Part 32 (1/2)

He only grinned owlishly. The village had gone into a frenzy of jubilation when he announced that Nodonn's coup had failed and Basil and the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were safe. ”But I didn't tell you all of Elizabeth's news, bubeleh. I wanted to save it! We'll have a really big feast-a monster barbecue, you hear me? I'll bring you six antelope to roast. Afterwards I'll tell you and the rest of the people the biggest news since the Flood!”

”Loco indio,” she mumbled fondly. ”No me importa dos cojones.” She came squirming toward him. ”Look, it's nice and cool now. You don't really want to go hunting. Lucien and the kids can get game for your feast. Vamos a pichar, mi corazon, mi porra de azucar-”

She made a grab for him, but he was already out the door of her hut, buck-naked in the dawn (and still well s.h.i.+ckered, if the truth be told), aflame with atavistic masculine instincts that were, at least for now, more imperative than s.e.x. He stumbled to his wigwam and got dressed-not in the chino cargo pants and st.u.r.dy boots that had been his customary garb ever since the exodus from Muriah, but in his old breechclout and moccasins.

When he rummaged about for hunting equipment he shoved aside the modern pla.s.s-and-metal compound bow, deadly and dependable, and the iron-tipped vitredur arrows that had slain so many exotic antagonists. He took up instead the gear he had chosen to carry through the time-gate many years earlier, when he still cherished a dream of returning to tribal ways.

Peopeo Moxmox, n.o.ble savage and late Justice of the Was.h.i.+ngton State Supreme Court, sat in his canoe and laughed. The craft was not made of bark but of decamole, that marvel of Milieu technology, and he would deflate it and tuck it into a waist-pouch when the day's comedy ended. He suddenly remembered the tag good old Saul Mermelstein used to tease him with when he was a fledgling lawyer in Salt Lake City: ”Lo, the poor Indian, whose soul proud science never taught to stray ... ”

But he had, he had! And nowhere more than in the primeval Pliocene.

He fingered the warped shaft of an arrow, turning it so that the carefully chipped obsidian point glittered in the sun. Somewhere back in the wigwam was a shaft straightener, a simple gadget no primitive huntsman would be without. But on the other hand, vitredur arrows were indestructible, with self-fletching and a wide a.s.sortment of interchangeable heads. Some of them even had built-in transponders for tracking wounded game and easy retrieval.

Apple Injun!

”So why did I come out here today?” he inquired of the world at large. ”Why ask, Burke? You hopeless shmegeggeh!”

An unseen crocodilian choofed and a warbler sang. Two blue b.u.t.terflies twirled in a mating dance above the gleaming water.

He caught a whiff of vanilla essence in the still, hot air and looked up to see a spray of exquisite tiny orchids growing from a cleft in the bark of the cypress. Burke reached out and touched it. He was very glad he had come, glad he had killed nothing.

After a while he consulted his wrist chronograph, a thing as handsome (and nonaboriginal) as his golden torc. The time was coming up on 1600 hours, and he had left a note for Denny Johnson, asking to be met at the river trail with chalikos and plenty of game bags for the antelopes ...

Grinning, he untied the painter and stroked out into the lagoon toward the mainstream of the Moselle. The swan reappeared, majestic in black-and-white plumage, and glided tamely after the canoe. As Burke left it behind and the ripples of his wake subsided, the bird seemed poised in the centre of a peat-dark mirror, superimposed upon a reflection of itself.

Clumps of emerald gra.s.ses topped by feathery plumes framed it against the deeper green of the jungle. Staring back over his shoulder, Burke caught his breath. He would remember this-and so much more.

Then the canoe grounded on a mudbar. Setting aside the paddle, he boosted the craft over into the river backwater, stood up, and began to pole stoutly upstream. He hoped that Denny himself would be waiting. There would be salutary jibes to endure, but as they rode back to Hidden Springs he could break the news about the time-gate. And they could discuss ways and means for a Lowlife capture of Castle Gateway.

Lowlife prisoners from Iron Maiden and Haul Fourneaville numbering sixty or seventy were armed and ready in their big wooden cage. Their position was one of strength, partially sheltered behind granite outcroppings at the crest of the small ridge.

There was no way they could be surprised or outflanked, no chance that the Firvulag might overwhelm them by resorting to the traditional ma.s.sed a.s.sault or bogeyman tactics. The Lowlife miners, veterans of many a skirmish in the beleaguered Iron Villages, would only be bested by mind-power.

Up in the royal observation post on a nearby height, King Sharn chewed his lower lip as he watched the first company of stalwart gnomes, led by Pingol the Horripilant, begin their advance. Curses and catcalls came from the defending prisoners, but they held their fire. Some experienced fighter must have taken on the leaders.h.i.+p, imparting a modic.u.m of discipline to the demoralized crew. Their yells subsided, then rose afresh as a second and smaller contingent of Firvulag, warrior ogresses under Fouletot Blackbreast, started up the ravine on the left shoulder of the ridge. This route provided more shelter for the attackers, but was considerably steeper. To Sharn and Ayfa, watching the manoeuvres from their vantage point half a kilometre away, the two a.s.sault forces looked like separate swarms of jet-black beetles, serrated pikes and standards waving like antennae under the blazing sun, creeping up on a gigantic exposed picnic basket.

”I still think it was a mistake to arm the prisoners with iron,”

Sharn said. ”Just one scratch, and it's curtains for our folks.”

”They've got to get used to the hazard,” Ayfa retorted brutally. ”Do you think Roniah will be defended with gla.s.s swords and bronze battle-axes? By rights, those prisoners should have stunners and laser carbines as well as arrows tipped with the blood-metal. That's what our troops will be up against in a real battle. Look what happened to Mimee's outfit at Bardelask.”

”h.e.l.l, they won, didn't they?”

”Only because the Bardy-Town defenders were vastly outnumbered and ran out of arrows. And if Aiken Drum's supply train had arrived with the futuristic weaponry, it would have been G.o.ddess-Bless-Me-ere-I-Sleep!” The Queen frowned at the Firvulag forces creeping up the hill. ”Our lads and la.s.ses have to understand that mind-power is the only sure way to victory. Concerted mind-power-not our usual higgledypiggledy uncoordinated individual efforts. That's why Betularn White Hand set up these manoeuvres to give the Lowlives the tactical advantage-and why he put gonzo youngsters like Fouletot and Pingol in command of this first demonstration.”

”Let's hope the prisoners put up a good fight,” Sharn said, shading his eyes to peer at the now silent cage. ”Be a pity if they funked out.”

Ayfa snickered. ”Betularn gave them his personal a.s.surance that if they managed to hold off our troops until sunset, we'd set them free.”

The King guffawed in appreciation of the jest. ”Poor dolts!