Gladiators Of Hapanu

Chapter 3

More and louder splashing woke Blade, along with whistlings, hootings, and gruesome noises like the horns of gigantic trucks. The birds and insects were lost in the uproar. With a safe fifty feet between him and the ground, Blade watched the reptiles heading for home.

He counted at least twenty of them lumbering through the trees and splashing into the lower pool. They ranged from comparative runts no more than fifteen feet long to one monster who must have been well over forty. His skull alone was a yard wide, and each of the jutting spikes along his back was two feet high. Each scale on his belly was the size of a man's hand. Like all the others, he was a greenish-black on the back and head, and a dirty orange on the belly and the insides of his four clawed legs. The creatures looked like some nightmarish horned caricature of a crocodile.

Some of the creatures were smeared with dried blood and shreds of flesh from their night's victims. All of them seemed to be in a bad temper. They honked, hissed, slapped their tails on the ground, and occasionally hurled challenges to fight. Then two of them would go at each other with horns and teeth, rolling over and over, clawing at the ground, lashing out with their tails hard enough to flatten bushes and small trees. None of the fights seemed to hurt anything except the undergrowth.

Eventually each of the horned crocodiles plunged into the lower pool, briefly sank out of sight, then swam off downstream with only its eyes above water. Blade waited until the last one was gone, then waited a little longer to be on the safe side. By the time he finally climbed down, it was full daylight.

He looked downstream as far as he could see, without finding any sign of the creatures. Apparently they hunted along the banks by night, then laired up in the water by day. If he traveled by day and spent the nights in the trees, he should still be able to follow the course of the stream without any unfortunate meetings with the crocodiles.

He'd still better have some sort of weapon against them. No matter how alert he was or how thoroughly the creatures stayed hidden by day, he didn't want to rely on luck and his ability to outrun them. But did he have any chance of making an effective weapon? The crocodiles were as long as small boats, they must weigh as much as large automobiles, and they were far more agile out of the water than any similar Home Dimension creatures. Their tooth-lined jaws could probably snap Blade in half at a single bite.

Their jaws-there was the key to the problem. Perhaps he couldn't make a weapon to hurt them, but he might make something to keep them from hurting him. If he could keep them from closing those formidable jaws on him

Quickly Blade began searching the ground for sticks and lengths of vine. Again he wished he had a machete, but realized he probably wouldn't need one here. The fighting crocodiles had mangled the underbrush as thoroughly as a team of bulldozers, and bits and pieces of wood lay everywhere.

It took him less time than he'd expected to find what he needed, and almost no time to put the pieces together. Within a few minutes he had a length of wood, roughly straight, about two inches thick and two feet long. With lengths of vine he tied two more shorter pieces of wood crosswise to the longer one, about four inches from each end. He'd have liked to put a point on each end of the long piece, but there weren't any sharp stones in sight.

There was his defense against any crocodile. He would wait until the creature opened its mouth, then shove the jaw-bracer inside. As the creature tried to close its mouth, the ends of the longer stick would dig into the upper and lower jaws, holding them apart. The two crosspieces would help hold the longer stick in place.

At least that was the theory, and Blade couldn't see anything wrong with it. In practice, the jaw-bracer was going to need great speed, nearly perfect timing, and a certain amount of luck. Blade knew he had the first two, and could hope for the third. After that he wasn't going to worry. With its jaws braced open, the crocodile would have to chase him and try to knock him down with its tail. Blade was fairly certain he could outrun any of the crocodiles.

Blade made a belt of a longer piece of vine and hooked the jaw-bracer over it, where the weapon would be ready to hand. He considered making a second one, then decided to wait. He could pick up the pieces for the second one as he moved along, and he certainly wouldn't need more than two. It would take some luck to meet one of the crocodiles with the jaw-bracer, and really incredible luck to survive two of them. If he was attacked by three-well, his luck was going to run out, and there wasn't much he could do about it.

Blade ate two more of the fruits, threw away several which had started to go bad, and drank some water. Then he started off along the bank of the stream.

