by E. C. Tubb
Dumarest moved to greet him, gripping his hand in the old gesture of mutual trust, then guided him to a chair.
“We’ve a lot to talk about, doctor. Here, have some wine.”
A discourtesy with the host present but Dumarest was beyond caring about the niceties of protocol. As yet he had been fumbling in the dark, unsure of the truth of what he had been told, uneasy at the continued facade of apparent concern and friendship that could mask something far more sinister.
Chagal should be able to tell him what he needed to know.
“Earl!” His hand closed in turn. “It’s good to see you again. “Ladies,” he bowed to them both. “My lord!”
A title Shandaha had rejected when Dumarest had offered it. A politeness offered by the doctor, which he retained. A subtle hint as to their relative standings.
“Here!” Shandaha gestured to Nada. “Earl’s goblet has yet to be filled. See to it. And you Delise, my dear, attend the doctor. Help yourself to anything you desire.” Rising he added, “I must leave now. Entertain yourselves.”
Orders, not requests, and a further hint that the host was not quite all that he appeared to be. Dumarest was not surprised. The rich and powerful had always acted the despot and Shandaha was typical of his kind. A selfish person, his needs, wants, inclinations, paramount to the safety or comfort of anyone else. A man with a charming facade but, because of his position, a dangerous one.
“Tell me what happened.” Dumarest lifted the decanter from the table, ignoring Delise, filling Chaga’s goblet, draining his own.
The wine was thick, rich, bursting with flavor. It clung like blood to the rim of the goblet and left ruby touches on the doctor’s lips. Stains that vanished as Delise plied a napkin.
Chagal said, “They came Earl. The Shining Ones. You remember?”
“Men or things wearing camouflage. They used gas. Yes, I remember.”
“You stood up to them and were the first to go down. The woman was next. Adele, you remember her? The one with the broken spine. She died. I was captured and taken to the wreck. They broke in and cleared it out. It didn’t take long. Then I was gassed and woke up in this place. Shandaha, the same name as the owner. It tells you something.”
“He has pride,” said Dumarest. “He claimed to have saved my life. Did he?”
“Yes. You’d have frozen if they’d left you, but it wasn’t just that. The Kaldari had broken into the arms locker and my guess is they would have shot you on sight. Aside from that some were diseased. They’d hid it but it would have spread. In a few days we’d all have gone down.” Chagal stared broodingly at the contours of his empty glass, then added,
“The injured didn’t survive.”
“And then?”
“That’s it.” Chagal watched as Delise filled his goblet. Dumarest shook his head as Nada offered to serve him in turn. “It’s been a while. I don’t know how long. Time acts oddly here. Drugs, maybe, or something which affects the senses. There are odd blank spots and strange happenings. A day can seem an hour, an hour a day. Especially when Shandaha wants to be entertained.” He stared at Dumarest’s blank expression. “You don’t know? He hasn’t told you yet?”
“He said I owed him a little entertainment. He didn’t explain just what he meant.”
“He wants to live your life. To feel the things you did. Do the things you’ve done. Somehow to connect with your memory and ride with you on your journey through life. I’ve been through it.” Chagal’s hand tightened on his goblet, the crystal quivering, the surface of the wine shimmering with reflected light. “He’s bored,” he explained. “Too much time, too much comfort, not enough people, no distractions, nothing but endless repetition. So he borrows incidents, memories, romances, just as if he’s reading a row of books. But he’s reading lives. He lives them. Feels them.”
“It hurts?”
“Not from what he does. You don’t even know he’s there. But you go back in time. Mentally, of course, but you go back. Can you guess what it’s like?”
Too well. Dumarest remembered a circus, a girl with an unusual talent, a song which twisted the mind. Journeys into terror. Trips back into hell.
“These girls,” said Chagal with sudden anger. “This chamber-the whole damned place. The food, the wine, the comfort. Everything. All toys to keep us happy. Shandaha supplies them all. Cross him and they go. Attack him and you’d be out in the snow, naked, dying.”
“And when he’s drained you dry?”
