From a seat he took a length of rope about a yard long, wrapping each end around his hands and leaving a loop of about eighteen inches. Approaching the back of the waiting soldier, he threw the loop over the man's head, and as it came level with his throat, lifted his right knee and ground it against the back as he jerked. Coughing, the soldier doubled, retching, rubbing at his neck.
"I was gentle," purred Raougat. "A trifle more force, and he would be dead now. It never fails."
Dumarest said loudly, "Like hell it doesn't."
"You doubt me?" The captain smiled as Dumarest stepped forward. "And you are…?" The smile widened as Dumarest introduced himself. "Ah, our famous marshal. The man dedicated to war. Perhaps you are willing to show me how I am at fault?"
There was no humor in the smile, and less in the soft purr of the voice, and looking at his eyes, Dumarest knew that, this time, there would be no control of the force used, that given the chance, the man would willingly snap his spine and rupture his throat.
"You want to demonstrate on me?" Dumarest said quietly. "Is that what you are asking?"
"With respect, sir, if you are willing. Of course, we will all understand if you are not."
"Commence."
Dumarest turned, waiting. He sensed rather than heard the soft pad of feet, the blur as the rope dropped before his eyes. The man had used his right knee, and he spun to the left as it rose, left arm slashing sideways to catch the thigh, to knock it away, sending Raougat falling hopelessly off-balance. The rope jerked at the back of his neck, and Dumarest followed it, ignoring it as his right hand lifted with his knife, the point halting as it touched the skin of the captain's throat.
For a moment they lay staring into each other's eyes, and then Dumarest said gently, "I have proved my point, I think?"
"A knife-"
"A guard would be armed. And a knife is unessential." Dropping it, Dumarest rested the tips of his fingers beneath the other's eyes. "I could have blinded you." The hand lifted, the fingers clamped to form a blunt spear, falling to rest on the point of the throat beneath the ear. "Or killed you. You see, I had a choice."
"Fast," whispered Raougat. "You were too fast. I have never seen anyone move as quickly. And now?"
"You work," replied Dumarest as quietly. "Doing what you love-teaching men how to kill. But from now on, you will do it without tricks and without sadistic demonstrations of your skill. If not, we will meet again. You understand me?"
"Too well." Raougat, his dignity and position saved, essayed a grin. "But, my lord, should you ever grow tired of the work you do, the stadiums are always waiting. In a year, less, you could be a champion on any of a dozen worlds."
Rising, Dumarest said to the watching men, "That was a lesson. Never make a simple action complex. Never make the mistake of underestimating your opponent. If you want to kill a guard, do it like this." His hand lifted, swept down, the stiffened edge halting at the base of Raougat's spine. "Use the barrel of your rifle, the butt, anything heavy and sharp. And never be gentle. You want to kill him, not bruise him. Hit hard enough, and he will drop like a sliced tree. Now, get dressed, quickly!" A soldier said, "For exercise?"
"You are soldiers. You don't go into action half-naked. Your enemy may be armored. To be of value, training must be realistic. Now, move!"
To Raougat he said, "How are they as regards killing potential?"
"Weak." The captain saw the bleak expression in Dumarest's eyes and added hastily, "I have tried to correct it, sir, but it isn't easy. They are the product of a soft environment. They talk, but when it comes to the time to act, who knows?"
"You should know," snapped Dumarest. "That is what you are paid for."
"True, but they are volunteers, the sons of rich families for the most part." Raougat shrugged. "I can take a man and turn him into a beast, given time. If the basic ingredients are there, it is simple. But if they are not, then it is hard. And I am not dealing with one man, but several."
And there would be more. Dumarest turned as Thomile came into the warehouse ahead of a score of men, Fran Paran among them. Saluting, the lieutenant said, "The men, as ordered, marshal. The best I could find."
"Which means?"
"Exactly that, sir. A couple of troublemakers, they like to argue, some would-be heroes, the rest bored with routine and eager for action." He paused, then added casually, "With respect, sir, I would like to see how you handle them."
A check, but that was to be expected. Wherever he went men would be watching, eager to learn and as eager to criticize. And Dumarest knew that should he make a single slip, his pretense would be questioned. As a supposed lord of Samalle there was nothing about war that he should not know.
To Captain Louk, who had accompanied Thomile and his men, he said, "I shall need rafts for transportation. And weapons firing a low-velocity missile. Pneumatic guns would do, if you can get them. Something to sting, but not kill or incapacitate."
Frowning, Louk said, "Would low-caliber target rifles do? We could reduce the charge and so lower the velocity."
"Yes. See to it immediately." As the captain moved away, Dumarest added, "And we shall need the services of a medical team. Make sure they are fully equipped."
Thomile, curious, said, "Your orders, sir?"
"Get the men outside. All of them. Have them move at the double. I want them hot, tired, thirsty, and worn before those rafts get here. Let them carry the heaviest packs you have. Move!"
At his side Raougat said, his voice a feral purr, "My congratulations, marshal. A hard medicine, but an effective one."
"You understand?"
"Of course. How often have I trained men for the arena in exactly that fashion? The best way, sir, and when time is short, the only way. Let us hope that certain outraged parents will not be screaming for your blood when they learn what you have done to their precious offspring. To have them hunt each other, to shoot at each other, to learn by actual pain to hide, to aim straight, to hate. A neat plan." He squinted up at the sun. Already it was a furnace in the heavens, gilding the dust rising from the impact of running feet, beading faces with sweat, darkening uniforms with perspiration. "A hot day, marshal." His chuckle was a whisper of sadistic anticipation. "A hot day, for them, in more ways than one."
* * *
The medic rinsed his hands and said with a weary finality, "That's the last one, marshal. If you've any bright ideas for tomorrow, perhaps you'll let me know. I'm not fond of surprises."
"You object?"
"I'm a doctor. What else would you expect me to do, cheer?"
"You are an officer in the medical corps," corrected Dumarest. "If you don't like picking pellets out of barely hurt men, how are you going to handle real casualties?"
"I've done it before."
"Accidents, yes. Stitching up a knife slash, maybe, but I'm talking about men with their intestines hanging out, limbs torn from their bodies, faces roasted in laser beams. You think that what happened today was bad? It was nothing, an essential part of military training. How else can you teach men to dodge and stay under cover? Those who got hit learned the price of being careless."
"One man blinded in his left eye," said the doctor savagely. "One shot in the groin-and he hasn't been married a month. Two others practically riddled, and one of them with a slug almost touching his heart. A dozen more with minor wounds, twenty others in pain, most of the rest suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion. A hell of a way to train men!"
He was disrespectful, forgetting rank and the deference due to higher command, outraged and unable to retain his opinions to himself. A dangerous man to have in any military force.
Dumarest crossed the space between them in three long strides, reached out, and caught the front of the green smock the man wore, lifted his right hand, and deliberately slapped the rotund cheek.