Child of Earth

CHAPTER TWO

He fought a dragon in a frigid sea of ebon chill, feeling the crushing grip of savage jaws, the rend of talons, the pain of wounds and the growing numbness of physical dissolution. Threshing he struggled for awareness, for warmth and light and conscious life. The darkness paled into a nacreous sheen. The crushing embrace of the dragon eased and reality replaced the nightmare.

One born of associated memories. There was no dragon, no ebon sea of frozen chill, no spouting wounds. They were distortions created from buried fears and hard experience of travelling in the containers designed to carry livestock, doped, frozen and ninety per cent dead. The caskets which offered cheap transport to those men and women willing to risk the fifteen per cent death rate. As yet he had been lucky. Now it seemed his luck had come to an end.

Lying supine, eyes closed, he recalled the onrush of the silvered shapes, the weapons, the gas, the overwhelming attack. Things belonging to the past now, fragments of dreams as had been the frigid sea and the dragon. But they had never existed outside his own mind. The beings that had taken him captive had been real.

He stirred and stretched and touched the surface on which he rested. A warm, soft texture taut over a yielding interior. The air, too was warm, scented with the delicate odor of a summer’s day and small sounds graced the emptiness which he sensed around him. A chamber, he decided. One holding a soft couch. A warm place that could be a haven or a jail.

Opening his eyes he stared at magic.

The chamber was vast, the vaulted roof soaring high, the walls distant, the illumination glowing from the floor and walls and the arching roof as if sunlight had been collected and stored and gently released to warm and gild all within view. Water gushed gently from a fountain and glimmering shapes rested on the surface of the surrounding pool. Among them a girl of gold and alabaster glided with the smooth agility of a fish.

Dumarest rose. He was naked beneath the gossamer silkiness of the fabric that had covered him and he wound it around his waist. The girl smiled as he approached lifting an arm in greeting

“Earl Dumarest. Welcome to Shandaha. Would you care to join me?”

“I would rather have some answers.”

“Of course. You are curious. That is to be expected. But there is time. There is always time. Too much time if the truth be admitted.” She swam to the edge of the pool and rose from the water to stand, a symphony of feminine perfection, droplets like pearls adorning her skin. “If you are interested you may call me Nada.”

“I am very interested.” Dumarest took a step towards her. “In you and this place and what has happened. How long have I been here? Am I alone? Was it your men who captured me? Those wearing white. What some poor, dying woman thought of as the Shining Ones?”

“So many questions, Earl. I promise you all will be answered but not now. You have just woken, you have yet to become accustomed to Shandaha, there are things to explain and ideas to exchange. You will accommodate me?”

“Have I a choice?”

“No, Earl. You have no choice. Here, in this place, the will of Shandaha is paramount.”

Not a haven then, but a jail. One luxurious beyond imagination but still a place where he was to be held and dominated and forced to live to the dictates of another’s whim. A prisoner of some unknown war. A captive as if he had been held by a raiding band. As a slave? For ransom?

He closed the space between them and gripped her upper arms and, thrusting his face close to her own, snarled his anger.

“I’ve had enough of this! Now take me to the one who owns this place! Move, damn you!”

“Don’t be a fool, Earl!”

“Just do it! Do it before I break your damned neck!” His hands lifted, changed their grip, fingers resting on soft tissue, firm bone. “Your choice, Nada. You have five seconds to make it. Shall I count?”

“Four,” she said calmly retaining her smile. “Three. Two. One-goodbye, Earl.”

And, suddenly, she was gone.

He stared before him, at his hands still raised before him, the fingers curved to mirror the shape of a neck that was no longer there. Perhaps had never been there. Like the imagined dragon of his dream the girl could have been a trick of his mind, a vision conjured from scents and colors and wistful longing. Nada-Nadine. Shandaha-Shemmar. Women he had known and loved and lost. Was he hoping to find them again? Here, on Earth, the planet of legend, all things were deemed possible. Or perhaps he was still lying in the snow where he had fallen. Freezing, lost in delirium, dying of hypothermia as Tazima had died.

“No. Earl, you are not dying.”

A man, tall, strong, graceful, with a deep musical voice. One with a thick mane of neatly dressed hair and an elaborately patterned beard. Hair, beard, eyes all of the same ebon hue as his skin and the clothing he wore. A creature of jet adorned with the glitter of gems. They flashed as he lifted a hand in warning as Dumarest strode towards him.