“I don’t know.” Chagal voiced his desperation. “That’s what’s twisting my brain. I never know what’s going to happen next. I’ve nothing more to give him. Nothing!”
He gulped more wine, the rich fluid slopping over his chin as Shandaha suddenly appeared before them. Silently Delise cleared away the mess.
“The doctor has explained,” said Dumarest. “Which is what you intended when you left us alone. It seems you have an unusual talent.”
“One you recognize.” Shandaha leaned forward, his eyes as bright as the gems adorning his fingers. “It is not new to you. I sensed it in your mind. You are not like Chagal. You have had a different upbringing. More varied experiences. You will accommodate me?”
“You saved my life,” said Dumarest. “I owe you a debt. I am willing to entertain you. When shall we begin?”
There was no girl, no drums, no wailing song that twisted the mind and sent it hurtling back to a time of fear and terror. Instead there was a flask of sparkling fluid, two small glasses and a machine connected to electrodes that Shandaha fitted to both their skulls.
“The fluid is for relaxation,” he explained. “The electrodes will conduct a complex electrical pattern to certain areas of our brains. They will revive your memories and I will share them. For us both it will be as if we are in the actual time of the incident. Do you understand?”
“Do you?” Dumarest added, softly. “For me it will be as if the dead live again. As if all the bad things I’ve suffered are repeated and, unlike ordinary memories, I will not have the comfort of knowing that all has happened in the past. That no matter what the danger I will live. No matter how serious the threat I will survive it. Look at Chagal. Study his eyes. Can you realize what you made him experience? Dead loves, dead friends, hurt companions, all the stench and filth and pain of his profession. His failures. His conflicting loyalties. The Kaldari are raiders. Murderers. Thieves. Did you have to make him wallow in his own guilt. Did you enjoy it?”
“I am Shandaha. You are in my domain.”
“Yes,” said Dumarest. “I am fully aware of that.”
He watched as the small glasses were filled with the sparkling fluid and drank as Shandaha drank and felt the soft comfort of relaxation. The machine emitted a soft hum and the touch of the electrodes was barely noticed as he waited, for his memory to be activated.
Before, with Melome, there had been no choice, he had simply been flung back into moments of terror. She had lacked precise control. Did Shandaha? He could do nothing but wait.
Sitting warm and comfortable in a luxurious chamber.
The night had anticipated the coming winter, darkness masking the sky as sleet filled the air to the eerie sough of wind that rose, at times, into a maniacal shrieking as if tormented creatures writhed in an extremity of pain. Images too mature for his imagination yet they lingered and teased his mind as he moved cautiously over a bleak expanse of stone, sand and scrub in the growing light of dawn. A twig culled from a stunted bush eased the chatter of his teeth and gave the pretence of food as he chewed at the tough fibers. Frost made the going even more treacherous and twice he slipped to lie, fighting the fear of injury, rising to nurse bruised flesh and scraped skin, to move on, to reach his destination, to turn his back to the east and adopt his position as the sun rose higher into the sky.
Waiting, fighting the desire to close his eyes, to rest, to sleep, to escape into a more hospitable place. One touched by the gossamer fabric of vaguely remembered dreams. Of warmth, comfort and s
ecurity. Of unknown contentment. An empty wish-he had no choice but to stay alert.
Crouching, cold, almost naked against an expanse of gritty soil as he stared at the area ahead. The wind touched his near-naked body, driving knives of ice through the rents, numbing the flesh and chilling the blood and causing his teeth to chatter. He clamped them shut, feeling the jerk of muscles in his jaw, the taste of blood as his teeth caught at the delicate membranes of his cheeks. Weakness blurred his vision so that the scrub barely masking the stony ground danced and spun in patterns of bewildering complexity. Impatiently he squeezed shut his eyes, opening them to see the landscape steady again, seeing, too, the twitch of leaves at the base of a matted bunch of vegetation.
The lizard was cautious. It thrust its snout from the leaves and stared with unwinking eyes before making a small dart forward to freeze again as it checked its surroundings. Watching it Dumarest forced himself to freeze.
