The hunter nearest to him backed, holding up his weapon. A man afraid; quarry should be helpless, cringing, easy to kill. A hunter's sacrifice dispatched at a safe distance with bullet or laser-burn. Now he faced a man, hurt, stained with blood, armed as well as himself, intent on taking his life. Too late he realized that he had to fight to save it. Fight and win. He decided to run and died as steel found his heart.
As the unarmed man died as Dumarest threw his other spear; receiving the same mercy as he would have given.
"Fast." Carl Indart threw back his hood. "Fast but a fool. You've disarmed yourself."
He stepped closer, feeling safe against an unarmed man, his face ugly with a gloating satisfaction. A man confident of victory. One who felt the need to talk.
"You're good," he said. "I knew it from the first. What you did to Albrecht proved it. But, as good as you are, I'm better. This proves it." He lifted his spear. "Steel against flesh-what odds would you give on your survival?"
Dumarest said, "You killed Claire Hashein. Why?"
"Does it matter?"
"To me, yes. Was it orders or-"
"No one gives me orders!" Rage flashed like a storm over Indart's face. "No one!"
"Who sent you after me? The Cyclan?" Dumarest read the answer in the shift of the other's eyes. "You fool. Didn't they tell you they wanted me alive?"
Talk to distract as he eased forward. Words which stung and diverted the hunter's attention. Made him forget the speed on which he had commented. Even so, native caution made him wary. Steel shimmered as he moved the spear in his hands.
Shimmered and flashed as Dumarest lunged.
He felt the kiss of it as it brushed his cheek, the burn as it sliced through fur to hit his shoulder then the shaft was in his hand, the fingers of his other stiffened, stabbing at Indart's throat, hitting the chin as the hunter lowered his head. A wasted blow, followed by another to the eyes, hitting the brows, the heel of the palm following to smash against the temple.
As Indart fell Dumarest jerked the spear from his hand, twisted it, thrust the tip of the blade beneath his chin as together they hit the snow.
"Talk, you bastard! Talk!"
"Go to hell!"
Indart was stubborn to the last. Lifting his hands, his arms to rest above his head, writhing as the steel drove into his throat. Dying as the woman had died-but slowly, slowly.
Chapter Five
Hagen stormed his fury. "You lied! You cheated! You made me look a fool! A finish like that and I missed it! How could you be so wrong?"
Karlene watched as he paced the floor, hands clenched, mouth cruel in his anger. A man who had hinted at his love for her now betraying his true motives.
She said, "You know I can never be certain. I've told you that again and again. I scent a node but time is a variable. The one to the west might happen next week or within the next few days." Or never; she had lied as to the scent. Deliberately she let anger tinge her voice. "You demand too much. I gave you the beast-killing. You had scanners set for Albrecht's death."
"Trivialities." With an effort he calmed himself. "Good but not enough-to those who follow the games the end is all-important. I was sure it would happen to the west. I had Thorn set up the scanners. I even told-" He broke off, shaking his head. He had almost said too much. "Five dead," he moaned. "The quarry victorious. And I missed it."
"You had one scanner, surely?"
"One," he admitted. "But the coverage was poor." And would continue to be so without her help. A consideration which smothered his diminishing rage. A mistake, it had to be that, but there would be other opportunities. Smiling, lifting his hands toward her, he said, "Forgive me, my dear. I know you did your best. Blame the artist in me-an opportunity to record a finish like that comes but once in a lifetime."
The artist in him and the greed she could recognize. The tapes he wouldn't be able to sell and the money he had to return to the hunters who, trusting him, had loped to the west. Money in bets and money in blood-God, how had she been so blind?
"You look tense, my dear." His concern was as false as his smile. "You need to relax. A hot bath, perhaps? A massage? Some steam?"
"No," she said. "I'm going downstairs."
The cheers were over, the congratulations, but the party would last until dawn. Dumarest, neat in his normal clothing, his wounds dressed, lifted the glass in his hand as she entered the room in which he held court.
"My lady!" He sipped and added, "It is a pleasure to see you again. How may I know you?"
She smiled at the formal mode of address. "My name? Karlene."
"Just that?"
"Karlene vol Diajiro. Karlene will do." As he handed her a glass of wine she said, "Do I remind you of someone?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You smiled when you first saw me as if-well, it doesn't matter. But I was curious. May I add my congratulations to the rest? If anyone deserved to win the trophy it was you. I assume you are a skilled hunter? None other would have stood a chance. A fighter too, no doubt, it took skill to dispatch those men as you did."
Small talk, flattery, empty words to fill out silence. The ritual used by strangers when meeting other strangers. She felt irritated at herself for emulating the harpies clustered around; painted matrons eager to taste a new delight, others eager to boast of having conquered the conqueror. Why was she acting so awkwardly? A young girl meeting her first man could not have been worse.
Dumarest said, "I had help."
"What?" She blinked then realized he was answering her babble. A man discerning as well as polite. "Help? From whom?"
From those she had never known and would never meet; men who had taught him the basic elements of survival, women who had taught him how to read the unspoken messages carried in gestures and eyes. Others closer to the present; Vellani, the guard, herself.
She shook her head as he mentioned it. "Me? No, you must be mistaken."
"Of course." Dumarest didn't press the point. "Would you care to sit?"
She was tall, her head almost level with his own as he guided her from the room, her flesh cool beneath his hand. Outside a niche held a table and three chairs. Seating her, Dumarest removed the extra chair, setting it well to one side before taking the other. As he settled, a man came bustling toward him, a bottle in his hand.
"Earl! You'll share a drink with me?"
"Not now."
"But-" The man broke off as he saw Dumarest's expression. "I-well, at least accept the wine."
A woman was less discreet.
"Earl, you have my room number. Don't forget it. I'll be expecting you-don't keep me waiting."
As she left, Karlene said, dryly, "To the victor the spoils. I hope you're enjoying them."
"I'm enjoying this." His gesture took in the table, the seclusion, herself. "You were right when you thought you reminded me of someone. You do." He poured wine for them both. "Someone who died a long time ago. I drink to her memory."
"Her name?"
"Derai."
"To Derai!" She sipped and then, following a sudden impulse, drained the glass. "The dead should not be stinted."
"No."
"Nor ever forgotten." Her hand shook a little as she poured herself more wine. "What are we if none remember us when we are gone? Less than the wind. Less than the rain, the sea, the fume of spray. Less than the shift of sand. Nothingness lost on the fabric of time. All ghosts need an anchor."
Friends, a family, children, those who cared. Looking at her, Dumarest saw a lonely woman- haunted by the fear of death.
He said, "You have a way with words. Are you a poet?"
"No, just someone who likes old things. As you do." She smiled at his puzzlement. "The book," she said. "The one you were reading before the game. It looked very old. Did it give you comfort?"
"This?" He took it from his pocket and placed it in her hand. "I found it more a puzzle than anything else. Can you make sense of it?"