Iduna (dumarest of terra) Page 7

  Naked he advanced, belt forgotten, hands extended, the fingers curved into claws, instruments of destruction to grip and tear and savage the object of his hate. A man against a child.

  Dumarest backed 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 clung to the face of the cliff, shredding as the man lunged through writhing vapors, forming a curtain to create an isolated area of combat. But how to fight a man five times heavier than himself? Dumarest backed faster and felt his foot strike against a stone. Stooping, he snatched it up and held it so as to threaten.

  "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 if it missed what then? A second stone would provide a second weapon and Dumarest looked for one as he backed. To run would be safer but where could he go? And if he tried and slipped the man would be on him. His sling?

  It was bound around his waist and to loosen it would take too long. He needed a weapon to hand, one he could get to fast and use even faster. Another stone to back the first. A stone!

  He found it as the man charged.

  Dumarest rose and dived to one side all in the same flowing movement. Landing, he turned and, drawing back his arm, hurled one of his stones. His aim was good and the man roared as it hit his temple. Slapping his hand against the spot, he glared at the blood on his palm and, as he lowered it, Dumarest knew he intended to kill. Had intended it all along, perhaps, but now there could be no mistaking his intention.

  How to win?

  How to beat the mass of rage-inflamed muscle and bone? How to cripple it and bring it down and then make it harmless in the only way there was? Backing, stone in hand, Dumarest looked at the man as if he were a beast. He was a beast, a savage predator who must be stopped, one who would have no mercy.

  The legs?

  Smash his knees and he must fall. He would lie on the dirt unable to hurt anything beyond the range of his arms. He would twist and plead and cry in his pain and be an easy target for more missiles.

  The genitals?

  Better if they could be hit with enough force but the blow would have to be just right and the target wouldn't be easy to hit and was smaller than a knee. The rest of the body was hair and muscle and composed of tough sinew and bone.

  The eyes?

  Dumarest remembered the scream, the naked display of terror, the fear of blindness the man had revealed. The eyes, then. Vulnerable but an even smaller target than the groin and a lowering of the head could protect them. But that very action would serve to blind the man's vision and behind the eyes rested the skull, the brain, and below them the mouth and teeth and, lower, the throat.

  And, already, he had hit a temple.

  The second stone left his hand, flung with all the force of his back and shoulders, sliding through the air to hit the man's upraised arm, to fall to one side leaving nothing more than a bruise. A mistake, he should have used the sling, and he tore it from around his waist as the man lunged after him.

  He was fast and Dumarest felt his hand touch his shoulder, slipping as fear gave him speed, the fingers catching the neck of his garment to jerk the rotting fabric from the thin, young body. A jerk which threw him off balance so that he stumbled and fell and cried out as the man fell on him, feeling the pound of a fist against his nose, the crushing of cartilage, the splitting of lips, the taste of blood in mouth and throat.

  The feel of the soft bag as he desperately reached for the man's groin and gripped the testicles. The shriek as he jerked and twisted and pulled with nails dug deep, moving his head just in time to avoid the blow which broke bones as the man rammed his hand against the rock, rolling clear to leave his opponent moaning, grabbing at his loins, blood thick between his thighs.

  Time won in which to pick up stones and fit one to his sling. To whirl it. To release the thong and watch as the missile smashed teeth. To send another, another, more until the shrieking, blood-stained thing with the ruined eyes and pulverized face and the gray of brain showing among the red of blood and white of bone finally slumped and was silent.

  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 was to provide? The boy was better than nothing. A decision which kept her hand from the knife tucked into her rags but Dumarest noticed the twitch of her hand and was cautious as he washed blood from his nose and mouth.

  The flesh was swollen and would soon show purple bruises and be tender but as yet he could touch it without too much discomfort. Snorting, he cleared his nostrils of clotted blood and fumbled with the damaged organ. It looked lopsided but that could have beeen distortion caused by the ruby-tinted water which he used as a mirror.

  "He hurt you." The woman was at his side judging the time right 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."

  And why she had screamed in rage this morning?

  "I tried to stop him," 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. You did a good job out there. Gave him what he asked for. That nose hurt?"

  "No."

  "It will." She lifted her hands toward him. "Unless you let me fix it you'll have trouble later on. It'll 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'll 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 we'll get on fine."

  "The knife." He held out his hand for it. "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 the cartilage back into place, roughly shaping the damaged tissue. He was young and time would take care of the rest.

  "There." She stepped back, dropping her hands. "You finished with my knife?"

  "I'm keeping it."

  "Keeping it?" Her voice rose in a shriek of protest. "Stealing it, you mean. First you kill my man then you rob me. Why stop there? Why not kill me too? Go ahead, you vicious young swine. Kill me. Kill me, I dare you!" Her face changed as he lifted the blade. "No! No, I didn't mean that!"

  "How do you sharpen it?"

  "What?"