To rise now would be to lose the prey; it would dive into cover at the first sign of movement. Only later, after it had come into the open to warm itself by the weak sunlight and search for grubs would he have a chance and then only one. For now he must wait as the wind chilled his body, gnawing at him with spiteful teeth, sending more pain to join the throb of old bruises, the sting of festering sores, the ache of hunger.
Dumarest touched the crude sling at his side. Braided thongs the length of his hand and forearm joined by a pouch made from the skin of a small rodent. Each thong ended in a loop; a convenience, only one needed to be slipped over the middle finger, the other, the release, clamped by the thumb and first finger. A pouch held stones carefully selected as to shape and size. One was cradled in the sling. He would have time for one cast only. All depended on choosing the exact moment, of hand and eye working in harmony, of speed which would enable him to strike before the lizard could escape.
Now?
The creature was alerted, head lifted, eyes like jewels as they caught and reflected the sunlight, scaled body tense on the soil. It would be best to wait.
To wait, then, guided by subconscious dictates, to act. To rise, the loaded sling spinning in a sharp circle, the thong released at the exact moment to send the missile hurtling through the air.
To land in the dirt at the side of the lizard’s skull.
Dumarest was running even as it left the pouch, mouth open, legs pounding, breathing in short, shallow gasps to oxygenate his lungs. To gain energy and speed so that, even as the half-stunned lizard dived for cover, he was on it, holding it fast as his teeth dug into the scaled throat and released the blood of its life.
Blood he gulped until the creature was dead.
It was dark by the time he arrived at the place he thought of as home, the fire a warm beacon in the gloom. The only welcome he would get but, with luck, he would be given a portion of his kill; the lizard swinging over his shoulder. A hope that died as a man came to the mouth of the cave to snatch it and send him reeling with a vicious, back-handed blow.
“Lazy young swine! What took you so long?” He didn’t wait for an answer standing tall and bloated, his scarred face twisted into a snarl. “You’ve been eating! It’s on your mouth! Blood!”
“From the lizard! I had to-”
“Liar!” Again the thudding impact of the fist. A blow that sent his own blood to mingle with the dried smears on his chin. “You useless bastard! I took you in, let my woman tend you, and all you do is lie! A day’s hunting for this!” He shook the dead reptile. “Well, it’s too bad for you. Stay out there and starve!”
“I’ll freeze!”
“So freeze. What’s that to me? To hell with you!”
Another blow and he was gone, snug within the confines of the cave, warmed by the fire and the food Dumarest had won. From where he crouched he could hear the mutter of voices, the harsh, cackling laughter of the crone as she heard the news. A liquid gurgling as they gulped fermenting liquids. Later came the sounds of animals in rut. Later still the sound of snores.
Dumarest rose from where he had crouched. Softly he moved towards the cave and pushed aside the curtain of skins covering the opening. The fire burned low and he squatted beside it warming his hands and rubbing them over his limbs. From the pot standing beside the embers he found a bone and sucked it, cracking it open to get at the marrow before throwing it on the coals. More followed until the pot was empty and, drugged by the nourishment, his outraged physique demanding rest, he fell asleep.
And woke to a scream of rage.
It was day and in the light streaming through the curtain the crone stood glaring at him, her raddled face convulsed with fury. A slut, her body sagging beneath the filthy clothes she wore, lice crawling in her matted hair, sores on lips and chin. A fit mate for the man who woke and reared to his feet wiping the crust from his eyes.
“He’s eaten it!” She pointed at the empty pot. “The stew’s gone! The thieving young bastard’s eaten it!”
“I’ll teach him!” The man pushed her aside. He was naked aside from an apron around his loins. It fell as he stripped off his belt. The leather whined as he swung it through the air. “Now you greedy young swine! Stand still and be taught a lesson!”
