The band of runners lined up for Nalgre’s inspection. As was customary we all cringed back — even I, for I had no wish to start something that, in finishing, might end up disadvantageously for the Star Lords — and, as you may guess, I was not thinking of them when I wished no foul-ups to occur.
The thin old Och, Glypta, did not cringe.
He simply stood, upright, a distant lost look on his face, and I knew I watched a man who had already given himself up for lost and who put no stock by Nath the Guide’s encouraging words.
“Why do you not bow to me, Och?” demanded Nalgre. He was interested. He was accustomed to the instant servility of slaves. His whip twitched in his thick fingers.
“I have reached the bottom, the end. There is nothing more you can do to me. I have no more fear, for I am finished.”
Nalgre laughed.
“Aye! I have heard political prisoners speak like that, Och. They imagine — oh, they imagine many things, the degradation, the hollowness, the utter irrationality of imprisonment. They believe that in negation they overcome.” He laughed, and the sound chilled the blood. “I tell you, Och, you have no conception of the hell that can be yours if I wish.” He flicked his whip and the female manhound gamboled out. “I have no need, even, to cause you suffering from my man-hounds you do not as yet comprehend. The whip, ol’ snake, will quickly teach you that you have not reached the end of suffering. I can make you fear again, Och — as many political prisoners have found before.”
I knew he spoke the sober truth.
I was thankful to see that Glypta, too, through the miasma of his suffering, had been jerked back from that self-congratulatory abyss of suffering so many politicals, believing themselves beyond fear, indulge in. He cringed and Nalgre laughed.
What the slave-master might have done next for his amusement remained thankfully unknown, for Notor Trelth with a thick impatient rasp to his voice said: “Have done with the rast, Nalgre. If a slave will not bow the neck, have his head cut off and thus make him bow for good and all.”
A woman with Trelth, with pearls in her hair and a plump and well-fed figure she had somehow crammed into tight hunting leathers, so that she bulged, tinkled a laugh. “Let him run for our sport, Ranal! I shall joy to tickle him!” And the fat fool had the effrontery to finger the thraxter at her side.
Ranal Trelth chuckled. “He shall be all yours, Lavia, yours for yourself, my precious.”
I did not miss the tip of her scarlet tongue as it licked her rich lips, shining in the radiance of the twin Suns of Scorpio.
As we trudged off to the slave barracks, I heard the slavemaster Nalgre have the last word.
“Ah, but, Notor Trelth, if you take off the head of an impudent slave, he does not suffer!”
There would be no chance whatsoever of convincing my fellow slaves that Nath the Guide, the one man to whom they looked for deliverance, was a traitor. I did not stand in the same danger vis-à-vis him as I had done with Inachos, for I had told Nath nothing, as I had blabbed to Inachos. I had to wait my time, and then strike, and trust in my own skill and strength to bring me through. Of one thing I was absolutely, irrevocably sure. I could expect no help from the Star Lords beyond an insulting jibe from their spy and messenger.
Up in the first floor above the hard-packed earth of the slave barracks we found two other parties waiting to go out, and a third joined us later on, when Nalgre had attended to them. There were sixteen in our party, of whom nine were halflings. The three Khamorros did not appear to me, at first glance, to be friendly to one another, and there were two human girls, the fair-haired one and one with very short dark hair, who by that token had been slave for a very short time. The girls were frightened of the Khamorros, and everyone else was, too. Nath himself trod warily, and I remembered the brave futile fight of Lart on that very dirt below us.
Glypta the Och, with the return of fear, also needed the return of reassurance, and Nath spent some time with him. I welcomed that. I took myself off to the darkest corner and ate my food alone and attended to what it was necessary to do without crossing any of the others. The Khamorros kept up an argument, but I made no attempt to follow its ramifications. There were two of them against the third. I did gather that they were khams of different training disciplines, different syples, but that the point of dissension was not, as might have been expected, the relative superiority of their own syple.
A certain amount of luck was with me, for when the suns went down I knew I would have two burs at the outside when only a couple of the lesser moons were in the sky. I waited with what patience I could muster.
