blurred, fell away as they climbed, the hills diminishing behind them, the dark flecks of the rafts lost in the distance. Power-robbed from the whining engine-fed to the propulsion units as Vardoon boosted the transmission.
He swore as the raft faltered.
'My knife-the damned thing's burned out! Earl, pass me yours!'
The raft slowed as Dumarest reached for his boot, dropped, sluggishly rose again as he manipulated the controls. Turning he saw Vardoon's back, the hand he lifted, the haft of his knife with the blade reduced to a nub of fused metal.
Saw too the raft which lanced at them from the eye of the ruby sun.
It had been a textbook maneuver and Kline had cause to congratulate himself. To calculate they would head for the south required little intelligence; without protective clothing the men had been left with no other choice. To guess, too, they would seek the protection of narrow passes was equally simple. The hard part in being able to determine where they would emerge and what path they would take. Possibilities countered by having his rafts sweep the hills and form station at the edge of the wilderness. Faster, able to move directly through unhampered air, they had been certain to beat the fugitives. But, as an insurance, he had gone on ahead to wait.
Now he headed in for the kill.
'Halt!' His voice echoed from the loud-hailer. 'Halt and hover! Obey or I'll blast you from the sky!'
An empty threat but they wouldn't know that and this time there were no stubborn fools to interfere. No chance of another abortive escape.
His observer said, 'They are continuing as before, sir.'
Slow, juddering, the raft lifted to drop to lift again as if it had been a crippled moth riding on torn and tattered wings.
Burned out, thought Kline. Power gone, a crash inevitable unless the vehicle grounded soon. Why didn't the fools yield?
'Land! I order you to land immediately! Land or I fire.' To the marksman Kline said, 'Show yourself. Let them see you taking aim. If I order you to fire make certain you miss.' The threat should be enough. As the man took up his position he lifted the loud-hailer. 'You in the raft! Land or I'll shoot you down! You have five seconds in which to head downward!'
From the body of the raft Vardoon said, 'Give me your knife, Earl. I might be able to get us away.'
A surge of power could fail, to leave them wrecked in the wilderness. A gamble with the cards stacked against them- but what else to do?
Dumarest looked back at the flecks of the other rafts, closer now, streaming wide in order to encircle and enclose. Kline was riding high and to one side; a position from which he commanded the immediate area.
Vardoon said impatiently, 'Earl, your knife!' He lunged forward to snatch up the gun. 'Never mind-this will do it!'
The movement sent the raft veering, which caused the marksman to close his finger in automatic reaction.
Flame jetted from the muzzle of his weapon, bullets whining to hit the raft, the rail, to cut the air with a lethal hail. Dumarest felt the shock as one glanced from his shoulder, the vivid flash as another gouged a bloody path over his left ear. The blow sent him doubled, almost unconscious over the controls as, snarling, Vardoon returned the fire.
A short burst sent the marksman back from the rail. Kline took his place, shouting, face contorted with rage and anxiety as he saw the figure slumped over the controls, but the emotions vanished as bullets churned his face to a pulp of blood and bone.
'Earl!' Vardoon lifted his voice over the snarl of gunfire. 'Earl!'
Dumarest stirred as again the gun yammered, lacing shots into the raft, hitting the driver and sending the vehicle spinning toward the ground far below.
'For God's sake! Earl! Get with it, man!'
They were falling, air droning past with feral anticipation. A drone which faded as, sluggishly, the vehicle came under control and headed again toward the south.
Dumarest rose from the seat, swaying, fighting a sudden vertigo. The left side of his face was sticky with blood oozing from the throbbing ache of his wounded temple; one to match the minor hurt of his shoulder. Near misses, but Vardoon hadn't been so lucky.
He groaned as Dumarest knelt beside him to move his bulk, easing limbs, propping his head on a pouch of eggs. Blood ringed his mouth and made dark stains on his tunic; some old, others with a scarlet wetness. The first from lungs seared with corrosive vapors, the other from the damage done by the bullets which had pierced his stomach and chest.
'They down, Earl?' His lips twisted at Dumarest's nod. 'I thought we were going to follow the swine. Crazy them opening fire like that. What harm could we do? I didn't intend-' He coughed, lifting a hand to wipe his lips clear of bloody froth. 'Bad, Earl?'
'Bad enough.'
'Then give me an egg.' His mouth tried to smile as Dumarest shook his head. 'Greedy?'
'You're lying on a pouch of them-help yourself if you want. I'm getting back to the controls.'
'Wait! I-' Vardoon broke off, sweating. 'The pain! God, the pain!'
Raw agony from broken ribs, their jagged ends tearing at delicate tissue like saw-edged knives. From punctured intestines and mangled bowels. Pain which distorted the universe and made extinction a welcome blessing.
Dumarest leaned forward, fingers hard as he rested them on Vardoon's throat, finding the pulsing carotid arteries and pressing so as to cut off the blood supply to the brain. The reaction was immediate. Vardoon sighed, relaxing as his eyes closed and he embraced the mercy of unconsciousness. Dumarest waited, counting seconds, releasing the pressure before the induced oblivion edged into the final tranquility of death.
Back at the controls he fought a mounting vertigo. Ahead the sky shimmered with lambent emerald laced with streaks and swaths of carmine; colors reflected from the mirror of the ocean to form an all-encompassing swirl of engulfing deception, which he fought with a barrage of pertinent questions. How high was he? How far did he have to go? Where was his target?
Where were the other rafts?
Behind him the sky was clear and, dully, he wondered why. The sudden engagement which had sent their commander down? An order from some higher authority? A trap lying ahead from which they wanted to keep clear? Or were they playing cat and mouse, riding high, waiting and watching in detached comfort? Studying the veering progress of his raft, the path it took, the meandering passage. Gambling that he wouldn't make it. That he would crash before reaching the coast, the spired building resting on the fringe of hills encircling the town.
A gamble lost as he hit dirt, sending the raft to plow to a halt before the church, the startled monks, the woman with golden hair.
Chapter Nine
It had been something from the ancient tales of high romance, of fantasy and adventure, of the sagas once sung around leaping fires after the labor of the day was done. A thing Carmodyne would have appreciated and, cosseted in the womb of her bed, Fiona Velen savored every remembered moment.
Chance had taken her to the church at just that time; the sudden decision to see if there was any way to increase revenues from the sector. Tobol had met her, courteous as always, echoing a genuine concern at the problem which was as much his as hers. Even if rents were tripled they would show no increase; Carmodyne had given the monks free use of the church and surrounding land. A contract binding while he had lived and she was reluctant to spit on his grave.
But there had been more cakes, more wine and, as she was about to make her departure, Dumarest had arrived.
Landing like a hero of old, crashing the raft into the dirt, lifting free the limp form of his companion and carrying it to where they stood.
'Brother, I ask your aid.'