Dumarest dodged as the belt swung towards him feeling the wind of its passing through his torn garment. Unimpeded the heavy buckle swung on to crack against the woman’s arm. Her shriek of pain was echoed by the man’s roar of anger. He rushed forward, belt swinging, the buckle catching Dumarest on the shoulder and sending him to stagger and fall beside the fire. Again he felt the impact of the heavy metal and rolled, reaching out, feeling heat, fire that seared as he gripped a handful of embers and flung them into the snarling face.
“God!” The man screamed pawing at his eyes. “He’s blinded me!”
The woman was fast. Water showered from a pot and washed away the ashes to reveal eyes filled with streaming tears. A face that had turned into a killer’s mask.
“I’ll get you,” he panted. “I’ll make you pay for that. I’ll have you screaming for mercy before I’ve done with you!”
Dumarest backed, his stomach knotted with fear, and felt the touch of wind against his shoulders as he left the cave. It was barely dawn and a milky opalescence softened the harsh outlines of the terrain. Wisps of fading mist clinging to the face of the cliff, shredding as the man lunged through writhing vapors forming a curtain to create an isolated area of conflict.
How to fight a man so much heavier and stronger than himself?
Dumarest turned, running to place distance between them, stumbling as his foot struck a stone. Stooping he snatched it up and held it poised to throw.
“Stop! Leave me alone!”
“Begging, you little bastard?” The man gloated, enjoying the moment. “Well, beg on, boy. I owe you nothing. Nothing but the beating of your life!”
The stone could be thrown but ifhe missed what then? A second stone would provide another missile and Dumarest looked for one as he retreated from his enemy.
He found it as the man charged.
Desperation fed power to his arm and he threw the stone with all his strength. It hit a temple, the man halting to touch his head, to examine the blood on his palm. Before he looked up the second stone had followed the first, striking against his cheek. In a frenzy he rushed forward, hands extended, fingers clawing. Dumarest felt them catch the neck of his garment to jerk the fabric from his body. A jerk that threw him to the ground beneath his opponent, a fist smashing into his face, fingers closing around his neck.
Fear drove him to attack in turn. He writhed, sending his hands over the bloated flesh, searching the groin, finding the soft bag and gripping the testicles. He heard the shriek as he jerked and twisted, pulling with nails dug deep. Rolling clear to leave his opponent moaning, clutching at his groin, blood thick between his thighs.
More blood flowered beneath the hammering impact of stones from his sling. Missiles that tore flesh and shattered bone exposing the brain and turning the skull into an oozing pulp
of grey and crimson.
The woman said nothing as he entered the cave but silently handed him a bowl of water, her eyes frightened, little sucking noises coming from her lips. Her man was dead, who would provide? The boy was better than nothing, a decision that dropped her hand from the knife tucked into her rags but Dumarest noticed the gesture and was cautious as she washed blood from his nose and mouth.
“He hurt you.” The woman was at his side judging the right time to establish her authority. “He was drunk, mad, crazed and dangerous. I was afraid of him. That’s why I couldn’t help you last night.”
Snorting he cleared his nose of clotted blood.
“I tried to stop him this morning,” she continued. “He pushed me aside. You didn’t see that, you were out of the cave by then. The bastard hurt me.” She winced as she pressed a hand to her side. “He was always hurting me. I’m glad he’s dead. Your nose hurt?”
“No.”
“It will.” She lifted her hands towards him. “Unless you let me fix it you’ll have trouble later on. It will block your breathing.”
Dumarest said, “Give me your knife.”
“Knife? Knife? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The knife,” he said again. “The one in your skirt. I just want to see it.” Then, as she continued to shake her head, he added. “I might be able to make one like it. It will be useful when hunting. I’ll be able to get us more food.”
“You’ll hunt for me?” Dirt cracked in the creases of her face as she smiled. “You’re a good boy, Earl. I’ve always thought of you as my own. Stick with me and I’ll look after you. Stand by me and you won’t regret it.”
“The knife?” He held out his hand. “I’ll look at it while you fix my nose.”
It was crude, a strip of pointed and edged metal with slats of wood to form a grip the whole held together with lashings of twine. He turned it as her fingers pressed at his nose, pushing cartilage back into place, roughly shaping the damaged tissue.
