The grate rose and a naked, struggling, terrified man was brought to the edge. His arms were tied behind him; his screaming had stopped, reduced now to pitiful whimpering. A voice was speaking in measured tones, the words indistinct, perhaps praying, perhaps reading a sentence…
Something unsettlingly familiar about that voice…
When it stopped, the man began screaming again. The two troopers holding him gave a powerful shove and he fell free with wildly flailing legs and a cry of utter despair and terror that followed him all the way down the shaft, ending abruptly in a chorus of growls and scuffles from the waiting Hole dwellers below. Jon could not see the floor of the shaft. He did not want to.
He watched instead the vulpine faces of the troopers as they squinted into the dimness below, trying to catch some of the more grisly details of their ex-prisoner's fate. When another face joined them in peering over the edge, Jon felt his hackles rise.
He knew this man. Ghentren, the captain from Kitru's keep.
Suddenly, all the grief, the anguish, the rage, the pain came rushing back. Not that they had faded away, but somehow his close association with Tlad and the Talents has eased them to the back of his mind, layered them over with a soothing salve, and hidden them under clean dressings. He had thought he was healing, but knew now that nothing had healed. The heat from those festering, suppurating wounds was more intense than ever.
He could hear his teeth grinding of their own accord. He wanted Captain Ghentren's blood as much as ever. The balance craved restoration…
…and would have it!
Jon pulled back from the opening and pondered the situation. He could not get to Ghentren on his own. He would need Tlad's help. But how to get it?
The mother creature awaited him with her brood clustered about her. The spider gang was gone — either driven off or finally and forcefully convinced of the futility of trying to gain entrance to the cave. She pressed back against the wall to let him pass and hissed as he did so.
Jon kept his distance and tensed when he saw her reach for something on the floor. But she was only picking up one of the dead spider-thing's legs. She offered it to him once more.
Jon steeled himself and took it from her.
She bared her teeth at him. If it was a smile, it was a ghastly attempt. But in her eyes he thought he detected a sadness that he had to go. Perhaps loneliness was the greatest horror in the Hole.
Jon waved and quickly made his exit, leaving her alone in her little cave with her brood. As he climbed down the wall toward the floor, he realized that if, as Tlad had said, the Shapers had intended the Hole to be peopled by creatures from who every shred of human decency had been removed, they had failed. The mother creature was proof: A favor had not been forgotten, nor allowed to go unrepaid. Amid all this depravity, a spark of fellowship could still glow.
Reaching the floor, Jon paused to get his bearings and noticed two dead spider gang members at the foot of the wall. His club lay between them, untouched — he guessed the hands of the spider-things were not built to wield such a weapon. He kicked one over and sighed with relief when he saw the death egg.
As he hefted it in his hand he realized the egg was the key to assuring Tlad’s help.
Jon made his way out of the cul-de-sac and back down the passage toward the doorway to the observation corridor, toward safety.
When he neared his destination, Jon halted and searched the softly glowing dirt and rock that lined the walls on either side. He located a loose stone at eye level and pried it out. After scraping out a small hollow, he placed the bomb within and pressed the stone back over it, then stepped back and surveyed his work. Satisfied with the job of concealment, he turned and ran the rest of the way back to Tlad.
— XXIV-
"He made it!" Dalt shouted to the empty corridor when he saw Jon's familiar form break from a pile of stony rubble and race toward him.
He jumped back from the window and dashed into the lock. Grabbing the wheel, he spun it until the locking bars slid free of the door, then pulled it open. Jon leaped through and helped him close it after him.
"Thank the Core you're all right," he said.
It was all he could do to keep from hugging this big, bearish youth. All the while Jon had been gone Dalt had imagined a thousand gruesome deaths and had sworn never to forgive himself if anything happened to him in there.
But now it was over and the tery didn't look any worse for the wear — no, wait a minute — blood on his face, neck, and back…
"You're hurt?"
"Just scratches," Jon said in his growly voice. He was breathing easily, evenly as he stood there. "Only hurt a little."
"Did you find the cache?"
Dalt sensed an odd tension in Jon. "Yes. Found it. Found the bombs — many of them."
"Well…where is it?"
An instant of hesitation. "Out there."
"You dropped it?"
"I hid it."
Dalt was baffled. "Explain, Jon."
The tery quickly recounted what and whom he had seen in the air shaft. He concluded by telling Dalt what he now desired most in life.
"Captain Ghentren must die."
"Oh, he'll die all right," Dalt assured him. "Everyone up there — Mekk, the priests, the troopers — they'll all go when that one bomb sets off the others."
"No. You do not understand. He must not die without knowing. He must realize that his death restores a balance that he upset when he came to my home and killed my parents. He must know that before he dies."
"It's called vengeance, Jon," Dalt said slowly. "And you've certainly got some coming — generations' worth. But the bombs will provide that with interest."
"No," the tery repeated. "You do not understand. That captain must —"
"He must squirm and plead and beg before you kill him? Is that what you mean? Is that what you want? You want to sink to the level of his tactics, is that it?"
Struck by the vehemence of Dalt's voice, Jon stiffened but made no reply.
"You're better than that, Jon. Rab told me how you killed Dennel and Kitru, but that was different — that was when you were trapped in the middle of hostile territory."
"Yes. And because of men like the captain, the whole world is hostile territory to my kind."
"That may be, but what you're talking about now is not like you. It's cold-blooded and not worthy of you." His voice softened. "You may not know it, Jon, but there's something noble and good and decent about you. People sense it. That's why they like you. This Captain Ghentren is scum, no better and no worse than the others up there who do Mekk's bidding. Don't dirty your hands on him."
"But the balance —"
"Blast the balance! The bombs will take care of that!"
"No." The note of irrevocable finality in the tery's voice brought Dalt's arguments to an abrupt halt. "The bomb will not be replaced in the cache until I have seen the parent-slayer's blood on my hands."
"And now blackmail," Dalt said in a low whisper. "You learn fast, don't you?"
He ached inside as he faced Jon. The poor fellow had been through so much in such a short time. His home, his security, his very identity had been shattered. His world had begun to spin wildly out of control when Ghentren's men spilled his parents' blood, and something within him clung desperately to the belief that all would be set on an even keel again by the captain’s death.
"What do you want me to do?" Dalt said, watching innocence crumble before him.