The Temble of Truth

Chapter Four

It promised to be a good day. Later there might be a little wind but now everything was clear, cold, crisp and hard. From her seat in the raft Karlene could see the empty spaces below, the small huddle of men around the hut at the starting point. This time it was close to Elman's Sink, an expanse of rough, undulating terrain. In it a quarry could founder and lose his lead.

"I wish they'd hurry." A woman beside her was petulant in her complaint. "The hour must be up by now."

"Another five minutes." Her companion, a middle-aged man, glanced at his watch. "Look! One of them is impatient!"

A man had broken from the huddle to stride over the snow. A marshal ran after him, signaled for him to return. After some delay the man obeyed.

"Indart," said the woman. "I bet that was Indart. He has a special interest. Well, it shows the marshal's are fair."

And she would think the games were fair. Many would agree with her. A man, running, given a start. Others following, picking up his trail, chasing him as he headed for safety. All would be protected against the cold. All equally armed.

But the quarry would have no electronic heat warming his body, no food, no stimulants, no drugs. He would be wearing eye-catching brown and be plunging into the unknown. One against twenty-how could he hope to survive?

Karlene closed her eyes, seeing again the man in the chair, his opened eyes, his sudden smile. Something had touched her then as it never had before. The feeling had ridden with her in the raft as she had hunted for scent.

Which had made her do what she had done.

"Now!"

The shout jerked open her eyes as, below, the hunters streamed after their quarry. A score of running figures, some too eager, others, more experienced, holding back in this, the initial stage. They scattered as she watched; human dogs searching for the trail, questing over the frozen snow.

"That's it." The woman next to Karlene sighed her disappointment. "I'd hoped to see the quarry. Sometimes you can but this one's out of sight. Why can't they let us follow the games from the air?"

A matter of policy; rafts would follow the quarry and the hunters would follow the rafts to make an easy kill. It was better to ban the rafts and force those interested to pay for the use of broadcast-action. Even so the skies wouldn't be clear. Scanners would be riding high and they would be thick at certain areas.

Karlene could do nothing about that and she forced herself to relax as the raft headed back toward the city. She had done all she could-the rest was up to the quarry.

Dumarest was in hiding.

He crouched in deep snow; a small cave gouged from the side of a mound, sheltered him from viewers above. He wore rough clothing topped with thermal garments which enfolded his body, legs, feet and head in a thick, quilted material. Gloves protected his hands. He had not been allowed to retain his knife but had been given a spear; a five-foot shaft of wood tipped with a foot of edged and pointed steel.

A weapon which could be used as a probe, a balance, a staff, it emulated the natural weapons of a beast of prey. With it he could kill if faced by a hunter.

It lay beside him as he crouched in the snow, the blade showing him the position of the sun. It was rising in the east; the shrunken ball of a white dwarf star, radiating light but little heat. In three hours it would be at zenith; in eight, night would close over the land. A freezing, bitter darkness which would last for six hours. If a quarry failed to reach a point of safety before then he was reckoned to be dead.

Dumarest moved a little, feeling the numbing bite of the cold. He had rested too long, but to run without a plan of action was to invite certain death. To run east or west? A "home" lay in each direction. If he ran east the rising sun would dazzle the eyes of his pursuers but not for long enough. To run west would be to reveal his dun-colored clothing against the snow. He looked at it, knowing what he had to do. The risk he had to take. Waiting, he looked at the blade of his spear.

Albrecht was enjoying himself. His first visit to Erkalt and he was thrilling to the game. Luck had drawn him a hunter's place and he tingled to the crispness of the air, the physical exertion which sent blood rushing through heart and brain. He had hunted before and knew how a quarry would act. He would run and keep on running, heading directly for safety, driven by panic and fear as were all hunted things. Bursting his lungs to gain speed and distance then, when exhausted, to sink in a quivering heap to wait final dispatch. Beast or man it was all the same-his real opponents were his fellow hunters.

He looked at them where they had scattered. Algat far to his right with three others with him; they would probably have agreed to work as a team and to share the trophy. To his left Lochner, tall, determined, raced ahead as if speed alone would give him victory. Others. Indart among them, trailing a little as if satisfied to let others do the work of eliminating false trails and deceptive starts. Cunning, men waiting to isolate the true line of flight, conserving their energy for a time of greater need.

