Андрэ Нортон - Beast Master's Planet

Then, though with protest, the hatch moved as he beat on it with one frantic fist, holding to his support with the other. Smoke swirled in a choking blue fog, burning his eyes, strangling him with coughing until the air filter of the cabin thinned it.

Smoke, heat, but no sign of active flames. Hosteen retreated to rip and pry at the plasta foam covering of the bunks, removing the stuff in tattered strips. Half of these he draped over the rim of the hatch opening, pushing the material through to lie across the heated shell of the LB. The rest he took with him as he climbed out on the temporarily protected area.

The side of the LB bore the lick marks of fire, and around it the ground was charred black. Upslope, small blazes still crackled in bushes.

Hosteen worked fast, tying lengths of the plasta foam about his feet and legs above knee level. The tough synthetic fabric would be a shield against the heat. With more scraps mittening his hands and covering his arms, he crawled up the tail of the LB, leaped for the top of a fire-blackened rock, and started the climb back to the tunnel ledge.

Back in the mountain Surra would be his eyes, a part of himself projected. He could track the stranger, perhaps find Logan. Logan!

All he could do to warn the plains had been done. The holdings would have to take their chances while he faced the heart of the trouble here and now.

Tap—tap—tap—

The Terran was an animal, startled, snarling in defiance, his teeth showing white between tightened lips as Surra’s could upon occasion. He stood still, watching that figure come out of a copse that had escaped the lick of the fire.

A cloak spread like huge wings of a mantling bird—a Drummer! And there was no knife in Hosteen’s belt, no stunner. He had only his two hands—

However, the other had no more. By tradition, the Norbie would be unarmed—depending upon his power for his protection. And no native would raise hand against a Drummer, even one of an enemy tribe. The vengeance taken by “medicine” was swift, sure, and frightful.

But if this one depended upon that custom now, he would have a rude, perhaps fatal awakening. Hosteen had to get his hands on the tambour the native carried, silence it before the Drummer could use it to arouse the warriors.

The Terran tensed for another leap. His body arched up; his bandaged hands caught up burned and fire-scorched wood. He moved with the sure speed of a trained fighting man.

Tap—tap—

There had been no acceleration in that soft patter, no deepening of the beat. No settler understood drum talk, but Hosteen wondered. He had expected an outburst of alarm when he was sighted. What he heard as he charged was a calm sequence of small sounds—like a friendly greeting. Instead of throwing his body forward in a tackle, he halted to face the enemy squarely.

“Ukurti!”

Fingers lifted from the tight drumhead—moved in talk.

“Where do you go?”

Sharp, to the point. Hosteen tugged at the wrappings on his hands, freed his fingers to reply:

“To the mountain.”

He dared not risk evasion, not with this Drummer whom he knew to be not the witch doctor of scoffing off-worlders but a real power.

“You have been to the mountain once.”

“I have been once,” Hosteen assented. “I go again—for in this mountain walks evil.”

“That is so.” The quick agreement surprised Hosteen.

“He who drums for the Zamle totem says that?”

“One who drums, drums true, or else the power departs from him. In the mountain is one who says that thunder answers his drum, that he brings lightning to his service.”

“It has been heard, so has it been seen.” Again Hosteen kept to the strict truth.

“Fire has answered; that is truth. And because of this warriors bind arrowheads to war shaft, chant songs of trophies to be smoked in the Thunder Houses.”

“Yet this is not good.”

“It is not good!” Ukurti’s head pushed forward; his paint-ringed eyes on either side of his boldly arched nose were those of Baku sighting prey before she was quite poised for the killing swoop. “This one who wears the name of Ukurti has been to the place of sky ships’ landing and has seen the powers of those who ride from star to star. They, too, drum thunder and raise lightning of a kind—but it is not born of the true power of Arzor.” His booted foot stamped the black ground, and a tiny puff of ash arose.

“Before them, others walked the same trails—even here on Arzor. To the strangers their power, to us ours. This is an old trail, newly opened once again. And in it lie many traps for the heedless and those who want to believe because it serves their false dreams. I who bear the name of Ukurti in this life and who have the right to speak of this power and that”—again he stroked the drumhead gently, bringing a muted purr of sound from its surface—“say that no good comes of a trail that leads to blood running free on the ground, the blood of those who have shared water, hunted, eaten meat with us, and welcomed in their tents my people.”

“And he-who-drums-thunder here says that this shedding of blood is right—that the war arrow is to be put to the string against my people?”

“That is so.”

“For what purpose does he demand a shedding of blood?”

“That his power may eat and grow strong, giving many gifts to those who serve it.”

“But his power is not the power you follow.”

“That is so. And this is an evil thing. Now I say to you, who also have a power that is from beyond the stars and lies within you, go up to this man who is of your own kind and set your power against him.”

“And you will not drum up those to hunt me?”

“Not so. Between us is a peace pole. It has been set upon me to—in a small way—smooth your trail.”

“You knew I was here—you were waiting for me?”

“I knew. But no man explains the working of his own medicine. This is a thing of my power.”

“Pardon, Drummer. I do not ask the forbidden.” Hosteen’s fingers made swift and contrite apology.

“But from here you walk alone,” Ukurti continued.

“Do all the clans walk the trail leading to the running of blood?” Hosteen ventured.

“Not all—yet,” but the Drummer did not enlarge upon that.

“And this I must do alone?”

“Alone.”

“Then, Drummer, give me of your luck wish before I depart.” Hosteen signed the formal request made by all Norbie warriors leaving a clan camp. He waited. Did the other’s favor reach to actually invoking his power for an off-world alien or did his aid only consist of standing aside to let Hosteen fight his own battle? The difference could mean a great deal to the waiting Terran.

A breeze swirled ash, cooled earth, drove away the smoke and stench of fire, and pulled at the edge of the Drummer’s feather cloak. Ukurti stared down at the tambour, which he held in both hands, as if he were reading on the tightly stretched skin of its head some message. His fingers tapped out a small burst of sharp notes while he spoke. Though that twittering was unintelligible to Hosteen, he thought he detected in it a rhythm that could be either a blessing or a curse. Then Ukurti’s hands left the drum and made signs the Terran could understand.

“Go in power, one who knows the song of the wind, the whisper of growing things, the minds of beasts and birds. Go in power; do what must be done. In this moment the war arrow is balanced upon a finger. So light a thing as this wind may wreck a world.”

It was more than Hosteen had dared hope the Drummer would ever grant him—not the blessing and good will for a warrior departing into danger but the outright promise of one wizard to another who also dealt in things unseen, a promise of power to be added to power.