Snatching up the sacks of golden spore, he raced down the slope and flung himself from the cliff into the sea.
He hit with a bone-bruising impact, feeling the sacks torn from his grasp; falling deep, until he managed to convert his downward motion into first horizontal and then vertical movement. He broke the surface retching for air and weakly treading water until his starved lungs allowed him to think of other things. To one side he spotted the sacks and swam towards them. There were two of them, their necks tied so as to trap the air. He turned on his back and rested his neck on the juncture so that a sack rose to each side of his head. Their buoyancy ensured that he would not drown.
But, if drowning was now no problem, there were others. Spores could drift from the coast despite the wind and he concentrated on putting distance between himself and the land. The exertion made him conscious of his burns. Fortunately the skin was unbroken as far as he could discover and there was no choice but to suffer the pain.
He thought of stripping; then changed his mind at memory of what could lurk beneath the waves. The clothes were hampering but would protect his body against fin or scale. Thoughtfully he stared up at the sky.
It was past the end of summer. During the next few days the fungi would finish sporing and the spores would settle. To be safe he would have to remain well out to sea until the autumn and the first rains, about twelve days, he guessed. Then would come the effort of reaching land, climbing the hills and reaching the station. It would be hard, but not impossible. The sea would contain food of a kind and some of it should contain drinkable fluid. The sacks would allow him to sleep and the wind would prevent him losing sight of the coast. Even if he drifted lower he could still make his way back. The sun if nothing else would guide him. It was a question of timing.
Something traced a line across the waves to his left He heard a muffled sound through the water lapping his ears as if an oared vessel had passed close by. He turned, resting his weight on the sacks, his eyes narrowed as he searched the waves. He caught a glimpse of a line crossing ahead. It circled, came closer, and aimed itself directly at him.
Dumarest released the sacks, ducked and snatched the knife from his boot. He stared into the crimson murk. A shadow lunged towards him and he kicked himself to one side, catching a glimpse of large eyes, a fringe of tentacles and a whipping tail. The thing swept past, turned with a flash of yellow underbelly and a lash of the tail. It hit Dumarest on the chest, its barbs gouging the plastic, the impact enough to send him backwards through the water. Rising, he gulped air and looked around.
Nothing but a thin line moving towards him.
He ducked again, fighting the weight of his clothing, knife extended as he faced the direction from which he thought the creature would strike. A shadow loomed, grew huge, and became a gaping, tentacle-fringed mouth. They were splayed and lined with suckers which grasped his left arm and dragged him towards the teeth. He kicked, slashed down with the knife and kicked again as the tentacles parted. As an eye passed him he stabbed at it with his blade.
He felt the tail smash against his back and other tentacles grab his right arm. Pressure mounted as the beast dived, the wide, flat body undulating as it went towards the bottom. Desperately he changed the knife from hand to hand, slashing, stabbing, kicking as he fought to break free. Blood gushed from the creature and stung his eyes. Lungs bursting, he felt something give and swam frantically upwards. The water lightened, cleared, became air. Dumarest coughed and fought for breath. The sacks bobbed to one side and he headed towards them, throwing his left arm over the junction, letting them support his weight. If the beast grabbed him again and took him as low, he knew that he would never survive.
Around him the water suddenly boiled as something streaked from the depths. It surfaced, rising from the waves to hang momentarily against the sky, the body lacerated, the fringe of tentacles showing ragged members, one eye a gaping ruin. Then it crashed back into the water as a score of smaller fish followed it.
They were scavengers, intent on food and attracted by the scent of blood, worrying the huge beast as dogs worried a bear, darting in, attacking and weakening the creature even more.
Dumarest clung to his sacks and watched as the surface fury vanished towards the horizon. He could have been unlucky, the great beast could have been a rare oddity, but somehow he didn't think so. To be safe at all he had to hug the coast where the water was shallow, and the chance of falling victim to a parasitic spore was great.
Weakly, he began to swim to where the coast rested against the crimson sky. With care, he thought, by keeping himself wet and by staying as far away from land as he dared, he might still have a chance. He could even head back towards the encampment. At least he knew there were suits there, and equipment he could use or adapt to be useful. He still had a chance.
* * *
There were no birds on Scar, so the black dot in the sky could only be a raft. Dumarest looked at it as it came closer. It hovered over the coast, then veered to drift to a halt directly above where he floated. Jocelyn looked down. Behind him Ilgash loomed, a protective shadow. Both were suited.
"An interesting situation, Earl," said the ruler of Jest conversationally. "How long do you think you can survive as you are?"
Dumarest studied the sky. A broad band of cloud lifted from the seaward horizon and the hills were limned with ruby light. Autumn was coming to a close, but winter was still several days away.
"Not long enough, my lord," he said frankly. His throat hurt and it pained him to talk. "Will you give me aid?"
"That depends."
"On what, my lord?"
"Many things. On your luck, for example, or on the value you place on your life." Jocelyn reached behind him and lifted a canteen. "You thirst," he said. "How much will you give me for this water?"
Dumarest licked his cracked lips.
"You hesitate, but there is no need, I am not a seller of water." Jocelyn lowered the canteen by its strap. "Take it as a gift."
His hands were bloated with immersion and the seal was tight so that it seemed an age before Dumarest could open the canteen and taste the water it contained. It was sweet and cool, better than the most expensive wine. He sipped, cautiously, fighting his inclination to gulp. Around him the water made little sucking noises as he shifted his position, the sacks bobbing as he lifted his head. He lifted the canteen again, the sleeve of his tunic falling back from his left wrist. Blood glistened from a seeping raw patch.
"A spore, my lord." Dumarest caught the question on Jocelyn's face. "I was careless. It took root and spread as I watched. Fortunately I have a knife."
"You cut away the contamination?"
"How else to stop the infection? I have no acid, no fire."
And no feeling in my body, he thought, as he sipped again at the canteen. There was no food in his stomach, but that was a minor thing. The real strain had been lack of water and lack of sleep. He had dozed, jerking awake at every fancied danger, sometimes finding they were far from imaginary. Hugging the coast there had been no more large creatures, but the smaller ones were ferocious enough, and were too agile for easy killing. He looked up at the hovering raft.
"How did you find me my lord?"
"I have my ways," said Jocelyn. "You may thank my wife for her concern. She missed you and mentioned the matter. But enough of details. Tell me, Earl, have you been in this situation before?"
"In risk of my life?"
"Yes."
"There have been occasions when I have been close to death," said Dumarest flatly. He felt a little light-headed as if he were conversing in a dream. If Jocelyn intended to rescue him, why didn't he get on with it? If not why did he remain?