  "How do you sharpen it? With a stone or a file? If you have a file I want that too."

  "A stone," she said bitterly, "I haven't a file. Not now. He sold it for a bottle. You might find another in the ruins." She watched as he moved about the cave. "What are you doing now? Robbing me some more?"

  "I need clothes."

  Clothes and food and something to carry it in. Water and a container for that too. A blanket against the cold of night and coverings for his feet to protect them against the stones. All the things which an adult had and which he had been denied because he was a child. But he was a child no longer. He had killed and was now a man.

  And would leave and walk toward the east and live how he could.

  Ten years old-a native of Earth.

  The captain had an old, lined face with tufted eyebrows and a pinched nose set above a firm-lipped mouth. His skin was creped, mottled and pouched beneath the eyes. Thin hair graced a rounded skull. His hands toye
d with a scrap of agate as they rested on his lap.

  "Your name, boy?" He nodded as it was given. "Well, Earl, so you decided to stowaway. A mistake."

  Dumarest said nothing.

  "A bigger mistake than I think you realize. It is my duty to evict you into the void."

  "To kill me, sir?"

  "To punish you for having broken the regulations. You understand? Stowaways can't be encouraged, so to stop them we punish them when discovered. We didn't ask them to come aboard and they haven't paid for passage so we dump them as unwanted cargo." The eyes, deep-set beneath the tufted brows, watched him as the captain spoke. "You aren't afraid?"

  "Of death, sir? Yes."

  "Of course you are. Even the young fear death and you are how old? Ten? Eleven?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Yes, what? Ten or eleven?"

  "Eleven, sir-I think. Or I could be twelve."

  "Aren't you sure?"

  "No, sir." Dumarest looked at the man. "Does it matter?"

  "Earth!" The captain made a spitting sound. "You poor little bastard!"

  "Sir?"

  "Forget it. I meant no insult. You've no family, of course? No kin. Nowhere to go and nothing to do when you get there. What the hell could you lose by stowing away? How were you to know you were committing suicide?"

  Dumarest made no comment, watching the movements of the hands as they toyed with the scrap of agate, the stone carved he saw now in the shape of a figure, a woman depicted with her knees updrawn to the chin, back and buttocks and thighs all blending in a continuous curve. The stone was worn with much handling.

  "What am I to do with you?" muttered the captain. "Kill you, a boy? Toss you into the void because you acted from ignorance? Dump you like excreta into space? Were you born for such an end? Was anyone? Damn it, what to do?"

  The stone slipped as he passed it from one hand to another, bounced on a knee and dropped to the deck. Dumarest caught it an inch before it landed.

  "Sir!" He handed it to the man. Then saw the expression in the fading eyes, the lined face. "Sir?"

  "Do you always move as fast as that?"

  "It was falling and I didn't want it to get broken."

  "So you lunged forward, stooped and caught it. Just like that." The captain tossed the carving into the air, caught it, tucked it into a pocket. "I've decided, lad. Are you willing to work hard? To learn? Damn it, I'll take a chance. You can work your passage. It's going to be a long trip and you'll work hard but, at least, you'll be fed."

  Fed and rested and taught and one journey stretched to another and more after that until the captain had died and he'd moved on. Traveling deeper into the heart of the galaxy where stars were close and worlds plentiful. Into regions which had forgotten the world of his birth. Where the name of Earth was cause for amusement, the planet itself assumed to be a figment of legend.

  "You understand why," said the captain. He had returned and was smiling. "No ships, nothing in the almanacs, no star guides, no coordinates. You're looking, Earl, but you are the only one convinced you have something to find."

  "I'll find it."

  "Yes." The man sobered. "Yes, Earl, you will. What else do you have to live for? But this," he gestured with a hand. "You know what all this is about?"

  "I do."

  "You'd better be sure of that."

  "I am. I'm here to find Iduna."

  "Yes," said the captain. "To find Iduna. So don't get yourself lost in the past. Childhood is over. And don't waste time in dreams-you have a job to do." His face wavered and began to blur. "You can call on me if ever you want someone to talk with."

  "I know."

  "Don't forget now. Don't forget."

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter Five

  The wind was too strong creating turbulences which caught the raft and forced her to grip the rails to maintain her balance. From the thick mass of clouds lightning stabbed at the peaks, illuminating the mountains with bursts of savage radiance; electronic fire which gave the scene an unreal appearance as if it were a painting made by an insane artist. A harsh and brutal panorama yet one holding a raw beauty Kathryn could appreciate. For too long she had remained cooped behind walls. It was good to get out and feel the surge of elemental forces stirring her blood.

  "My lady!" Shamarre lifted her voice above the wind. "We should drop. Drop!" She frowned as Kathryn shook her head.

  The driver made the decision, dropping the raft and sending it heading away from the mountains and the dangerous air. An act she justified with a lifted hand pointing to a cluster of rafts high above.

  Tamiras at work.