A crevasse opened before him and he jumped it, holding his spear high. Another, too wide to jump, into which he descended, following traces which could have been made by running feet. Following it he dropped below the surface and out of sight of any watchers. A white, fur-clad figure almost invisible against the snow.

One which threw a shadow on polished steel.

Dumarest watched as it grew, turning the blade so as to avoid betraying reflections, tensing as the sound of footsteps came close. A soft padding which made it hard to determine true distance. Hard to decide whether or not the man was alone.

A gamble; one man he could take, two he could handle, more and he would be the target of killing spears. A risk he had to take.

Dumarest rose as the footsteps neared the hide. Snow showered from his head and shoulders as he straightened, lunging forward, the butt end of the spear slamming at the head of the figure before him. A blow softened by the thick fur of the hood and Albrecht staggered back, his own spear lifting in defense-but was knocked aside as Dumarest struck again, the blunt end of the shaft driving beneath the hood and impacting the temple.

As the hunter fell, Dumarest looked around, spear at the ready, eyes narrowed as he searched the crevasse, the snow and ice to either side.

Nothing, but speed was essential. He pulled at the fallen man's garments, tearing free the furs and the wide belt holding fat pouches. Stripping off his own thermal garments he donned the furs. The belt followed and he paused, listening, eyes again searching the area. Only then did he dress the unconscious man in his discarded clothing.

Karlene said, firmly, "It was an act of mercy. He could have left Albrecht to die."

"He did." Hagen was burning with excitement. "Why can't you see that?"

"He could have killed the man."

"Speared him, yes," admitted Hagen. "But that would have soiled the furs with blood. Instead he chose to stun-have you ever seen a man move so fast? I barely saw the blow and the hunter couldn't have stood a chance. Dumarest wanted his furs and supplies and, by God, he got them."

And had left the hunter dressed in a quarry's garb. Only luck had saved him-the hunter running in for the kill had recognized him almost too late. The thrust of his spear, barely diverted, had caught him in the shoulder instead of the chest.

"A decoy," said Hagen. "The attack served a double purpose; while hunting the decoy they allowed him time to escape." He frowned at his maps, his monitors. "Which?" he murmured. "East or West? Are you sure about the node?"

"You know what I told you."

But not all she knew-suspicion, lying dormant, had suddenly flowered after she had seen Dumarest in his prison. Small things: men too eager to talk, hunters intent on private conversation, expressions she recognized from those more keen on winning bets than following a sport.

Inside information-had Hagen found a way to add to his income? Bets as to the result, the time and place? Tips to the hunters as to where the quarry would meet his end? Suspicions which had caused her to be reticent. She said, "What happens now?"

"Nothing. The game goes on."

"With Dumarest dressed the way he is?"

"There's nothing against it in the rules." Hagen was patient. "Now the hunters know what's happened they can guard against it. Work in groups," he explained. "Stay close together and ready. All Dumarest has gained is a little time."

The time factor diminished as he lunged through snow and over ice. The furs helped, but he had been unable to take the electronically heated undergarment Albrecht had worn and the cold was an almost tangible enemy. It numbed feet and hands, clawed at his face, sucked at his energy. Stumbling, he fell, rolled down a slope, rose to his feet to stagger on. Behind him the betraying traces he had left showed like gashes on the smooth landscape.

As every footstep he took showed the path of his progress.

Only the wind could cover his trail and, with the wind, would come the blizzards, the freezing chill of incipient night.

And the hunters were close.

"There!" Indart pointed with his spear at the straggling line of footsteps. "Some of you follow. I'll cut ahead to wait before Easthome." He snarled at an objection. "To hell with the trophy-I want the man!"

He lunged ahead before any could argue, four at his heels, following a man they could trust. Others, less influenced, moved on their own paths, some toward the other point of safety, the rest following the trail. If they could move no faster than Dumarest they would never catch him but it was easier to follow a path than to make one. Given time they would spot the hurrying figure. None had any doubt as to what would happen when they did.

Dumarest shared their conviction.

He had halted to examine the contents of the pouches, eating the food he found there, taking some of the stimulants they contained. The place he was heading for was marked by a beacon but first he had to get close enough to spot it. The sun was now well past zenith and the snow crackled beneath his feet. Clouds now flecked the sky and he studied them as he checked time and distance. Already the hunt had lasted longer than usual; he had deliberately taken a winding route.

