Part 15 (2/2)

He picked splinters of gla.s.s from the bipe's shattered instrument faces out of his leathery gray skin, working deftly with his extended claws.

Gray skin? Claws? For an instant, they seemed alien. Shouldn't he have flat fingernails and a pinkish-tan skin?

Kranath smiled, dismissing such ridiculous thoughts. He was groggy from the crash, that was all. This was no more than a dream, insignificant.

He climbed from what was left of the c.o.c.kpit and surveyed the remains of his aircraft. Not much of the little biplane still held together, he saw with regret. The wings were splinters and shredded fabric, the fuselage little more.

His head was beginning to clear, so he decided to check the engine.

The prop would be shattered, of course, but the engine might be salvageable, if the brush that had cus.h.i.+oned the crash for him had done the same for it. Engines were handmade and expensive, not to be abandoned lightly even by a rich clan--which St'nar was not.

Kranath was relieved to see only minor damage. St'nar's artisans would have no difficulty repairing a cracked cylinder head and a bent push rod. His problem, then, was to get back to the clanhome. He smiled at that thought. To a scout-pilot, walking out of the wilderness in spring should be almost a vacation. He wore flying leathers, was armed with a dagger and a medium-caliber handgun, and the plane carried a full survival kit. It was far more equipment than he'd had for wilderness survival during his Ordeal of Honor, and he'd managed quite comfortably even then.

This hike would be shorter, probably less than three days, and there was no point in delay. Returning to the c.o.c.kpit, he dug out the survival kit and slung it on his back, then detached the compa.s.s, which fortunately was undamaged, from the control panel and consulted his flight map.

Kranath saw with dismay that St'nar's clanhome was almost directly south, but taking that route directly was just asking for trouble.

He'd have to go around. He headed southeast and began his trek.

The underbrush, while light, was growing too irregularly for him to settle into the ground-eating lope a Traiti fighter could maintain all day. Keeping down to walking speed frustrated him since St'nar needed all its pilots, including him, in the current battle with N'chark. But he'd survived the crash; he'd fly for St'nar again. He enjoyed flying and fighting, though the toll interclan battles were taking of late disturbed him more than he cared to admit. The death rate was too high, far higher now than the birth rate.

(So the Traiti had almost been wiped out in a genocidal war once before, thought a tiny detached fragment that was still Steve Tarlac.

It was an interesting parallel to the problem he faced.)

Kranath shoved those thoughts aside. He was a fighter, not supposed to be concerned with interclan policy. He'd often wondered why he shouldn't be, but tradition insisted his Ka'ruchaya was wiser than he in such matters.

Instead, he tried to figure out what had caused his crash. It wasn't pilot error, he was sure. The flight had been routine, the air calm.

The engine had run smoothly, without even a cough, and the controls had been responding as well as they ever did. So why had he crashed?

It nagged at him, but even after a full tenth-day of pondering while he walked, he still had no idea. By that time he was a good five n'liu from the crash site, a respectable half-morning's walk. He was also approaching a low hill, the legendary place known as G.o.dhome.

That was the reason he'd had to plan an indirect route to St'nar.

n.o.body went to G.o.dhome voluntarily, and Kranath cursed at himself for allowing speculation about the crash to distract his attention from his course. He'd come too far south! He began to veer east, trying to put some distance between himself and the ominous hill before the madness of the place seized him.

The first eastward steps were easy, but soon he began to feel as if he were wading in something sticky, something invisible that was getting deeper. He could see normal ground, ordinary bushes and shrubs like woodlands he'd walked in hundreds of times--yet something was making him struggle for progress. When the sticky invisibility reached his waist, he decided this route was futile.

So was north, he discovered when he tried to retrace his steps to the crash site. The only way open to him was south, straight toward G.o.dhome. He was beginning to realize with dismay that he would not be able to avoid it, desperately though he wanted to. He stood still, hesitating.

Then something nudged him in the back, just hard enough to make him stumble a couple of startled steps forward--south. He looked around, not really surprised to see nothing behind him, and remained standing where he had stopped. Moments later another nudge, more insistent, propelled him several steps further.

Bitterly sure it would be useless, that he was as much a prisoner as if he were surrounded by armed guards, Kranath stopped again. What had he done to deserve captivity? Madness at least brought no disgrace to the victim; why should his accidental trespa.s.s be any worse than anyone else's, that he should be humiliated and dishonored?

The next prompting he got wasn't a nudge. The pressure at his back became constant, gentle but irresistible, and it forced him toward the hill at a steady walk.

It was over, Kranath thought. Captive, with no hope of escape from whatever was wielding enough power to compel him this way, he would die. The only chance he had to regain honor now was to kill himself before the continuing knowledge of captivity exhausted his will to act and, within a few days, his will to live.

Grimly determined to at least die in what honor he could, Kranath reached for his weapons. Either gun or dagger would be fast and clean.

He touched them, got his hands firmly on the grips--and was unable to draw either. Whatever held him had left him his weapons, but made them a useless mockery. That didn't mean he was completely disarmed, though.

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