When all was dark I carefully felt my way down the wooden ladder. Below, the guards were thrown into black relief by the glare of torches becketed into the walls alongside the door with its lenken beam. Lart had had difficulty in lifting that beam.
Like a wild leem of the plains, I crept up behind the first guard, silenced him, snaked across to the second, and served him likewise. I looked about for more, guessing they would be well on the alert for fear of the deadly men so well versed in the art of unarmed combat.
There was time for me to slip into the leaf-green tunic of a guard whose shoulders were almost the equal of my own, and to don his helmet. I extinguished one of the torches and cursed, a good Hito-the-Hunter oath.
The Deldar walked in from the guardroom, cursing in his turn. They all carried crossbows, ready spanned. Him, I tapped on the nape of the neck and dragged into the shadows. Two more I served in the same way so that there were six unconscious guards, sprawled on the hard dirt of the slave barracks. Then I lifted up the lenken beam and went out.
Getting into the barred caves was easy. No guard challenged me, for I was dressed as a guard and therefore above suspicion. And, too, no one had escaped from the caves of the Manhunters of Faol for many many seasons.
Inside the barred opening I ripped off the leaf-green uniform. Guards came in here in search of pleasure, and some, at least, never returned. I padded on towards the feeding area. Mog the Migla lay asleep on her filthy pallet in her den, surrounded by discarded bones and cracked and rimed platters — and her great bristly broom stood against the wall. I lapped a length of her foul blanket about her mouth and seized her and lifted her upon my shoulder and so, without a cry or a struggle, carried her swiftly outside.
A guard lowered the point of his spear as I stepped through the unlocked gate. Its bars were barely visible in the faint filtered light of the tiny hurtling moons.
“Now, by Foul Fernal himself! What is this?”
Had he talked less and used his spear more, he might have discovered what this Foul Fernal, whatever demon he might be, would now never tell him, for I stepped inside his spear and with my one free hand gripped him and cross-buttocked him with such force that his spine snapped. But he did have time to scream, whereat I let out a low Makki-Grodno oath.
I took his sword and spear and left him where he fell. I gathered up the leaf-green uniform and helmet, and carrying all in an awkward bundle, raced into the darkness.
Some distance along the trail the fugitives took to leave the compound I found a nice comfortable spot partway up a tree bole, and with movements very rapid and barely seen in the gloom, lashed Mog safely to the trunk. Her tattered blanket provided gag and bindings. Her eyes glared at me and I saw no terror in them, only a mindless and shaking sense of outrage and feral hatred. I slammed in a palisade of thorns that, although skimpy, would serve, and then dashed back. If you ask why I did not at once flee with Mog through the night jungle, you have not yet rightly understood me.
I knew the fliers were kept nowhere near the caves. Where they were kept I did not know. The Jikai villas were some way off and would be guarded. If I aroused the compound now there scarcely would be a hunt the next day. I had left the barred cage door open. The dead guard lay sprawled just outside. That would cause commotion enough.
Back in the slave barracks I flung the uniform back on the guard, kicked the Deldar, who was mo
aning, and scampered up the stairs. Up there all was quiet. I crept to my corner and lay down. A shadow moved. A man eased gently up to me.
A voice said: “You tried to escape, dom. You came back. Why?”
I recognized the voice of the third Khamorro, a light, pleasant voice, to come from such a deadly kind of man.
“If you wish to know,” I said, “go down and see.”
He chuckled. “I am going to escape tomorrow. I would not wish anyone to spoil that for me. I hope you have not done so.”
“Go to sleep.”
I was perfectly ready in case he leaped on me. But he did not. I heard him ease himself back to his pallet. His voice trickled through the darkness. “You are a strange man. Tomorrow, we will see.”
With the morning there would be the final nonsense with Nalgre, and his female manhound, and then we would set off through the jungle. I hoped this Khamorro would welcome what he then discovered.
All followed exactly as before.
