Web of Sand

Chapter Three

Like the city the Stril was layered; parts catering to innocuous amusements, others dealing with those of stronger meat, a section close to Hell itself. Beyond the passage the roof soared over widened passages, a cleared space in which fountains cast a melodious tinkling, artificial breezes stirring artificial fronds. Statues stood staring with blind eyes, figures of men and women fashioned from the glazed and colored sand, the fused material, depicting scenes of torment and lust, of gaiety and wild abandon. A man, head thrown back, mouth open, hands clutching his ripped abdomen, screamed in an endless, silent agony. Two women locked in a compulsive embrace stared unseeingly at another impaled on a cone of milky crystal who screamed wordlessly at a crucified man who stared bleakly at a couple writhing in frozen ecstasy.

Statues by the hundred set in groups and lined array in the area which circumnavigated the central bulk of the area.

Dumarest looked at it, seeing the high, colonnaded wall, the arched gates and porticoes, the paths leading to the entrances. Worn stone and polished benches all showing the passage of use and time.

"What now, Earl?" Santis scowled as he looked around, The mercenary was no stranger to the forms of diversion always to be found in any civilized area but had never found them to his taste. To fight according to the rules and customs of war was one thing, to demean the brain and courage of a man was another. And no mercenary could have avoided seeing the degradation of which humans were capable. "This place stinks!"

Of sweat and fear and blood and exudations of pain and lust. Of greed and riches and abject poverty. Of desperation. To Dumarest they were familiar smells.

He said, "Among other things the crone told me they played Find the Jester here. She didn't lie."

Kemmer was impatient. "Well?"

"It gives us a chance to build up a stake. Carl, you handle the bets. Maurice, you back his play. I'll act as a block." Dumarest stared around, noticing small groups clustered between the statues, seeing one newly forming. "There! Let's move in fast!"

A man stood behind a narrow board, three cards in his hands, his voice a drone. "Find the jester and pick up double what you put down. Three cards, you see? A deuce, another deuce and a jester. I throw them down-so. Make your bets!"

His moves had been clumsy, the position of the jester obvious to all. A man standing at the end of the board, obviously drunk, slammed down a handful of coins and turned, coughing. Calmly the dealer moved the selected card, the jester, and exchanged it for one of the deuces. No one made a comment-who was to protect a fool from his own folly?

Dumarest knew better. The drunk was no fool but a man working with the dealer, acting the drunk to set up the crowd. There would be others and he spotted them, a plump man who would later lead the betting and another who stood ready to take care of any trouble. Dumarest edged toward him as the mercenary took his chance.

"A hundred!"

"Your money-"

"On the card!" Santis lifted his hand to reveal the coin resting on the pasteboard. A certain bet which others could have made but had allowed suspicion and natural reluctance to hold them back. The only certain bet they could have made. "I win?"

"You win." The dealer was phlegmatic. Sometimes a smart bastard moved in but it could help prime the other punters for the kill. He frowned as Santis repeated the maneuver. "Another hundred?"

"Five." The mercenary met his eyes. "I win again, yes?"

"He wins!" Kemmer yelled from where he stood in the crowd. "His money was down. I saw it-we all saw it. Pay him."

"That's right." The plump man made the best of a bad job. "His cash was down, I saw it." He turned his head and Dumarest saw the signal he gave with a flick of the eyes. "Good for you, Pop. You're on a winning streak."

One he was going to make certain would end. Like the actors they were they swung into a well-rehearsed charade. The dealer, taken with a sudden attack of coughing, dropped the cards and turned, doubled, fighting for breath. Quickly the plump man lifted the jester, displayed it and deliberately creased a corner. When the dealer recovered, the cards were as he had left them. Picking them up, he shuffled them, resuming his spiel.

"Find the jester and pick up double what you put down. No money no winnings. Have your cash ready. Here we go!"

