Child of Earth

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was as if he had been instantly transported to a place of stygian darkness assailed by forces beyond his experience and understanding. A place so alien that his mind and body could sense nothing which could be interpreted as familiar. He seemed to be floating, drifting-wild speculation but he could sense no point of material contact on his body and the only association he could make was when he had drifted in the void.

But then he could see; now he was blind. Blind and deaf and helpless as a new-born child thrust from the comfort of the womb into a realm of fear and terror, needing to learn the basics of living, to breath, to move, to communicate. Touching, tasting, feeling, learning to avoid pain, to gain mobility, to master the mysteries of a new environment.

As he needed to master the mounting terror of being trapped in an alien space.

Dumarest moved, spreading his arms, his legs, twisting his head so as to gain control of his body. As his limbs responded to his direction he concentrated on his senses. His skin prickled as if covered with minute insects, his muscles bunching as he fought the irritation. His ears felt as if blocked by wax. His eyes as if coated with an opaque film. His thoughts vague, distracted, floundering without discipline in the unknown.

He concentrated, focusing his thoughts, isolating doubt and negative images. The fact that he was less than a mote of pollen swept by hurricanes over endless jungles. A scrap of plankton immersed in an infinite ocean. He was a man, a human, a sentient being. A creature capable of logic and extrapolation. One whose ancestors had crawled from the mud to conquer the stars.

The stars!

He concentrated on the stars.

The sun was a star and illuminated the Earth. If it was day he should be able to see it. If night then other stars would illuminate the darkness. Why couldn’t he see them?

Dumarest lifted his hands, fumbling at his face, carefully touching his eyes. They seemed undamaged, uncovered, the lids responding as they should, but the darkness remained unbroken. His ears also seemed not to have received any form of injury. Anger and fear strengthened his resolve. If there was light he should be able to see it. If noise to hear it. He was mobile, free to move, yet when he tried he made no progress. His anger increased, died as he forced himself to be calm. Action without direction was wasted effort. It was better to rest than to struggle. To let his mind take command, his brain which seemed, like his skin, to be affected by an insect-like irritation.

Then, slowly, as his senses responded, things changed.

Light came into being, the glow of distant stars, flashes of colour in jewelled brilliance winking and changing in endless confusion. He could see and, together with the light came sound. It came with the touch of air against his cheek, the gentle impact of a soft breeze which carried a susurration of voices, soft whispers and a medley of noises all dim and muted as if a crowd demanded his attention from all sides.

But the interpretations were at fault. His cortex was striving to gain familiarity but could only relay what it knew. There were no stars-stars did not flash and burn and sparkle. The lights he saw must come from another source. Something electrical, perhaps, such as lightning from a storm. But that was a guess, as was the interpretation of the sounds. There could be no whispers, no music, no noise from an invisible crowd. There had to be another explanation. He was given no time to find it.

Abruptly, within his skull, pain seared his brain with numbing impact. A series of small explosions of agony as if cells were bursting in wild progression. Pain echoed by the twitching of his muscles, the jerking of his nerves. A sea of torment which threatened to last too long.

Dumarest fought against it, striving to remain rational, conscious of the mistakes he had made about the lights and the sounds. All were the result of his desperate mental need to find some kind of familiarity with the situation.

Familiarity with what?

A place. A void. A nothingness. A contradiction in itself. Why build such a thing? For what purpose? Or did it exist at all? What if it was an invention of his own mind? A defence against an unacceptable reality?

Too many questions. Too few answers. Too much pain which exploded within his skull to send him into oblivion.

The words were shimmering birds drifting through an azure sky. Tiny motes of communication which held the impact of drills.

“Darling! Please, Earl. Please, my dearest! Wake up! Wake up. Talk to me!”

Nada’s voice, husky with strain, tense with desperation.

Dumarest listened to it, not responding, struggling to recall vague memories, fragments of oddity which could have been nothing but the fruit of dreams but which could also be the clue to what had happened. The fragments dispersed, driven away by Nada’s pleading, the irritation born of the touch of her arms.

He stirred and said, “How long?”

“What?” Gladness replaced the desperation. “Earl, my darling, you are alive! I’ve been so worried. You’ve been so still. So cold.”

He said, again. “How long?” Then, as she made no reply, “It’s important to me that I know. Please concentrate. How long was I in that place?”

She didn’t know or couldn’t understand. He read it in her face as he opened his eyes and sat upright on the couch beneath him.

“Earl-”

She fell silent as he lifted a hand to rest his fingers lightly across her lips. They, like the couch, the air, the touch of her flesh as she gripped his wrist, were warm and comforting.

