The Iron Breed (30 page)

Only Gammage, Furtig's most notable Ancestor, was not here, even in spirit. And it seemed, after he had listened to Fal-Kan, that Gammage had fallen from favor with his own kind. Furtig squatted by the lamp box and lapped a mouthful or two of water from his bowl as he thought about Gammage.

Why did the Ancestor fear the return of the Demons? It had been so long since the last one had been seen. Unless—Furtig's spine hair raised at the thought—deep in the lairs they still existed. And Gammage, creeping secret ways there, had learned more of their devilish evil than he had shared. But if that were true—no, he was certain Gammage would have sent a plain message, one which might even have won some of the People to join in his wild plans.

Elders sometimes took to living in the past. They spoke to those who had gone into the Last Dark as if such still stood at their sides. It came to them, this other sight, when they were very old. Though few lived so long, for when a warrior grew less swift of thought, less supple of body, he often died suddenly and bloodily by the horns and hoofs of hunted prey, from the coughing sickness which came with the cold, of a hundred other perils which always ringed the caves.

Only such perils might not haunt the lairs. And Gammage, very old, saw Demons stalking him in the shadows of their own stronghold. Yes, that could be the answer. But you could not argue with one who saw those gone before. And Gammage, moved by such shadows and master of the lair wonders—why, he could even be a menace to his own People if he continued in his folly of spreading his discoveries among strangers! And even—as Fal-Kan had said—among his enemies! Someone ought to go to Gammage in truth, not just in the sayings of young warriors, and discover what he was doing now. For the good of the People that should be done.

Going to Gammage—it had been four trials ago that the last one who said that had gone, never to return. Foskatt of Fava's cave. He had been bested in the contests. Furtig tried to recall Foskatt and then wished he had not. For the image in his mind was too like the one he had seen of himself the last time he had looked down at the other-Furtig in the smooth water of the Pool of Trees.

Foskatt, too, had been thin, narrow of shoulder and loin. And his fur was the same deep gray, almost blue in the sun. He also had been fond of roving on his own and had once shown Furtig something he had found in a small lair, one of those apart from the great ones in which Gammage lived. It was a strange thing, like a square box of metal, and in its top was a square of other material, very smooth. When Foskatt pressed a place on the side of the box, there appeared a picture on the top square. It was Demon-made, and when the cave Elders saw it they took it from Foskatt and smashed it with rocks.

Foskatt had been very quiet after that. And when he was beaten at the Trials, he had gone to Gammage. What had he found in the lairs?

Furtig fingered his fighting claws and thought about what might happen tomorrow; he must forget Gammage and consider rather his own future. The closer it came to the hour when he would have to front an opponent chosen by lot, the less good that seemed. Though he knew that once a challenge was uttered, he would be caught up in a frenzy of battle he would neither want to avoid nor be able to control. The very life force of their kind would spur him on.

Since it was not the custom that one tribe should stare at another in their home place, those of the caves went to their own shelters as the van of the visitors settled in the campgrounds, so Furtig was not alone for long. In the cave the life of his family bubbled about him.

“There is no proper way of influencing the drawing of lots.” Fal-Kan and two of the lesser Elders drew Furtig aside to give him council, though he would far rather have them leave him alone. Or would he? Which was worse, foreseeing in his own mind what might happen to him, or listening to advice delivered with an undercurrent of dubious belief in their champion? Fal-Kan sounded now as if he did wish there was some way to control the selection of warrior against warrior.

“True.” Fujor licked absentmindedly at his hand, his tongue rasping ever against the place where one finger was missing, as if by his gesture he could regrow that lacking member. Fujor was hairier of body than most of the cave and ran four-footed more often.

“There are three without claws,” Fal-Kan continued. “Your weapons, warrior, will be an added inducement for any struggle with those. Some will fight sooner for good weapons than a mate.”

Furtig wished he could pull those jingling treasures from his belt and hide them. But custom forbade it. There was no escape from laying them on the challenge rock when he was summoned. However, he dared speak up out of a kind of desperation. After all, Fal-Kan and Fujor had been successful in their own Trials. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could give him some manner of advice.