The switch had been neatly done. Knowing what to look for, Dumarest failed to see it. The cards fell, the one with the creased corner obviously the jester. Hands heavy with coins thrust forward to take advantage of the plump man's obvious cheating. None felt sorry for the dealer-hadn't he robbed the drunk?

Calmly he turned the card, revealed a deuce and swept up the money.

As Santis edged from the board a man bumped into him.

"Watch it, old timer! That was my foot you trod on!"

"An accident-"

"Like hell it was!" The man stayed close, his hands busy. He sucked in his breath as Dumarest caught at one of his wrists. "What-"

"Bad luck," said Dumarest softly. "And all yours. You were outsmarted. We're going now. Try to stop us and I'll break your arm. You want that?" His voice was low but hard. As hard as his face, the grip of his fingers. "It's the luck of the game."

"You bastards! Did Syclax-"

"You'll be hearing from him." Dumarest released the man's wrist. "Get back to your game."

"Syclax?" Kemmer frowned as they moved away. "Do you know him?"

"No."

"But-"

"He must be a rival operator. A pitch is easy to ruin and punters easily scared. He could be trying to move in or be demanding protection. Forget it. We have other things to worry about."

Twice more Santis hit the card game and then Dumarest took a hand, betting on the whereabouts of a pea, resting a finger on his selected shell and smiling as he turned over the others to reveal their emptiness. Reluctantly the operator paid. As they left he called a man, whispered, sent him running down a path between the statues.

"That's it," said Santis. "Right, Earl?"

"That's what?" Kemmer frowned.

"The end of easy pickings." Dumarest glanced at the crowds, the little clusters. "We've been marked and will be spotted. Try to pull the same stunt again and we'll be blocked. Someone will accuse us of picking a pocket or cheating in some way. A drunk will pick a fight. Bets will be disallowed." He shrugged at the trader's expression. "You must have done the same thing yourself."

"At an auction, maybe. A ring-" Kemmer scowled. "There's a difference."

"No difference. Cheating is normal when a man needs to survive."

"There are ethics," protested Kemmer. "A trader can't afford to cheat if he hopes to stay in business. He may shade the truth a little but that's expected. It's up to the buyer to-" He broke off, blanching. "What the hell's that?"

A scream burst from a point at the end of the arena and brought a sudden stillness. It rose, echoing from the roof, a shriek of pure agony, torn, Dumarest guessed, from a dying throat. For a moment the stillness held; then, with a babbling susuration, the crowd resumed its business, only a handful running toward the source of the scream.

"The pits." A man gasped the information as Dumarest caught his arm and snapped a question. "Someone was unlucky."

A woman, still recognizable as such. A once-living creature now lying like a limp rag doll in a pool of her own blood. She was naked aside from a twist of fabric around breasts and loins, her legs scarred with bites, more on her stomach, back and arms. Old wounds blended with some healing, others freshly made. Other bodies, smaller, toothed and furred lay scattered around her in the pit.

Dumarest stood on the edge looking down. The place was circular, eight feet deep, the walls smooth, stained and flecked with ugly smears. From the edge the floor sloped sharply upward so as to allow the ring of those watching a clear view. A low parapet provided a measure of safety.

A pit-on other worlds they held bears, bulls, dogs, all baited by other creatures smaller but more plentiful. On Harge they baited women.

A man stood in the pit with the body. He looked up, scowling, snapping orders as a pair of assistants made an appearance.

"Hurry, damn you! Time's money. Get this mess cleared up. Never mind washing down the walls; that can wait. Get some fresh sand for the floor." As they jumped to obey he sprang, caught the edge of the pit and hauled himself upright. To Dumarest he said, "Did you see it?"

"No."

"Heard it, then? What a scream. I didn't think she'd let go like that. The damned fool!" His face glowered and one hand clenched into a fist. "I warned her she was attempting too much but she wouldn't listen. Drugged, I guess, floating, riding high. Greedy to beat the clock. Well, they never learn."

"The clock?"

