'No!' she cried again. 'No!'
It almost seemed he heard her. Certainly he moved and with a speed which blurred his limbs so that one moment he sprawled helpless, the next he was standing, feet distant, the spear recovered and reflecting splinters of brilliance as again it thrust at the emerald stain on the scales.
'Clever,' mused Yunus. 'He's discovered a vulnerable point and is concentrating on it. A pity that he is wasting his time.'
'Time,' she said and looked at the clock. 'You owe me a thousand.'
A debt he acknowledged with a jerk of his head, his attention once again concentrated on the man and the beast in the arena. The creature had been made to bleed but from a point tough with inner sinew and flexible bone. A thing he knew but which the man could not. How long would it take him to change his pattern of attack?
The third bell and Dumarest realized he was doing nothing more than irritating the sannak. Backing, spear held before him, he reassessed the problem. The creature was armored, protected against winds and dust which could strip the surface of stone. It was at home in an environment in which no unprotected man could live for a minute. But no creature was totally invulnerable. Nothing alive was proof against injury and death.
He moved as again the snake-like body lunged toward him. Jumping he landed on the far side and noted how quickly the thing could turn. As it twisted the scales gaped, lifting to compensate, providing a target for anyone standing at the rear. Useless information; he was alone, what had to be done must be done by his own effort. Not the scales, then, and the stomach hugged the sand. The eyes were protected. The mouth?
It had to be the mouth.
He waited, taking his time, ignoring the clock, the chiming bell which registered the dimunition of the prize he didn't expect to win. It would be prize enough if he walked alive from the sand. A bonus if he remained unhurt.
'Move!' A woman screamed from the stands. 'Attack, you coward!'
A soft and pampered creature who would fly into a panic at the slightest injury. One matched by a man who added his own insults, made brave by the comforting knowledge that he would never have to answer for his sneers. Dumarest ignored them as he ignored everything but the creature before him.
Like himself it had slowed down, the initial fury replaced by an instinctive caution. Strength and energy now had to be husbanded against the time of supreme effort when life and death hung in the balance and could be decided by an extra modicum of stamina. And yet it was a beast while he was a man. If it had the brawn he had the brain.
He tempted it, moving, retreating, the spear a darting irritation at the eyes, the jaws. Jaws which parted to snap, to miss, to snap again a little wider than before. To reveal a throat ridged and lined like the maw of the grinder it was. A target at which he stabbed, steel vanishing from sight, the point a lance which stung and was withdrawn, teeth rasping over the blade as Dumarest jerked it from between the jaws.
Again, green staining the polished metal. A third time and then, with a sudden rush, the thing was on him, following the point instead of withdrawing from it, the small but cunning brain learning from experience. Dumarest spun, the spear hampering his movements, throwing him off-balance as sand dragged at his feet. Holding him as the jaws parted to close like a vise on his boot just below the left knee.
'Earl!' Kemmer had seen and stood, stunned, his face was a mask of horror. 'Earl!'
A cry lost in the thunder of the crowd rose, yelling, scenting the end. Once a sannak had hold the outcome was predictable.
But the jaws had closed on toughened plastic, not flesh, the material giving protection and winning time. Dumarest darted his hand down to his knife, whipped it from its sheath, thrust it edge upward between the jaws, the metal hard against his boot. Now, if they continued to close, the jaws would bite on edged steel, the blade serving to protect the limb. Before the beast could jerk its head and throw him to the floor Dumarest had slipped the shaft of the spear so as to rest against the knife, one hand on each side of the snout, parted, the left heaving while the right pressed down. Opposed leverage applied to the shaft resting between the jaws, wrenching them apart-if his strength was great enough, if the shaft would hold.
He felt the wood begin to bend, heard the crunch of teeth driving into the yielding material and strain harder, sweat running into his eyes, stinging, blurring his vision. Shortening his grip he applied the full strength of back and loins, snarling as the teeth dug deeper into the wood. If it broke, if the beast should think to throw him, if the knife should slip and his leg be crushed-it all depended on the shaft, his own determination, his own strength.
The clock chimed and was ignored. The crowd fell silent, watching, waiting, recognizing the precarious balance on which Dumarest's life rested. Then, as the knife fell from between the jaws, the silence was broken by a sigh. A sigh which rose to a shout as the boot was withdrawn from between the clamping teeth, a roar which thundered as, releasing the shaft, Dumarest sprang back, dodging the rush of the sannak, stumbling, recovering as he dived for his knife.
To rise with it in his hand, his only weapon now, the spear shattered, broken.
'Earl!' Ellain rose as she shouted the name she had learned from the plump man. Her trained voice was a shaft of searing brilliance in a turgid darkness. 'Earl! My champion! Win, Earl! Win!'
He heard, ignoring the cry as he ignored the others, turning as he faced the beast, jerking back his head to save his eyes from a shower of grit flung toward him by the lashing tail.
A moment in which he glanced upward to see a shimmering flame of scarlet. The glory of hair caught in a vagrant beam and turned into a halo of unforgettable hue. Saw too the face shadowed beneath; the pale, almost translucent skin, the full slash of the generous mouth, the emerald pools of wide-set eyes.
A moment only and then he was facing the sannak again knife poised, boots rasping the grit to gain traction. He saw the creature turn, the jaws gape and darted to one side as the thing charged. A maneuver repeated as he made his final play-to wear the beast down, to wait until it slowed, then to wound it again and again until, dead or hurt, it would give him mastery.
A plan which failed as, jumping to avoid a charge, he felt his foot slip, his ankle turning as he trod on a patch of buried slime. Then came the hammer-like blow of the tail which sent him slamming against the wall. The stars which burst in his eyes, the pain, the endless fall into darkness.
Chapter Four
Waking was a dream in which he rose slowly through layers of ebon chill, counting seconds, waiting for eddy currents to warm his body, electronic stimulus to activate his heart and lungs, drugs to eliminate the agony of returning circulation. A nightmare of traveling low, occupying a cabinet meant for the transportation of beasts, lying doped, frozen and ninety percent dead. Risking the fifteen percent death rate for the sake of cheap travel.
He had ridden like that too often, wondering each time if he would wake, welcoming each resurrection as it came.
Dreams. A plethora of faces which swam out of darkness to blur and vanish even as formed. One more stubborn which remained. A ghost with scarlet hair forming an aureole about a familiar face. The lips, the chin, the bottomless pools of the eyes. A sight which had started him, creating the moment of inattention which could have cost him his life.
Had he really seen her?
Could Kalin still be alive?
He turned, muttering, reliving old memories, old pain. Seeing again the woman he had known, the wonderful, beautiful thing she had been. Long gone now, vanished, only the gift she had given him remaining in his mind. The secret stolen from the Cyclan for which they hunted him from world to world. The key which would give them the domination of the galaxy.
'Dumarest!' The voice was dull, muffled. 'Earl Dumarest!'
A voice backed by small, familiar sounds; a rustle of garments, of glass tapping against plastic, the soft susuration of a fan circulating air. A touch against his upper lip and acrid odors stung his nostrils.
'Dumarest. Wake up, man. Wake up!'
A command coupled with a reenforcing of his identity; standard practice when reviving a man who had been