“Do you think, Elders, that I am already defeated, that you see the claws of my father on the hands of a stranger? For if this is so, can you not then tell me how the worst is to be avoided?”

Fal-Kan eyed him critically. “It is the will of the Ancestors who will win. But you are quick, Furtig. You know all we can teach you. We have done our best. See that you do also.”

Furtig was silenced. There was no more to be gotten out of these two. They were both Elders (though Fujor only by right of years, not by any wisdom). Fe-San, the other Elder, was noted for never raising his voice in Fal-Kan's presence.

The other males were younglings, too young to do more than tread the teaching trails by day. Lately they had had more females than males within the cave of Gammage. And after every Trial the females went to the victors' caves. The family was dwindling. Perhaps it would be with them as it had been with the cave of Rantla on the lower level, a clan finally reduced only to Elders and to Choosers too old to give birth. Yet Gammage had founded a proud line!

Now Furtig ate sparingly of the meat in his bowl, scrambled onto his own ledge, and curled up to sleep. He wished that the morning was already passed and the outcome of his uncertain championship decided. Through the dark he could hear the purring whispers of two of his sisters. Tomorrow would be a day of pride for them, with no doubts to cloud their excitement. They would be among the Choosers, not among the fighters.

Furtig tried to picture Fas-Tan, but his thoughts kept sliding in more dismal directions—he pictured a belt with no claws and an inglorious return to his cave. It was then he made up his mind. If he was a loser he was not going to take the solitary trail his brother had followed, or remain here to be an object of scorn for the Elders. No, he was going to Gammage!

The morning cry woke Furtig from dreams he could not remember. Thus they had not been sent by any Ancestor to warn him. And Furtig, as he dropped from his sleep place, felt no greater strength. The thought of the coming day weighed heavily on him, so much so that he had to struggle to preserve the proper impassive manner of a warrior on this day of days.

When they gathered on the pounded-earth flooring of the Trial place, Furtig had to join the line of Challengers as confidently as if he were San-Lo himself, there at the other end. San-Lo was easily counted the best the caves could produce. His yellow fur with its darker brown striping was sleek and well ordered, seeming to catch the morning sun in a blaze, foretelling the glory which would soon rest on him in the sight of both caves and westerners.

Furtig had no illusions; of that company he was certainly the least likely to succeed. There were ten of them this year, with a range of different fur coloring making a bright pattern. Two brothers of the gray-with-black-striping, which was the commonest; a night black, a contrast to his two black-and-white brothers, a formidable trio who liked to hunt together and shared more companionship than others of their age group. Then came a stocky white with only ears and tail of gray; two more yellows, younger and lighter editions of San-Lo; a brown-striped with a white belly; and last Furtig in solid gray.

Their opponents were more uniform, having originally come from only two families, according to tradition. They were either all black, or black-and-white in various markings.

The Choosers were lying at languid ease on top of the sun-warmed rocks to the east of the combat field, while the Elders and the mated gathered north and south. Now and then one of the Choosers would wantonly utter a small yowling call, promising delights for him she would accept. But Fas-Tan did not have to attract attention so. Her superb beauty already had registered with them all.

Ha-Ja, who was the Eldest of the Westerners, and Kuygen, who held the same status at the caves, advanced to the center of the field. At a gesture each brought forward the first warrior in each line, holding a bowl well above the eye level of the contestants. Those raised their hands and drew, keeping their choices as concealed as they could. So it went, two by two, until Furtig had his chance. He groped in the bowl, felt the two remaining slips of wood, and pulled out one.

Once they had all drawn, each contestant smoothed a small patch of earth and dropped his choose-stick on it. Ha-Ja called first:

“One notch end.”

San-Lo showed his fangs and gave a low snarl of assent.

Kuygen gestured to the westerners. The duplicate lay at the feet of a powerfully built all-black, whose tail was already twitching. At least, by the look of him, San-Lo would be fairly matched.