“Come no further!” Then, smiling, he added, “I must apologize. It seems my initial greeting was not to your liking. The girl, perhaps? Some men resent their air of superiority induced by the biological reactions of their opposite gender. Most lack that fine delicacy of feeling so essential to the establishment of a congenial harmony. I had hoped she would soothe your fear. I misjudged your reaction. It was a mistake to have used her as I did. Can any but a man truly understand another man? Your comments, Earl?”

“I think you talk too much and say too little.”

“A man of action as I had determined. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Shandaha.”

“My jailer.”

“Never that, Earl. You are my most welcome and treasured guest.”

“You own this place?”

“This place, the surrounding area, all that is above the ground and beneath it.”

“And, if I wish, I can leave at any time?”

“Of course. But remember the hostility of the terrain outside. Without provisions, clothing, maps, transport I’m afraid you wouldn’t get very far. But the choice is yours.” He smiled as Dumarest remained silent. “I meant it when I said you were a treasured guest. I could also add that you owe me a small debt of gratitude. I saved your life. In return all I ask is that you entertain me for a while. Shall we begin by sharing wine?”

There were preliminaries, surprises, meandering that Dumarest ignored. The couch on which he had woken had vanished to be replaced by a deep sofa faced by a table bearing familiar items. His clothing, the grey plastic refurbished as new. Pants, knee-high boots, the tunic with the high collar and long sleeves falling to the middle of his thighs. His knife; nine inches of honed and polished steel, curved and balanced, razor-edged and with a needle point. He fingered it, letting his fingers check the band of weld beneath the pommel, satisfied with what he found. As he was when he checked the buckle of his belt.

“You are pleased?”

Pleased and puzzled, he had seen no sign of attendants or activity, yet the furniture had been changed and his clothing set in position.

Shandaha said, “I asked you a question, Earl. Are you pleased?”

“Very pleased.” Dumarest hesitated then added, “My lord.”

“You are courteous, or perhaps merely cautious, but there is no need for rigid formality between us. If you wish to dress do it now. I have arranged refreshment to be served in a smaller chamber. You will find it to your right as you pass through the end door. Join me when you are ready. There is no need to hurry.”

Time gained in which to think and assess what he had learned. A man of power living in an oddly deserted edifice and what had happened to the girl? If he threatened Shandaha would he vanish as Nada had done? Had the offer of freedom been as genuine as it seemed? Yet, without help and supplies escape was impossible. And what had happened to the others?

The Kaldari and the Shining Ones or the creatures aping them. Men he had thought, wearing camouflage and bearing arms. A dozen of them? A score? More? Had they been men? He heard again the chirps, whistles, howls, assorted noises as they had exchanged signals. Felt again the numbing impact of the gas.

He tried to remember what had followed but could only recall scattered fragments of dreams.

Perhaps Shandaha would provide the answers.

He sat in a chamber shaped and glowing like the interior of a gem. Facets reflected soft shimmers, gleams, furnishings, the goblets on the table, the decanters of wine.

Thin plumes of rising smoke held tantalizing odors and gleaming salvers held a profusion of cunningly fashioned delicacies. Nada sat beside him, a vision in white adorned with gold. Next to her another woman, her flesh richly golden, stared with undisguised interest as Dumarest approached the table. Her eyes were darkly enigmatic. Her gown the color of ripened wheat.

“Delise,” introduced Shandaha. “This is Earl Dumarest,” he said to her then, as a man walked into the room, “I think you all know Doctor Chagal.”

He had changed. His face had smoothed to a younger design now clear of strain and fatigue. He walked tall and stood straight but something had gone from his eyes as if a dark secret had been revealed or his innermost privacy had been violated. A strange detachment as if he had looked into the depths of his being and found no reason for respect, pride, hope or virtue.

Dumarest moved to greet him, gripping his hand in the old gesture of mutual trust, then guided him to a chair.

“We’ve a lot to talk about, doctor. Here, have some wine.”

A discourtesy with the host present but Dumarest was beyond caring about the niceties of protocol. As yet he had been fumbling in the dark, unsure of the truth of what he had been told, uneasy at the continued facade of apparent concern and friendship that could mask something far more sinister.

Chagal should be able to tell him what he needed to know.

“Earl!” His hand closed in turn. “It’s good to see you again. “Ladies,” he bowed to them both. “My lord!”