"Sure." The man glanced at Kemmer. "The prize is a thousand and they lose ten for every second. A score of rats is set against them-a skilled fighter can clear them in just over a minute. They use scents and oils to attract the beasts and catch them as they spring. If they put up a good show they get extra from the crowd. Bets are made on how long they take." He waved a hand at the dead woman now bundled in a sling. "She used to be good. Well, there'll always be others."

Flesh and blood driven by greed and pride to make a target for rodents. A human creature driven by hunger and desperation to fight and kill, to race the clock, to suffer the sting and burn of bites. To listen to the jeers of watching men, the shouts, the fall of coins tossed as largesse to a beggar.

And yet was he so different?

Dumarest stood, looking down, seeing another ring, a wider expanse. The arena in which he had fought so often, armed with naked steel, facing another equally armed, both intent on murder.

To listen to the roar of the crowd, to smell the fear and sweat and oil, to taste the stink of blood, to know the burn of wounds. A man or a rat-what was the difference? A fighter intent on killing or rodents fighting in blind panic to survive? To enter the ring from choice for the sake of reward or to be driven in with flame and goads?

Was he any better than a beast?

"Earl?" Kemmer was staring at him, his face creased, anxious. "Earl, is something wrong?"

The world, the way of civilization, the universe. Would men ever live as brothers? Some hoped they might but on Harge the monks of the Church of Universal Brotherhood were not allowed. The charity they extended was despised by the Cinque, the creed they preached regarded with suspicion and fear. The belief that all men were brothers and the pain of one was the pain of all. That if all could but look and accept the basic truth and recognize that there, but for the grace of God, go I, the millennium would have arrived.

And there, in the pit, but for the grace of God, he could be lying!

"The poor bitch," rumbled Santis. "There are better things for a woman to do." He watched as the bundle was carted away, blood still dripping from the ravaged throat. "The clock," he said bitterly. "If she earned a few hundred kren she'd be lucky. And for that she had to risk her life."

Again and again until, inevitably, the gamble would be lost. And yet what else could she have done?

What else could he do?

Dumarest said, "Let's get on with it. Maurice, you handle the money and place the bets. Get the best odds you can. Carl, you'll be my manager. Remember, I'm dull, stupid, slow and a nuisance. You want to be rid of me."

"Will they be interested?"

"Why not? Cheap prey and an easy win. Ask for Matpius." A name won from the crone. "He lacks any compunction. Maurice, take the money."

All of it-but Dumarest was gambling more than cash. If he lost, the others would be ruined but he would be dead.

And Matpius was willing to see him die.

He was a smooth, round, scented man with delicate hands heavily adorned with rings. His hair was dressed in elaborate ringlets which fell over his ears and clustered at the nape of his neck. His clothing matched the image, the tunic pleated, the sleeves slashed to reveal inner streaks of vivid hue. A wide belt supported the jewelled hilt of a dagger. He carried a pomander which he lifted to his nostrils before he spoke.

"A fighter? That?"

"A creature of misfortune, my lord." Santis, accustomed to dealing with the rich and influential, bowed. "A trained man of my old company who served me well and to whom I am obligated. And yet, you understand, an obligation can prove onerous. His mind is not as it was and he tends to become too great a liability. My honor, of course, will not let me see him starve and yet-" He broke off, shrugging. "We are both men of experience, my lord. I am sure you appreciate the situation."

Matpius sniffed at his pomander, eyes shrewd as he studied Dumarest who stood, eyes blank, shoulders stooped, hands dangling loosely at his sides. A fine, well-made man, tall and with a face the women would find appealing. A pity he lacked intelligence or, no, just as well he did not. Using him would create no problems.

"He carries a knife-why?"

"Habit, my lord. As a soldier he grew used to the weight of arms. I let him keep it." Santis leaned forward and drew the knife from Dumarest's boot, displaying the artfully dulled blade, the stained and apparently blunt edge. "You can accommodate me?"