Swebon was the son of Igha of the Two Spears, chief of the Four Springs village among the Fak'si. Igha's wives bore him four sons who lived to manhood, but of these one was killed in a raid against the Yal the year before Igha's death from the Stomach Eater. Another was eaten by a Horned One in the very moon of his father's death. This left only Swebon and his brother Guno to be chiefs of the village, and most of the warriors felt that Swebon was much the wiser of the two. Guno was held in great honor for his strength and swiftness, but he had a hot temper which had made him enemies. In fact, his temper was so hot that some of the warriors who voted for Swebon also urged him to have Guno put to death.

«No,» said Swebon. «Guno is a mighty warrior, as you have said. He is also wise enough to know that he can now do nothing against me. Since this is so, I will not kill him simply because he might do something. The Fak'si need all their warriors.»

No one could deny that, with the Yal, the Banum, and the Kabi all seeming to make two raids for every one they'd made in years past. Not to mention the Treemen, and the slave-raiders of the Sons of Hapanu, who were worse than the other tribes and the Treemen put together! Swebon would have had to think hard before killing Guno, no matter what he might threaten against his brother and leader.

So Guno lived, and so far he'd done nothing to make Swebon regret letting him live. In the last seven months he had defeated twelve warriors of other tribes and taken three of their women. He'd also killed a Treeman and rescued a woman of the Fak'si from him. He'd even killed one of the Sons of Hapanu, although in doing that he'd taken a sword wound in his thigh which nearly killed him. But he was healing now, and he would go with the Fak'si on the next raid. The warriors praised him, some were proud to call him friend, and all now thought well of Swebon for letting such a man live.

So Swebon was very much at peace with not only his brother but the rest of the world as well, as his canoe glided down the Yellow River. The sun was warm and bright, so the Horned Ones would not be out. His belly was full of meat and fish, and all the hunters with him were also well fed. They were bringing back much food, much stone, some metal, and even the hide of a young Horned One. Swebon decided that part of the hide would be made into a shield for Guno. He deserved the honor.

Best of all, out of the four canoes they'd only lost two men. One had died from the bite of a snake-what kind, no one knew for sure. The other simply vanished into the jungle like the smoke from a fire vanishing into the sky. That usually meant the Treemen had carried him off and eaten him. Swebon could only hope that the man killed at least one of the Treemen before they killed him.

They hadn't met any of the slave-raiders of the Sons of Hapanu, and that was almost unfortunate. Four canoes full of warriors might have been enough to destroy the raiders. Certainly none of the warriors would have been captured, to be taken as slaves to Gerhaa the Stone Village at the mouth of the Great River.

On the other hand, perhaps it was still good, not to meet the Sons of Hapanu. Their swords and bows, the metal they wore on their bodies and heads, and the way they stood together in a fight always gave them great power. Many warriors would have died or been wounded so they would not fight again, even if all the Sons of Hapanu died also. So much death and blood could never be good.

Swebon cursed under his breath. Nothing could ever be truly good, until the Sons of Hapanu were beaten-beaten so that they would never again come into the Forest or along the Great River, to take the firestone from the bottoms of the streams and the strong men and women from the tribes. When that day came every man and woman of the Forest People would be happy. But would it ever come? Swebon did not have much hope left. The Stone Village had squatted at the mouth of the Great River since the time of his grand father's grandfather or even before. It would probably be there in the time of his grandson's grandson.

But such thoughts might bring bad luck if he let them go on too long. Swebon forced himself to stop thinking of the Sons of Hapanu and looked at the banks of the Yellow River passing on either side. There was the tree struck by lightning many years ago, when Swebon had just been given the Hunter's Gift and become a full man of the Fak'si. That meant they were not far from the River of the Six Dead Hunters, and would be well past it before they had to stop for the night.

Good. Along the River of the Six Dead Hunters the Horned Ones were so thick that no wise man ever spent the night within half a day's walking of it. A large party such as Swebon's might not be in danger, for the Horned Ones seldom attacked large groups of men. Yet one could never be sure, and it would be foolish to lose men to the Horned Ones when they were no more than two days from home.