Gently he said, “I broke a crystal wall and something drew me through the opening into a strange place, an area of some kind where it was dark and more than unusual. Do you know how long I was in there?” He lowered his hand as she shook her head. “Tell me what you do know.”

It was little enough. Shandaha had required his presence and had ordered Nada to bear the summons. She had found Chagal almost paralysed with fear and had sounded the alarm. Dumarest had been found and she had taken care of him.

“It seemed like forever.” Her hand closed on his wrist like a band of steel to hold him safe or to demonstrate her possession. “You were so still. I felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do.”

And nothing more she could add. A facile story with too much missing. Who had found him? Why was the doctor absent? Why had Shandaha demanded his presence? What really lay beyond the crystal wall?

And why was he in such pain?

It filled his skull with renewed intensity and before him the figure ofNada blurred and the furnishings of the chamber seemed to shift and change. A transformation in which he seemed to share. An alteration of perspective. A physical improvement. An enhancement of hearing and vision. Subtle changes of benefit to nerve and muscle. A sharpened ability to detect inconsistency.

“Earl?” Nada moved closer, “Is anything wrong, darling? You seem different in some way. As if you are worried about something. Did anything happen to you when you fell ill?”

“How would I know?” Dumarest smiled and gently touched her on the cheek. “I broke the wall and must have slipped and banged my head and knocked myself out.”

A lie she accepted as the truth and she smiled and moved closer her eyes bright with desire.

“I’m so glad that is all it was. I want you to be fit and well. I need you so much, my darling. Tell me you feel the same. Please!”

He was too tired, too detached, too much in pain. What she offered was the last thing he needed. But to reject her would not be wise.

“Of course I do, how could you be in any doubt?” He smiled again then added, “But we have no time. Shandaha sent you to collect me, he must have something of importance to discuss. In any case I need to shower and get rid of this headache. Will you be joining us?”

“No.”

“Then we will meet later? You promise?”

She smiled her answer as she returned his caress, her fingers light against his cheek, her disappointment a thing of the past. She rose, her movement a thing of grace as she left his side.

Dumarest watched her go then headed for the bathroom. He stripped and stood beneath the shower, setting the temperature cold so the spray stung, then hot so it eased both skin and muscle. He checked himself but found no sign of recent injury.

Aside from the fading discomfort of the headache he felt fine.

When he left the shower and dried himself and dressed the pain had gone leaving his mind sharp and crystal clear. He felt vibrant, active, ready for action. Leaving the bathroom he made his way to where Shandaha would be waiting.

He said nothing, just sat, watching as Dumarest looked at the chair facing him, face expressionless, eyes intent-a cat studying a mouse, the analogy was plain. In return Dumarest followed the other’s example, remaining silent, noting small things with obvious interest, the way Shandaha was poised on his chair, the tension of his hands, the set of his shoulders. Studying the man as if he were a potential opponent soon to be faced in the arena of blood. A thing he had done before and it had the desired effect.

“We have much to discuss, Earl,” said Shandaha breaking the silence. “But first the preliminaries. Are you at ease? No physical distress? No harm resulting from your unfortunate adventure?” He paused, waiting, frowning as Dumarest remained silent. Then, regaining his composure, reached for one of the flagons, which graced the table along with glasses and trays of tasty morsels. “Then let us share wine.”

Dumarest watched as the lambent fluid filled goblets of glimmering crystal, deep ruby encased in containers of apparent ice embossed with motifs of gold. The contrast one of design rather that accident. Something which matched the lavish furnishings of the chamber.

“Help yourself, Earl.” Shandaha lifted his own glass as Dumarest obeyed. “A toast, my friend. To life and happiness.”

He drank and Dumarest followed, sipping the wine, conscious of the rich sweetness, the subtle strength.

Lowering the glass he said, “How is Chagal? I had hoped to see him. Nada said she had found him in distress.”

“Her concern was for you, Earl, not the doctor. I appreciate your interest but you have no cause to blame yourself for what happened. To him, that is. The wall is another matter. Why did you break it?”

“I wanted to find out what was on the other side.”

“Did you?”

“I found darkness and little else. A room of some kind, I think. I don’t even know how long I was there.”

“Not long. You were fortunate. Nada was quick to give the alarm and you were rescued almost immediately. You had broken into a chamber holding machines of power and the residual energies could have severely damaged your cortex.” Shandaha added: “But you have yet to answer my question. To simply smash a hole in a wall to satisfy a whim seems the height of stupidity. You could have died, or been crippled, burned, disfigured.”

“Or freed.”

“What?”

