He saw the glint as he neared the tower; brightness which vanished to glow again as he veered from his path in a transient glimmer of reflected light. A sheen which he had seen before and he slowed, moving silently towards it. The glint moved in turn and he heard the rasp of shoes against soil. One repeated as he ran silently towards the noise, the metallic sheen of remembered garments, the woman who wore them.
One who wore a pad resting over her nose and mouth.
She turned as he reached her, rearing back as he tore the pad from her face and threw it to one side. An acrid scent caught at his nostrils and smarted his eyes then it had gone and he was fighting for his life.
She attacked without hesitation, metal blades lancing at his eyes from the stabbing tips of her fingers. Speed alone saved him. The blades passed over his lowered head stabbing again at his neck and slashing at his face. He heard the rasp as they tore at the fabric of his blouse, the grate as they met the protective mesh buried beneath. Before she could strike again he slammed the heel of his hand against her chest between and above her breasts. She staggered back, chest heaving, fighting for breath. Before she could regain her balance, he straightened, arms sweeping aside the threat of the sharp steel wedded to her nails.
"Use those again and I'll break your arms!"
"Bastard!" Panting, she glared her hate. "Why did you interfere?"
She gave him no time to answer, one hand dropping to her waist, lifting with the bulk of a laser. Dumarest smashed it aside before it could level, gripped it, twisted it from her hand. For a moment they stood dangerously close and he could smell the aroma of her perfume, feel the warm, feminine heat of her body. Then he threw the gun after the pad and stepped back, hands lifted in wary defense.
"Fast." She stared at him, eyes wide beneath arching brows, the helmet of her hair silvered by starlight and the glow from the field. She lifted one hand and pressed it where he had struck. A blow which should have rendered her helpless. The woman was far stronger than she seemed. "Too damned fast." Wincing she added, "You hurt me."
"You asked for it."
"Maybe. What happens now?"
"I take you to the guards."
"Why? What's the complaint? That I wouldn't let you rape me?" Her voice thickened a little as she edged closer. "Is that what this is all about? You saw me and desired me and came after me to get what you wanted? Well, you know what they say. To the victor the spoils. You certainly won. So?"
The offer of her body; a weapon as deadly as the laser, the blades fitted to her nails. A man lost in passion was vulnerable. To accept would be to commit suicide.
Dumarest said, "You killed the dog. You did something to silence the guards in the towers. A lethal gas of some kind. It has to be gas. Why?"
"You're talking nonsense. I was just out for a walk. I couldn't sleep and it's quiet out here." Her hand lifted to gesture at the towers, the space between them. "I saw no dog. If one is dead I didn't kill it. Someone else could have been here before us. I've no gas. Search me if you want."
She lifted both arms and turned so as to display her body. The metallic fabric she wore fitted her tightly, accentuating the swell of hips and breasts, the curve of buttocks and thighs. Her waist was that of a girl as were the broad contours of her face, but there was nothing young about her eyes. Looking at them Dumarest was reminded of the harlot.
"The guards can do the searching."
"You don't believe me? Why? Because of what happened? I thought you intended rape so I defended myself. Can I be blamed for that? Do you want me to beg? To grovel?" She shrugged as he made no answer. "To hell with it. Take me to the guards if you want. I'll tell them I found you up here close to a tower. That you attacked me without cause. I've bruises to prove it. Your word against mine." Her breasts rose as she inflated her lungs. "Want to bet on whom they'll believe?"
A gamble he would win despite the lure of her body. The guards would listen to both sides and the pad would speak for him; traces of skin, sweat and saliva would tie it to the woman. Her clothing would hold betraying residues of the gas she had used. Evidence which would settle guilt without question.
A thing she must know so she was either trying to lull him into a false sense of security or playing for time. Time to accomplish what?
Her eyes gave the answer. Dumarest saw the shift of silver reflections as they moved to search the sky, lowered to study the warehouse, rose again to the sky. She was expecting something and, suddenly, he knew what it had to be.
"Raiders! You bitch! You're working with raiders!"
"That's crazy!" She backed from him, the anger distorting his face. "I was just taking a walk. I got lost and-"
She turned and ran to where he had thrown the laser, snatching it up, turning to aim. He struck before she could fire, the mark of his fist a red patch on her jaw, blood staining the sand from her skull, the stone against which she had fallen.
Chapter Two
Dumarest heard the whining scream of tormented air as he neared the warehouse. Felt the blast, the jarring shock as the raider's vessel slammed to a landing on the field, the blue shimmer of its Erhaft field vanishing to reveal the bulk of a ship designed for loot and destruction.
