He leaned forward as Dumarest approached, scowling, one hand lifting to his waist.
"Feld? Is that you? What the hell are you playing at?"
Unless he was blind he would have recognized Dumarest for a stranger so the words were to provide a distraction. Dumarest moved as the hand lifted from the belt, closing the distance between them before the weapon it held could be brought into play. Air whined as his knife slashed upward, the edge meeting the hand at the joint of the wrist, dragging, slicing through skin and fat and tendon, releasing a shower of blood, moving on as it grated against bone.
A cut which did no more than maim, but the laser fell from the numbed fingers as the giant yelled and drew back the fist of his other arm.
And yelled again as the knife, moving upward, changed direction to slash at his eyes.
Dumarest felt the tip hit the cheek, scrape over the bone and miss the eyeball by a fraction before slicing the nose. A cut which released blood but failed to blind as he'd intended. As the knife whined on its way the cocked fist slammed forward.
As he fell Dumarest heard the woman scream.
He rolled as he landed on the cobbles, rising to dodge the vicious kick the giant aimed at his face, dodging another as he regained his feet. The blow had numbed his right shoulder and would have smashed his skull had he not risen to block it and rode the punch as it landed. A chance the big man had missed and the only one Dumarest intended he should get.
"You bastard!" The man panted as he lifted his injured wrist. "You dirty bastard!"
The hand moved as he spoke, a carmine rain spraying over Dumarest's head as he ducked and lunged, the knife a stinging extension of his arm. The giant was huge, solidly packed with muscle, resistant flesh it would be difficult to penetrate with a stab. Also he could be wearing protective clothing similar to Dumarest's own, metal mesh buried in shielding plastic and proof against point or edge.
Where was the mutant?
Had the woman screamed because it had reached her? Was it even now tearing at her throat or had she screamed to warn him of its approach?
Dumarest lunged, cut, backed as blood spurted from the inside of one of the thick thighs. Moving to one side he saw the woman, the furred shape at her side, the gleam of the claws resting against her throat. Saw, too, the laser where it lay in the street where it had fallen from the gashed hand.
He sprang, the knife lifting, moving forward as he landed, umber and emerald flashing from the blade as it left his hand. Immediately he stooped, snatched up the laser and, turning, lifted it, his finger tightening on the release as he aimed. The ruby guide beam illuminated the scarred face, added a deeper hue to the blood seeping from cheek and nose, found the eye and ruined it as the projected heat burned its way into the brain.
As the giant fell Dumarest spun, laser lifted, finger poised on the release. His arm fell as he saw the huddled shape at the woman's feet.
"You killed it," she said blankly. "You threw something and it fell."
"A knife." He recovered it, drawing it from the throat, wiping it clean on the matted fur before thrusting it back into his boot. Are you hurt?"
"So fast," she whispered. "You moved so fast. One second you were facing that man and then, the next, you'd turned and thrown and-" She looked at her hand, at the smears on her fingers. "Blood! It tore at my throat!"
"Scratched it," corrected Dumarest. "The skin is barely broken. Why didn't you use the net and the club?"
"I tried but I couldn't seem to move fast enough. I guess I'm a coward," she admitted. "And perhaps a fool. I was warned but-" She broke off, looking at the dead. "Why did they want to hurt me?"
"For what you are and what you carry. For fun. Even, perhaps, for food. Was this yours?"
She looked at the laser he held out to her.
"Yes. I drew it when they frightened me but one knocked it from my hand. Then I ran but they followed. If it hadn't been for you I would have been helpless." She shivered then said, "Please, will you take me home?"
Chapter Two
Her name was Sardia del Naeem and she lived in a small and luxurious apartment set on the slope of a hill in an area graced with flowering trees. A safe and protected place but not her home. That was on Tonge and she had come to Juba on business. Things she told Dumarest when preparing him a drink. Vanishing into the bathroom when he took it not so much, he guessed to remove the grime of the day as to lave away the recent contact with vileness.
"Earl!" Her voice rose above the gush of the shower. "When you said those men could have been after food-did you mean it?"
"Yes."
"Literally?" The roar of water died, her voice loud and strained in the contrasting silence. "To hunt and kill their own kind as if they hunted an animal?"
He said dryly, "Have you no slums on Tonge?"
"Slums, yes, but-"
"No desperate? No starving?"
"Perhaps, but nothing like the Maze. Surely it is unique."
"No." Dumarest sipped at his drink and tasted ice and astringent bitterness. "Take a world like this and you have a place like the Maze. One with the same or a different name but one holding the same dangers. Fools go into them for amusement. The wise stay well away."
"As I should have done?"
"Yes."
"And you, Earl?"
"I was on my way to the field."
"And so saved my life." There was a click as the shower door opened. "And now, Earl, please pour me a drink."
She stepped from the bathroom as he turned, the tall glass in his hand, and they stood facing each other in the warm intimacy of the chamber. She had changed, the fuzz of hair tamed now to rest in a thick, glistening tress of shimmering jet over one rounded shoulder, the strands held by a coil of gem-set gold. Her face was oval, the eyes pools of limpid brown fringed with a fan of lashes, her skin the hue of sun-kissed olives, a brownness which held the depth of chocolate, of creamed coffee, of leaves turning from russet to umber.
Her nostrils were flared a little, matching the fullness of the lips in betraying sensuality, the eyes enigmatic beneath their upswept brows. Her ears were small, the chin smoothly rounded, the neck a column of grace.
Beneath a simple gown of multicolored silk her figure held the ripeness of maturity.
A woman no longer young but one who moved with the grace of a trained dancer. One who smiled as she took the proffered glass then sobered as she stared with frank appraisal at her guest.
Taller than she was by almost a head, his body hard and firm beneath the long-sleeved, high-collared tunic he wore, the smooth grey plastic marred now by minute stains. His face was hard, lines and planes presenting a mask of iron determination, the mouth alone touched with sensitivity yet one which could easily become cruel. A man who had long since learned to live alone, to rely on no one but himself.
Would he, if starving, eat what came to hand?
"My lady, is the drink not to your liking?"
"Of course." She blinked and sipped aware of the path her thoughts had taken. One guided by his presence, the aura of masculinity he radiated and to which she felt herself respond. "Help yourself to another drink if you want."
She watched as he crossed to the table and added ice and water to the glass in his hand. It was hard to remember that only a short while ago he had killed; that the stains on his tunic and matching pants were dried blood, that the knife riding in one of the knee-high boots had cut and slashed and hurtled through the air to sink into yielding flesh. A knife fighter, she decided, such men knew better than to stab, and yet such men did not throw their blades. To do so would be to disarm themselves and, should the throw miss, death would be inevitable.