Now he turned and moved in a direct line along the path of a gulley, rising to slip into a crater-like pit, rising again to lope along a ridge.

His movement was spotted and he heard the yell behind him as he raced on, exertion making him dangerously warm. Sweat would soak his clothing, would freeze, would cover him with a film of ice. Yet to delay would be to take too big a gamble.

Above him, floating high, drifted the eyes of watching scanners.

He ignored them, watching the sky, the gathering cloud. The sun grew darker, shadows thick over the azure-tinted snow. Dark patches into which his own shadow merged and blurred and, suddenly, disappeared.

"Gone!" Hagen shook his head. "Thorn? Any sign?"

"None."

"What is it?" Karlene had insisted on joining Hagen at the monitors. "What's happened?"

"Dumarest's vanished. At least we can't spot him. Damn!" The hunters were close, coming in for the kill, but without a quarry they would look stupid. As would his broadcast. "Thorn? Get in close. Use infra-red. We've got to locate him."

"No!" Karlene shouted her objection. "That isn't our job. Do it and I'll report you!"

"Damn you, woman, I'll-" He saw her face, read her determination. Swallowing his anger he said, mildly, "We need it for the broadcast. It'll make no difference to the game but it makes a hell of a difference to the entertainment value of what we put out. Surely you can see that?"

"Do it and this is the last time we work together. I mean that!"

A threat he recognized. Turning to the monitors he said, "All right, Thorn. Leave it for now. Concentrate on the node."

Dumarest had gone to ground, burrowing into the snow, kicking it after him so as to block the entrance to the passage he was now making. Inching forward with twisting wriggles of his body, compacting the snow around him as if he had been a worm. Moving silently, invisibly as the guard had told him hunters on Erkalt had to do to reach a nest of perlats. The cold was a burning shroud around his body, the air limited so that his lungs panted for oxygen, the exertion sapping his reserves, but he kept on, the spear dragging behind him.

Halting he moved it forward, thrust it ahead, used it as a probe. It touched something hard and he moved to one side. A boulder, a long-buried mass of rock or a somnolent predator-all things he wanted to avoid. Instinct guided his direction; a wavering half-circle which should take him back far from where he had dived into the snow. Behind it and the hunters who even now could be probing at it with their spears.

He saw them as he cautiously thrust his head through the snow. A tight cluster with others standing closer to him, all looking at the place where he had entered the mound.

"Anything?" One called out to those busy with their spears. "Did you get the swine?"

"Don't kill him if you find him," said another. "Let's make him pay for what he did to Albrecht."

"Indart wants him."

"Too bad. He should be here." A figure thrust his spear into the snow. One humped and monstrous in his furs. Wind caught and lifted the crest of his hood. "Come on the rest of you. Let's dig him out."

The wind gusted as Dumarest eased himself from the mound. Rising he blended with the background, white, furred, indistinguishable from the others. Thrusting with his spear, trampling the snow, he masked the signs of his egress.

"Gone!" The big hunter snarled his anger. "He's gone!"

"How?" Another straightened and looked around. "If he's not here then where is he?"

A question answered as soon as someone thought to count heads. Dumarest moved forward, stabbing at the snow, probing to find the mass he had avoided. Rock or stone would be of no help but the luck which seemed to have deserted him could have returned.

"Here!" He called out, voice muffled, one arm waving. "There's something down here!"

He moved aside as others came to probe with their spears. One grunted as his tip found something more solid than frozen snow. Grunted again as he thrust harder, the grunt turning into a shout as, beneath him, the snow erupted in a burst of savage fury.

A beast half as large again as a man. One with thick, matted fur covering inches of fat. The limbs were clawed, the jaw filled with savage teeth, the short tail tipped with spines. A predator woken from somnolence by the prick of spears. Enraged and seeking blood.

A hunter screamed as closing jaws shattered the bone of his leg. Screamed again as the tail dashed the brains from his splintered skull. Another, foolishly courageous, tried to fight. A paw knocked the spear from his hand, returned to tear the hood from his head, the flesh from his face. Blinded, shrieking, he died as a blow snapped his spine.

The rest began to run, two falling beneath the predator, another stumbling to sprawl on the ground as Dumarest thrust the shaft of his spear between his legs. Bait for the beast should it come after him; one opponent the less to worry about if it did not.

