A pool glinted before him and Dumarest plunged into it, risking what it might contain in an attempt to negate his scent. The far bank held a matted moss which moved as he gripped it, tendrils rising from the seemingly harmless vegetation to wind around his arms, his legs, his throat. Strands which tightened and pulled him back into the water. Ropes of living tissue studded with mouths seeking his blood.
He felt the stink and tore free an arm to rip the tendrils from his throat. Others replaced them and he felt the blood drum in his ears as they closed in a strangling noose. He strained, reaching for his knife, lifting it from his boot to send the edge against the living ropes. A slash and they had parted, ends falling as he pulled them from his neck. Pearls of blood showed dark in the growing starlight as the rain clouds thinned as they drifted to the south. More cuts and he was free, stepping over the matted fronds to firm ground.
He paused as again he heard the belling of a hound. A hedge stood before him, a barrier set with a flight of wooden steps leading to a small platform, more steps the other side. As he watched he heard the rasp of claws, saw the stairs quiver as something mounted the far side. He ran forward, crouching against the base of the hedge as a dog jumped down and loped toward the pool.
It was one of the pack he had seen and, at close quarters, was even more forbidding than when seen from the safety of a raft. It halted, sniffing, nose rising as it looked around. Before it, close to the matted growth at the edge of the pool, slashed tendrils twitched like blind and severed worms. This was sure evidence of recent intrusion and Dumarest knew the dog had recognized it as such. As the head lifted to bay a signal to the pack he lunged forward, the knife extended in his hand.
As the beast turned, the knife plunged deep into the corded throat.
A calculated stab which cut the main arteries and sent blood to drown the bay, the warning barks. The wound would kill, had killed, but even though as good as dead the beast retained energy, the ingrained compulsion to kill. It snarled, teeth gleaming white, reddening as blood sprayed from its muzzle. A fountain preceded the final attack, the dog's jaws opening, closing on Dumarest's lifted forearm, clamping on the sleeve, the mesh it contained, the flesh and bone within.
Trapped by the grip, Dumarest fell back beneath the dying weight, lay still as he heard a man calling from the platform.
'Chando? Where are you, boy?' He held a flashlight and shone its beam over the area. It settled on the dog, the man beneath. 'God! Hold, boy! Hold!'
Dumarest tensed as boots rattled down the stairs. His left forearm was still clamped between the jaws now locked in death, his right hand holding the knife pressed between the beast and his stomach. If the man had seen the blood he must imagine it came from the victim and not the dog. As he came closer Dumarest groaned.
'Chando!' The voice held the snap of command. 'Up, boy! Up!'
'He's got me,' said Dumarest weakly. 'Help me. Help.'
'Just stay where you are, mister.' The man's voice held the confidence of one backed by an army. 'A word from me and Chando will rip out your throat. Now, boy, that's enough. Up, I tell you. Up!'
Dumarest heaved, the dog moving a little, a semblance of life in the shadows, the drifting glare of the flashlight; a moment of confusion in which he managed to free his knife, to ease his legs. The movement of his trapped arm made it seem as if the dog were lifting its head.
'That's better!' The man echoed his satisfaction at the apparent obedience. 'You-' He broke off as he saw the throat, the stained teeth. In the beam of the flashlight the dog's eyes were dull and lifeless gems. 'Dead,' he said blankly. 'Dead-but how?'
'Help me.' Dumarest moaned as if in pain. The animal's blood masked his face, gave him the appearance of injury, of a throat torn by fangs. 'Please, help me.'
'Like hell,' snapped the guard. 'You bastard! You killed Chando.'
The man loved his charges and was eager for revenge. Dumarest reared as he snatched at the whistle hanging from his neck, knowing that one blast would bring the pack racing to bring him down. As it rose to the lips he lifted his hand, the knife a blur as it left his fingers, the pommel making a dull, wooden sound as it slammed against the guard's temple. As he slumped Dumarest tore his arm free of the clamping jaws and ran to recover the weapon. He froze as a voice came from lower down the hedge. 'Levie? Is that you?'
Another guard patrolled the area, his voice casual above the rasp of booted feet on the graveled path. Dumarest found the flashlight and killed the beam. From where he lay sprawled on the ground its owner made small, burbling noises which died as he was turned over on his side.
'Levie?' The footsteps halted on the far side of the hedge. 'Is that you in there?'
Silence would answer his question but could arouse suspicion. Dumarest coughed, made grunting noises, stamped heavily on the stairs and turned on the flashlight as he reached the platform. In its light a small, round- faced man peered upward, lifting a shielding hand as the beam focused on his eyes.
'Be careful with that thing,' he snapped. 'You want to blind me?' His voice rose as the dim shape behind the light came closer. 'Levie! What the hell-'
He sagged as stiffened fingers thrust like blunted spears into the major nerves of his throat, a blow which stunned but did not kill. Before he reached the ground Dumarest was running toward the house which lifted its bizarre silhouette against the sky.
Linda Ynya was bored. The party had turned sour and despite the money she had won at cards, she felt irritable and, somehow, cheated. It was Charisse's fault, of course; she had refused to make the matter clear, leaving them to argue. Had Dumarest won or had he lost? He hadn't killed the creature but neither had he been killed. Did his escape prove he was the more superior or not? A point which Astin even now was trying to determine.
'Dumarest defeated the objective of the creature which was to kill him,' he insisted. 'So the thing failed to do what it intended.'
'Which means nothing.' Vayne slopped wine into a glass, sipped, made a grimace as if he found it sour. 'Or are you saying cowardice is a mark of valor?'
'Cowardice has nothing to do with it.' Krantz was impatient. 'The man fought and escaped with his life. More than that; he was uninjured and so able to fight again. The point you all overlook is that he used his brains. If we accept intelligence as being superior to ignorance then the decision is plain. Dumarest won.'
This was what Charisse wanted them to accept so she could take their money and give nothing in return. Was Krantz in her pay? Had she promised him some advantage for having helped Dumarest? It had been his suggestion that the knife should be permitted-but she had argued against stripping him and she had received nothing. A question of fairness, she thought, or had it been more than that? A disinclination to see him made a helpless victim or her own feelings reflected in her defense. To be naked was to be helpless in more ways than one.
'My dear?' Enrice Heva was at her side. 'It seems we bore you. Some wine?'
She shook her head.
'Another diversion, perhaps?' His leer left no doubt as to his meaning. 'If you are agreeable I would be happy to cooperate.'
'You've had my answer to that,' she snapped. 'I don't want to repeat it. If you are so hungry for a bedmate try Cleo. Or Glenda-I understand she has a taste for perversion. You should amuse her.' She smiled with undiluted malice. 'Or disappoint her-even she needs a man.'
'Bitch!'
'Yes?' She met his eyes. 'And?'
He backed away, scowling, knowing better than to insult her further. A coward-would he have dared to face one of Charisse's creatures? Would she? An empty question, she knew the answer too well, but Dumarest had and she wondered why. A matter of a debt, she'd gathered, that and a promise given. How gratifying it must be to have power over such a man.
A servant offered wine and she waved it aside leaning back in her chair to study the others. Ienda Chao and Lunerarch were absent and it took no genius to know where they were and what they were doing. Glenda would probably sleep with Corm or, this time, it could be Astin. Cleo-what the hell did it matter who slept with whom?
'A draw,' said Krantz. 'The result can only be a draw. They met, neither was hurt, the contest was ended.'
'That proves the lack of superiority of Charisse's creation.' Enrice, smarting at her rejection, found refuge in taking a stand in the argument. 'So the man won.'
