“Not just rhino-’ig,” hissed Lawrence with a note of caution.
“What else?” asked Dennis.
“Not sure. Strange, ’ut’ a’iliar.” He shook his head in frustration. “Like thing I should know.”
As quietly as possible, they picked up the pace. There was a little rise, probably formed by burned and rotten deadfall, and they crept up to the peak.
Below them, little more than sixty yards away, three rust-colored Grik, or lizards… or something stood around a dead rhino-pig. Their clawed hands held spears that were no more than sharpened sticks, but the points were black with blood. They seemed to be resting from their exertions, or complimenting one another on their prowess, and for the moment, at least, their guard was down.
With a Lemurian curse, Moe brought his crossbow up.
“What the… Hey, wait a goddamn minute!” Silva said, pushing the crossbow down. “What the hell? There might be dozens of the bastards!”
“No, just those,” Moe said, trying to wrench his weapon free. “They steal our meat! They just big skuggiks!”
“You mean they live here?” Silva whispered savagely. “You never said there was jungle Griks on Borno!”
“Like Griks, but not!” Moe insisted. “I tell. Others tell! There not many on Borno, but we kill them when we see them! Let them live on little islands! Not here!”
Suddenly, Silva did remember. He remembered Nakja-Mur mentioning that the Grik on Borneo were primitive and didn’t know tools, and they’d been hunted to near extinction. Only on islands like Bali-small or far away-were they left alone. They had been told, but he, at least, had forgotten.
“ I like Grik, ’ut not,” Lawrence hissed.
The ground beneath them seemed to shake and the foliage near the trio of lizards exploded into the clearing. Within the confetti of leaves and brush charged a young super lizard! The “Grik,” or whatever they were, scattered in three directions. Apparently more interested in live prey than the dead pig, the monster fixed its gaze on one rusty shape and bolted after it with the amazing speed Silva knew the things were capable of.
“Shit!” growled Silva, and rose to a knee. He cocked his big gun and pulled it to his shoulder, raising the stock to his cheek. For an instant, he honestly didn’t know what he was doing, but he didn’t really need to. Threat assessment had always been one of his strong suits, whether the question was whom to throw the first punch at in a bar, or which target to engage. There was that little incident when he’d shot Lawrence, but it was a perfectly understandable mistake and the little guy didn’t hold a grudge… His sights found the pocket behind the super lizard’s right arm. He eased a little right to lead the target and squeezed the trigger.
The recoil nearly tossed him on his back. It did put him on his butt. It was the first time he’d ever fired the Doom Whomper from a kneeling position. Quickly, he reversed the rifle and blew down the barrel, sending a jet of smoke out the vent. Even as he reached for another charge, he was looking to see the results of his shot. At first, there seemed to be no effect. The rusty lizard running for its life dropped to the ground, cowering from the shockingly loud report, most likely. On the other hand, it may have been a final instinctive act of self-preservation. The super lizard was almost upon it. Suddenly, the huge monster just stopped running, as if remembering it had forgotten something in the woods. It swayed a little, caught itself, looked at its prey, and even glared around the clearing. With no further ado, the bulb went out and the beast plummeted to the ground with a rumbling crash.
“Hot damn!” Silva crowed, pouring the charge and seating the bullet atop it. “He may not be a trophy as such critters go, but one shot’s one shot!”
“Have care,” Moe cautioned. The red-brown lizards were gathering near the one who’d almost bought it, helping it to its feet. Dennis didn’t miss the significance of that. All the while, the trio of lizards was staring at them inscrutably. “Those vermin is easy to kill at a… far. Up close, they dangerous.”
“You leave them lizards be,” Silva said.
“Why? We no kill them, them stay here. I telled you, them… they steal! They dangerous scavengers. Dangerous to hunters. They stay, more come. Be dangerous to city.”
“Did ol’ Nakja-Mur know you was killin’ ’em whenever you saw ’em?” Silva asked.
“Of course. We always kill them when get so close to Baalkpan. Borno is big; them no need be here.”
“Does Adar know you’re killin’ ’em? Does he even know about ’em?” Silva asked. “Bradford woulda had puppies just to gawk at ’em if he’d’a known there was anything so much like Griks right here on Borneo.”
Moe didn’t answer at first. Even he seemed to realize Dennis was right. “I no see them,” he said at last. “I no see ‘ungle Griks,’ you call them, for five, six seasons. They gone. Good gone, say me.” He looked at Lawrence, comprehension dawning. “But they not Griks. Like Griks, but not.”
“Larry here looks enough like a Grik that I shot him once,” Silva said. “Here you are huntin’ with him. Then you rear up and start to kill some lizards that look more like him than they do Griks. I guess I’m sorta confused. Did it ever occur to you to try to talk to one of them buggers?” he asked, pointing at the trio still standing, staring back at them. “Did it ever occur to anybody? Lord knows I’m not much of a talker myself and I sure ain’t one to judge. Killin’ a problem’s a quicker, more permanent way to solve one than talkin’ to it any day, you ask me, but knowin’ Larry has made me a little more selective about the lizard problems I kill on sight.”
The rusty lizards seemed to decide it was time to go. They gathered their spears but made no move to retrieve the rhino-pig when they went near it. They did look at their multispecies benefactors quite often, however. One of them, maybe the one Silva had saved, pointed at the super lizard with its spear and then pointed it at Silva, adding a resonant cry like a choking goat. Dennis nearly jumped out of his skin when Lawrence replied with something that sounded similar. All three lizards stopped then, looking back, black crests rising on their heads. Another moment passed and then they melted into the trees.
“Goddamn, Larry!” Silva exclaimed. “Don’t do that! Most of the time, you talk better than me. That lizard lingo gives me the creeps!”
There was movement in the jungle behind them, but it was only the bearers coming to the sound of Silva’s gun. Bradford and Abel were with them. All knew Moe would have finished the rhino-pig with his massive crossbow, so Silva must have found them a more substantial load.
“What did you shoot?” puffed Courtney, leading the others and hastening to join them.
“Teenage super lizard,” Silva said offhandedly.
“Splendid, splendid! I do hope you didn’t damage the skull this time! I so want an undamaged skull! I wish I’d been here to see it!”
“Honest to God, I wish you’d been here too,” Silva said. He went on to describe their encounter.
“Amazing, remarkable!” Courtney looked at Moe. “Does Adar know of these creatures?” he asked, echoing Silva’s unanswered question.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Moe conceded. “Adar is of sea folk. Sea folk know lizards on Bali and other places… maybe not here.”
“I must speak to him about an expedition to make contact!” Bradford declared.
“That may be a little tough,” Silva said. “Ol’ Moe here says he and other hunters been killin’ ’em on sight for years. Kinda like Injuns.” He brightened. “Injun jungle lizards!”
“Oh, dear!” Courtney exclaimed. He turned to Lawrence. “But you spoke to them! What did they say?”
Lawrence flared his new, longer tail plumage and tried to shrug. “I don’t know. They could have said, ‘Thanks ’or killing the ’ig lizard.’ ”
“Well… what did you say to them?”
“ ‘Good day.’ ”
“So, what do we know, sir?” asked Chack. He was sitting as close as-probably closer than-was “decent” to Safir Maraan. His reunion with the Orphan Queen had been brief, but almost electric with suppressed passion when Safir arrived on the flagship for the conference.