The wind rose a little as he raced on, stinging particles filling the air, blinding, confusing his sense of direction. In the distance he could hear shouts as a hunter tried to gather the rest to form a mutual protection. He moved away from the sound, halted, waited until the wind fell and the air grew clearer. The sun was low now and he moved on, away from it, relaxing as, far ahead, he saw a winking glow.

The light of the beacon which spelled safety.

Men rose from the snow as he neared the hut on which the beacon was mounted.

He slowed as he saw them; hunters lying in wait, now closing in for the kill. Three of them and there could be more. His back prickled to the warning of danger and he guessed others were behind him.

Blood spilled by the awakened predator had stained his furs and Dumarest staggered, limping, a man wounded and in pain. He halted as the others came close, one hand lifting to gesture at his rear.

"A beast," he gasped. "It came out of the snow. Killed the quarry and got two others. We scattered. I was hurt but-"

"Your name?"

"Ellman." Dumarest muffled the sound but knew better than to hesitate. "Brek Ellman."

A gamble-one he lost.

"Liar!" The hunter lifted his spear. "He sold his place to me!"

Dumarest dropped, the thrown spear lancing above his head, turning, rising to meet a furred shape rushing at him from his rear. Wood made a harsh, cracking noise as he parried the other's thrust, his own blade darting forward to penetrate the open hood, the flesh beneath. As the man fell, screaming and clutching at his face, Dumarest snatched up the fallen spear, hurled it at another hunter, followed it with a savage lunge. One which penetrated fur, hit metal, the point glancing upward. Dumarest continued the motion, coming close, feeling the cold burn of steel as a blade gashed his side.

As the man tried to strike again Dumarest ripped the hood from his face, jerked free his spear, sent the blade deep into the throat.

As carmine gushed to fill the air with a ruby rain he turned to face the rest.

Three of them, two closer than they were before. One had thrown his spear and now, weaponless, backed away. He would try to rearm himself but, for the moment, could be ignored. The others meant to kill.

Dumarest acted while they were still cautiously advancing. The wound in his side was leaking blood and the cold was a mortal enemy. To wait too long was to waste his strength and he had none to spare. He stooped, snatched up the dead man's spear, ran forward with one in each hand.

The hunter nearest to him backed, holding up his weapon. A man afraid; quarry should be helpless, cringing, easy to kill. A hunter's sacrifice dispatched at a safe distance with bullet or laser-burn. Now he faced a man, hurt, stained with blood, armed as well as himself, intent on taking his life. Too late he realized that he had to fight to save it. Fight and win. He decided to run and died as steel found his heart.

As the unarmed man died as Dumarest threw his other spear; receiving the same mercy as he would have given.

"Fast." Carl Indart threw back his hood. "Fast but a fool. You've disarmed yourself."

He stepped closer, feeling safe against an unarmed man, his face ugly with a gloating satisfaction. A man confident of victory. One who felt the need to talk.

"You're good," he said. "I knew it from the first. What you did to Albrecht proved it. But, as good as you are, I'm better. This proves it." He lifted his spear. "Steel against flesh-what odds would you give on your survival?"

Dumarest said, "You killed Claire Hashein. Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"To me, yes. Was it orders or-"

"No one gives me orders!" Rage flashed like a storm over Indart's face. "No one!"

"Who sent you after me? The Cyclan?" Dumarest read the answer in the shift of the other's eyes. "You fool. Didn't they tell you they wanted me alive?"

Talk to distract as he eased forward. Words which stung and diverted the hunter's attention. Made him forget the speed on which he had commented. Even so, native caution made him wary. Steel shimmered as he moved the spear in his hands.

Shimmered and flashed as Dumarest lunged.

He felt the kiss of it as it brushed his cheek, the burn as it sliced through fur to hit his shoulder then the shaft was in his hand, the fingers of his other stiffened, stabbing at Indart's throat, hitting the chin as the hunter lowered his head. A wasted blow, followed by another to the eyes, hitting the brows, the heel of the palm following to smash against the temple.

As Indart fell Dumarest jerked the spear from his hand, twisted it, thrust the tip of the blade beneath his chin as together they hit the snow.

"Talk, you bastard! Talk!"

"Go to hell!"

Indart was stubborn to the last. Lifting his hands, his arms to rest above his head, writhing as the steel drove into his throat. Dying as the woman had died-but slowly, slowly.