"Perhaps." It was in the man's nature to keep others in suspense. Again Matpius sniffed at his pomander, calculating, thinking. Against a man this creature would stand little chance and those who came to the arena expected more than mere butchery. And yet drugs could stimulate him and drive him to a killing frenzy. In such a case the results might be interesting. "You are concerned as to his welfare?"

"My lord, I am a realist. Use him as you will. The fee-"

"A thousand kren." Matpius waved the pomander. "Take it or leave it."

"It is little, my lord."

"But can be increased with an intelligent wager. Need I say more?" Matpius let the silence grow, one which spoke its own language. "Take him to the pens. Ask for Delman. Here." He scribbled a note. "Give him this and he will hand over the money." And then, as Santis turned toward Dumarest: "Don't bother to return for your friend-it would be a waste of time."

In the shadows a man was crying, "My arm! Dear, God, my arm!"

It had been slashed, cut to the bone, muscle and tendon severed from the vicious stroke of a blade. A cut which had won his opponent the bout and sent him circling the arena, smiling at the plaudits of the crowd. The man, now, was crippled and would remain so unless expensive surgery could be obtained to repair the damage. The skill was available- Dumarest knew the money was not.

He relaxed in the dimness, letting muscle and sinew unwind as he leaned back against the wall. For hours he had waited, acting the part of a dull, insensitive clod and the strain was beginning to tell. A normal man would have risen, walked about, done some limbering up exercises, at least had been curious as to what waited him, but he had been forced to do nothing but sit where he had been led and wait. Waiting he had listened. Listening he had learned.

Matpius, as he had guessed, was an animal wearing human shape. A dealer in flesh and blood to whom blood and pain came second to his reputation. A pander to the Cinque and those who could afford the best seats. His helpers were little better; sadists who enjoyed what they did. The bouts, as yet, had been normal enough; several for third-blood, some to the death, a couple for first-blood only. They had been for the benefit of those who prided themselves on admiring skill and not execution, the lovers of the quick parry, the lightning cut and thrust. An appreciation too fine for the majority who wanted to see more bloody action and who acclaimed as victor the man who could score three hits first. And even they paled against the feral demands of those who wanted nothing but a fight to the death.

Dumarest could hear them from where he sat; a screaming, shrieking ululation as if a horde of animals had scented prey. Men and women, shouting, yelling, eyes wide with blood-lust, nostrils flaring, hands clenched or tearing at their garments. The disgusting, the degenerate, the depraved.

Closing his eyes he could see them as he had so often before. See too the glitter of steel, the man holding the knife. The faces all looked the same; the visage of a beast lusting to kill, who had to kill in order to prevent being destroyed. The face of a creature intent on survival and revealing the primitive animal buried beneath the veneer of civilization.

A face matched by his own.

A gamble. Each time he fought in the arena it was a gamble. Not the calculated weighing of matched advantage but a blind, helpless dependency on the workings of chance. A pool of blood could cause him to slip and lose his balance and, in that moment, his life. A buried lump of excreta, a smear of oil, sweat falling to slick a surface. A badly adjusted spotlight the weakness inherent in the metal of his blade, his own nervous reaction to unexpected stimuli, all could cause his defeat. Things against which speed and skill were not enough. One day his luck would desert him. Today? Would it be today?

"Look alive there!" Delman came storming through the pens. "Get that mess cleaned up. Have the next contenders ready. You!" He glared at Dumarest. "Stand up, dummy!" He nodded as, woodenly, Dumarest obeyed. "Meat," he sneered. "But you'll serve. Ever used a spear? A net?"

Dumarest stood, staring, making no answer.

"You hold them one in each hand. With the net you trap and with the spear you thrust. You won't need that." He stooped to snatch the knife from where it rested in the boot, snarled as Dumarest dropped his hand to clamp fingers around the thick, hairy wrist. "All right, if that's the way you feel about it Chonllen! Get this creep into position! Move!"

A gate led from the pens to the arena and Dumarest halted at the opening looking at the circling wall, the tiers of faces peering down from the stands. Rows of faces all blurred in the light streaming from the dome above, a clear brilliance stemming from artificial suns. The floor of the arena was thick with sand, tiny motes of silica catching and reflecting the light so that it seemed to watch with a host of dispassionate eyes. Facing him was another gate; a black mouth which yawned with hidden menace.

