Free Maeve by Jo Clayton Page B

around apprehensively. “Those damn birds make welts the size of your thumb. That oil pulls them in for miles.”
    â€œSorry about that.” Gwynnor rubbed the leaves over his upper body, wrinkling his nose at the fetid stench rising around him. “This is better?”
    Ghastay grinned. “You ever been swarmed by needlebirds, you’d rather sit behind a bull weywuks with diarrhea.”
    As they trotted on to intercept the third pair of guards and their ambushers, Gwynnor jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Will the birds get inside the armor?”
    Ghastay shrugged without breaking stride. “Probably not, but those kiminixye will be pig-sick before they’re cut down.”
    Loops flicked out silently and dropped over nervously swivelling heads. Strong arms lifted briefly, then relaxed, swinging the startled guards into the center of a plant with leaves wider and taller than a man. Tentacles tough as wire cable snapped out and whipped around and around the struggling starmen. As Gwynnor and Ghastay slipped up to the edge of the clearing, a blue-edged ray of killing light sliced briefly through the leaves, burning a part of the plant away.
    The thick serum in the succulent leaves quenched small flames that died into a smouldering stench while the wiry tentacles closed tighter, knocking the long gun out of the guard’s straining hand.
    Gwynnor stared as the remaining leaves began folding with a terrible, slow inevitability over the metal figures. “What’s that?”
    â€œKalskals. A good thing to keep away from. Look.” He pointed at the knobbly white threads raying out from the base of the plant. They were visible over the short velvety grass only because they were twitching wildly as the plant struggled to deal with the metal covering its prey. At rest, they would be well-hidden by the grass. “Whenever you see those red-veined leaves, you look down fast. Those false roots carry enough shocking force to knock you out so you’d wake up down the kalskals’ throat half-digested.”
    Gwynnor shuddered. “You think it can eat through that armor?”
    â€œOne way or another. Come on. And watch out where you’re stepping.”
    The sticky net swooped down, tangling the last pair of guards in an awkward knot of arms and legs. A grinning adolescent hunter plunged in a controlled fall down the rope, checking himself with proud skill, one hand opening and closing so that he came to a smooth stop, kicking the gun loose before the guard could fire it.
    The knot was secured and the pole thrust through. Then the cludair trotted off, pole slung between two shoulders, the other two running guard beside them.
    Gwynnor watched. As Ghastay started to follow, he stopped him. “What are they going to do with those?”
    Impatiently, Ghastay pulled free. “They go back to the machine. Hurry up. We have to play the music when they throw them back like inedible fish.”
    By the clearing where the machine huddled, still sending up occasional spurts of pungent blue smoke the cludair, with swift efficiency, knotted ropes to the hardened web and pulled the pole free. As Gwynnor watched they swarmed up the tree, the ropes jerking behind them.
    The webbed knot, with the two guards forced in contorted embrace by the hardened exudation, rose rapidly as the hunters hauled on the ropes. Then it began swinging in an increasing arc until, at the end of the swing, the cludair let go of the ropes. The knot flew into the clearing, landing next to the machine with a heavy metallic clang.
    Several startled offworlders dived down behind the bulk of the tracks, then, after a while, emerged cautiously, wincing as the eerie music frazzled already jangled nerves. As they discovered the guards inside the glassy webbing, their startled exclamations cut through the thread of sound. Ghastay’s dark-reddish eyes caught Gwynnor’s. His hairy, mobile brows dipped down then