The stone could be thrown but if it missed what then? A second stone would provide a second weapon and Dumarest looked for one as he backed. To run would be safer but where could he go? And if he tried and slipped the man would be on him. His sling?
It was bound around his waist and to loosen it would take too long. He needed a weapon to hand, one he could get to fast and use even faster. Another stone to back the first. A stone!
He found it as the man charged.
Dumarest rose and dived to one side all in the same flowing movement. Landing, he turned and, drawing back his arm, hurled one of his stones. His aim was good and the man roared as it hit his temple. Slapping his hand against the spot, he glared at the blood on his palm and, as he lowered it, Dumarest knew he intended to kill. Had intended it all along, perhaps, but now there could be no mistaking his intention.
How to win?
How to beat the mass of rage-inflamed muscle and bone? How to cripple it and bring it down and then make it harmless in the only way there was? Backing, stone in hand, Dumarest looked at the man as if he were a beast. He was a beast, a savage predator who must be stopped, one who would have no mercy.
The legs?
Smash his knees and he must fall. He would lie on the dirt unable to hurt anything beyond the range of his arms. He would twist and plead and cry in his pain and be an easy target for more missiles.
The genitals?
Better if they could be hit with enough force but the blow would have to be just right and the target wouldn't be easy to hit and was smaller than a knee. The rest of the body was hair and muscle and composed of tough sinew and bone.
The eyes?
Dumarest remembered the scream, the naked display of terror, the fear of blindness the man had revealed. The eyes, then. Vulnerable but an even smaller target than the groin and a lowering of the head could protect them. But that very action would serve to blind the man's vision and behind the eyes rested the skull, the brain, and below them the mouth and teeth and, lower, the throat.
And, already, he had hit a temple.
The second stone left his hand, flung with all the force of his back and shoulders, sliding through the air to hit the man's upraised arm, to fall to one side leaving nothing more than a bruise. A mistake, he should have used the sling, and he tore it from around his waist as the man lunged after him.
He was fast and Dumarest felt his hand touch his shoulder, slipping as fear gave him speed, the fingers catching the neck of his garment to jerk the rotting fabric from the thin, young body. A jerk which threw him off balance so that he stumbled and fell and cried out as the man fell on him, feeling the pound of a fist against his nose, the crushing of cartilage, the splitting of lips, the taste of blood in mouth and throat.
The feel of the soft bag as he desperately reached for the man's groin and gripped the testicles. The shriek as he jerked and twisted and pulled with nails dug deep, moving his head just in time to avoid the blow which broke bones as the man rammed his hand against the rock, rolling clear to leave his opponent moaning, grabbing at his loins, blood thick between his thighs.
Time won in which to pick up stones and fit one to his sling. To whirl it. To release the thong and watch as the missile smashed teeth. To send another, another, more until the shrieking, blood-stained thing with the ruined eyes and pulverized face and the gray of brain showing among the red of blood and white of bone finally slumped and was silent.
The woman said nothing as he entered the cave but silently handed him a bowl of water, her eyes frightened, little sucking noises coming from her lips. Her man was dead, who was to provide? The boy was better than nothing. A decision which kept her hand from the knife tucked into her rags but Dumarest noticed the twitch of her hand and was cautious as he washed blood from his nose and mouth.
The flesh was swollen and would soon show purple bruises and be tender but as yet he could touch it without too much discomfort. Snorting, he cleared his nostrils of clotted blood and fumbled with the damaged organ. It looked lopsided but that could have beeen distortion caused by the ruby-tinted water which he used as a mirror.
'He hurt you.' The woman was at his side judging the time right to establish her authority. 'He was drunk, mad, crazed and dangerous. I was afraid of him. That's why I couldn't help you last night.'
And why she had screamed in rage this morning?
'I tried to stop him,' she continued. 'He pushed me aside. You didn't see that, you were out of the cave by then. The bastard hurt me.' She winced as she pressed a hand to her side. 'He was always hurting me. I'm glad he's dead. You did a good job out there. Gave him what he asked for. That nose hurt?'
'No.'
'It will.' She lifted her hands toward him. 'Unless you let me fix it you'll have trouble later on. It'll block your breathing.'
Dumarest said, 'Give me your knife.'
'Knife? Knife? What the hell are you talking about?'
'The knife,' he said again. 'The one in your skirt I just want to see it.' Then, as she continued to shake her head, he added, 'I might be able to make one like it. It'll be useful when hunting. I'll be able to get us more food.'
'You'll hunt for me?' Dirt cracked in the creases of her face as she smiled. 'You're a good boy, Earl. I've always thought of you as my own. Stick with me and I'll look after you. Stand by me and we'll get on fine.'
'The knife.' He held out his hand for it. 'I'll look at it while you fix my nose.'
It was crude, a strip of pointed and edged metal with slats of wood to form a grip, the whole held together with lashings of twine. He turned it as her fingers pressed at his nose, pushing the cartilage back into place, roughly shaping the damaged tissue. He was young and time would take care of the rest.
'There.' She stepped back, dropping her hands. 'You finished with my knife?'
'I'm keeping it.'
'Keeping it?' Her voice rose in a shriek of protest. 'Stealing it, you mean. First you kill my man then you rob me. Why stop there? Why not kill me too? Go ahead, you vicious young swine. Kill me. Kill me, I dare you!' Her face changed as he lifted the blade. 'No! No, I didn't mean that!'
'How do you sharpen it?'
'What?'
'How do you sharpen it? With a stone or a file? If you have a file I want that too.'
'A stone,' she said bitterly, 'I haven't a file. Not now. He sold it for a bottle. You might find another in the ruins.' She watched as he moved about the cave. 'What are you doing now? Robbing me some more?'
'I need clothes.'
Clothes and food and something to carry it in. Water and a container for that too. A blanket against the cold of night and coverings for his feet to protect them against the stones. All the things which an adult had and which he had been denied because he was a child. But he was a child no longer. He had killed and was now a man.
And would leave and walk toward the east and live how he could.
Ten years old-a native of Earth.
The captain had an old, lined face with tufted eyebrows and a pinched nose set above a firm-lipped mouth. His skin was creped, mottled and pouched beneath the eyes. Thin hair graced a rounded skull. His hands toyed with a scrap of agate as they rested on his lap.
'Your name, boy?' He nodded as it was given. 'Well, Earl, so you decided to stowaway. A mistake.'
Dumarest said nothing.
'A bigger mistake than I think you realize. It is my duty to evict you into the void.'
'To kill me, sir?'
'To punish you for having broken the regulations. You understand? Stowaways can't be encouraged, so to stop them we punish them when discovered. We didn't ask them to come aboard and they haven't paid for passage so we dump them as unwanted cargo.' The eyes, deep-set beneath the tufted brows, watched him as the captain spoke. 'You aren't afraid?'
'Of death, sir? Yes.'
'Of course you are. Even the young fear death and you are how old? Ten? Eleven?'
