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 security. 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.