"Right." Chonllen handed him a spear and a net. "You go out there. You wait. When something comes at you you kill it. Do that and you win the prize. Five thousand on the clock but you lose ten kren for every second you delay." He pointed to where a wide-faced clock with thick, black hands rested against the far wall. "When the dial turns green the countdown starts. Luck!"

Dumarest moved forward into the arena, fumbling the net and spear, apparently clumsy and accentuating his poor coordination. An act to increase the odds against him and time for Kemmer to place his bets. Time too for him to gain the distance and examine his weapons.

The spear was broad-bladed, eighteen inches of edged and pointed steel set on a seven-foot shaft of polished wood. The net was of coarse mesh weighted at the edges with leaden pellets. A thing requiring skill to handle and Dumarest held it like a whip in his left hand, the spear poised in his right.

Beneath his boots the sand rasped like small clinkers, grains rubbing, edges honing one the other, the small sound more felt than heard.

Still the clock showed a white face.

Time, he knew, drawn out to increase the tension, to sharpen the anticipation of the crowd. Time too for him to assess the odds. To win anything at all he would have to kill whatever was sent against him within a few minutes. After eight he would be fighting for nothing except the chance to save his life. A desperate man would rush in, staking everything on the initial attack, trusting to surprise and speed to defeat his adversary. The net would be used to snare and hold, the spear to thrust-and the roar of the crowd would acclaim a classic victory. But such a man would be a fool.

Dumarest looked at the clock, still glowing with a nacreous lustre, then at the gaping mouth of the far gate. As yet he didn't know whom or what his opponent would be but he guessed it would be a beast, not a man. A man would have appeared by now, be moving, weaving in the preliminary dance heralding attack. The ritualistic but essential period when chances were calculated and position gained. When weaknesses were looked for and strengths observed. A moment loved by those who appreciated skill as well as blood.

A beast, then, but of what kind?

A bell rang with a sudden, nerve-numbing jar and, as the face of the clock turned green, nightmare came rushing from the gate.

In her seat Ellain Kiran turned, clutching at the arm of her escort, voice shrill with excitement as her fingers dug hard against flesh.

"Yunus! A sannak! And it's big! Big!"

Too big for any lone man to stand a chance against it especially a dull, half-witted creature such as had stood waiting. He turned, ignoring the pressure of the woman's fingers, looking for the plump man who had sought wagers. Kemmer was busy, picking his clients, firm as to the odds.

"My lord?"

"I back the beast. Will you take five to one against the man?"

"Seven would be better, my lord."

"Six." Yunus Ambalo was impatient. "Thirty against five in thousands. A deal?" He turned back to face the arena as Kemmer nodded, confident the bet was as good as won. "And you, my dear? A thousand that the man falls within two minutes?"

"Accepted." She glanced at the clock then back at Dumarest. Suddenly, against all logic, she felt that he would win.

It was a confidence he didn't share. The creature was fast, sand pluming from beneath the long, tapered body as it writhed toward him. A moment to study detail and then he had sprung to one side, net lashing, spear levelled, the point rasping against a silicon-loaded hide as the beast turned and snapped with snouted jaws lined with flat, grinding teeth.

A thing from the desert. Life adapted to live even in the hostile environment of Harge. The body, snake-like, was segmented and scaled. The head was a conical projection split into the vise-like jaws. The eyes were covered with thick plates of transparent tissue. There was no observable ears, no feet, no neck, no weak points which Dumarest could recognize. Twelve feet long, three high, the creature was a mass of flexible sinew and iron-like muscle.

