Oh, it was a poor thing, vine-strung, and of a pitiful throw; but with the fire-hardened points of the arrows, quickly fletched with feathers from a bird brought down by a flung stone, I fancied it would give us just that little edge of time. We might have to buy the time we needed dearly.

“Weapons,” said Turko. He lifted his hands, and turned them about in the screened fire-glow in its crook of tree-trunk, for the trees hereabouts were powerful and large of bole. “I have been taught all my life that a man’s hands — and his feet and head — are more potent than artificial weapons.”

“Sometimes, Turko. What I told Janich is true. I know you boast you can dodge and deflect arrows; and certainly you may outwit a swordsman if he is not reasonably good with his blade, but-”

“Aye, Dray Prescot. But.”

“Now sleep, friend Turko. Tomorrow we will show these Opaz-forsaken cramphs of manhunters the error of their ways.”

“Tomorrow?”

“They will find us tomorrow.”

There was no answer to that, and with watches set, we slept.

Turko had a bad night. He awoke with a groan he could not still and I fetched water and bathed his forehead, which felt feverish, and gave him a little to sip, for I feared internal injuries. Mog woke up and swore at me. By this time she must have realized there was some special interest in her for me, and she would have been thinking very carefully on what her future would be. She could have no knowledge of the Star Lords, or so I believed. That I looked out for her was clear — the other halflings looked out for themselves, and the two girls, Saenda and Quaesa, had already shown signs of anger at my concern over old Mog — and so she must be racking her evil old brains for the explanation. That she could never find one that would make sense was obvious. I had no idea why the Star Lords should bedevil me with the old witch.

Now she swore at me, vilely. “Get your rest, you great nulsh, Dray Prescot! Why waste your strength on the Khamorro? He will die tomorrow. I can see that, for I have great powers in healing, and he is done for.”

Turko looked at me and I saw his lips rick down. The hand holding the roughly fashioned leaf-cup shook. That was from weakness and pain, I guessed, never from fear.

With Turko looking at me I went down to old Mog.

I took her by the neck and I glared into her eyes.

“You say Turko will die tomorrow? You are sure?”

I let her breathe and she gobbled: “I know!”

“You have skill in medicine?”

She started off to boast of her secrets and her mysteries, and of how Migshaanu the Great Healer would aid her — and then she stopped, aghast, glaring at me, a hand to her mouth. She saw, at last, what the situation was.

I nodded. I have given orders in my life that I dreaded to give. One demand must be measured against another, and there is no certainty when it comes to command. Hesitation is a sin the fates punish by destruction.

“You will be able to gather plants from the forest, herbs, leaves, fungi — you will be able to fashion needles from the thorns — you will cure my friend Turko. If you do not, Mog the Migla, I shall certainly leave you for the manhounds.”

She tried, shrewd enough to have read much of my intentions, for, after all, they were very patent.

“You took me from the slave pens, Dray Prescot. You saved me for some great purpose of your own

— or your masters. You will not kill me or leave me to the monsters.”

“Cure Turko, or you will be turned off into the jungle.”

By this time for her to return to the caves was beyond her strength, wiry and whipcordlike though it might be. She gibbered and mewed, but I remained adamant. Just why I did this I can see quite clearly, now, was to make the Star Lords pay. Oh, poor old Mog was the instrument to suffer — although she had had an easy ride compared with the others — but the Star Lords would, I hoped, suffer a little along with her.

With many imprecations and mutterings Mog gathered what she would need and soon was concocting potions. She stuck thorns into Turko, and watching her, I saw the sureness with which her gnarled fingers worked, and knew she had the skill of Doctor Nath the Needle, back in Vallia. She felt him all over and pronounced nothing irremediably broken, and gave him the draft to drink. He lost his pain the moment the last needle had been inserted, so powerfully beneficent is the art and science of acupuncture upon Kregen. Presently he slept and Mog crept back to her place, pronouncing him as well as could be expected, that she had done all she could, and now it all lay in the merciful hands of Migshaanu the Great Healer.

A gram of Earthly comfort I took was that Turko had not bled from his nose or mouth or ears. He had tried to save me, charging Chimche, who must be of a higher kham and thus almost certain to defeat Turko. He had sustained these injuries trying to help me. I could do nothing less than use every effort I could to save his life.

From the time when I had flown over the jungle escaping with Tulema and Dorval Aymlo and the others, I could only estimate the distances to be traversed to the coast. Once there I had no doubt we would steal a boat well enough. Had Turko not been injured we might have made it, and he realized this and said nothing, and looked at me speculatively.

We were, in truth, a sorry-looking bunch. When we creaked our way down out of our tree in the morning, and shivered, and stretched, and looked about on the dim vastness of the jungle, pressing us in to a narrow circle of hostile greenery all about, I realized we could not go on. The two girls’ feet were lacerated and torn despite the muffling clumsy rags they wore. Some of the halflings were in a worse case, although many were holding up reasonably well; but with that stupid prickly pride, I had, without any conscious volition on my part, decided we would all get out together. By this time I was heartily sick of the jungle. I know we spent a weary time in the green fastness, and I contrasted it with others of my marches upon the hostile, terrifying, beautiful face of Kregen, but it was a chore laid on me and it was something I had to do.

I said, with that harsh intolerant rasp in my voice, “Stay here. I will return.”

Most of them simply sank down, thankful not to have once more to plunge into that steaming hell. I left them and walked carefully along what was left of the trail. All about me, almost unheard, rustled the vicious life of the forest. Soon I came to a clearing — not large — but I fancied it would do. To bring everyone there and safely sheltered up trees, with palisades, took a frightening long time. But, at last, we were ready.

Turko opened his eyes and stared at me and I could have sworn amusement curved his pallid lips as I spoke to cheer him.

“Now, friend Turko! Let the manhounds come! We’ll make ’em sorry they sniffed us out!”

“Yes, Dray Prescot. I really think you will.”