“When you are in a place you cannot leave that place is a prison,” said Dumarest. “I am here. I am unable to leave so, to me, it is a prison.”

“Nonsense!” Shandaha was impatient. “You are free to leave whenever you choose.”

“To go where? To do what? And how to do either without transportation? Provisions? Clothing?”

“An interesting challenge, Earl. I am sure you have already solved it.”

“I called this place a prison,” said Dumarest. “Let me use another term which might clarify the situation. For you, of course, I am clear on the matter. Think of a maze. A pattern of lines or constructions-bricks, bushes, hedges, bales of hay, lines of chalk-anything. The pattern is the important thing. It can be simple or complex. A path which loops and turns and wends in endless configurations only one of which is clear. One which has to be chosen at each junction, each fork, each barrier.”

“I know what a maze is, Earl. Your point?”

“A maze is a prison. There are prisons which are mazes, deliberately so. Buildings which are honeycombed with oddly shaped chambers, tubes, vents-anything a sadistic mind can imagine. Three-dimensional hells of calculated torment. People die in there.”

“So?”

“There is one weakness in a maze. Not those built as prisons though the same principles apply. Now I’m talking about the ceremonial type of maze. The paper-puzzle kind. A long time ago I was held in an establishment for a while. The warden was fond of mazes and had what he thought was a good idea. He issued them to us to work at. All were different but basically the same. You entered the maze and worked to find a way out. Tracing the correct path earned a small privilege. Some managed to do it fairly. The rest cheated.”

“You among them, Earl?” Shandaha had relaxed, drinking, now refilling the goblets with wine. “How did you cheat?”

“As I demonstrated a short while ago. I tried creating a short-cut. On paper I would have crossed a line. In a large maze I would have jumped over the barrier or broken through the hedge or whatever had been used. Here I smashed down a wall.”

“And what did you gain?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I thought I had. You broke into a small chamber housing electronic devices. You admit that you slipped and struck your head with force enough to render you unconscious. You were rescued, attended, put into Nada’s care.”

Who had reported everything she had been told to her master. Dumarest was not surprised. He had anticipated her action and his talk about prisons and mazes had been simply to divert Shandaha’s interest away from what had really taken place.

He said, “I apologise. I had forgotten. That blow I suffered was more severe than I thought. I must apologise, also for having broken that wall. If you will allow me the use of materials and equipment I am willing to repair it.”

“No, Earl. You are gracious but there is no need for me to accept your offer.”

“It will be of no trouble and I could use the exercise.”

“No.” Shandaha was firm. “The subject tires me. We will talk no more about it. More wine?”

He lifted a flagon and poured as Dumarest nodded his acceptance. He watched as it flowed into the glasses wondering what had been added or was being added to the rich liquid. Nothing, he guessed. It was a simple matter to spike a drink with the use of a pill held between two fingers or a drop of liquid held in the hollow of a palm, but the way Shandaha poured precluded either possibility. He touched only the flagon. In any case he would have no need to be so crude.

Dumarest leaned back in his chair and apparently relaxed, sipped at his wine as he studied the table, the furnishing, Shandaha himself. All seemed no different than they had before, yet he was convinced that nothing was what it seemed to be. Shandaha had lied about what was beyond the crystal wall. There had been no chamber, no exotic electronic devices emitting flares of energy, but he had no intention of admitting anything else.

“This is excellent wine.” Dumarest set his emptied glass back on the table. Do you manufacture it?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I am curious. It would be a pleasure to examine your equipment. I once owned a small vineyard but I could never produce a vintage such as that I have just enjoyed. Also, with respect, I have never possessed a domain such as yours. On both counts I envy you.”

“Do you mock me?”

“Mock?” Dumarest shook his head. “That I would never do. I am your guest and am sincere in what I say, but if the subject displeased you then another can be chosen.” He paused, waiting, then as the other remained silent said, “Or, perhaps, you would care to answer a question?”

“Continue.”

“Why did you summon me?”

Shandaha made no reply and Dumarest felt a warning prickle of danger. To tease the cat wasn’t a good idea if you were a mouse. He had triggered a flash of anger and had tried to rectify the error, but diplomacy wasn’t always easy and he was in no position to make a powerful enemy.

He said, “Nada told me that you had sent her to tell me you required my presence. She didn’t arrive in time, but when she came she was instrumental in saving my life. She would not have been able to do that had you not sent her. So, logically, you are the one I must thank for my continued existence.”

“And so, again by the use of logic, I am responsible for everything you do. Your thefts, killings, crimes, wastes, depravities,” Shandaha shrugged. “Should I feel proud at having saved you or ashamed at what you may do? Can logic provide a true answer?”