A title Shandaha had rejected when Dumarest had offered it. A politeness offered by the doctor, which he retained. A subtle hint as to their relative standings.

“Here!” Shandaha gestured to Nada. “Earl’s goblet has yet to be filled. See to it. And you Delise, my dear, attend the doctor. Help yourself to anything you desire.” Rising he added, “I must leave now. Entertain yourselves.”

Orders, not requests, and a further hint that the host was not quite all that he appeared to be. Dumarest was not surprised. The rich and powerful had always acted the despot and Shandaha was typical of his kind. A selfish person, his needs, wants, inclinations, paramount to the safety or comfort of anyone else. A man with a charming facade but, because of his position, a dangerous one.

“Tell me what happened.” Dumarest lifted the decanter from the table, ignoring Delise, filling Chaga’s goblet, draining his own.

The wine was thick, rich, bursting with flavor. It clung like blood to the rim of the goblet and left ruby touches on the doctor’s lips. Stains that vanished as Delise plied a napkin.

Chagal said, “They came Earl. The Shining Ones. You remember?”

“Men or things wearing camouflage. They used gas. Yes, I remember.”

“You stood up to them and were the first to go down. The woman was next. Adele, you remember her? The one with the broken spine. She died. I was captured and taken to the wreck. They broke in and cleared it out. It didn’t take long. Then I was gassed and woke up in this place. Shandaha, the same name as the owner. It tells you something.”

“He has pride,” said Dumarest. “He claimed to have saved my life. Did he?”

“Yes. You’d have frozen if they’d left you, but it wasn’t just that. The Kaldari had broken into the arms locker and my guess is they would have shot you on sight. Aside from that some were diseased. They’d hid it but it would have spread. In a few days we’d all have gone down.” Chagal stared broodingly at the contours of his empty glass, then added,

“The injured didn’t survive.”

“And then?”

“That’s it.” Chagal watched as Delise filled his goblet. Dumarest shook his head as Nada offered to serve him in turn. “It’s been a while. I don’t know how long. Time acts oddly here. Drugs, maybe, or something which affects the senses. There are odd blank spots and strange happenings. A day can seem an hour, an hour a day. Especially when Shandaha wants to be entertained.” He stared at Dumarest’s blank expression. “You don’t know? He hasn’t told you yet?”

“He said I owed him a little entertainment. He didn’t explain just what he meant.”

“He wants to live your life. To feel the things you did. Do the things you’ve done. Somehow to connect with your memory and ride with you on your journey through life. I’ve been through it.” Chagal’s hand tightened on his goblet, the crystal quivering, the surface of the wine shimmering with reflected light. “He’s bored,” he explained. “Too much time, too much comfort, not enough people, no distractions, nothing but endless repetition. So he borrows incidents, memories, romances, just as if he’s reading a row of books. But he’s reading lives. He lives them. Feels them.”

“It hurts?”

“Not from what he does. You don’t even know he’s there. But you go back in time. Mentally, of course, but you go back. Can you guess what it’s like?”

Too well. Dumarest remembered a circus, a girl with an unusual talent, a song which twisted the mind. Journeys into terror. Trips back into hell.

“These girls,” said Chagal with sudden anger. “This chamber-the whole damned place. The food, the wine, the comfort. Everything. All toys to keep us happy. Shandaha supplies them all. Cross him and they go. Attack him and you’d be out in the snow, naked, dying.”

“And when he’s drained you dry?”

“I don’t know.” Chagal voiced his desperation. “That’s what’s twisting my brain. I never know what’s going to happen next. I’ve nothing more to give him. Nothing!”

He gulped more wine, the rich fluid slopping over his chin as Shandaha suddenly appeared before them. Silently Delise cleared away the mess.

“The doctor has explained,” said Dumarest. “Which is what you intended when you left us alone. It seems you have an unusual talent.”

“One you recognize.” Shandaha leaned forward, his eyes as bright as the gems adorning his fingers. “It is not new to you. I sensed it in your mind. You are not like Chagal. You have had a different upbringing. More varied experiences. You will accommodate me?”

“You saved my life,” said Dumarest. “I owe you a debt. I am willing to entertain you. When shall we begin?”

There was no girl, no drums, no wailing song that twisted the mind and sent it hurtling back to a time of fear and terror. Instead there was a flask of sparkling fluid, two small glasses and a machine connected to electrodes that Shandaha fitted to both their skulls.

