11
The blood is always on your own hands, even if you have someone else do the killing for you. Any leader who forgets that will inevitably become a tyrant.
In the thick jungle, Paul watched dispassionately as Duncan strung up yet another assassin-tracker’s body. The foliage was so suffocatingly dense that neither felt the need to hide their activities, though they remained constantly alert. They had been hunted for days since the surprise assault on the fortress nunnery.
Broad leaves formed a camouflage wall all around them. Wide, fleshy fungus gathered rain runoff into long- lived puddles that held colonies of tiny brine shrimp. Fern towers blocked the sunlight in an effort to choke their botanical rivals. Vines laced the forest floor and crawled up the sides of thick trees to pull them down, creating a convoluted mesh of snares.
During their wilderness flight, Paul had felt as if he were swimming through an underwater landscape of leaves and grasses. Their personal shields provided little protection here, yet the shimmering force fields at least discouraged the myriad biting insects.
Though he was dismayed to use such a magnificent weapon as a machete, Duncan hacked and slashed through the underbrush with the Old Duke’s sword, dulling and notching the blade. The fecund wilderness grew swiftly enough to cover their path, yet the assassins had still managed to track them.
Duncan had killed five of them so far. The tangled foliage made it impossible for a Grumman military force to move as a unit, so the killers had no choice but to split up and come at them singly. The Moritani assassins were arrogant, well armed… and easily defeated.
The Old Duke’s abused sword was still capable of killing — as Duncan’s latest victim had recently discovered. Paul stood close, watching dark blood ooze from the dead man’s gaping wound. Though the heart no longer pumped, gravity drew the fluid from the raw wet holes in the flesh. Holding out his hand, he intentionally caught one of the slow, thick droplets of blood, and cupped it in his palm like a crimson raindrop. “Does it ever bother you to kill these men, Duncan?”
“Not at all. I have no room for compassion toward people who are trying to slaughter us, Paul. I kill them so that
Jungle scavengers would make quick work of the remains, but the rest of the assassins would still find the remains of the corpse, as they had found the other four. Paul had suggested hiding the bodies, but Duncan said the hunters would find them, no matter how dense the forest. “We need to leave a message that angers them,” Duncan said. “Try and get them to make mistakes.”
Paul looked at the killer’s face but could not apply a mask of humanity to it. He didn’t want to know why this man had chosen such a life, what had driven him to become a mindless murderer in the name of Viscount Moritani. Did he have a family? Did he love someone? The dead eyes had rolled up behind the lids, and he was just meat now.
Kill or be killed — no better place for that lesson than in Caladan’s deep jungle.
Leaving the dead man hanging, the pair set off again. Paul had not yet figured out where Duncan was leading him; the Swordmaster apparently had no plan beyond concealment and keeping his charge safe. Nevertheless, Paul sensed that they were being watched. Though they did not know how many trackers were still in pursuit after the attack on the fortress nunnery, he knew that the five Duncan had dispatched were not enough.
Fighting the assassins was only one aspect of their wilderness survival. The jungle did not care that he was the son of Duke Leto, and it offered more threats than Paul could tally. Once, they startled a spiny boar that charged them before veering off and plunging into a thick bramble.
Then there was the challenge of obtaining food. Because the jungle was so lush, they could scavenge for fruits, stems, tubers, and mushrooms. Concerned, Duncan volunteered to test some of the species in case they might be poisonous. Paul, however, had studied the flora and fauna of Caladan and memorized a plethora of safe, edible species.
With some relief, they finally found a trampled patch of grasses: a clear but winding ribbon through the underbrush, probably some sort of game trail. Paul guessed it must lead to a stream or meadow. Exhausted from fighting for every step forward, the pair chose the path of least resistance.
Duncan warned, “This trail might make things easier, but it is also the route our trackers will take.”
“And it’s used by large animals. We have to be quiet enough to hide from the assassins, while making enough noise to warn any predators.”
The sunlight broke through, shining down onto a glorious meadow filled with bright blue and red flowers. There was a buzz of pollinating insects. After the claustrophobic world of the jungle, Paul drew a deep breath, smiling.
Duncan froze. “I think it’s a trap.”
Paul’s shield was already on, his hand poised on the dagger at his waist. Duncan brandished the sword. Everything was still; the tall trees in the glade rustled briefly.
With a series of rushing thumps, corpses fell from high branches, suspended by their feet from vines, limp arms flopping beneath them. The bodies dropped like an offering, jerked at their tethers and then swung like grisly fruit in a crude but unnerving imitation of what Duncan had done to his own victims. Six more assassin-trackers dangled from the trees.
Duncan looked about warily, searching for shadows or silhouettes. “I don’t see anyone.”
Paul stood perfectly motionless, forcing himself to use all of his senses, examining the tiniest details of the world around him. At last he managed to detect moving figures like leaf shadows amongst the curled fern fronds. “Caladan primitives,” he whispered. “I can see them.” With only a slight gesture, he indicated two muscular, mostly naked men huddled among the leaf shadows.
He had read enough about them to remember a few of the words and phases the occasional coastal traders used when communicating with the tribesmen. Paul searched his mind and finally shouted out the native words for
He and Duncan waited motionless at the edge of the glade. The slain assassins hung upside down from their slowly creaking vines. Some had been dead for days. Paul wondered how long the primitives had been killing them off. These people — whether purposely or inadvertently — had kept him and Duncan safe.
Finally, with a rustle of branches and heavy thuds, three graceful figures dropped from the trees immediately above them; with his heightened perceptions even Paul hadn’t noticed these men hiding there. The trio of muscular, tattooed primitives faced them.
One was a rangy old woman with long peppery hair. Her eye hollows were deeply shadowed, stained with berry juice. A sapphire-shell beetle as large as Paul’s hand decorated her hair like some sort of living ornament. Its legs twitched and moved.
“Friend,” Paul said again.
Dozens more of the Caladan primitives dropped from the trees into the meadow. He could tell that Duncan was ready to fight them all if necessary, but Paul switched off his body shield, removed his hand from his dagger, and held both palms upward.
APPARENTLY, THE CALADAN primitives did understand the difference between the Grumman assassins and their would-be prey. They led Paul and Duncan to their settlement, which was little more than a clearing filled with nestlike dwellings of woven pampas grasses, rushes, and willow branches. With the warm climate and the abundance of fruits and animals on the Eastern Continent, the primitives did not need permanent shelters.
The tall woman with the beetle in her hair was apparently the headwoman. Paul did not have the words to communicate well with her, but he and Duncan were made to feel welcome and reasonably safe nevertheless. She carried a gnarled wooden staff whose handle had been polished smooth by the sweat of many palms. A jagged line
