“Kill him!” demanded the crone. “He robbed me! Took my things. My blanket and jug and knife. He stole my knife! He killed my man! You saw him do it! Let him do it! Watched as he beat his head and face to a pulp. Go and see it. See what he did. Take a good look. Bury him-then go and get the bastard who did it!”
A score of them decided it was a good idea. True the killer had a knife and he might well try to use it, but he was a boy and they were men and it would be safe enough to track him down, and make him crawl and beg and plead and scream as they broke his limbs, shriek as they tore out his eyes, moan as they used fire to sear his threshing flesh.
It would be a thing to remember. Once they had whipped and tormented him into a moving heap of lacerated flesh and blackened bone, they would drag him back and hang him on a pole as an example. Something for all to see and hear if they were careful to leave him alive. A lesson to those who might be tempted to forget who and what they were and what would happen to them if they did.
“Let’s go!” said a man. He swigged the last of the liquid in his jug. “Let’s teach that little bastard a lesson no one will ever forget!”
They knew the terrain. They had hunted and roved and scavenged and they knew which direction Dumarest had taken. Knew, too, that he was young and relatively small and they could make faster progress. They had no doubt they would catch him. He was starved and weak and would have limited endurance. Fear would ride with him and terror would make him careless. He could even have made the mistake that there would be no pursuit. That they would leave him alone. That he could walk away from his killing as if it had never happened. They would relish reminding him it had.
He learned they were coming. Far back in the distance a bird had risen to wheel and glide away and, by so doing, had signaled the presence of strangers in its domain. He knew who they had to be and could guess at their numbers. Guess, too, as to how long they would take to reach his present position.
By dusk, he calculated, studying the sun. Maybe before, but he doubted it. For them dusk would be soon enough and the darkness of night would give an added zest to what he knew they intended. But it would also give him an advantage.
Shards rattled from beneath his feet. The rags with which he had bound them protected him from the jagged edges but the sound would carry and a hunter would recognise it for what it was. He repeated it, a third time, then stepped slowly and stealthily to where the opening of a narrow gully pierced the surrounding mounds of the terrain.
The setting sun filled it with shadows and a straggle of trees resembled hostile sentries mounted on vantage points and glaring at the opening, the expanse beyond. Stones lay scattered around and Dumarest paused to study them. He had lost his sling but it was not a good close-quarter weapon. It took time to load and get into action and, when spun, would produce a sound recognizable to any hunter. The knife was better but it was small and fragile and to use it at all meant he would have to get in really close. An attack from the rear and a quick slash to cut the throat or a stab to sever an artery. An attack which might work if the target was alone but relative size came into it and that advantage was not his.
Carefully he chose from the scattered stones.
A sling wasn’t essential to launch a missile. He had hands and arms and a back and shoulders to provide muscular power. The thing was to get close enough, to throw fast and hard enough, to have a reserve in case of need. The stones would provide it. He had reason to know how effective they could be. Others could have forgotten.
Standing among the trees he heard them coming. He stood against a bole, arms lifted, a stone gripped in both hands. A heavy rock treble the size of his clenched fists, its weight taking its toll, giving birth to muscular tremors and a mounting, numbing ache. Things he had expected and ignored.
The bole of the tree eased his weight and gave a degree of support. More important it enabled him to stand immobile. To wait in the thickening shadows as the rasp of boots grew louder.
“You in there?”
The voice was loud, blurred, careless. The man a shape that gained features and details as it came closer. A big man, blotched with sores, his clothing ragged, his temper short. A man Dumarest recognized.
“Earl! You in there? Answer me lad. Let’s end this and get back home. I’ve food and a fire and you’re welcome to share.” He added, “Trust me. You’ll come to no harm. I give you my word on that.”
The rasp of boots grew louder as the man came closer. A hunter and a good one but a liar all the same. His head moved as his eyes searched the dimness for a betraying trace of movement that Dumarest knew better than to provide. He held his breath as the man turned to face the tree against which he stood, eyes studying the bole, the silhouette, eyes and mouth opening in recognition at what he saw.
“By God, I’ve found you!” His voice rose to a shout as he ran towards his prey, coming close. “Hey! Here! I’ve-”
The shout died as Dumarest swung forward from the hips, the stone he held flung with all his force, arching from his hands to land directly against the gaping mouth. Teeth shattered, bone, blood jetting as the man fell dropping the spear he had carried. Dumarest lunged forward, snatched up the weapon and slammed the blade into the fallen man’s heart.
Then he was running, weaving between the shielding trees, hearing shouts and curses behind him, the sounds of pursuit that faded as he gained distance and safety. Darkness closed around him and he moved steadily towards the north living as best he could. A time of tribulation then, at the limit of his endurance, he stared at the strangest thing he had ever seen.
CHAPTER THREE
Shandaha said, “You had a most unusual upbringing, Earl. Not all childhoods are the same. Some can be far more distressing and dangerous than others.”
“As mine was.”
“Not necessarily. You doubt it?” Shandaha leaned forward in his chair, eyes intent. “You think that because a child is not beaten then it must be happy? No childhood is ever that. Each child is vulnerable, ignorant, dependant on the whims of others. Living in a cage designed with the best of intentions but illustrating the world of adults not that of a child. It can be fed, clothed, housed in comfort yet denied the simple things that give simple pleasures. And worse-the mind warped, the imagination stifled, rules and regulations imposed which, in themselves, form a prison.”
“And I had the freedom to run, to hunt, to freeze, to starve.” Dumarest was bitter. “I thought you would have found it entertaining?”
“I found it interesting. Your memories are excellent. This was the first time you had killed another human. In effect it was a rite of passage. One that affected you and altered your outlook on life. A venting of all the fear, anger and terror that powered the force of your decision. A gamble for your life that yielded pleasure when you had won. You did feel pleasure.”
“You would know.”
“It was present,” insisted Shandaha. “The enjoyment at the elimination of a threat. Of a battle won. An emotion touched by relief. Also you learned something.”
Dumarest said, drily, “That to kill is easy if you have no choice.”
“Exactly.” Shandaha leaned a little closer. “But not all learn it. Chagal, for example, he lacks the courage to apply his knowledge in times of crisis.”
“You are being unfair. He has sworn an oath to protect and preserve life. A conditioning not easy to throw aside.”
“Perhaps, but it hampers his ability to survive.” Shandaha dismissed the subject. “Enough of the doctor. There is something else. A puzzle I find intriguing.” Pausing he added, “Would you oblige me by pouring us both some wine.”