trying to scramble up and flee. The men leapt on him, forcing him onto the ground. A savage jerk of his arm knocked a cutthroat sideways with a yell of surprise. The others pinned him down, beat him about the head with their clubs and stabbed him with rusty knives.
Chanter summoned Crayash again, the air screaming with fire, and wielded it in an explosion that forced the thugs to leap back with yells of pain, their skin reddened and hair singed. They were upon him again with renewed vigour, shouting foul obscenities and insults. Again he wielded the fire, with identical results. The men clearly knew he would not kill them. The flames were merely painful, which only made them cut him more.
'Chanter!' Talsy screamed, as blood oozed from his wounds. The air filled with the sound of beating wings. The men cursed as a swirling wind sprang up to buffet them, picking up dust that blinded them. One man fell back with a cry, pawing at his watering eyes, the others beat Chanter harder with the clubs, trying to knock him out. A rush of fire joined the wind in a maelstrom of blazing dust. A thug rolled away, beating at his burning clothes, another screamed as his hair caught alight. The Mujar's struggles weakened, but the thugs continued to rain blows on him.
'Chanter, kill them! Burn them!'
Talsy overcame her fear and ran forward to pick up a stone. The leader turned and raised a bloody knife. She stopped and threw the rock, which landed with a clatter in the darkness beyond. The cutthroat jumped towards her, making her stumble back with a cry as the knife drew a line of blood down her arm. She bent and picked up another stone, then froze at Chanter's cry.
'Talsy, run! Go! Don't let them catch you. I can't help you now!'
Talsy looked at the gang leader, who revealed rotting brown teeth in a feral grin. He stepped towards her, and she hurled the rock. It hit his chest, making him growl.
'Talsy, go!' Chanter's shout was cut off as one of his captors hit him in the face with a club. The swirling fire died as the Mujar slumped, unconscious.
Talsy hesitated only a moment longer, then, when the leader charged her, she shrieked and fled into the darkness. Garbage squelched under her feet and rats scurried from her path. Her sobbing breath drowned out the thuds and grunts of the beating that Chanter still underwent, even though he was unconscious.
By the time she stopped, she gasped through a throat raw from screaming, her lungs burnt, and she shook with shock and exhaustion. She leant against a shanty wall and gave in to uncontrollable sobs of misery and rage. One thought pounded in her brain and gave her solace. They could not kill him. No matter what they did, they could not kill him. They could certainly make him suffer, however, and ultimately they would throw him in a Pit. Because of her.
Chanter paid the price for her stupidity in getting lost in the slums and not seeking shelter from the prowlers when all the others had. Now she regretted asking him to protect her; better that she had been raped and beaten than for Chanter to be thrown into a Pit. Living death. Before that, he would suffer at the hands of cruel, pitiless men who hated Mujar with a fanatical intensity born of envy and contempt.
As her breath slowed and her pounding heart quieted, she regretted running so far to escape the sight and sounds of the brutal beating, and the stench of blood and sweat. She should have stayed close enough to follow them and rescue Chanter. Her cowardice filled her with shame and rage at her weakness and inability to defend herself, which had drawn the Mujar into this terrible situation. Afraid that she had lost him forever, she tried to retrace her steps, but in the darkness she soon realised she was hopelessly lost. Fresh tears coursed down her cheeks as she slumped to the ground in despair, hating herself for bringing such suffering to the gentle Mujar.
Chanter became aware that someone dragged him along the road by his legs. He wondered why Lowmen always vented their hatred in savagery and bloodletting, even when they knew they could not kill him. Perhaps to make him suffer, yet Mujar did not feel pain like Lowmen did. The real pain came with healing, not injury. Dolana filled him, draining his energy and will. He longed for Crayash, but it would not answer his call, denying him even a little warmth. His grasp on the Power had been snuffed when he had lost consciousness, and now he could not regain it.
His head bounced over rocks on a rough dirt street, then grated on smoother cobblestones. It seemed his captors had broken almost every bone in his body. Certainly his arms and legs were fractured, some of his ribs, and maybe a few others. Pain burnt in him with hot intensity, fuelling his dull rage. He opened his eyes.
