Avery nodded his comprehension, then kissed her lightly on the forehead. She managed to smile at him— there was even a flicker of pride in her face—and he knew that he had not offended.
He took the weapon—for such it surely was—placed it carefully in her hand with her forefinger resting on a small stud, and then helped her to lift her arm so that the thing pointed to her breast.
‘Zleetri,’ he said. ‘Sleep well, my dear one.’
She pressed the stud. There was a sudden shaft of light, a thin brief arrow of radiance. But no sound. And instantly a tiny hole had been burned into her body.
She gave a great sigh, as of utter contentment. Then her body sagged. Zleetri was dead.
Avery stared wonderingly at her for a few moments, as if he were in a trance. Then he came back to life, back to a harsh frame of reality. His mind began to operate again.
If Zleetri had been left alone, it was surely not because the rest had taken it into their heads to go hunting. They could hardly be as callous as that. And if they were not hunting, and if they were all absent—then, goddammit, they must have cooked up something really important. There was only one answer. He snatched up his weapons and turned to go.
He had already got out of the hut. Then suddenly he stopped and turned back. He went to Zleetri’s body and took the weapon, putting it in his pocket. Then he laid her arms by her side and closed her eyes. He wanted to do something else—he desperately wanted to do something else for her. But there was nothing more. Nothing at all.
He went outside once more and tossed the weapon into the moat. Then he crossed the little bridge at a run.
Please, he gasped, as he sprinted through the trees and across patches of grassland, please let me get back in time!
He tried to imagine what would be happening at Camp Two. Then he tried not to imagine. What a bloody, cretinous oaf he had been to choose to make his reprisal raid today! Great, stupid, bloody-minded minds think alike, he told himself bitterly. He and the rest of the golden people must have passed very close to each other on their missions of vengeance.
As if to punish himself for his stupidity, he pushed his weary limbs to the limit of endurance. Literally to the limit. For it was not until he fell down, tried to get up, and fell down again, that he realized he would have to walk for a spell. In any case, he told himself bitterly, what good would he be if he got back to Camp Two a complete physical wreck.
But it was not long before he started to run once more. Eventually he had to ration himself to a hundred paces running and a hundred paces walking.
When he was still half a mile away from Camp Two, he noticed the plume of smoke above the tree tops. He had run himself into a state when he could not think clearly. He gave a last burst, and knew that he would have to walk the rest of the way. In any case, it would be a fine bloody thing—and about all he deserved—if he ran straight into the enemy. As his heart-beats slowed down a little and the non-thinking fog cleared out of his head, he began to wonder about the plume of smoke. It was a thick one—far too thick for an ordinary camp fire.
Sanity came back, and he kept to the trees as much as possible. He did not break out of cover until he was no more than about seventy yards from the rock.
He had already discovered what the plume of smoke was. By direct assault, Camp Two was pretty well impregnable. So the golden people, logically enough, were simultaneously attacking and trying to bum the occupants out. While two men kept the defenders busy by an exchange of rocks—they were obviously saving their javelins for the in-fighting stage—the remaining woman was bombarding them with fire arrows from a distance of perhaps fifty yards.
The entire scene was at the same time frightening, farcical, absurd and utterly deadly. It was a frolic and a nightmare. It was a glorious children’s adventure. But the play was macabre and in earnest. There would be no cream cakes for tea after this escapade. Only death or injury for the vanquished.
The woman with the cross-bow and fire arrows was extremely methodical. She was less than twenty yards from Avery, and, fortunately her back was towards him.
She had set up a little fire and was dipping the treated arrow-heads into its flames.
Beyond her, Avery could see that one of the tents at Camp Two had disappeared—into ashes, presumably— and the other was already burning. Mary—at least, it appeared to be Mary—was trying to beat the fire out while the other two kept the attackers at bay with their siege ammunition. One of the golden people kept trying to get in close to scale the rock while the other attempted to cover him. So far, apart from the destruction caused by the fire arrows, the attackers did not appear to be getting the best of the exchange. But perhaps the battle had not been going very long. Nevertheless, if Camp Two had been at ground level, doubtless it would all have been over by now.
Avery took a deep breath, willed some energy into his aching limbs, and sprinted towards the woman, tomahawk raised. He could so easily have killed her. Intent upon her task, she did not even hear hi
He could so easily have killed her. But even as the tomahawk was descending, the thought of Zleetri flashed through his mind. He saw again her once magnificent body. He saw it beaten and shrivelled by death.
He could not kill.
Instead he flung himself bodily upon the woman, knocking all the breath out of her with an anguished grunt. Then he smashed the flat of his hand hard into the back of her neck.
He snatched the cross-bow and tomahawked it into uselessness. He did not even turn to see how the woman was faring. She was coughing, retching and sobbing all at once. She would be out of action for quite a while.
He picked himself up, glanced at the rock, and saw Barbara and Tom dodging a rain of fairly small missiles and at the same time trying to stop one of the golden people from circling round to climb up behind them.
The sight acted as a booster to Avery’s fatigue-heavy limbs. He lifted his tomahawk, gave a dreadful cry that was almost a snarl and rushed upon the nearest attacker.
The man turned in surprise. But he reacted almost instantly. He dropped the stones from his hands and picked up the two javelins that were lying at his feet.
Avery was fifteen yards away and closing the distance fast. As the first javelin came, he flung the tomahawk. The javelin missed. So did the tomahawk.
Avery still had his knife, and came on without pause. The second javelin was raised; and this time the look on his antagonist’s face told Avery that he could not miss.
But, ridiculously, the look of triumph gave way to a look of total surprise. The man swayed uncertainly. The javelin fell from his hand even as Avery buried the blade of the hunting knife in hard golden flesh just below the rib cage.
The man fell forward, almost taking Avery with him. It was only then that he saw the other tomahawk—Tom’s favourite—with its cutting edge buried deep between the shoulder blades.
Avery stared round him in a daze. Everything seemed to have stopped. The whole scene appeared frozen as in a photograph. A few yards down the shore, the woman had managed to get herself up into a half-sitting position. Barbara stood poised on the rock with a tent pole in her hand. Tom was huddled up like a bundle of old clothes at the base of the rock. Mary was leaning over to look down at Tom. The other golden man had retreated a few paces. There was a blank look on his face. Clearly, he found it hard to believe what he saw.
Then the scene snapped back into movement. The remaining attacker backed warily away, back towards the woman—whose moans became drowned in Mary’s sudden scream and Tom’s volley of groaning obscenities. Barbara held grimly on to the tent pole, and the man at Avery’s feet was the only motionless person, for death had been no less swift than surprising.