“The fluid is for relaxation,” he explained. “The electrodes will conduct a complex electrical pattern to certain areas of our brains. They will revive your memories and I will share them. For us both it will be as if we are in the actual time of the incident. Do you understand?”

“Do you?” Dumarest added, softly. “For me it will be as if the dead live again. As if all the bad things I’ve suffered are repeated and, unlike ordinary memories, I will not have the comfort of knowing that all has happened in the past. That no matter what the danger I will live. No matter how serious the threat I will survive it. Look at Chagal. Study his eyes. Can you realize what you made him experience? Dead loves, dead friends, hurt companions, all the stench and filth and pain of his profession. His failures. His conflicting loyalties. The Kaldari are raiders. Murderers. Thieves. Did you have to make him wallow in his own guilt. Did you enjoy it?”

“I am Shandaha. You are in my domain.”

“Yes,” said Dumarest. “I am fully aware of that.”

He watched as the small glasses were filled with the sparkling fluid and drank as Shandaha drank and felt the soft comfort of relaxation. The machine emitted a soft hum and the touch of the electrodes was barely noticed as he waited, for his memory to be activated.

Before, with Melome, there had been no choice, he had simply been flung back into moments of terror. She had lacked precise control. Did Shandaha? He could do nothing but wait.

Sitting warm and comfortable in a luxurious chamber.

The night had anticipated the coming winter, darkness masking the sky as sleet filled the air to the eerie sough of wind that rose, at times, into a maniacal shrieking as if tormented creatures writhed in an extremity of pain. Images too mature for his imagination yet they lingered and teased his mind as he moved cautiously over a bleak expanse of stone, sand and scrub in the growing light of dawn. A twig culled from a stunted bush eased the chatter of his teeth and gave the pretence of food as he chewed at the tough fibers. Frost made the going even more treacherous and twice he slipped to lie, fighting the fear of injury, rising to nurse bruised flesh and scraped skin, to move on, to reach his destination, to turn his back to the east and adopt his position as the sun rose higher into the sky.

Waiting, fighting the desire to close his eyes, to rest, to sleep, to escape into a more hospitable place. One touched by the gossamer fabric of vaguely remembered dreams. Of warmth, comfort and security. Of unknown contentment. An empty wish-he had no choice but to stay alert.

Crouching, cold, almost naked against an expanse of gritty soil as he stared at the area ahead. The wind touched his near-naked body, driving knives of ice through the rents, numbing the flesh and chilling the blood and causing his teeth to chatter. He clamped them shut, feeling the jerk of muscles in his jaw, the taste of blood as his teeth caught at the delicate membranes of his cheeks. Weakness blurred his vision so that the scrub barely masking the stony ground danced and spun in patterns of bewildering complexity. Impatiently he squeezed shut his eyes, opening them to see the landscape steady again, seeing, too, the twitch of leaves at the base of a matted bunch of vegetation.

The lizard was cautious. It thrust its snout from the leaves and stared with unwinking eyes before making a small dart forward to freeze again as it checked its surroundings. Watching it Dumarest forced himself to freeze.

To rise now would be to lose the prey; it would dive into cover at the first sign of movement. Only later, after it had come into the open to warm itself by the weak sunlight and search for grubs would he have a chance and then only one. For now he must wait as the wind chilled his body, gnawing at him with spiteful teeth, sending more pain to join the throb of old bruises, the sting of festering sores, the ache of hunger.

Dumarest touched the crude sling at his side. Braided thongs the length of his hand and forearm joined by a pouch made from the skin of a small rodent. Each thong ended in a loop; a convenience, only one needed to be slipped over the middle finger, the other, the release, clamped by the thumb and first finger. A pouch held stones carefully selected as to shape and size. One was cradled in the sling. He would have time for one cast only. All depended on choosing the exact moment, of hand and eye working in harmony, of speed which would enable him to strike before the lizard could escape.

Now?

The creature was alerted, head lifted, eyes like jewels as they caught and reflected the sunlight, scaled body tense on the soil. It would be best to wait.

To wait, then, guided by subconscious dictates, to act. To rise, the loaded sling spinning in a sharp circle, the thong released at the exact moment to send the missile hurtling through the air.

To land in the dirt at the side of the lizard’s skull.