  The vehicles were the largest available, cargo-carriers now filled with equipment and bales of prepared chemicals. Even as she watched they separated to climb high into the cloud, there to spray their loads of minute crystals which would trigger the reaction for the masses to release their water content in rain which would do little harm here over the mountains.

  A hope and one he hadn't bolstered, shaking his head even as accepting the commission.

  "We can try," he said bluntly, "All it will take is money for chemicals, but it could be money wasted. The formations are wrong. My other idea holds more promise."

  To create energy fields in the atmosphere and use them as sweeps to push the clouds from sensitive areas. Brooms in the sky to brush away storms. If nothing else the man had audacity.

  Kathryn glanced to where he had vanished in the clouds with his team. Men who followed him with a blind faith she could envy. Now they were willing to risk their lives because he led the way. Women would have been a little more cautious. They would have wanted safeguards and an assessment of the odds and would base their decisions on calculated probabilities. A trait which was regarded as admirable but which lacked a certain romance. Would she have been willing to ride into the nexus of a brewing storm knowing that, at any moment, naked fury could blast her into drifting atoms?

  "My lady!" Shamarre was uneasy. Her broad face was lined with anxiety and her eyes were never at rest as they scanned earth and sky for signs of danger. Never comfortable in the air, she longed for dirt beneath her feet. "The storm-"

  "Will break when it breaks and if Tamiras is lucky will do no harm."

  "To the crops, no. But to us?"

  Rain wouldn't hurt them though some had been drowned in storms, but hail could pound them to a jelly and the lightning could sear them with the fury of lasers. Yet still she hesitated to order the return. If mere men could brave the elements how could she do less?

  And, out here, could be found a little, relative peace of mind.

  "Look!" The driver lifted her arm. "The raft-look!"

  It dropped from the clouds, turning, bales falling from the open body, bundles which jerked to a halt at the end of ropes as other shapes, also lashed, swung and grappled with the swinging loads. One of the fleet which had run into trouble, caught by opposing blasts, the driver taken by surprise or unable to maintain control. But he was skilled. Even as she watched, Kathryn saw the vehicle veer and swing, the crew shortening the ropes and heaving bales back where they belonged, the movements of the raft aiding their efforts.

  From the carrier fell a shower of glinting crystals as one of the bales split open. A fall which spread in the wind to stream a swirl toward and above her. And, suddenly, the immediate area was drenched with rain.

  It pounded on the raft, the housing, the people it contained, adding a fresh glisten to metal accoutrements and plastic fabrics. Rain which wet her face and hair and ran down her neck to send moisture seeping over her torso.

  "He was wrong!" Shamarre was yelling her pleasure at this proof of the fallibility of men. "Tamiras was wrong!"

  Seeding could make the clouds shed their water; the accident had proved it-or had it been a coincidence? And even if it had not it could have been a matter of luck. The more massive formations could be of a different "ripeness" and resistant to the primitive method which had seemed to work. Yet the man would
try. No matter what, he would try.

  Men, she thought. Weak, romantic fools for the most part. Illogical and immature even when nearing the end of their natural span. Who else would risk seemingly inevitable madness for the sake of an ideal? After the first few volunteers no other women had offered to go in search of Iduna. But men? Always there had been a man who, for some mysterious reason of his own, had agreed to take the chance. Was it their fault they had proved to be weak? If weakness had anything to do with it. What had Dumarest said?

  She frowned, trying to remember and wondering why she couldn't. All connected with Iduna was crystal clear-her smile, the way she used to lift her hands, the pressure of her lips against her cheek when, without fail, she had gone to bid her good night. And, more than anything else, that dreadful moment she had seen her lying, apparently dead, the cursed bulk of the Tau lying beside her.

  Iduna, her only child, why did slave women breed like vermin when she had been so denied?

  "My lady, your pleasure?" The gust of rain had ceased and Shamarre, wet and chilled, wanted to get back to the palace. "You need a hot bath and change of clothing."

  A hint as to what she herself longed for but she could wait. Perversity kept Kathryn from giving the order to return. Glancing up and back at the sky above the mountains she saw the dancing interplay of lightning; blasts which tore stone and sent rolling thunder to echo like a monstrous voice through shrouded valleys and jagged passes.

  Surely the seeding must have been completed by now?

  A vaggary of wind and the raft tilted a little to steady as the driver adjusted the controls, rising a little to meet another gust, to veer again, to spin beneath the impact of a sudden shower of hail.

  "The storm!" Her voice rose in sudden terror. "The storm-it's breaking!"

  Wind caught the raft as savage lightning ripped through clouds now venting showers of hail. Ice drummed on the metal and piled in heaps within the body of the vehicle, striking like hammers, stinging as if each pellet were a vicious insect. Head crouched, Kathryn felt Shamarre come to her, a thick cloak thrown as a shield over them both, the fabric supported by brawny arms.