The only difference that a dead guard had made, and an open cage door, was a strong body of guards marching into the slave caves and beating about, aimlessly, and then marching out having found nothing and accomplished nothing. The slaves ready for the run today were counted, and then counted again. The Deldar, who had awoken first, must have said nothing of the inexplicable sleep he and his men had indulged in. But, as none of the slaves had escaped, there was no harm done. If anyone noticed the absence of old Mog, they would scarcely credit that she had slain a guard and taken off into the jungle, witch or no witch.
The Khamorro who had spoken to me, whose name was Turko, gave me a meaningful glance. I ignored him. Strange, how to look back on that day I can so clearly recall how I wished this Turko the Khamorro to hell and gone! Strange, indeed, is the way of fate.
With which not particularly original reflection we all began our march into the jungle, hunted men and women and halflings, sport for the great Jikai.
Nath the Guide led off very smartly, acting his part as the guide and mentor of this little band of fugitives. He had decided we should strike north, and his words were the selfsame words that Inachos had used. They learned their duplicity by parts, these treacherous guides!
When we came to where I had left Mog I sprinted ahead, and with the dead guard’s thraxter cut her down.
She came all asprawl into my arms and I caught her odor and I gagged.
“You nulsh! Migshaanu the All-Glorious will fry your brains and frizzle your eyeballs and rip out your tongue and—”
I said: “If you do not still that wagging tongue of yours, Mog, I will probably rip it out, instead of Migshaanu.” I was bending forward, glaring at her, mightily wroth. She looked up with those bright agate eyes, and saw my face, and she stopped talking. I have noticed that effect I have on people. It is not something I am proud of. But it is, nevertheless, mightily useful at times!
Nath shouldered up, flustered, shouting: “What is this! What is she doing here? Mog — Dray Prescot — what—?”
One of the Khamorros, the largest of the three and a thumping ugly great fellow, bellowed out in anger:
“The old crone cannot march! She cannot come with us — you must leave her, cramph.”
“I will carry her, if need be.”
For I had felt a surprising strength in that thin figure when she had tumbled out of the tree upon me.
“We shall not wait—”
Turko walked up with a lithe swing, his dark hair tumbled about his face, his features bronzed and clear, and, as I noticed for the first time, a look about him at once reckless and contained. With all this his build, all muscle and sliding roped power, advertised his enormous physical development, and, if that were not enough, he was damned handsome too, into the bargain.
“Leave it, Chimche,” he said. “This nul Dray Prescot will carry the crone, as he says, or be left behind.”
The bulky form of Chimche started to quiver and Nath said quickly: “We had best press on. There are shoes and food and wine ahead — and knives.”
I had to keep my fingers still. I knew that wine.
So we hurried on along the trail, with Chimche turning often to give me a glare. But I had given him no further cause of offense, and I was carefully watching Mog. Having seen how matters stood, and at her first immediate rush back down the trail being firmly stopped by me, she screeched and waved her arms but trudged along. Every now and then I had to give her a push. I watched her, as I say, very carefully; the impression had formed that she play-acted rather more than she cared folk to perceive. And her walk, once the shuffling scuttle she habitually adopted in the caves proved troublesome swinging along the trail, changed imperceptibly into a much firmer and longer tread. She would not be the first woman to make herself look old and hideous in captivity.
Still, she was a halfling and, by Zair, she was hideous in reality!
When we reached the cache of food and clothing Mog was more than happy to rest. We donned the gray tattered tunics and took the knives and put on the shoes, and all this petty finery was designed to make us feel we had outwitted the manhunters, to give us hope, to make us run!
Mog wouldn’t wear the shoes Nath offered.
Toward the end of the march I had to carry her, slung over a shoulder, and every now and then a filthy dangling leg would give me a sly kick, just to remind me.
When we made our camp up a tree, erecting a palisade of thorns, and Nath prepared his lower aerie, I knew the time approached. Nath hefted up the wine bottles, their leather bulging. I was looking at Mog. She was tied in place. I knew she had the willpower and the courage to march back through the jungle. Now, as Nath offered her the wine, she cowered back, trembling.
