Symbol of Terra

Chapter Six

She came with the night, the stars, her rafts making dark, moving splotches against the nacreous glow of the sky. Riding high and proud as they arrowed toward the Valley of Light.

"Three of them." Massak lowered his binoculars. "She'll drop one to each side to provide crossfire and come in with the other." He sucked thoughtfully at his lower lip. "If we take her out the others will open up in revenge. If we hit them she'll blast the house. Clever. The lady must have had experience."

"That's good," said Shior from where he stood at the mercenary's side. "At least she'll know when she's been beaten."

"If she's beaten." Massak used his binoculars again. "There's always doubt in these matters. Right, Earl?"

Dumarest made no comment, standing, watching the sky. The rafts were closer now, making no attempt to adopt evasive action, probably unaware they had been spotted. A reasonable assumption; Hilary's talents were unknown outside the house. Her warning had come in good time now that she, and others, were safely lodged in the cellars far below the surface.

Dumarest said, "How many and how are they armed?"

"Four in each of the side-rafts together with a driver. Five in all. Ten when put together. They seem to have machine rifles."

"Lights?"

"That too."

Men to spread along the facing crests, lights to illuminate the clearing, weapons to cover it with a murderous crossfire. Dumarest said, "We need to get behind them so as to attack from the rear. They'll be facing inward against the glow. Easy targets, but we'll have to be in position before they land."

"Good thinking, Earl." Massak smiled, teeth white against the ebon of his skin. "This isn't the first time you've seen action."

"No."

"I thought not. You have a way of sizing up the situation. How about the other raft? Any ideas?"

"Once the flankers are knocked out they'll be in the center of fire. We can hit them from both sides." Dumarest added, pointedly, "If we get into position in time."

"Us, Earl. Shior and me. This one you stay out of. Chenault's order." Massak glanced at the other man. "Let's go!"

As they vanished into the shadows Lopakhin called from the open postern.

"Earl! Here, man! Get inside-fast!"

Good advice and Dumarest followed it; if firing should start he would be a clear target. As the heavy door thudded shut behind him the artist gestured to a screen beside it.

"It's hooked to a scanner higher up," he explained. "A good view and a safe one. You never know what these crazy bastards will do next. Look at her!" He gestured at the screen, the raft it depicted, the woman standing within it. "What the hell does she imagine she is?"

A warrior-queen riding to war as others of her House had done in ages past. Snatching the power left by slain men to lead their forces to victory and establish the Karroum as the thing it was today. A Family secure in its pride, jealous of its honor.

As the raft lowered, her amplified voice echoed from the sides of the valley.

"Chenault! This is Mirza Annette Karroum! I demand audience!"

Silence then, as the raft landed, her voice again.

"Chenault! I come to parley. Unless you appear I'll blow open your house!"

A threat backed with the potential of action. As lights blazed from the flanking rafts to illuminate the clearing Dumarest could see the snouted weapon in the woman's vehicle. A heavy-duty laser or a missile-launcher. The latter, he guessed, a laser would have been less efficient given the vehicle and its load.

"Chenault, damn you! I'll wait no longer!"

"Wait!" His voice boomed from a speaker. "Give me time. Is this a way to come calling? What ails you that you make such threats? Has the Karroum gone mad?"

"This is a matter of honor. I shall not be denied."

"Honor? What is this talk of honor? How have I offended you? Why come with arms to my house? What do you want of me?"

"Open your doors. Come out and face me."

"Yes. Yes, but give me a moment. All can be settled with a little patience. Mirza Annette Karroum, you say?"

Talk to gain time as Dumarest knew and, on the crests, men would already have died if Massak and Shior knew their jobs. Gasping out their lives to the thrust of a blade or rearing, necks broken by the twist of a thong. Silent death dealt to the unsuspecting. A natural attribute of war.

Watching, Dumarest saw the woman look at her driver, speak to him, turn frowning to stare at the crests on either side. A loss of communication or some noise lacking explanation: something which troubled her.