An incredible landing which told of the skill of its captain, one matched by the ability of his gunners. Missiles ruined the turret on the warehouse, blasted open the wall, turned the other towers into rubble. Fire traced a path towards the town, ending at the hotel with a blossom of flame.
As the echoes died an amplified voice roared from the ship.
"WARNING! KEEP YOUR DISTANCE! ATTACK US AND WE DESTROY THE TOWN!"
A threat emphasized by the smoke rising from the hotel. Minor damage as yet but a demonstration of what would happen if the raiders were not obeyed. Whoever was in command knew his business and was wasting no time. The fence by the warehouse was down, cut and flattened on the dirt. The loading ports of the ship were open, ramps already in place, men hurrying to collect their loot. Workers lightly dressed guarded by others resembling machines.
Light gleamed from their amour; polished surfaces designed to reflect the fury of lasers, strong enough to withstand the impact of missiles. The helmets were blank, tanked air a protection against gas, the weapons they carried able to scythe flesh, metal and stone.
Dumarest edged closer to the warehouse, crouched low, trusting the glare of the perimeter lights and drifting smoke to shield him, from watchful eyes. One man, hardly a threat, but a guard on the alert would fire at a shadow. He froze behind the shielding bulk of a hut. Too late to give warning there was nothing he could do but ensure his own survival. To wait and watch as the warehouse was gutted of its treasures; bales containing rare and costly spices, boxes of electronic components, valuable oils, gems, herbs. Cartons he recognized.
The cargo which had cost him all he owned.
As sweating men piled it on the ramps he rose and slipped closer to the warehouse. Rubble from the ruined turret provided shelter and he crouched among it, feeling broken furnishings, equipment, the body of a guard. He moved again, freezing as an armored shape turned to scan the area. As it turned away he ran again, reaching the wall of the warehouse, the carvings which decorated it and provided plentiful holds. He swarmed upwards, reached the eaves and drew himself onto the roof. It was curved, thick, the transparencies now glowing with light. Illumination which revealed wide cracks caused by the attack. He reached one, stared through it, saw a mound of bales lying beneath. Bulk cargo of small value which cushioned his fall and he lay still, examining the scene below. The workers were busy further down the warehouse and he could see no guards.
Dropping to the floor he waited for the moment he knew had to come.
The success of a raid depended on surprise and speed. To hit, steal and run with the minimum of warning and without delay. The man commanding the raid would know that. Know, too, that despite his warning and the threat of damage local forces would move against him. Any ship was vulnerable to missile attack. It would have to leave before one could be organized. When it left there would be no time to count heads.
Dumarest inched forward among the piled goods, seeking shadows, freezing as men passed close. One grunted as a siren cut the air.
"That's it! First warning! Let's move!"
He flung his weight against a loaded platform, others joining him; a disciplined group but inevitably there were stragglers. A couple of men quested for anything small and valuable. Another tugged at a torn bale. As his hand dived into the opening the man guiding the platform yelled his anger.
"There's no time for that! Get busy on this load! Hurry!"
Dumarest watched as the loaded platform moved on its way towards the ship. As the siren again blasted its warning he stepped from hiding, hand dropping to his boot, rising armed with steel. As the raider tore his hand free from the bale and ran down the warehouse Dumarest threw the knife.
It hit as he intended, the pommel slamming against the back of the skull, the man falling as again the siren tore the air in final warning. There had been no shot, no scream, no witnesses. A prisoner had been safely taken.
One who would never talk.
Kez Mbopola was a Hausi, his dark face striated with the ritual caste-scars of his guild. An agent who could be trusted. One who never lied even if he didn't reveal all the truth. Early as it was he sat at his desk in an office redolent of a hundred spices, a thousand deals.
"A bad time." He gestured at the bottle standing before him together with glasses. "Help yourself if you want. You've earned it."
"You know?"
"I've been told. At least you got one of them. A pity he had such a thin skull." Mbopola watched as Dumarest sipped at the brandy. "It's a shame they got away so light. Three teams of guards dead as well as civilians. Raiders should be hunted down. Exterminated like the vermin they are!"
Strong language from a man who prided himself on his detached neutrality and it would be echoed by others eager for punitive action. Empty demands for nothing would be done. Ships, men and armaments cost money and the one man who could have told them where to strike was dead. They would repair the damage, heal the injured, bury the dead and things would be as before.
Aside from the orphans, the widows, those left crippled, those left ruined.