Dumarest was running even as it left the pouch, mouth open, legs pounding, breathing in short, shallow gasps to oxygenate his lungs. To gain energy and speed so that, even as the half-stunned lizard dived for cover, he was on it, holding it fast as his teeth dug into the scaled throat and released the blood of its life.

Blood he gulped until the creature was dead.

It was dark by the time he arrived at the place he thought of as home, the fire a warm beacon in the gloom. The only welcome he would get but, with luck, he would be given a portion of his kill; the lizard swinging over his shoulder. A hope that died as a man came to the mouth of the cave to snatch it and send him reeling with a vicious, back-handed blow.

“Lazy young swine! What took you so long?” He didn’t wait for an answer standing tall and bloated, his scarred face twisted into a snarl. “You’ve been eating! It’s on your mouth! Blood!”

“From the lizard! I had to-”

“Liar!” Again the thudding impact of the fist. A blow that sent his own blood to mingle with the dried smears on his chin. “You useless bastard! I took you in, let my woman tend you, and all you do is lie! A day’s hunting for this!” He shook the dead reptile. “Well, it’s too bad for you. Stay out there and starve!”

“I’ll freeze!”

“So freeze. What’s that to me? To hell with you!”

Another blow and he was gone, snug within the confines of the cave, warmed by the fire and the food Dumarest had won. From where he crouched he could hear the mutter of voices, the harsh, cackling laughter of the crone as she heard the news. A liquid gurgling as they gulped fermenting liquids. Later came the sounds of animals in rut. Later still the sound of snores.

Dumarest rose from where he had crouched. Softly he moved towards the cave and pushed aside the curtain of skins covering the opening. The fire burned low and he squatted beside it warming his hands and rubbing them over his limbs. From the pot standing beside the embers he found a bone and sucked it, cracking it open to get at the marrow before throwing it on the coals. More followed until the pot was empty and, drugged by the nourishment, his outraged physique demanding rest, he fell asleep.

And woke to a scream of rage.

It was day and in the light streaming through the curtain the crone stood glaring at him, her raddled face convulsed with fury. A slut, her body sagging beneath the filthy clothes she wore, lice crawling in her matted hair, sores on lips and chin. A fit mate for the man who woke and reared to his feet wiping the crust from his eyes.

“He’s eaten it!” She pointed at the empty pot. “The stew’s gone! The thieving young bastard’s eaten it!”

“I’ll teach him!” The man pushed her aside. He was naked aside from an apron around his loins. It fell as he stripped off his belt. The leather whined as he swung it through the air. “Now you greedy young swine! Stand still and be taught a lesson!”

Dumarest dodged as the belt swung towards him feeling the wind of its passing through his torn garment. Unimpeded the heavy buckle swung on to crack against the woman’s arm. Her shriek of pain was echoed by the man’s roar of anger. He rushed forward, belt swinging, the buckle catching Dumarest on the shoulder and sending him to stagger and fall beside the fire. Again he felt the impact of the heavy metal and rolled, reaching out, feeling heat, fire that seared as he gripped a handful of embers and flung them into the snarling face.

“God!” The man screamed pawing at his eyes. “He’s blinded me!”

The woman was fast. Water showered from a pot and washed away the ashes to reveal eyes filled with streaming tears. A face that had turned into a killer’s mask.

“I’ll get you,” he panted. “I’ll make you pay for that. I’ll have you screaming for mercy before I’ve done with you!”

Dumarest backed, his stomach knotted with fear, and felt the touch of wind against his shoulders as he left the cave. It was barely dawn and a milky opalescence softened the harsh outlines of the terrain. Wisps of fading mist clinging to the face of the cliff, shredding as the man lunged through writhing vapors forming a curtain to create an isolated area of conflict.

How to fight a man so much heavier and stronger than himself?

Dumarest turned, running to place distance between them, stumbling as his foot struck a stone. Stooping he snatched it up and held it poised to throw.

“Stop! Leave me alone!”

“Begging, you little bastard?” The man gloated, enjoying the moment. “Well, beg on, boy. I owe you nothing. Nothing but the beating of your life!”

The stone could be thrown but ifhe missed what then? A second stone would provide another missile and Dumarest looked for one as he retreated from his enemy.

He found it as the man charged.

