Scar: a harsh, inhospitable world with a vicious and shifting population of prospectors, drawn from every corner of the galaxy by rumours of a miraculous golden spore. To this violent planet come two more travellers, ready to try their luck among its lethal jungles: the cruel, mocking Lord of Jest - and Dumarest, driven by destiny on his endless search for Lost Earth . . . (First published 1970)
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
123
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In the lamplight, the woman’s face was drawn, anxious. “Earl,” she said. “Earl, please wake up.”
Dumarest opened his eyes, immediately alert. “What is it?”
“Men,” she said, “moving outside. I thought I heard noises from the street, screams and the sound of laughter.” The guttering
flame of the lamp threw patches of moving shadow across her face as she straightened from the side of the bed. “Cruel laughter,
it had an ugly sound.”
He frowned, listening and hearing nothing but the normal violence of the night. “A dream,” he suggested. “A trick of the wind.”
“No.” She was emphatic. “I’ve lived on this world too long to be mistaken. I heard something unnatural, the noise of men searching,
perhaps. But it was there; I didn’t imagine it.”
Dumarest threw back the covers and rose, the soft lamplight shining on his hard, white skin and accentuating the thin scars
of old wounds. The interior of the hut was reeking with damp, the ground soggy beneath his bare feet. He took his clothes
from the couch and quickly dressed in pants, knee-high boots and a sleeved tunic which fell to mid-thigh. Carefully he fastened
the high collar around his throat. From beneath the pillow he took a knife and sheathed it in his right boot.
“Listen,” said the woman urgently. The lamp was a bowl of translucent plastic containing oil and a floating wick. It shook
a little in her hand. “Listen!”
He tensed, ears straining against the ceaseless drum of rain, the gusting sough of wind. The wind slackened a little then
blew with redoubled force, sending a fine spray of rain through the poorly constructed walls of the shack. More rain came
through the sloping, unguttered roof and thin streams puddled the floor. Among such a medley of sounds it would be easy to
imagine voices.
Relaxing, Dumarest glanced at the woman. She stood tall, the lamp now steady in her hand. Her eyes were set wide apart, deep
beneath their brows; thick, brown hair had been cropped close to her rounded skull. Her hands were slim and delicate, but
her figure was concealed by the motley collection of clothing she wore for warmth and protection. Beyond her a few embers
glowed in an open fireplace built of stone. Dumarest crossed to it, dropped to his knees beside a box and fed scraps of fuel
from the box to the embers. Flames rose, flickered and illuminated the woman’s home.
It wasn’t much. The bed where he’d slept was in one corner of the single room which was about ten feet by twelve. A curtain,
now drawn back, split the single room in half during times of rest. The woman’s couch rested in the far corner beyond the
curtain. A table, benches and chests, all of rough construction, completed the furnishings. The walls were of stones bedded
in dirt; uprights supported the sagging roof. Against the dirt and stone, fragments of brightly coloured plastic sheeting merged
with salvaged wrappings from discarded containers.
Smoke wafted from the burning fuel and made him cough.
“Quiet!” warned the woman. She turned to Dumarest. “They’re coming back,” she said. “I can hear them.”
He rose, listened and heard the squelch of approaching footsteps.
They halted, and something hard slammed against the barred door.
“Open!” The voice was flat and harsh. “We are travellers in need of shelter; open before we drown.”
Lamplight glittered from her eyes. “Earl?”
“A moment.” Dumarest stepped quietly forward and stood beside the door. It would open inward and away from where he stood,
giving him a clear field if action should be necessary. His hand dipped to his boot and rose bearing nine inches of razor-sharp
steel. “Don’t argue with them,” he said softly. “Just open the door and step back a little. Don’t look towards me. Hold the
lamp above your head.”
She glanced at the knife held sword-fashion in his hand. “And you?”
“That depends.” His face was expressionless. “If they are genuine travellers seeking accommodation, send them on their way;
or take them in if you prefer their company to mine. If they are besotted fools looking for something to entertain them, they
will leave when they discover there is nothing for them here. If not …” He shrugged. “Open the door.”
Wind gusted as she swung open the panel, driving in a spray of rain and the ubiquitous smell of the planet. From outside grated
a voice, harsh against the wind.
“Hold, Brephor. No need to knock again. You there, woman, your name is Selene?”
“It is.”
“And you sell food and shelter. That, at least, was what we were told.” The voice became impatient. “Step forward and show
yourself; I have no wish to talk to shadows.”
Silently she obeyed, moving the lamp so as to let the guttering light shine on her face; she remained impassive at the sound
of sharply indrawn breath.
“Acid,” she said evenly. “I was contaminated with parasitical spores on the face and neck; there was no time to consider my
beauty. It was a matter of burning them away or watching me die. Sometimes I think they made the wrong decision.” The lamp
trembled a little as she fought old memories. “But I forget myself, gentlemen. You are in need. What is your pleasure?”
“With you? Nothing.” Boots squelched in mud as the speaker turned from the doorway. “Come, Brephor. We waste our time.”
“A moment, Hendris. You decide too fast.” The second voice was indolent, purring with the sadistic anticipation of a hunting
feline. “The woman has a scarred face, true, but is it essential that a man look at her face? Such a disfigurement, to some,
could even be attractive. I am sure that you follow my thought, Hendris. If the face is bad, the rest of her could be most—interesting.”
