“Goodbye?”
“We’re parting company. I’ve something to do and I don’t want you involved. Don’t return to the field. Don’t even ask about the ship. Just go and keep going. Here.” Zander put coins on the table. “It isn’t much but it’s all I have. Now go and keep moving.”
Dumarest said, “Don’t talk rubbish! If you’re hurt I want to help.”
“You can’t.” The engineer’s face twisted in pain. “I’m bleeding inside. Dying. You’re on your own. Now get the hell away from me.” Zander rose and staggered and clutched at the table for support. A moment which betrayed his weakness, then he straightened and raised the phial of slowtime to his lips.
“Take care, Earl. Now I’m going to fix Dorph and then take care of the captain. Move, boy! Move!”
The night had turned savage with sharp winds carrying the bite of stinging vapor and noxious gasses. Things ignored as he moved down the streets away from the field, obeying Zander’s instructions because he could think of no better alternative. Overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that the comfort and security he had enjoyed was over, that those he had known as family and friends had gone, vanished as the engineer had vanished when he had taken the slowtime. But Zander hadn’t died. He had simply jerked into an accelerated state of existence in which, for him, time had slowed so that minutes became hours and he could walk safe and unseen through lurking dangers. To find the man who had betrayed them. To kill him. To close his mouth before he could do more damage and then to destroy the ship and the dead it contained.
To create a pyre in which he also would perish.
It blossomed as he reached an intersection; wide avenues crossing to create an open circular area ringed with the glow of accumulated lanterns casting an assortment of vibrant hues embracing the entire spectrum of the universe.
Glows which faded in the sudden burst of searing brilliance from the field to become smears set against drab stone and stained concrete, moldering bricks and cracked flags. In the brilliance scattered figures stood out in sharp relief and clumps of vegetation dotting the central area took on the visage of carved ebony in intricate array.
As the searing brilliance died the gusting wind carried more than the rustle of stirring leaves.
“There! I saw him! There facing Eastlane! Let’s get him!”
The voice of a predator scenting an easy prey. One accompanied by the thud of racing boots and, hearing them, Dumarest ran across the intersection, aiming for a patch of scrub that marred the smooth contours of the area. Reaching it he halted, crouching so as to hide in its shadow. Listening he heard only the sough of the wind.
He had seen guards in the glare of the pyre but to call for their aid would be to invite attention and, if they chose to ignore him, he would have betrayed his position. If he froze, waiting, those after him might tire of the hunt. Or, knowing the area better than he, they might even now be creeping forward to take him unawares.
He reached out, hands flat, fingers and palms searching for stones. He found nothing but grit and loam. He gathered a handful of each and crouched, staring at the hues now again staining the buildings, watching for a silhouette to break their pattern.
Too late he heard the crunch of dirt beneath a boot.
“Well, now, what have we here?” The voice held the purr of a sadistic beast. “A smart little runner-but not smart enough. On your feet, scum! Stand so we can see you!”
The impact of a boot emphasized the command. It slammed into his side with brutal force, turning him to sprawl on his back, arms spread, legs bent at the knees. Above him a figure stood with shadowed menace.
“Up, I said! On your feet! Move!”
Again the boot, the flare of agony from his side, the sick feeling of helplessness, the mounting terror. He was a victim, the prey of a sadistic psychopath. A bully who took pleasure in tormenting the helpless.
Dumarest moved, rolling, shifting his legs so as to gain mobility, his hands emptying, pressing against the ground as he used the muscles of back and shoulders to lift his weight. Pain made it hard and he guessed at broken ribs.
He cried out as the boot lifted and swung towards him.
“No! Don’t!”
“So you’ve got a voice. That’s nice. Let us hear more of it.” The boot again this time slamming into his side. “Talk, scum! Talk!”
Talk and be kicked to death for a joke, a momentary thrill, or stay silent and receive the same treatment. Either way he couldn’t win. Yet if he didn’t win he would die.
“I’ve got stuff,” he panted. “Drugs. Kick and you’ll break the containers. You want them you can have them.”
“Drugs?”
“That’s right. Enough for you both.” Dumarest looked to see if his assailant was alone. He’d given the impression that he had company but, like the threats and intimidation, that could have been a part of the ritual. “Here!” He swung back to rest on his heels as he delved into his tunic.
“Not so fast! What you got in there? A gun? A knife?”
“Nothing. Just these-” He broke off as the boot swung towards his face, catching it at toe and heel, twisting it outwards from the body, rising as the man cursed then, thrown off-balance, fell backwards.
And screamed as Dumarest slammed his own boot into his groin. Screamed again at a second kick then fell silent as his larynx pulped beneath a third blow.
“Hold it!” A harsh voice rapped the command from beyond the vegetation. “Halt or I shoot!”
“Save your breath.” His companion hawked and spat. “We’ll get him another time. Let’s see what he was up to.”
Dumarest dropped before the two men came into sight. Guards from their equipment and uniforms. Flashlights illuminated the scene focusing on Dumarest as he groaned.
“What the hell’s been going on here?” One stooped over the limp figure of the predator lying to one side. “Dead. Throat-blow by the look of it. Did you do it?” He glared at Dumarest. “Come on, talk, was it you?”
“No.” Dumarest blinked in the glow of the flashlight. “I’m not too sure what happened. I was with him,” he pointed at the sprawled figure. “We were talking. Then a man came along and hit me. I think he ran away.”
“The one we heard,” said the other guard. “He must have been lurking in the bushes waiting for someone to pass by. This one couldn’t have done it. Hell, he’s only a kid. So the man who ran was on the prowl or knew the dead man. He knocked hell out of the kid then when the dead man tried to protect him he went berserk.”
“Maybe.” His companion wasn’t as certain. “What were you doing here, anyway?” he said to Dumarest. “Where were you going?”
“I was looking. Someone told me there was a place where I could get something to eat and stay the night.”
“And this guy offered to take you there? Is that it?” The guard grunted as Dumarest nodded. “I’d say you’ve been lucky. You hurt bad?”
“Bruises. I can manage.”
“You got a home? Family? No?” The guard turned away the beam of his flashlight. His companion was examining the dead man. “Anything?”
“Maybe. What are we going to do about the kid?”
“We should take him in, make out a report, get him checked for injuries.”
“He says he’s only bruised.” Leaving the sprawled corpse the guard leaned towards Dumarest. “That’s right, isn’t it boy? Just a few bruises?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you don’t need medical attention and a lot of questions. We can all do without trouble, right? If you need shelter and food there’s a place down that street over there.” He pointed. “They’re monks. They belong to a church.”
“How far is it?”