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.