"Hold there! Who is it?" There was the quick rasp of a sword being slipped from the scabbard.
"Aker Amen and some hams — make room by the fire, you lazy sons!"
The soldier pushed up to the blaze, with Grant tottering eagerly after him. Before he could reach its beckoning warmth, the man with the sword jumped forward and clutched him by the shirt front.
"Aker, this isn't Begiln! What happened to him — and who is this wreck with the meat necklace?”
Aker Amen toasted his wet feet and frowned into the fire. "Bigeln was a fool and now he's dead. I would be too, except that this stranger came along and we managed to get out of that filthy spowl's nest together. Let him be."
The swordsman let go of Grant's coat. Since this was the only thing holding him up, Grant collapsed in a limp heap. One of the hams plopped into the mud next to Aker Amen, who produced a dagger from his belt and calmly sawed himself off a piece of meat. He chewed the tough flesh and ruminated. He must have been thinking of the battle because he made a disgusted noise and shook his dagger at the swordsman.
"Put that sticker away, Grayf, and let me tell what a fool that Bigeln was. We were in this drinking hall finishing three or four small bottles. The townsmen are dirty, ugly and stupid — more animals than men. The only thing they care about is their stinking little god, N'tigh'ta. He's an ugly little monster with a big belly and a hollow head — they put sacrifices and such in this scooped-out top of his head. They have little idols everywhere; it's about all you can do to avoid stepping on them."
Grant groaned as he turned his other side toward the flame.
"Well, we're sitting there drinking. That stupid Bigeln should have known better — he's been in this place before. But you know what he does? He's chewing weed, and before I can stop him, he rolls a great gob around on his tongue and lets fly."
Grayf, the other soldier, let his jaw drop with amazement. "No!"
"Yes!" Aker roared the word out. "He thought the idol was a nice fancy little cuspidor. He spits in it, and those fur-pants' spowls let out a shout you can hear ten miles away. The next second we have our swords out and are fighting the whole damn town. They got Bigeln and I got out."
"But what about this?" Grayf jerked his thumb at Grant's collapsed form. "What are you going to do with him?"
Aker cut another slice of meat. "Not going to do anything with him. He was just standing around, so I brought him along to carry those hams. I wanted to keep my sword arm free. Fact is, I don't even know who he is." He jabbed a giant thumb about three inches into Grant's ribs. " Hey — who are you?”
Grant opened one bleary eye and tried to gather together his foggy thoughts.
"M'name's Grant O'Reilly and I'm a student at Columbia. I was just — just standing — when—“
He bogged down at the attempt to describe what had happened to him and his head dropped back onto his chest.
A pimple-faced boy of about sixteen, who had been keeping in the background, leaped forward, shouting at the same time.
“You heard him! He said he's a student — student magician, that's what! I'll cut his throat and drink his blood and take his clothes and—" He grabbed a handful of Grant's hair and snapped his head back, starting to draw a battered dagger across Grant's throat.
Aker shifted his weight and kicked the boy into a snowdrift.
"You take orders from me and that's all you do. You do the carrying and the cooking and leave him alone. Even if he is a student, he can fight, which is more than you can do." The boy drew back, sniffling and rubbing his hip, and threw look of black malevolency at Grant.
Grant ignored him because he was already drifting into sleep.
During the night, the flight and battle with the mob recurred in fragments of dream that wove in with what he had heard Aker Amen say. And slowly, penetrating ever deeper, with a chill like the cold beyond the fire, came the realisation that these men spoke and lived as if their way of life was the only one — as if they had never heard of any other. Wherever his world of money, air-conditioned houses, of warm beds and swift automobiles and police and ambulances to protect him had gone, it was gone so unreachably far that Aker Amen and Gras and the snarling ones in the tavern had never encountered it, never heard of it. However he had arrived here, he was a long way from home. There would be no easy road back.
Slowly through the night, the reality of memories of civilization and comfort and the hopes of rescue faded until they seemed mere fantasies of a world that had never been.
The boy poured water on the fire, and the hissing and steam woke Grant from his soggy sleep.
It was snowing again.
He felt mauled. His muscles ached terribly and were so stiff he could scarcely move. His back, which faced away from the fire, was numb with cold; his feet were soaked and his nose was running. He sat huddled beside the smoking ruin of the fire and tried to pull his ragged thoughts together. Perhaps he was in Alaska or some savage corner of Greenland. That was a possibility.
With his arms clasped around his legs and his chin resting on his knees, he was forced to stare at the tattered remains of his dress shoes. They focused his attention, because they were more than shoes. They were symbolic. The shoes were Grant. A well-constructed, civilized product, perfectly in tune with a well-ordered world. Now a period of darkness and a night of madness, and that world was gone. Security and comfort vanished with it. All that remained of the shoes was a torn, bruised cover with a bit of blue flesh peeping through — his flesh. He rubbed his dripping nose on his coat sleeve and snuffled in self pity.
It was still snowing, white flakes falling out of the grey lead sky into a silent world. The only thing he could hear was the soft sibilance of falling snow. Grant sat up suddenly, the little drifts of snow falling from his back.
The significance of the doused fire penetrated. He was alone.
He forgot the soreness and fatigue of his body now — it was a matter of survival again. Slipping in the slushy soup around the fire, he tottered to his feet. The clearing was empty. He screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking with terror.
"Akerrrr. .! Aker Amen! Helloooo!! "
It was like shouting into a sea of drifting feathers, and produced as much result. He lurched around the clearing and noticed a track leading off through the trees. The footprints were fresh, but the windblown drifts were already beginning to fill them in. Grant followed them; it was his only chance for survival in this icebound wilderness. Aker would help him—had to help him. He realised for the first time how completely incapable he was. Without some help he would be dead by nightfall.
He pushed through the woods, stumbling over concealed obstacles and falling headlong in the drifts. As he came down a slight rise, he found himself on the same road-like track he had crossed on the way in. Three dimly-seen figures were just starting up the bank on the far side. At his shout, they stopped and he rushed up to Aker, who was breaking trail.
"You can't leave — you can't leave without me You've got to take me with you!"
Aker Amen adjusted his sword belt and fixed Grant with a cold, indifferent gaze.
''Why?"
Grant gaped twice, but couldn't think of what to say. There were no answers to the devastating question. Why should they help him? He realised instinctively that a plea of "humanity" or "friendship" would be worthless, as well as out of place. This society wasn't built like that. With the speed of desperation, his mind raced to other possibilities. Convenience, help? He knew that he didn't dare offer fighting assistance; last night had shown how woefully lacking he was in that important commodity. He could think of no other talents that might interest them. For the first time in his twenty-five years of existence he would have liked to reverse his civilized attributes and have a strong back and a weak mind.