By the light of the fire and the stars overhead Dumarest checked the supplies. There was water, concentrated food, a small supply of drugs, a hand axe, a compass, some needles and thread, a length of fine wire, a knife. Dumarest compared it to the one he lifted from his boot then set it to one side. The rest of the bulk was made up of two large but empty plastic sacs and a bundle of clothing.
Dumarest piled most of them around the sick man, covering the whole with one of the plastic bags. Seated before the fire he worked at the length of wire, fashioning lines ending in running loops. Stepping into the starlit darkness he set the snares, holding them with doubled ends of the wire set deep in the dirt. Back at the fire he ate a wafer of concentrate, washed it down with a sip of water and, knife in hand, closed his eyes.
He slept like an animal, hovering on the brink of wakefulness, starting alert as something threshed in the grass to one side. A small rodent, he guessed, which had become caught in a snare and he mentally marked the direction of the noise.
As the stars began to pale with the onset of dawn he heard a series of dull explosions to the north followed by a vivid lavender flash. He marked it with the knives dug into the ground to form a line of sight which he checked with the compass as the day grew brighter. When the plain lay revealed in sharp detail he went to check the snares, finding them all intact except one. It rested in a twisted mass among crushed grass stained with flecks of blood. Around it he saw the marks of spatulate paws.
An hour later it began to rain.
* * *
Angado Nossak was singing in a high, cracked voice, a melody that made little sense followed by a babbling string of words that made even less. Dumarest rose from his place beside the fire and crossed to the prostrate man. It was late afternoon, the rain had cleared the air leaving a brisk freshness now sharpened by the chill of approaching evening.
"Earl!" The babbling stopped as the man looked up, crusted lips parting in a smile. "Good old Earl. My friend. My faithful retainer. Did I tell you how you will be rewarded? For you a palace filled with nubile maidens, fountains of wine, tables groaning beneath the weight of assorted viands. Land and workers to tend your crops. On Lychen you will live like a king."
"Lychen?"
"My home world. The residence of the family to which I belong. Allow me to present Hedren Angado Nossak Karroum." His arm waved in a vague gesture. "The spoiled son of a decaying line. Yet there are those who hold me in high regard. Those who… who…"
"Wake up!" The slap of Dumarest's hand against the lolling cheek caused birds to rise with startled croakings from the plain. "Damn you, wake up!" Another slap. As the eyes opened to focus with bleared concentration Dumarest snapped, "Now listen to me! Listen, damn you! I'm giving you two days to get on your feet. Until the dawn after next. Call it thirty-six hours. Do you understand?"
"Earl, I…"
"Keep awake!" Dumarest rose and gripped the plastic sac he had spread over the recumbent man. The rain it had trapped sloshed wetly over his hands to cascade down over Nossak's face and head; the deluge caused him to splutter but cleared his eyes. "Now listen!"
"Earl?"
"You're ill, dying, and I mean that. Unless you're able to travel the day after tomorrow I'm leaving you. That means you work to get well or you stay and be food for what's living out there." Dumarest jerked his head at the plain. "It's up to you. Personally I don't give a damn. I'd be better off alone."
"You mean it." Nossak struggled to focus his eyes. "You really mean it."
"That's right." Dumarest's tone matched his expression, cold, hard, unyielding. "Now hold still."
The drugs were in ampules fitted with hollow needles serving as strings. The first brought sleep, the second was loaded with wide-coverage antibiotics, the third held slow time; chemical magic which speeded the metabolism and stretched seconds into minutes, hours into days. Angado would wake thin, starving, but able to walk if luck was with him. If his survival instinct, bolstered by the grim warning, gave him the needed incentive. If either failed then he would die.
Dumarest covered the sleeping man with clothing, covered that with one of the plastic sacs and turned away. He'd done all he could and now it was time to ensure his own survival.
Far out on the plain birds rose with a sudden thrum of wings, and he studied them, eyes narrowed as he counted their number, the direction of their flight. A period of quiet and then another sudden uprush of winged shapes, closer and heading in his general direction. More came as the sun touched the horizon much closer than the others. Then nothing but silence and the brooding of watching eyes.
Out on the plain death was waiting.
Dumarest knew what it had to be. In such open country game was scarce and hard to bring down. The creature that had stolen the snared rodent had tasted blood and wanted more. It was only a question of time before the predator decided to attack.
For Dumarest it couldn't be too soon.
He had prepared the trap; ropes woven from strips of clothing now set to form a pattern of loops and barriers that would hamper quick movement if the beast loped over the area. The bait was made of food concentrates pounded and soaked in water thickly stained with his own blood. A compound smeared on a bundle of clothing set near enough to the smoldering fire for the heat to disperse the scent but not too close to frighten the beast away.
Now there was nothing to do but wait and he crouched, waiting, watchful, the small axe to hand, a knife resting in each boot. A man matching his patience against that of a beast, his ability to kill against a creature developed for just that attribute.