Desperation fed power to his arm and he threw the stone with all his strength. It hit a temple, the man halting to touch his head, to examine the blood on his palm. Before he looked up the second stone had followed the first, striking against his cheek. In a frenzy he rushed forward, hands extended, fingers clawing. Dumarest felt them catch the neck of his garment to jerk the fabric from his body. A jerk that threw him to the ground beneath his opponent, a fist smashing into his face, fingers closing around his neck.

Fear drove him to attack in turn. He writhed, sending his hands over the bloated flesh, searching the groin, finding the soft bag and gripping the testicles. He heard the shriek as he jerked and twisted, pulling with nails dug deep. Rolling clear to leave his opponent moaning, clutching at his groin, blood thick between his thighs.

More blood flowered beneath the hammering impact of stones from his sling. Missiles that tore flesh and shattered bone exposing the brain and turning the skull into an oozing pulp of grey and crimson.

The woman said nothing as he entered the cave but silently handed him a bowl of water, her eyes frightened, little sucking noises coming from her lips. Her man was dead, who would provide? The boy was better than nothing, a decision that dropped her hand from the knife tucked into her rags but Dumarest noticed the gesture and was cautious as she washed blood from his nose and mouth.

“He hurt you.” The woman was at his side judging the right time to establish her authority. “He was drunk, mad, crazed and dangerous. I was afraid of him. That’s why I couldn’t help you last night.”

Snorting he cleared his nose of clotted blood.

“I tried to stop him this morning,” she continued. “He pushed me aside. You didn’t see that, you were out of the cave by then. The bastard hurt me.” She winced as she pressed a hand to her side. “He was always hurting me. I’m glad he’s dead. Your nose hurt?”

“No.”

“It will.” She lifted her hands towards him. “Unless you let me fix it you’ll have trouble later on. It will block your breathing.”

Dumarest said, “Give me your knife.”

“Knife? Knife? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The knife,” he said again. “The one in your skirt. I just want to see it.” Then, as she continued to shake her head, he added. “I might be able to make one like it. It will be useful when hunting. I’ll be able to get us more food.”

“You’ll hunt for me?” Dirt cracked in the creases of her face as she smiled. “You’re a good boy, Earl. I’ve always thought of you as my own. Stick with me and I’ll look after you. Stand by me and you won’t regret it.”

“The knife?” He held out his hand. “I’ll look at it while you fix my nose.”

It was crude, a strip of pointed and edged metal with slats of wood to form a grip the whole held together with lashings of twine. He turned it as her fingers pressed at his nose, pushing cartilage back into place, roughly shaping the damaged tissue.

“There!” She stepped back dropping her hands. “You finished with my knife?”

“I’m keeping it.”

“Keeping it?” Her voice rose in a shriek of protest. “Stealing it, you mean. First you kill my man then you rob me. Why stop there? Why not kill me too? Go ahead, you young swine. Kill me. Kill me, I dare you!” Her face changed as he lifted the blade. “No! No, I didn’t mean that!”

“How do you sharpen it? With a stone or a file? If you have a file I want that too.”

“A stone,” she said bitterly. “I haven’t a file. Not now. He sold it for a bottle.” She watched as he moved about the cave. “What are you doing now? Robbing me some more?”

“I need clothes.”

Clothes and food and something to carry it in. Water and a container for that too. A blanket against the cold of night and coverings for his feet to protect them against the savage terrain. All the things that an adult had and that he had been denied because he was a child. But he was that no longer. He would take what he needed and make his way towards the east to live how he could.

A killer, a thief, a bully and a liar-a child of Earth.

They followed him. The men of the village eager for fun, for sport, for his agony and death. They had assembled and sat and drank and talked and listened to the wailing complaints of the crone and her lies and demands that something be done. Dumarest had always been a little strange, too reserved, too clever, a little too good at what he attempted. Incidents were remembered, others invented. His victim had been popular in his careless, drunken fashion and the sight of his corpse created unease. What had been done once could be done again. Other boys, goaded too far, could remember what Dumarest had accomplished and try to follow his example. And they could succeed. The stab of a point, the slash of an edge, the hammer blow of a stone-death could be delivered with such speed and ease.

“Kill him!” demanded the crone. “He robbed me! Took my things. My blanket and jug and knife. He stole my knife! He killed my man! You saw him do it! Let him do it! Watched as he beat his head and face to a pulp. Go and see it. See what he did. Take a good look. Bury him-then go and get the bastard who did it!”

