“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.
“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.”
Chapter Sixteen
Almost immediately half a dozen fluttrells bearing armed warriors passed in a skein over the clearing. I remained still. I hungered for a voller.
As the morning wore on and Far and Havil crawled across the sky and the temperature rose and we sweated and steamed, more fluttrells pirouetted above us until I began to think we would have to decoy them down, enough