The two men who dragged him stopped, and another banged on a stout door. After a few moments, a sour- face man opened it.
'What do you want?'
The man held up a lantern to examine the dirty group before him. He noted their burns and bruises with a scowl, clearly deducing that they had been in a fight. His eyes fell on Chanter, and he leant closer with an oath, then straightened with a startled curse.
'That's a Mujar!'
The thugs' leader leered. 'We know. That's why we brought 'im. Thought you an' yer cronies might like to cut 'im up afore he goes in the Pit.'
The man stroked the grey goatee that sprouted from his pointed chin. 'Yes, yes, we would.' He eyed the thug. 'How much do you want?'
The cutthroat leader shrugged, trying to look casual before naming a high figure. The two wrangled for a few minutes before agreeing on a sum. The bearded man, whom Chanter deduced was a doctor, left to fetch it, then told them to bring the Mujar inside. They dragged Chanter into a cellar, his head bouncing on stone steps until he lost consciousness again.
After the street thugs left, Doctor Jashon Durb studied his acquisition with ill-disguised excitement, lighting another two lanterns. The Mujar lay still, his eyes closed. No breath stirred his chest, yet a pulse beat in his neck. His throat was cut from ear to ear, which explained his lack of respiration. From the odd angles of his limbs, the cutthroats had damaged him badly before they had brought him here. Still, it did not matter. No Mujar had been seen in a city for over twenty years, and he had always longed to dissect one. His fellow doctors, and the professors at the nearby medical college, would no doubt pay handsomely for the privilege of joining him in his study of Mujar anatomy, a mystery until now. He would consult with Tranton, the local expert on Mujar, for the best way to keep his subject under control while he carried out his experiments.
Although fairly sure that the Mujar was too badly injured to escape, and without water could not heal, Jashon dragged a heavy beam across the cellar and pinned him under it, just in case. Earthpower would keep his victim weak, and in the morning he would call Tranton. Satisfied, Jashon blew out the other two lamps and returned to bed, where his plump but comely wife waited.
Chanter woke in black stillness. A heavy weight lay across his hips, and agony coursed through him in endless waves. Dolana's creeping cold held him strongly, telling him that he was underground, and he wondered if he was in a Pit. He tried to call out to his brothers, but his jaw was broken and his throat slit, so his lips moved silently around the words. Surely they would know he was here? They would bring water for healing, if there was any.
Was the Pit dry? Would he lie in helpless agony for the next seventy-five years? The thought filled him with despair and a quiet rage that burnt beside the pain. If he was in a Pit, he was alone, for he sensed no other Mujar. He tried to sit up, but weakness held him down and his arms bent, broken above the elbows. The pain of his movements, though dulled by the cold of Dolana, brought a wave of sickness, and he slumped back. His only escape was sleep, and he consigned himself to it, grateful for the blessed unknowing of oblivion.
Talsy jerked awake with a gasp as a rat ran over her legs, and it scuttled away. The smell of sewage and putrefaction made her gag as she crawled from the shelter of the shanty in which she had spent the night. The chill morning air nipped her through her clothes, making her hug her fur jacket closer. Hunger clenched her gut, and the salt-stiffened lashes of her swollen eyes reminded her of the weeping that had lulled her into an uneasy sleep the night before.
The memory of Chanter's plight sent a pang through her, and she gazed up and down the filthy street, wondering which way to go. She had to find him. She could not abandon him now. Searching this filthy, squalid metropolis was a daunting task, but she would not shirk it. He had protected her, and she had promised rescue. The thought of the previous night's horrors brought fresh tears to sting her eyes, and she cursed, rubbing them as she headed down the alley.
Doctor Jashon Durb unlocked the door and hurried into the cellar at first light, eager to assure himself that the events of the previous night had not been a dream. The golden-skinned unman lay where he had left him, caked with dried blood. Jashon prodded him with his foot, but the Mujar's eyes remained closed. Satisfied that his victim
