Zenya

'I have made a thorough examination. There is nothing metallic.'

'It needn't be metallic.'

'Even so, there would be traces. A foreign object cannot be simply inserted into the tissue without some distortion of the surrounding fibers, and there would be a difference in density. My instruments would have revealed any such divergence. You may rest assured, marshal. There is nothing implanted within your flesh.'

'I see.' Dumarest sat, brooding. 'Could there be a possibility that…'

He broke off as Fran Paran burst into the tent. The youth was wild-eyed, panting. He said, 'For God's sake, Earl, marshal, Lord Dumarest-'

'Control yourself, lieutenant! Report!' The man, Dumarest remembered, had been placed in charge of the communications equipment.

'Sir!' He saluted and said, his voice strained against imposed control, 'A message from the city, sir. Verital is under attack!'

Chapter Eight

There was time for thought on the journey. Sitting, hunched in the body of the raft, Dumarest thought of Aihult Chan Parect and his madness. His deviousness and his threat. All were real enough, and he had been even more cunning than suspected. Dumarest had imagined that a radio beacon had been implanted while he had lain helpless beneath the ministrations of his doctor. A device, booby-trapped, maybe, but a thing which could be safely removed with care and skill. Yet it seemed that the obvious had not been employed. A bluff? It was barely possible, but Dumarest doubted it. Chan Parect had been more clever than he had guessed.

'Sir?' Fran Paran was at his side, earphones on his head, a communicator in his hand. 'A recording of the initial message, sir. Do you want to hear it?'

The voice was strained, incredulous.

'Monsters! Things all around. Killing, screaming, everywhere. Help. Send help. This is Verital calling. Verital. For God's sake, come quickly! It's horrible! Ghastly! We haven't got a chance. Hurry! Hurry! Devils from hell, spawn of the underworld, help! Help!'

The rest was distortion, a mouthing of frenzied words, screams, the sound of smashing timbers.

Dumarest played it again, a third time, learning nothing new. A man, almost incoherent, pleading for help from the city, raving about monsters and things of nightmare.

To the lieutenant he said, 'Contact the city. Find out if there is anything new.'

In the earphones Colonel Paran's voice sounded as if he were speaking through layers of cotton. 'Nothing since the message, Earl. I've ordered two units to rendezvous with you at map reference 0136-2784. That's a mile from the southern edge of the village.'

'Is there anything closer?'

'A detachment was based twenty miles to the west. We can't establish contact.' The voice hardened a little. 'Natural enough if the devils attacked them first.'

'Not natural,' said Dumarest. 'They should have been alert. Guards would have given the alarm. Have you a raft in the vicinity?'

'Yes.'

'I assume it has flares. They must remain aloft, drop flares, and see what they can. If the detachment appears to have been attacked, they must wait until daylight before landing. If not, let them land, take as many men aboard as they can, and throw a line directly north of the village-about ten miles north.' In the glow of a light, Dumarest studied a map. 'That is in a direct line to the hills.'

'You hope to catch who did it?'

'If possible, yes.'

'Should I send in more men? Withdraw detachments from the villages?'

'No. The damage has been done now. There's no point in leaving other villages undefended. Just send out a general red alert to all forces and have them keep a man on constant radio watch. I want a running commentary, and if anything should happen, let me know at once.'

'I hope you get them,' said Paran. 'By God, I really hope that. Susal was born in Verital.'

And perhaps his son would die there. Time alone would tell.

Lights marked the rendezvous, bright points drifting against the fading stars, rimming the outlines of the rafts which waited high in the sky. Below, it was totally dark, the massed lofios plants seeming to absorb all light, so that the ground was an infinity of distance, a trick of perspective which vanished as one of the rafts dropped a flare.

Dumarest watched it fall, to burst into eye-bright luminescence, leaves springing into life beneath the glare, betraying their presence if the riding lights hadn't done it already. Another followed it, a third, as excited men searched for anticipated prey. From one of the rafts a laser sent a ruby beam to impact on a plant, fire rising, edged with smoke, from the tip of a frond.

'Stop that!' Dumarest shouted above the rising babble from the rafts. 'Cease all fire! No more flares. Fall into line and remain silent!'

'I saw one!' The voice was young, hysterical. 'I saw one of the devils. There!'

Again the laser fired, fresh flame rising from another plant, this time far to the left.

'He's right!' Another voice, equally young, just as high. 'There! See!'

He owned a rifle, and echoes rolled as he fired, amplified by the lofios, increased as others joined in. Within seconds the body of the raft was a mass of winking points and ruby beams as men leaned over the edge shooting at imagined shapes on the ground.

To Fran Paran Dumarest snapped, 'Get the number of that raft. I want the name of every man in it. The officers too. The damned fools should be able to maintain order better than this.'

'They're volunteers, sir,' said the lieutenant. 'A group from one of the villages.'

'It makes no difference. Establish contact and order them to stay well clear. Have them patrol to the east- and don't forget to record those names.' To the pilot Dumarest said, 'Head for the village. Fast.'

Already they had lost the element of surprise and given any waiting enemy the choice of retreat or setting up an ambush. If the enemy were still at the village, it had taken time to cover distance. As the raft swept forward, it dropped until it was almost brushing the plants beneath. They vanished, edging a clearing, a barely visible cluster of houses, limp figures lying in the streets. 'Flares,' ordered Dumarest.

He turned as they fell, looking at the scene clearly revealed, every detail painted in the stark, white glare. Beside him a man was suddenly sick, vomiting over the edge of the raft.

Another cursed with monotonous repetition. 'God, look at it! God, look at it!'

Dumarest said, 'Contact the other raft. Have them remain aloft and drop flares as needed. We shall land at the northern edge of the village. Two men to stay with the raft, four others to spread in line facing north. Fire at anything that comes toward you. Remember that, toward you. Lieutenant, you are in charge. The rest follow me. Open order, and no firing unless I give the order.' He added grimly, 'I'll kill any man who disobeys.'

* * *

Once, on a distant world, he had seen an ancient painting in a dusty museum depicting, so the curator had said, an impression of hell. It had been a scene of torment, bodies lying, disfigured, faces contorted, blood and devastation all around. The artist could have taken Verital for his model.

Dumarest studied it from where he crouched behind the cover of a building. The wide main street was a shambles. The air reeked of blood. A man sprawled, stomach slashed open, intestines in a blue-red mass of coils, a rifle frozen in his hand. Close by, a woman, knife in hand, showed a hole between her eyes, the back of her head a soggy mass rimmed with lank hair. Two others lay in a carmine pool, hacked to bloody fragments. A child lacked limbs, another had been seared to crackling, a third, a baby, lay with a crushed skull beneath a red smear on the corner of a building. And there were others. Too many others.

From one side a man said sickly, 'The bloody swine! Savages! Only animals could have done a thing like this!'

Another said, 'Let's get them!'

He rose from where he had been crouching, rifle in hands, almost staggering as he moved down the street. Dumarest watched him go, willing to accept the proffered bait. If any enemy should still be in the village, the easy