“In order to solve that question we first have to decide the definition of truth,” said Dumarest. “Your truth could be my lie. For example you say that I am not a prisoner and am free to leave here whenever I wish. You would be stating the truth as you see it. To me you would also be telling the truth, but unless given the means to survive I would die. To accept your offer of freedom would be fatal. How, then, could I be free? Which means your apparent truth was a lie.”

Dumarest paused, then as Shandaha made no comment slammed his hand on the table with abrupt force, the flagons, glasses and trays dancing from the impact.

“Take this as another example. Is this table real or is it an illusion? I can touch it, feel it, see it so logic would infer that it is real. But an illusion would yield the same conclusion. So how can we determine the truth?”

Shandaha said, flatly, “The answer to your first question is death is not a factor in the equation. Your liberty to make a choice is paramount. You can be free if you choose-what happens after you leave is immaterial. As for the table your argument is more the rambling of a philosopher than the studied calculation of a logician. But there is one reality we cannot but agree is the truth.”

“The past,” said Dumarest, knowing what was to follow. “My past.”

“Your memories,” corrected Shandaha. “You asked why I had sent Nada to request you to attend me. I am impatient to enjoy more of your experiences. To travel back in time with you. To share the most significant moments of your life.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“When? Now?”

“Yes, Earl. Now.”

His world was filled with the agony of the fire, which burned on his torso. Pain born of the deep cuts slashed across his naked flesh. Blood oozed from the wounds to add to the dirt on the floor beneath the plank on which he lay. Above him the cracked plaster of the ceiling held the distorted image of a grimacing face. Light came from lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls. The air quivered with sound from the arena where men and women shrieked their pleasure over the clash of steel, the screams of agony from those fighting for their lives.

A harsh place filled with the scent of pain and fear, of sweat and blood and despair.

Dumarest turned as he heard the pad of feet behind him, tensing as he saw the group of men approaching the plank on which he lay.

“Relax!” Their leader held something in his hand. “Lie back and open your mouth. Do it now!”

“Why?” What do you want with me?”

“Forget the talk. Just do as I say!”

“Take it easy, Gastar,” said one of the others. “He’s young. New to the game.” To Dumarest he said, “No one means you harm, boy. Just cooperate and let’s get on with it. Just open your mouth.”

The object Gastar held slipped into it as Dumarest obeyed. It was wood covered in fabric soaked in strong alcohol. As his teeth closed hard against it hands gripped his shoulders, held fast his head, immobilised his thighs and calves. Strong muscles pressed him hard against the plank. Wetness streamed over his torso from cloths soaked in a stinging liquid as they moved to wash his wounds free of dried and oozing blood. A momentary coolness followed by a sudden torment of searing heat.

Dumarest reared, trying to turn, to escape, fighting the hands which held him, knowing what was to come. He smelt the acrid odour of burning tissue as red-hot irons moved over his body, tracing the paths of his wounds, welding the edges of the cuts together, searing, sterilising, cauterising. Throwing him into a seething hell of agony.

Then it was over, the hands rising to return his freedom of movement, someone thrusting a disposable cup of brackish water into his hand.

“Drink it,” said Gastar. “It’ll help. Then you’ll have to move. We need the space to work in,” he explained, adding, unnecessarily, “We’re busy and can’t waste time. Just get up and take a seat in the infirmary. Through that door and down the passage. You can’t miss it.”

A journey down a path of torment from his wounds which led to a drab chamber fitted with benches and others who had received the same treatment as himself. Older men sitting slumped, some with their heads in their hands, others whimpering with the pain of their injuries, all sharing one thing in common. They had lost-the winners had better accommodation.

But Dumarest had not lost.

He sat, waiting for some strength to return, some anger at the injustice to stiffen his determination. Another door led from the infirmary and he took it, stepping out into a domed chamber, a desk at the far end, uniformed officials at their posts. Security guards to maintain order and he selected one at random.

“Sir!”

“Can I help you?”

“There has been a mistake,” said Dumarest “I won my bout but am being treated as if I’d lost it.”

“Your name?” The guard frowned as Dumarest gave it. “I must have seen the event. I’ve just come off ringside duty. Third blood. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Against Maroc.”

“He cut me twice then I managed to cut him in turn. The third wound and I delivered it so I won. Who do I have to see to correct the error?”

“Have you a promoter?”

His lips thinned as Dumarest nodded. “I figured it had to be something like that. You’re too young to do this without help. What’s his name?”

“Dell Bellagon. Do you know him?”