He said, "If Chenault means to show he'd better do it fast. She's suspicious."

"He'll make it."

"Open the postern. Pretend he has. Hurry!"

He appeared as Lopakhin swung wide the panel, standing in the opening, gesturing as if to someone beyond. Mimicry made truth as Chenault stepped toward him. Past him. Through the door and out into the clearing to stand, tall and grim in the artificial glow.

A man who scant hours ago had collapsed now apparently in the best of health. His voice matched his stance, harsh, arrogant.

"This is my home. You intrude. Go before I feel insulted."

"Feel as you please. I stay until honor has been satisfied. Where is Dumarest?"

"Who?"

"Dumarest. Earl Dumarest. He is here and I want him. I want him dead. The honor of the Karroum demands it." She leaned forward over the snouted weapon in the raft, her face made ugly by light and shadow, flesh and blood turned into a chiaroscuro of ice and iron forming the lineaments of a bestial mask. "Him or you, Chenault. Make your choice. Your life, your home, all you possess- or you give me Dumarest. And you give him to me now!"

There was power in her and determination and an iron will which would brook no interference, no opposition. She would gain her way or do as she had threatened and, even as Chenault made no move, Dumarest knew that time was running out.

"Earl!" Lopakhin tried to catch his arm as Dumarest reached for the door. "Don't, man. Don't! Let Chenault handle it!"

A man who stood as if turned to stone, his head uptilted a little, his arms held from his body, shoulders stooped and strangely at variance with the massive torso.

As Dumarest came level with him Chenault turned and said, tightly, "Go back. Don't interfere. Just leave things to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Because if the man was killed the hope of finding Earth would go with him. The knowledge stored in his brain, the facts he must have garnered, the coordinates Dumarest felt he must have. And if he defied the woman he would die. The weapon mounted on the raft would fire and spread a hail of destruction. Shrapnel and flame which would turn the clearing and all it contained into smoldering ash.

The woman would do it. Even if she died giving the order yet she would still give it.

Dumarest walked toward her to halt in the pool of illumination thrown by the light on her raft.

He said, "You want me. Why?"

"You are Dumarest?"

"Yes."

"I came to kill you. I want you to know that."

"I know it." He met her eyes. "Now tell me why."

"Why I want you dead?" She stepped from the raft and came close to him, her eyes raking his face, his body. "You killed one of the Karroum. That is answer enough."

"For you, obviously. But not for me. I assume you are talking of Perotto. I killed him, yes. If I hadn't he would have killed me. As he had already killed Angado. Or didn't you know that? Angado was of the Karroum, too. In fact he was the titular head of the House. Would you have hunted down Perotto if he were still alive? Or does the honor of the Karroum stop when it comes to dealing with murdering filth bearing the same name?"

"You go too far!" She fought for breath, trying to master her rage, mouth open as she filled her lungs. "Perotto was-"

"A killer. One without the guts to face his victim face to face. An assassin in the dark. One who paid others to do his dirty work." Dumarest fired the words like bullets. "Scum, as you'd admit if you weren't so blind in your prejudice. I killed him to save my life."

"No!" She was vehement in her denial. "He would never have killed you!"

The truth, but how did she know it? Only at the last when, knowing he would die, had Perotto tried to eliminate his destroyer. Working for the Cyclan he knew the value they placed on their quarry. Knew too how ruthless would be his punishment if he had failed to obey their orders. Avro? Had the cyber managed to survive? Had he told the woman what had happened?

A possibility and Dumarest considered it. One which could lead to an even greater danger than the one he was in. Armed, with Chenault as a hostage, who could stop the woman from taking him prisoner?

"My lady, let us understand each other." He faced her, smiling, at his ease. A man talking to an equal on a subject they could both appreciate. "I killed Perotto and I admit it. But it was a matter of honor as I'm sure you will agree. In fact I had no choice." He made a small gesture with his hands. "As you feel that you have no choice. Honor is a hard master to those who follow its dictates."