He jumped as the tail lashed toward him, landing to jump again, boots hitting the creature's back, gaining leverage to lift his body again in a long spring to one side. He'd turned in the air and landed, the net splaying from his left hand, the mesh badly aimed yet falling over the snout. Immediately he stabbed with the spear, the point glancing from the protective covering of an eye, skidding over the scaled carapace. An attack which took time and only his speed and agility saved his legs from been snapped by the vicious blow of the tail. Again he dodged, ran to the far end of the arena, ran again as the sannak writhed over the sand directly toward him.

The clock registerd the passing of forty seconds.

Four hundred kren clipped from the prize but Dumarest wasn't thinking of that. If he'd been the slow-moving clod he'd appeared he would be down by now, flesh and bone crushed by the sannak's jaws. No real contest and he wondered why Matpius had matched him against the beast The answer lay in the avid faces ringing the arena; their desire for blood, the spectacle of butchery.

He jumped again, pluming sand rising to catch his throat and sting his eyes, grit sent to fog the air as the snake-like thing lashed itself forward with sweeps of body and tail. Again Dumarest lashed out with the net, snarling as the mesh failed to open, trying again then throwing it aside so as to leave both hands free to manipulate the spear. To face the creature was useless, scaled and protected it couldn't be harmed with the weapons he possessed, but if he could get behind it he might stand a chance. The scales would overlap and the spear could be thrust between them. Hurt, the thing could turn and expose its stomach and, if that was softer than its back, the contest would still be won.

A chime and the first minute had passed, a sound lost in the roar of the crowd as Dumarest jumped again, feeling the rasp of the lashing tail against the sole of his boot, landing to thrust the spear beneath a scale. Tissue held then yielded, green ichor welling from between the plates. A minor wound but on which convulsed the sannak so that, as if impelled by a spring. Dumarest rose high into the air, to turn, to land sprawling on the sand as his feet slipped on buried slime. A moment in which he was helpless and one in which the sannak attacked.

"God!" Ellain felt the contraction of her stomach, the chill which warred with mounting, sensual heat. "No! Dear God, no!"

She could see it now in imagination as she had seen it in reality before. The long snout thrusting, jaws parting, closing to the shriek of the victim, the crunch of bone. The jerk and then retreat as the severed limb was dragged free to be eaten while the hapless man watched blood jet from severed arteries to stain the stand. And then the rest, the crawling, the pleading, the terror and the final, horrible, slobbering death.

"No!" she cried again. "No!"

It almost seemed he heard her. Certainly he moved and with a speed which blurred his limbs so that one moment he sprawled helpless, the next he was standing, feet distant, the spear recovered and reflecting splinters of brilliance as again it thrust at the emerald stain on the scales.

"Clever," mused Yunus. "He's discovered a vulnerable point and is concentrating on it. A pity that he is wasting his time."

"Time," she said and looked at the clock. "You owe me a thousand."

A debt he acknowledged with a jerk of his head, his attention once again concentrated on the man and the beast in the arena. The creature had been made to bleed but from a point tough with inner sinew and flexible bone. A thing he knew but which the man could not. How long would it take him to change his pattern of attack?

The third bell and Dumarest realized he was doing nothing more than irritating the sannak. Backing, spear held before him, he reassessed the problem. The creature was armored, protected against winds and dust which could strip the surface of stone. It was at home in an environment in which no unprotected man could live for a minute. But no creature was totally invulnerable. Nothing alive was proof against injury and death.

He moved as again the snake-like body lunged toward him. Jumping he landed on the far side and noted how quickly the thing could turn. As it twisted the scales gaped, lifting to compensate, providing a target for anyone standing at the rear. Useless information; he was alone, what had to be done must be done by his own effort. Not the scales, then, and the stomach hugged the sand. The eyes were protected. The mouth?

It had to be the mouth.

He waited, taking his time, ignoring the clock, the chiming bell which registered the dimunition of the prize he didn't expect to win. It would be prize enough if he walked alive from the sand. A bonus if he remained unhurt.

"Move!" A woman screamed from the stands. "Attack, you coward!"

