The elder who had ridden with them said, "They will not harm you."
Perhaps, but in war men could change loyalties and primitives followed their own inclinations. The man could have dedicated followers, willing to kill for him, to die while doing it. Dumarest waited as the raft lowered, lifted, moved on, to lower again, men jumping out and taking up positions. Their guns could cover the entire area outside the cave. Within, it was another matter.
As they neared the dark opening, the captain said, "Sir, let me go in first. Against the light you'd be a clear target."
"And you wouldn't be?" Dumarest smiled. "Well go in together, captain. Fast, and moving one to either side. I don't have to tell you that we want whoever is in there alive."
Dumarest halted as they reached the opening, looking up at the low ridge of stone above, eyes searching for traps and snares. He saw nothing, and with a quick movement dived inside, resting his back against the wall, eyes narrowed as he stared into the gloom. Facing him, the captain began to edge forward, pistol in hand.
From a niche twenty feet down stepped one of the Ayutha.
He was young, tall, dressed in a shapeless garment of dull gray, a squat tube held in his hands, the butt against his shoulder. Dumarest yelled, fired, moving as he pressed the trigger. The bullet hit one of the arms, spinning the figure, which turned to face him. From the mouth of the tube shot something that smoked.
Dumarest dived, hitting the floor as flame burst behind him, firing as he fell, the roar of his shots blending with those fired by the captain. Rising, he ran forward, past the crumpled figure, shadows reaching ahead from the light of the flame blazing against the wall.
"One!" gasped Hamshard. "There could be more!"
He fired at a shadow, fired again, a scream echoing the shot. Something hummed an inch from his head, to rasp against the stone, not fire this time, but a sliver of steel, a bolt fired from a crossbow. It was followed by the ruby beam of a captured laser. It struck high, lowered, seared the rock where the captain had stood as Dumarest slammed into him and threw him to the floor. Rolling free, he triggered his pistol, sending bullets to whine in savage ricochets. A man screamed, another died as he ran toward him, a third spun, dropping a rifle, blood gushing from an open mouth.
Dumarest dropped the empty pistol, lunged forward, and snatched up the rifle, firing as he rose, sending bullets whining down the cavern to where it turned at the far end.
In the following silence he looked around at the captain, climbing stiffly to his feet, a thread of blood running down one cheek, the dying light of the thrown bomb, the dead sprawled on the floor.
Young, too eager, too quick to shoot, and too impatient to aim. The fault of all green troops if they were not frozen with fear.
He said, "Captain, how badly are you hurt?"
"Just a scratch, sir." Hamshard lifted a hand, dabbed at his temple, wiped away the blood on his cheek. "Do you think there are more of them?"
"I doubt it. One, perhaps, but no more guards." Dumarest hefted the rifle. "Let's go and get him."
The turn of the cavern was filled with light, a cold, bluish glow illuminating a wide expanse beyond. Wooden tables bore a litter of apparatus; a crude lathe stood to one side, retorts, containers of glass and plastic, tubes of metal, drums of chemicals, scales. Dumarest looked at a crude laboratory and manufacturing plant.
"This is where they made the flame bombs," said Hamshard. His voice was taut, ugly. "And maybe other things. But they couldn't have done it alone. Someone had to teach them-the damned swine!"
"He wasn't responsible for the villages, captain."
"How can you be sure of that?"
"I'm sure." Dumarest moved cautiously down the area, eyes searching the shadows beneath the tables, behind the heaps of sacks and bales. Cylinders held the familiar shape of missiles, squat tubes similar to the one the guard had used as their launchers. He paused, examining a larger object, seeing the vents at the rear.
"Self-propelled," snapped Hamshard. "That thing could reach for miles."
"He didn't start this war," said Dumarest sharply. "So don't get carried away when you see him. Remember, I want him alive."
Alive and unhurt and able to travel. Dumarest had no doubt as to who it must be.
A door stood at the end of the area. He opened it, saw a narrow passage running beyond, and led the way down a gentle slope illuminated with softly glowing crimson bulbs. A second door stood at the end. It was thick, heavily padded, reluctant to move. He tugged it open, to reveal the chamber beyond. A small place, snug, the walls covered with plaited mats of local manufacture, a shelf of books, a projector, wafers of condensed information, a revolving globe which threw swaths of kaleidoscopic light, reds, blues, greens, yellows, merging, rippling like rainbows.
On a narrow cot a man lay supine.
He wore a robe knotted with a cord around the waist, the cowl raised to shield an emaciated face, both hands lying on his stomach, the fingers wasted, skin tight over prominent bone. In the ruby light streaming through the open door he looked corpselike, horribly familiar.
Dumarest stared at him, the face, the rifle lifting in his hands, aiming, his finger closing on the trigger.
Captain Hamshard smashed the barrel upward as he fired.
"Sir! For God's sake!"
Dumarest spun, dropping the rifle, hand lifted, palm stiffened to strike. He saw the startled face, the thread of dried blood on the cheek, and turned, staring at the figure on the bed. It had risen, legs drawn back, face ghastly beneath the cowl. The revolving globe threw a swath of emerald over the bed, turning the robe from crimson into a dull brown. A supporting strut stood beneath a shelf. Dumarest gripped it with both hands.
Harshly he said, "Get him away from me. Keep him clear."
"Sir?"
"Do it!"
Beneath his hands Dumarest felt the wood yield and tear.
* * *
The tisane was hot, pungent, dried herbs yielding their oils and flavors to form a tart, refreshing brew. Unarmed, seated at the far side of the table with his back against a wall, Dumarest watched as the captain set a cup before him.
He was dubious. "I don't know if you should drink this, sir."
"It isn't poisoned."
"Maybe not." The captain wasn't convinced. "I don't think I should have stopped you, sir. But you did say that you wanted him alive."
"You did right." Dumarest leaned back, feeling the quiver of his muscles, the aftermath of strain. The urge to kill had gone now, but the tension remained, joining the ache in his temples. It had faded a little as the tisane had been made, but the liquid shook as he lifted the cup to his lips.
To the cowled figure he said, "You are known as Amil Kulov." It wasn't a question. "Before that your name was Salek Parect. The son of Aihult Chan Parect."
"Yes."
"Why did you help the Ayutha?"
"Someone had to." Salek put down his cup and rested his arms across his chest. He sat on the edge of the cot at the full distance of the room. Within the cowl his face was drawn, bone prominent on his cheeks beneath the upward-slanting eyes. "Could you ever begin to understand? They are unspoiled, innocent. When first attacked they didn't know what to do. They were numbed, incapable of resistance, children faced with something they couldn't understand. That attack was brutal, savage, a vicious, wanton, unthinking crime. So I helped them as best I could."
"With weapons," said Dumarest. "Advice. Flame bombs and launchers. What other things did you have in mind?"
"Does it matter now? The truce-"
"You are not a part of it. In any case, your guards broke it."
"They were young," said Salek quietly. "And foolish. I told them not to resist, but they obviously refused to listen. I would have stopped them had I known, but I was tired, working beyond my strength. And I didn't think that you would come so soon."