She said, tightly, "Explain."

"Perotto killed Angado. He was my friend. In fact I owed him my life. What else could I have done?"

The question was like a slap in the face and she stood, considering it, sensing that, somehow, she was being manipulated. A feeling which stiffened her earlier resolve.

"Nothing, perhaps, but for each action there is a penalty. Your honor has been satisfied. That of the Karroum has not. As you had to kill so must you be killed. Mharl!" A figure loomed behind her, a weapon lifted in its arms. "Aim and-"

"No!" The voice echoed from the crest as Massak shouted. "Fire and you're dead!" The bark of a rifle tore the air, slugs ripping into the ground, whining from buried stone. "Lower that gun. Lower it, I say!"

"My lady?"

"Obey." She didn't turn to look at the man. To Chenault she said, "What does this accomplish? Tonight you win-tomorrow your house will lie in rubble. How can you hope to oppose me?"

"I must try."

That answer gained nothing; trying he would fail and, failing, all would be lost. Dumarest glanced at him, then back to the woman, remembering how she had appeared on the screen, standing upright in the raft, face and body belonging to another age. As her code of honor belonged to a time long past. One of chivalrous concepts which had probably never existed but which still lingered to exert their charm.

He said, "There is a way, my lady… to settle this dispute with honor. To end it here and now and for all time. The old way." He saw by her eyes she understood. "The way of those who tread the narrow path. One against the other and let right prevail."

Trial by combat-he'd had no other choice.

Mharl was her champion, tall, younger than Dumarest by a decade, strong from a lifetime of arduous labor. Stripped, his torso was ribbed and roped with muscle, his biceps huge, the pectorals betraying his bull-like strength. A machine of flesh and brawn equipped with a shrewd and agile mind.

He stood poised, like a dancer, his eyes darting flickers beneath his brows.

In turn Dumarest studied the opposition.

Like Mharl he was stripped down to pants and boots; garments which gave mutual protection and offensive capability. A kick, correctly placed, could kill as effectively as a club or gun or knife. Weapons banned because of the advantage they could give to one or the other. In matters of honor Mirza liked to be precise. But her champion was trained, accustomed to wrestling, kicking, fighting with his hands. This Dumarest sensed from the way he stood, moved, shifted to present himself, the hands crossed before his loins, his weight always resting on one foot so as to free the other to kick.

"Ready?" Mirza Karroum looked from one to the other. "You know the rules: the first to yield admits defeat." An arrangement not as fair as it seemed; if Dumarest yielded he would admit his dishonor and merit summary execution. A fact she chose to ignore. "Begin!"

Dumarest moved, circling to put his back against the light, facing Mharl with the watching windows of the house before him. A small advantage, but lost as the man moved in turn, then, before he could settle, Dumarest dived in, throwing himself down to pivot on one hand, his boot lashing out to slam against Mharl's left knee.

That blow should have crippled but did no more than bruise; Mharl jumping back as it landed. A move preparatory to his own attack and he came in before Dumarest could regain his feet, kicking out, the toe of his boot like a club as it slammed against the hip. As Dumarest grabbed at it Mharl closed in, the hammer of his fists beating at Dumarest's face and torso, leaving ugly welts on the body, the taste of blood in the mouth.

The tattoo ended as Dumarest backed away, stooped, appearing more badly hurt than he was.

"Soon, my lady!" Mharl, excited, called the promise. "Soon honor will be satisfied."

The talk gained Dumarest time. He came in, watchful, noting the position of the hands, the feet, the tilt of the head. Ready when Mharl struck to dodge the blow, to strike in turn, to parry a driving fist, to strike at the corded throat, the edge of his stiffened hand lashing at the windpipe.

Speed offset by the other's massive build, his trained reactions.

Skill gained in the gymnasiums, added to by harsh experience, but Dumarest had lived longer, harder, had learned more. Stooping, he grabbed dirt, flung it into the other's eyes, followed it with a low attack, fist driving into the junction of the thighs. As Mharl screamed he struck again, higher, lifting a boot to rasp its edge down the man's shin. Stabbing at the eyes with his hand formed into a blunted spear, using the other to again attack the throat as Mharl threw back his head to defend his sight.