A score of them decided it was a good idea. True the killer had a knife and he might well try to use it, but he was a boy and they were men and it would be safe enough to track him down, and make him crawl and beg and plead and scream as they broke his limbs, shriek as they tore out his eyes, moan as they used fire to sear his threshing flesh.

It would be a thing to remember. Once they had whipped and tormented him into a moving heap of lacerated flesh and blackened bone, they would drag him back and hang him on a pole as an example. Something for all to see and hear if they were careful to leave him alive. A lesson to those who might be tempted to forget who and what they were and what would happen to them if they did.

“Let’s go!” said a man. He swigged the last of the liquid in his jug. “Let’s teach that little bastard a lesson no one will ever forget!”

They knew the terrain. They had hunted and roved and scavenged and they knew which direction Dumarest had taken. Knew, too, that he was young and relatively small and they could make faster progress. They had no doubt they would catch him. He was starved and weak and would have limited endurance. Fear would ride with him and terror would make him careless. He could even have made the mistake that there would be no pursuit. That they would leave him alone. That he could walk away from his killing as if it had never happened. They would relish reminding him it had.

He learned they were coming. Far back in the distance a bird had risen to wheel and glide away and, by so doing, had signaled the presence of strangers in its domain. He knew who they had to be and could guess at their numbers. Guess, too, as to how long they would take to reach his present position.

By dusk, he calculated, studying the sun. Maybe before, but he doubted it. For them dusk would be soon enough and the darkness of night would give an added zest to what he knew they intended. But it would also give him an advantage.

Shards rattled from beneath his feet. The rags with which he had bound them protected him from the jagged edges but the sound would carry and a hunter would recognise it for what it was. He repeated it, a third time, then stepped slowly and stealthily to where the opening of a narrow gully pierced the surrounding mounds of the terrain.

The setting sun filled it with shadows and a straggle of trees resembled hostile sentries mounted on vantage points and glaring at the opening, the expanse beyond. Stones lay scattered around and Dumarest paused to study them. He had lost his sling but it was not a good close-quarter weapon. It took time to load and get into action and, when spun, would produce a sound recognizable to any hunter. The knife was better but it was small and fragile and to use it at all meant he would have to get in really close. An attack from the rear and a quick slash to cut the throat or a stab to sever an artery. An attack which might work if the target was alone but relative size came into it and that advantage was not his.

Carefully he chose from the scattered stones.

A sling wasn’t essential to launch a missile. He had hands and arms and a back and shoulders to provide muscular power. The thing was to get close enough, to throw fast and hard enough, to have a reserve in case of need. The stones would provide it. He had reason to know how effective they could be. Others could have forgotten.

Standing among the trees he heard them coming. He stood against a bole, arms lifted, a stone gripped in both hands. A heavy rock treble the size of his clenched fists, its weight taking its toll, giving birth to muscular tremors and a mounting, numbing ache. Things he had expected and ignored.

The bole of the tree eased his weight and gave a degree of support. More important it enabled him to stand immobile. To wait in the thickening shadows as the rasp of boots grew louder.

“You in there?”

The voice was loud, blurred, careless. The man a shape that gained features and details as it came closer. A big man, blotched with sores, his clothing ragged, his temper short. A man Dumarest recognized.

“Earl! You in there? Answer me lad. Let’s end this and get back home. I’ve food and a fire and you’re welcome to share.” He added, “Trust me. You’ll come to no harm. I give you my word on that.”

The rasp of boots grew louder as the man came closer. A hunter and a good one but a liar all the same. His head moved as his eyes searched the dimness for a betraying trace of movement that Dumarest knew better than to provide. He held his breath as the man turned to face the tree against which he stood, eyes studying the bole, the silhouette, eyes and mouth opening in recognition at what he saw.

“By God, I’ve found you!” His voice rose to a shout as he ran towards his prey, coming close. “Hey! Here! I’ve-”

The shout died as Dumarest swung forward from the hips, the stone he held flung with all his force, arching from his hands to land directly against the gaping mouth. Teeth shattered, bone, blood jetting as the man fell dropping the spear he had carried. Dumarest lunged forward, snatched up the weapon and slammed the blade into the fallen man’s heart.

Then he was running, weaving between the shielding trees, hearing shouts and curses behind him, the sounds of pursuit that faded as he gained distance and safety. Darkness closed around him and he moved steadily towards the north living as best he could. A time of tribulation then, at the limit of his endurance, he stared at the strangest thing he had ever seen.