A weapon which could be used as a probe, a balance, a staff, it emulated the natural weapons of a beast of prey. With it he could kill if faced by a hunter.
It lay beside him as he crouched in the snow, the blade showing him the position of the sun. It was rising in the east; the shrunken ball of a white dwarf star, radiating light but little heat. In three hours it would be at zenith; in eight, night would close over the land. A freezing, bitter darkness which would last for six hours. If a quarry failed to reach a point of safety before then he was reckoned to be dead.
Dumarest moved a little, feeling the numbing bite of the cold. He had rested too long, but to run without a plan of action was to invite certain death. To run east or west? A "home" lay in each direction. If he ran east the rising sun would dazzle the eyes of his pursuers but not for long enough. To run west would be to reveal his dun-colored clothing against the snow. He looked at it, knowing what he had to do. The risk he had to take. Waiting, he looked at the blade of his spear.
* * *
Albrecht was enjoying himself. His first visit to Erkalt and he was thrilling to the game. Luck had drawn him a hunter's place and he tingled to the crispness of the air, the physical exertion which sent blood rushing through heart and brain. He had hunted before and knew how a quarry would act. He would run and keep on running, heading directly for safety, driven by panic and fear as were all hunted things. Bursting his lungs to gain speed and distance then, when exhausted, to sink in a quivering heap to wait final dispatch. Beast or man it was all the same-his real opponents were his fellow hunters.
He looked at them where they had scattered. Algat far to his right with three others with him; they would probably have agreed to work as a team and to share the trophy. To his left Lochner, tall, determined, raced ahead as if speed alone would give him victory. Others. Indart among them, trailing a little as if satisfied to let others do the work of eliminating false trails and deceptive starts. Cunning, men waiting to isolate the true line of flight, conserving their energy for a time of greater need.
A crevasse opened before him and he jumped it, holding his spear high. Another, too wide to jump, into which he descended, following traces which could have been made by running feet. Following it he dropped below the surface and out of sight of any watchers. A white, fur-clad figure almost invisible against the snow.
One which threw a shadow on polished steel.
Dumarest watched as it grew, turning the blade so as to avoid betraying reflections, tensing as the sound of footsteps came close. A soft padding which made it hard to determine true distance. Hard to decide whether or not the man was alone.
A gamble; one man he could take, two he could handle, more and he would be the target of killing spears. A risk he had to take.
Dumarest rose as the footsteps neared the hide. Snow showered from his head and shoulders as he straightened, lunging forward, the butt end of the spear slamming at the head of the figure before him. A blow softened by the thick fur of the hood and Albrecht staggered back, his own spear lifting in defense-but was knocked aside as Dumarest struck again, the blunt end of the shaft driving beneath the hood and impacting the temple.
As the hunter fell, Dumarest looked around, spear at the ready, eyes narrowed as he searched the crevasse, the snow and ice to either side.
Nothing, but speed was essential. He pulled at the fallen man's garments, tearing free the furs and the wide belt holding fat pouches. Stripping off his own thermal garments he donned the furs. The belt followed and he paused, listening, eyes again searching the area. Only then did he dress the unconscious man in his discarded clothing.
* * *
Karlene said, firmly, "It was an act of mercy. He could have left Albrecht to die."
"He did." Hagen was burning with excitement. "Why can't you see that?"
"He could have killed the man."
"Speared him, yes," admitted Hagen. "But that would have soiled the furs with blood. Instead he chose to stun-have you ever seen a man move so fast? I barely saw the blow and the hunter couldn't have stood a chance. Dumarest wanted his furs and supplies and, by God, he got them."
And had left the hunter dressed in a quarry's garb. Only luck had saved him-the hunter running in for the kill had recognized him almost too late. The thrust of his spear, barely diverted, had caught him in the shoulder instead of the chest.
"A decoy," said Hagen. "The attack served a double purpose; while hunting the decoy they allowed him time to escape." He frowned at his maps, his monitors. "Which?" he murmured. "East or West? Are you sure about the node?"
"You know what I told you."
But not all she knew-suspicion, lying dormant, had suddenly flowered after she had seen Dumarest in his prison. Small things: men too eager to talk, hunters intent on private conversation, expressions she recognized from those more keen on winning bets than following a sport.
Inside information-had Hagen found a way to add to his income? Bets as to the result, the time and place? Tips to the hunters as to where the quarry would meet his end? Suspicions which had caused her to be reticent. She said, "What happens now?"
"Nothing. The game goes on."
"With Dumarest dressed the way he is?"
"There's nothing against it in the rules." Hagen was patient. "Now the hunters know what's happened they can guard against it. Work in groups," he explained. "Stay close together and ready. All Dumarest has gained is a little time."
* * *
The time factor diminished as he lunged through snow and over ice. The furs helped, but he had been unable to take the electronically heated undergarment Albrecht had worn and the cold was an almost tangible enemy. It numbed feet and hands, clawed at his face, sucked at his energy. Stumbling, he fell, rolled down a slope, rose to his feet to stagger on. Behind him the betraying traces he had left showed like gashes on the smooth landscape.
As every footstep he took showed the path of his progress.
Only the wind could cover his trail and, with the wind, would come the blizzards, the freezing chill of incipient night.
And the hunters were close.
"There!" Indart pointed with his spear at the straggling line of footsteps. "Some of you follow. I'll cut ahead to wait before Easthome." He snarled at an objection. "To hell with the trophy-I want the man!"
He lunged ahead before any could argue, four at his heels, following a man they could trust. Others, less influenced, moved on their own paths, some toward the other point of safety, the rest following the trail. If they could move no faster than Dumarest they would never catch him but it was easier to follow a path than to make one. Given time they would spot the hurrying figure. None had any doubt as to what would happen when they did.
Dumarest shared their conviction.
He had halted to examine the contents of the pouches, eating the food he found there, taking some of the stimulants they contained. The place he was heading for was marked by a beacon but first he had to get close enough to spot it. The sun was now well past zenith and the snow crackled beneath his feet. Clouds now flecked the sky and he studied them as he checked time and distance. Already the hunt had lasted longer than usual; he had deliberately taken a winding route.
Now he turned and moved in a direct line along the path of a gulley, rising to slip into a crater-like pit, rising again to lope along a ridge.
His movement was spotted and he heard the yell behind him as he raced on, exertion making him dangerously warm. Sweat would soak his clothing, would freeze, would cover him with a film of ice. Yet to delay would be to take too big a gamble.