Swebon leaned back on the pad of leaves and rushes in the stern of the canoe and stretched his legs. From the rear canoe he could hear the Paddlers' Chant, but in the other three canoes they paddled silently, with no sound but the ripple of water alongside and the dripping from the paddles.

Suddenly half the hunters seemed to be shouting at once, in surprise or even in fear. Swebon remembered that he was in a canoe just in time to keep himself from jumping to his feet and falling overboard. He sat up, to see that men had picked up spears and were pointing them toward the bank.

A man was standing on the bank, where the River of Six Dead Hunters flowed into the Yellow River. At least he looked more like a man than anything else, although he looked like no man Swebon had ever seen before. The man's skin was almost hairless, so he could not be one of the Treemen. He was almost as tall as one, though-taller than any of the Forest People and most of the Sons of Hapanu. For a moment Swebon thought he might be one of the Sons, and reached for his bow. Then he got a closer look at the man, and realized this could not be.

The man's skin was covered with dirt and dried kohkol sap, but underneath it was pale, almost white. It was not the skin of any tribe of the Forest People that Swebon had ever seen or even heard of. It was certainly not the skin of any of the Sons of Hapanu, who were all dark brown, like the mud from the bottom of a river. Perhaps he was the son of a Treeman and a captured woman of the Forest People, who hadn't grown a hairy coat and so been turned out into the Forest?

Or perhaps he wasn't a living man at all? At the thought, Swebon's shout made all the paddlers bring their canoes to a stop. If what they saw on the bank was the spirit of one of the Six Dead Hunters killed by the Horned Ones here, what could they do against it? And what had they done to bring it forth now, in daylight? Swebon was not only confused, he was frightened-so frightened he might even have admitted it if anyone had asked him.

Then the «spirit» spoke. He put down the branch he was carrying as a club, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, «Hallooooo! You people in the canoes! I am Richard Blade, of the English. I come in peace, and I want to speak to your chief.»

He spoke the language of the Forest People as if he'd sucked it in with his mother's milk, although the accent was strange. Swebon had never heard of a tribe of the Forest People called the English, but perhaps they were so far away that they no longer met or spoke with the other tribes. That would explain why this Richard Blade of the English sounded strange.

Swebon waved at the English man. «Ho, Richard Blade! I am Swebon, chief in the Four Springs village of the Fak'si. I will listen to any words of peace you speak.»

The English man laughed. «I speak only words of peace when there has been no war. I wish to ride in your canoes with you to your people, live among them, go where they go, and perhaps help them. Will you take me?»

Swebon frowned. He could not be sure that it was wise to bring a man of no known tribe among the Fak'si, but would it truly be dangerous? He looked at Blade again. The man had the body and muscles of a warrior and hunter. He wore only a belt with sticks hanging from it and a hat of leaves. The club and a sack of wisdom-fruit lay on the grass at his feet. That was not much to bring into the High Forest. Blade was either mad or very brave. He certainly did not sound mad, and he seemed to be ignoring all the spears and arrows pointed at him. He stood many paces from any shelter, and if Swebon spoke a single word he would look like a spinefish from all the arrows and spears sticking out of him. Yet he was speaking as calmly as if he were sitting by the fire, picking his teeth with a fish bone. This had to be courage.

So here was Richard Blade, a strong, brave warrior and hunter of an unknown tribe called the English, who spoke the speech of the Forest People. He wished to come among the Fak'si, and said he might be able to help them. How? Swebon almost wanted to ask that out loud, but decided not to. He did not trust Blade enough to tell him about the troubles of the Forest People.

He would take Blade home to the village, though. The man was strange, but he did not seem dangerous. If he was watched carefully he could do no harm even if he wanted to.

«Richard Blade!» shouted Swebon. «One canoe will come to the bank for you. Get into it. Leave your club behind.» The sticks hanging from Blade's belt looked somewhat like the spirit sticks the Yal tied to trees when they made sacrifices. No doubt Blade's sticks were used in the sacrifices of the English. It would not be proper to take them from him.

Blade nodded. «Thank you, Swebon. I will be happy to come among your people.» He picked up his club, tossed it into the water, and stood with his arms folded on his chest, watching the canoe heading toward him.