A soft and pampered creature who would fly into a panic at the slightest injury. One matched by a man who added his own insults, made brave by the comforting knowledge that he would never have to answer for his sneers. Dumarest ignored them as he ignored everything but the creature before him.

Like himself it had slowed down, the initial fury replaced by an instinctive caution. Strength and energy now had to be husbanded against the time of supreme effort when life and death hung in the balance and could be decided by an extra modicum of stamina. And yet it was a beast while he was a man. If it had the brawn he had the brain.

He tempted it, moving, retreating, the spear a darting irritation at the eyes, the jaws. Jaws which parted to snap, to miss, to snap again a little wider than before. To reveal a throat ridged and lined like the maw of the grinder it was. A target at which he stabbed, steel vanishing from sight, the point a lance which stung and was withdrawn, teeth rasping over the blade as Dumarest jerked it from between the jaws.

Again, green staining the polished metal. A third time and then, with a sudden rush, the thing was on him, following the point instead of withdrawing from it, the small but cunning brain learning from experience. Dumarest spun, the spear hampering his movements, throwing him off-balance as sand dragged at his feet. Holding him as the jaws parted to close like a vise on his boot just below the left knee.

"Earl!" Kemmer had seen and stood, stunned, his face was a mask of horror. "Earl!"

A cry lost in the thunder of the crowd rose, yelling, scenting the end. Once a sannak had hold the outcome was predictable.

But the jaws had closed on toughened plastic, not flesh, the material giving protection and winning time. Dumarest darted his hand down to his knife, whipped it from its sheath, thrust it edge upward between the jaws, the metal hard against his boot. Now, if they continued to close, the jaws would bite on edged steel, the blade serving to protect the limb. Before the beast could jerk its head and throw him to the floor Dumarest had slipped the shaft of the spear so as to rest against the knife, one hand on each side of the snout, parted, the left heaving while the right pressed down. Opposed leverage applied to the shaft resting between the jaws, wrenching them apart-if his strength was great enough, if the shaft would hold.

He felt the wood begin to bend, heard the crunch of teeth driving into the yielding material and strain harder, sweat running into his eyes, stinging, blurring his vision. Shortening his grip he applied the full strength of back and loins, snarling as the teeth dug deeper into the wood. If it broke, if the beast should think to throw him, if the knife should slip and his leg be crushed-it all depended on the shaft, his own determination, his own strength.

The clock chimed and was ignored. The crowd fell silent, watching, waiting, recognizing the precarious balance on which Dumarest's life rested. Then, as the knife fell from between the jaws, the silence was broken by a sigh. A sigh which rose to a shout as the boot was withdrawn from between the clamping teeth, a roar which thundered as, releasing the shaft, Dumarest sprang back, dodging the rush of the sannak, stumbling, recovering as he dived for his knife.

To rise with it in his hand, his only weapon now, the spear shattered, broken.

"Earl!" Ellain rose as she shouted the name she had learned from the plump man. Her trained voice was a shaft of searing brilliance in a turgid darkness. "Earl! My champion! Win, Earl! Win!"

He heard, ignoring the cry as he ignored the others, turning as he faced the beast, jerking back his head to save his eyes from a shower of grit flung toward him by the lashing tail.

A moment in which he glanced upward to see a shimmering flame of scarlet. The glory of hair caught in a vagrant beam and turned into a halo of unforgettable hue. Saw too the face shadowed beneath; the pale, almost translucent skin, the full slash of the generous mouth, the emerald pools of wide-set eyes.

Kalin!

A moment only and then he was facing the sannak again knife poised, boots rasping the grit to gain traction. He saw the creature turn, the jaws gape and darted to one side as the thing charged. A maneuver repeated as he made his final play-to wear the beast down, to wait until it slowed, then to wound it again and again until, dead or hurt, it would give him mastery.

A plan which failed as, jumping to avoid a charge, he felt his foot slip, his ankle turning as he trod on a patch of buried slime. Then came the hammer-like blow of the tail which sent him slamming against the wall. The stars which burst in his eyes, the pain, the endless fall into darkness.