Both advanced to the center rock, tossed their hunting claws with a jangle of metal on the stone. At least in this battle there would be no forfeiture of weapons.

Together Ha-Ja and Kuygen made signal. The warriors went to full ground-crouch, their tails alash, ears flattened, eyes slitted. And from their throats came the howls of battle. They circled in one of the customary challenge moves, and then the black sprang.

Their entanglement was a flurry of such fast tearing, rolling, and kicking with the powerful hind feet that the spectators, accustomed as they were to such encounters, were hardly able to follow the action before the warriors parted. Tufts of fur blew from the battle site, but they were yowling again, neither seeming the least affected by the fury of their first meeting.

Again that attack, vicious, sudden, complete. They rolled over and over on the ground and fur flew. The emotion spread to the spectators. Waiting warriors yowled, voicing their own battle cries, hardly able to restrain themselves from leaping at each other. Even the Elders added to the general din. Only the Choosers held to their studied languor, though their eyes were very wide, and here and there a pink tongue tip showed.

San-Lo won. When they separated the second time, the black had lowered tail and backed from the field, raw and bleeding tears on his belly. The champion of the caves strutted to the rock to pick up his claws, dangling them in an arrogant jingle before he returned to his place in line.

The fights continued. Two of the cave warriors surrendered to the visitors. Then there were three straight wins for Furtig's clan. But his apprehension was growing. The matching of pieces was leaving another warrior on the western side as formidable in size as the one who had stood up to San-Lo. If the favor of the Ancestors was against Furtig—

And it was. His neighbor on the cave line bested—but just—his opponent. Furtig must face the powerful warrior. Also—no claws swung from the other's belt, so he had to face the thought of not only one defeat but two.

Dreading what was to come, yet knowing it must be faced, he went dutifully to the rock, tossed his claws there with a reluctance he hoped was not betrayed.

At least he could make the black know that he had been in a fight! And he yowled his challenge with what strength he could muster. When they tangled, he fought with all the skill he had. Only that was not enough. Sheer determination not to give in sent him twice more to tangle with those punishing clawed legs, fangs which had left wounds. It was a nightmare to which there was no end. He could only keep fighting—until—

Until there was blackness and he was lost in it, though there were unpleasant dreams. And when he awoke in the cave, lying on his own pallet, he first thought it was all a dream. Then he raised his swimming head and looked upon the matted paste of healing leaves plastered on him.

Almost hoping, he fought pain to bring his hand to his belt. But there were no claws there. He had plainly lost, and those weapons which had been Gammage's good gift to Furtig's father were gone with all his hopes of ever being more in the caves than Fu-Tor of the missing hand.

They had patched him up with the best of their tending. But there was no one in the cave. He craved water with a thirst which was now another pain, and finally forced his aching and bruised body to obey him, crawling through the light of the night lamp to the stone trough. There was little left, and when he tried to dip out a bowlful his hand shook so that he got hardly any. But even as he had fought on when there was no hope of victory, he persisted.

Furtig did not return to his ledge. Now that he was not so single-minded in his quest for water, he could plainly hear the sounds of the feasting below. The Choosing must be over, the winners with the mates who had selected them. Fas-Tan—he put her out of his mind. After all she had been only a dream he could never hope to possess.

His clawless belt was the greater loss, and he could have wailed over that like a youngling who had strayed too far from his mother and feared what might crouch in the dark. That he could stay on in the caves now was impossible.

But to go to Gammage armed and confident was one matter. To slink off as a reject from the Trials, with his weapon lost as spoils of victory—In some things his pride was deep. Yet—to Gammage he must go. It was his right, as it had been his brother's, to choose to leave. And one could always claim a second Trial—though at present that was the last thing he wanted.

However, Furtig had no intention of leaving before he proclaimed his choice. Pride held him to that. Some losers might be poor spirited enough to slink away in the dark of night, giving no formal word to their caves—but not Furtig! He crawled back to the ledge, knowing that he must also wait until he was fit for the trail again.