“No, no, Nath. I do not want the wine.”
Chimche bellowed at this, his dark florid face flushed.
“Then give it here, you crone!”
“Why will you not drink the wine?” persisted Nath. He upended the spout over Mog’s mouth, trying to force her, letting the wine drop through in that frugal way Kregans have.
“No!” She was terrified now. “No, the wine is drugged! We will all sleep and the monsters of the forests will eat us!”
Turko laughed at this, but Nath backhanded Mog across her rubbery lips. “Drugged!” he shouted, in a fury. “You lie, old crone! You lie!” And he hit her again.
I took Nath the Guide’s arm and bent it back.
“She does not lie, Nath. The wine is drugged so that you may creep off in the night, and leave us prey to the man-hounds.”
He stared at me, his arm bent back, and a sickly smile distorted that frank and manly face. We all saw. We all saw the guilt that glazed on that face.
“By the Muscle!” bellowed Chimche, shoving forward. “It is true!”
The other Khamorro, Janich, elbowed up, pushing me out of the way, reaching for Nath the Guide.
“The wine is drugged and the guides are false!” screeched Mog. Her agate eyes glared up in the terror of the moment.
Janich’s hefty push and Nath’s convulsive effort broke my hold on his arm and he scuttled back up the tree branch. He stared down on us, and saw the murder in our eyes, and he screamed at us.
“It is true! It is true! The wine is drugged and you creeping yetches will be dead tomorrow when the Manhounds of Faol tear your limbs apart and splash your blood into the jungle.”
Shouts and calls broke out as the slaves tried to get up the tree at Nath. He lifted his knife. I think, then, he knew he was doomed, for the Khamorros are frightful fighters, and he with all his forest experience knew he would not elude them among the trees. But he would make the effort. You could feel sorry for him, as you might feel sorry for a risslaca — about to kill and eat a dainty lople — being suddenly caught in a snare and feathered with barbed arrows.
“You are all doomed!” Nath the Guide screeched it down at us. “And the witch shall die first!”
The whole reason I was here, in this hideous situation, was to rescue Mog the Mi
gla and take her to safety. And now, with the speed of a striking leem, Nath hurled his knife at the old Miglish crone.
The knife flew, a darting sliver of steel in the forest gloom, full at Mog’s unprotected throat.
Chapter Fourteen
Turko the Khamorro
Straight for that stringy defenseless throat the knife flashed. The movement of the knife struck everything else into a paralysis, a stasis wherein Nath’s throwing arm remained outflung, Mog recoiled against the bonds, Turko and the other Khamorros stood caught in the passions of the moment, the halflings below stilled in their clamor.
The sword I had taken from the guard rasped as it cleared the scabbard.
That old Krozair trick of striking away flying arrows with the superb Krozair longsword must serve me now — and before I had time to finish the thought, everything happening so fast events blurred, the thraxter flicked out and the knife struck the blade with a high ringing pinging and spun away into the gloom of the forest.
Nath the Guide galvanized into motion, screaming, clawing back up the tree.
From below a Rapa — one I had noted as of that fierce, predatory, arrogant kind that meant he had once been a mercenary — threw his own knife. It flew true. Nath the Guide stood, arms spread, transfixed, his face twisted with the defiant-fear — and he fell. Nath the Guide, son of treachery, fell full-length down the tree and so into the greenery to smash face-first into the mud and detritus of the jungle floor.
“Let his foul Hito the Hunter aid him now!” quoth the Rapa, and went down very agilely to retrieve his knife.
This Rapa was one Rapechak, and I remember that he must have been less offensive to smell than most, or I was growing accustomed to the typical Rapa stink. Those Rapas who had fought with me in Dorval Aymlo’s courtyard, too, I recalled, had been in nowise as offensive as other Rapas I had known.
“Now what do we do?” demanded the big Khamorro, Chimche.
Mog remained petrified and dumb. The halflings were raising a great hullabaloo. Janich was yelling at them to cease their noise or, by the Muscle, he’d break their bones to powder.
Manhounds of Antares Page 13