“The name’s familiar. Some scum don’t give a damn who they hurt.” Looking at Dumarest’s torso he said “One thing bothers me. You said Maroc cut you twice then you cut him back in turn. But you’ve been wounded three times. Two pretty bad slashes and one not so. How do you explain this?”

“I can’t.” Dumarest blinked and grabbed at the desk to steady himself. The desk and those manning it were blurred and the air was full of mist. “But I did win the bout and I earned the prize. I want it. I won it and it’s mine. I need it.”

“To pay off Bellagon? The debt you owe him for food, clothing, housing, travel? I know how it works. Hey!” The guard reached out and caught Dumarest’s arm. Steadying him against the desk. “Be careful,” he warned. “Tear those wounds open and you’ll be in real trouble. Can you stand?” He moved into the open as Dumarest nodded.

“Good. This is what we’ll do. I’m taking you back to the infirmary where I want you to sit and wait, sleep if you can, but not to do anything else. I’ll do what I can to find your promoter. The thing is for you to be patient. I’ll come back but it may take some time.”

It took four hours and when the guard returned he was accompanied by a woman.

“Earl Dumarest,” she said, extending her hand. “You can call me Sardia. You know nothing about me but I’ve been hearing a lot about you. From Jarl,” she glanced at the guard. “Jarl Raven. We are old friends.”

Dumarest stared at her hand, baffled as to why she had made the gesture. Then, taking a chance, he followed her example, lifting his arm so as to stretch it, his fingers touching her own,

“You’re in pain,” she said studying his face. “Jarl said you would be. Well, maybe we can do something about that.” She delved into a bag slung over her left shoulder producing a small bottle and a can of spray. Dumarest was naked aside from a loincloth, the normal apparel of any contender, and she had no trouble sending a fine mist over his torso. It chilled then numbed the flesh bringing a welcome relief from the burning torment of his wounds. “Now drink this.” She handed him the bottle then, as he hesitated, snapped. “Learn to trust me! It’s only a sedative and antibiotic. You know what they are, don’t you?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Sardia. Call me Sardia.”

“Yes, Sardia.” He drank and handed her back the empty bottle. “Thank you.”

He had drifted into a near-sleep while waiting, an odd state of mind which had spawned strange images and peculiar fancies, turning the others in the infirmary into demons and monsters and moving travesties of humanity. He had been worried and afraid but now that had gone. The spray and medicine had worked their magic.

He said so and she smiled.

“Good. Now we can get down to business. Want to tell him, Jarl?”

“We have cameras covering the arena and I’ve done some checking. You are right. You cut Maroc and drew third blood and so won the bout. Your promoter was attending but made no protest at the verdict given by the referee. It could have been a genuine mistake, the verdict I mean but I doubt it.” The guard fell silent, then said, “Sardia?”

“Jarl works here, Earl, and needs to be cautious,” she explained. “You know how it is — one hand washes the other. It sometimes pays to turn a blind eye. The fact is you have been ripped off. Cheated. Betrayed. Robbed — call it what you like. Your promoter, Bellagon sold you short. You should never have been put against Maroc. You just don’t have the experience. The bout was a set-up.”

“Then I will get the prize.”

Sardia shook her head. “No, Earl, it doesn’t work like that. The verdict has been given and it stands. Only officials have access to the cameras and there are others involved. If you complained you would be ignored. If you kept it up you would be taken care of. Tell him Jarl.”

“You would be beaten up,” he said, curtly. “Killed, even, there are nasty people attached to the arena. Those who have a special interest in what goes on. Gamblers, fixers, promoters like Bellagon. He had a lot of money riding on Maroc and was desperate for him to win. What probably happened is that at the end of the bout you both were trying to score a hit. You won but Maroc will deny it claiming he cut you before you cut him. It’s possible. Or Bellagon could have had one of the handlers slash you to throw doubt on your claim. Anyway, it’s over now.”

Leaving him with nothing.

Dumarest drew in his breath, conscious of his situation. Hurt, probably in the grip of a fever, without a home, money for medicine, food or clothing. Abandoned and stranded on a hostile world.

Sardia guessed what he was thinking. “Things aren’t that bad, Earl. Jarl told me what he saw in the ring and I have a proposition. I have connections with people connected with the arena. If you are willing to accept me as your new promoter then I will take care of you.” Then, smiling, she added: “I warn you it won’t be easy. I’m a hard taskmaster. Do you want time to consider it?”

“No, my Lady.”

“Sardia. I told you to call me Sardia. Do we have an understanding?”

Dumarest nodded, lifting his hand to repeat her earlier gesture, feeling the firm texture of her flesh as she returned his touch.