The fire dwindled, became a sullen, ashed ball, a shrinking, bloodshot eye. High above, the stars shone with an increasing brightness, a brilliant scatter of glowing points, sheets and curtains of luminescence interspersed with the fuzz of distant nebulae. Suns were close in the Burdinnion and always, toward the galactic center, the skies at night showed a blaze of luminescence, touching the plain with a soft, nacreous glow. Turning dried stems into wands of silver, drooping leaves into fronds of shining, filigreed silk until the frosted landscape stirred to the touch of a gentle wind that filled the air with a whispering susurration.
Dumarest thinned his lips as he stared into the empty spaces.
The wind would mask the approach he'd hoped to catch. The slithering rustle of a creature making its attack. One impossible to avoid and the only warning he would get. Now, because of the wind, his ears were useless and his vision limited. The beast could be behind him at this very moment, crouching, claws ripping into the ground as it sprang, those same claws reaching out to tear the flesh from his bones.
Dumarest dropped, an ear pressed to the ground, the other covered as he strained to catch subtle vibrations. He heard nothing but the beat of his own heart. A hand snatched a knife from his boot, drove it into the dirt, metal jarring against his teeth as he clamped them on the blade. A long, dragging moment then he heard it. A soft rumble, a rasp, a sound more movement than noise. Echoes transmitted through the ground and into the knife and by bone conduction into his brain.
A murmur which grew stronger, closer and then, abruptly, ceased.
Turning, snatching at knife and axe, Dumarest saw it limned against the stars.
A beast like a tiger, five feet long from head to the root of the tail, clawed paws extended, jaws gaping to reveal long, pointed fangs. A ruff of fur circled the neck to run in a line along the back. The tail, like a whip, bore a spined end. The back legs held razors.
Natural weapons which kicked at the ground to throw dirt pluming upward as the jaws closed on the clothing bearing the bait. The snarl of frustrated anger was a guttural roar of muted thunder, and shreds of fabric flew to either side as the beast vented its rage. Then it dropped the rags and stood, snuffing the air, head turning to where Nossak lay in drugged unconsciousness.
Dumarest acted before it could spring.
The axe spun from his hand, whirling to bite into the neck, the blade shearing through hide and muscle but missing the arteries. An attack which confused the animal by its sheer unexpectedness and it sprang to one side, head turning, jaws gaping as it scented the new enemy. One which came darting toward the creature, knives in hand, steel which stung and slashed at tendons and ligaments.
Dumarest moved back and felt the wind as a paw raked at his face. Then he was running, jumping high over the ropes he had set out. Behind him the animal snarled as the strands hampered its movement, a noose tightening to trap a rear leg.
Dumarest returned to the attack. The beast had to be killed, not frightened off to lurk hurt and dangerous on the plain. He darted forward as the animal reared, paws extended, jaws gaping. A lunge which placed him within range of the belly and he felt the jar and rasp as claws tore at his shoulders and back, the impact of the knife as it plunged deep to release a gush of blood.
He twisted as the free rear leg kicked out in a hammer blow which sent him staggering to fall beside the fire.
Rising, he snatched at the coals, threw them, ran toward the beast as sparks coated the snarling mask. His speed sent his face to press against the neck, his head rammed up hard beneath the lower jaw, his left hand rising to grip the mane as his right felt along the cage of the ribs.
To find the pulse of the heart…
Stopped as he drove home his knife.
Chapter Three
Alive!
Avro leaned back in his chair, feeling his mind expand with the euphoria of relief. On the desk before him rested the reports and findings on which he had based his conclusions. They were not certain-nothing could ever be that-but the probability that Dumarest was alive was above ninety percent. And, for him, that was good enough.
The eye-witness reports had given him the initial clue- Cardor had been thorough on that if nothing else. The stories were too similar, not exact, for that would have been obvious, but certain facets had left unanswered doubts. The viewpoints seemed to be roughly the same and that was wrong. The relation placed the same importance on the series of events and that too hadn't quite fit. Yet all was explained if the speakers had, somehow, been influenced by one other. Told the story and been made to believe it to be true. And for them it had been true.
But none had remembered what had happened to the klachen that had run berserk in a killing frenzy.
A mistake and he wondered who had made it. The owner? It was possible but even if true it no longer mattered. Punishment needed to be extracted for Tron's death though it could have been accidental. The animal could have broken free. Could have killed the cyber and the agent, and Dumarest, recognizing his chance, had taken it.
Speculation of no value and Avro dismissed it. The proof was enough and he leaned forward to examine it. The correlated reports, the scraps regained from the lagoon; bones, fragments of clothing, the remains of four bodies, one of them a woman.
The report of a man who had been found drinking in a tavern and telling of a vicious fight in the ring of the circus. A combat Dumarest had won.