And felt the universe explode as hands crashed against the sides of his head.

Blows which would have killed had they been delivered with a little more force, a little more direction. Twin hammers driving at his ears in near-synchronization as Mharl, desperate, gambled on a quick victory. One he lost as Dumarest backed, blood streaming from his nose to dapple his chin, his naked torso.

"Mharl!" Mirza Karroum snapped her instructions. "Be wary. Wear him down. Don't let him get too close."

Good advice but Dumarest didn't let him follow it. Again he closed in, kicking, slashing, parrying the driving punches of the other man. Using his arms as if they had been swords, his hands as if they had been knives. Calling on the hard-won experience which had saved him so often before.

A blur and flesh yielded to his attack, blood marring the other's mouth and torso to match his own. Another and Dumarest grunted as a fist ground into his stomach, his own hand reaching out, stabbing, the tips of his fingers hitting the throat and driving deep. A blow followed by another in the same place then, as Mharl doubled, retching for breath, Dumarest was on him from behind, one arm rising to lock beneath the chin, the other completing the vise which held the head hard against his shoulder.

"Yield!" Dumarest jerked at his arm. "Yield, you fool, before I break your neck!"

He sensed rather than felt the lifted foot, the savage, backward kick which would have shattered bone had it landed. As Mharl staggered, his balance lost, Dumarest freed his right hand, lifted it, slammed it down hard on the other's temple.

As it locked back into place he said, "Why die when there's no need? Yield and let's have done with it."

"No! I-"

The words died as Dumarest crushed his left forearm against the windpipe. Against him Mharl squirmed, blood smearing, making a sticky film. As, again, he tried to kick, Dumarest sprang upward and wrapped his legs around the other's waist.

"Your last chance, Mharl. Yield or die."

It was no empty threat. Dumarest felt strength drain from him as he fought to retain his hold. Mharl was too dangerous to be given a chance, too determined to be underestimated. Too strong to be resisted if he should break free.

"Don't be a fool, man! Lift up your hands. Yield!"

A long moment then, as the hands fought to grip him, Dumarest began to close the vise formed by his arms. One powered by the muscles of his back and shoulders, the biceps, the corded sinews of his arms.

Mharl sagged, hands lifting to tear at the constriction, twisting, dropping to his knees as the pressure increased. He was dying, ears filled with the roar of his own blood, vision darkening, his chest a flame from need of air. Yet he would never yield: if nothing else he had pride.

A fact Dumarest guessed and, as Mharl fell toward the dirt he released his hold, lifted a hand, struck once and stood up with the unconscious man at his feet.

"My lady? Do you accept defeat?"

"He did not yield! He-"

"Is beaten." Chenault spoke from where he had stood, watching. "Would you prefer him dead? Dumarest was kind but if he made a mistake it can be rectified. Earl, if her honor demands it, finish the job. Kill him."

He said nothing, watching her face, the play of emotions it portrayed. In the old days things had been more simple; a champion won or he died and those for whom he fought did not have to make life or death decisions. Or so, at least, the stories she had heard as a child had convinced her. As they had instilled the concept of honor which had led to Mharl lying on the dirt at her feet.

Dumarest said,"He did his best for you. He fought well and tried to kill me. Despite that I'm willing to spare him. Are you?"

For a moment she hesitated, then, with an abrupt gesture, extended her hands before her, palms uppermost.

"Honor is satisfied. Right has prevailed. The dispute between us is ended. I offer you my friendship."

He accepted by placing his hands on her own. Beneath his fingers her skin was dry, rougher than he would have expected, warm with a febrile heat.

A woman tricked by her femininity, responding to his maleness, the euphoria of witnessed combat. Catching his fingers, holding them as, on the ground at their feet, Mharl groaned and twisted in his waking pain.