Hendris was sharp. “You scent something, Brephor?”
“Perhaps.” His indolence sharpened into something ugly. The purr became a snarl as Brephor loomed in the doorway. “Tell me,
woman, how do you live?”
“I sell food and shelter,” she said flatly. “And the monks are kind.”
“The monks? Those beggars of the Church of Universal Brotherhood?” His laugh was a sneer. “They feed you?”
“They give what they can.”
“And that is enough? No,” he mused answering himself. “It cannot be enough; the monks do not give all to one and nothing to
another. You need food and oil, fuel and clothing, medicines too, perhaps. In order to survive you need more than the monks
can provide.” He extended his hand; the back was covered with a fine down. Steel had been wedded to the fingernails; the metal
was razor-edged and needle-pointed. The tips pricked her skin. “Speak truthfully, woman, or I will close my hand and tear
out your throat. You need lodgers in order to survive; is that not so?”
She swallowed, not answering. Spots of blood shone like tiny rubies at the points of steel.
“We will assume that it is so,” purred Brephor from where he stood in darkness. “And yet when we, two travellers, come seeking
food and shelter, we are repulsed. You did not invite us in out of the rain; you did not suggest terms; you were not even
curious as to how we knew both your name and business. But that is acceptable. You are dependent on publicity and offer a
commission to those who send you clients.” The spots of blood grew, swelling to break and fall in widening streams from the
lacerating claws. “I scent a mystery, woman. You are in business, but have no time for customers. Perhaps you no longer need
to sell food and shelter. It could be that you have someone now to provide, someone lurking in the darkness.” The purr hardened
and became vicious. “Tell me, woman!”
“Tell him,” said Dumarest as he stepped from where he stood against the wall. The reaction was immediate. Brephor straightened
his arm with a jerk, sending the woman staggering backwards, the lamp flickering as she fought to retain her balance. As she
stumbled he sprang through the doorway, landed and turned to face Dumarest.
“So,” he purred. “Our friend who lurks in shadows. The brave man who stands and watches as his woman is molested. Tell me,
coward, what is your name?”
Silently Dumarest studied the intruder. His eyes were huge beneath lowering brows, ears slightly pointed, mouth pursed over prominent canines. His face and neck were covered with the same fine down as the backs of his hands. Brephor
was a cat-man, a mutated sport from some lonely world, the genes of his forebears jumbled by radiation. He would be fast and
vicious, a stranger to the concept of mercy, a stranger also to the concept of obedience.
“I asked you a question, coward,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Dumarest,” said Earl, “a traveller like yourself.” He lifted his left hand so as to draw attention away from his right and
the knife held tight against his leg. The ring he wore caught the light, the flat, red stone glowing like a pool of freshly
spilled blood. Brephor looked at it and flared his nostrils.
Abruptly he attacked.
Metal flashed as he raked his claws at Dumarest’s eyes. At the same time his free hand reached out to trap the knife and his
knee jerked up and forward in a vicious blow at the groin. Dumarest swayed backwards, twisting and lifting his knife beyond
reach. He felt something touch his cheek, falling to tear at his tunic and becoming a furred and sinewy wrist as he caught
it with his left hand. The stabbing knee thudded against his thigh and, for a moment, Brephor was off balance.
Immediately Dumarest swung up the knife and thrust along the line of the arm, driving the blade deep into the cat-man’s neck
just below the ear; he twisted it so as to free the steel. The force of the impact sent them both towards the door. Dumarest
regained his balance, jerked free the knife and sent the dead man toppling from the hut.
A face showed as a pale blob against the darkness, lit by the small flame of the lamp within the hut. Something bright rose
as the woman screamed a warning.
“Earl! He’s got a gun!”
Fire spat from the muzzle of the weapon as Dumarest threw the knife. He saw the face fall away, the hilt sprouting from one
eye and a ribbon of blood running down to the ruff of beard. The blood was immediately washed away by the rain.
“Be careful!” Selene lifted the lamp, sheltering the flame. “There could be others.”
He ignored her, springing from the doorway to recover the knife. Rain hammered at his unprotected head, slammed against the
shoulders of his tunic and sent little spurts of mud leaping up from the semi-liquid ooze. In seconds it had washed the blade
clean. Dumarest sheathed it and looked to either side; he saw nothing but darkness relieved only by the weak glimmers of light
coming from behind scraps of transparent plastic or through cracks in disintegrating walls.
“Earl—”
“Give me the lamp,” he snapped, “quickly!”
The flame danced as he held it close to the faces of the dead men. Hendris had none of the characteristics of his companion,
but that meant little. They could have come from different worlds. If they had grown up together it still meant nothing. If
Brephor was the norm, then Hendris could have been an atavist; if Hendris was the norm, Brephor would have been a freak. Both,
to Dumarest, were strangers.
He found the gun and examined it. It was a simple slug-thrower of cheap manufacture and used an explosive to drive the solid
projectile. Dumarest threw it into the darkness. It was useless without matching ammunition and a laser was far more efficient.
Handing the lamp back to Selene he dragged both men into the shelter of the hut. Straightening, he looked at the woman.
“If you want anything, take it,” he said. “But don’t waste time doing it.”
She hesitated.
“Strip them,” he said curtly. “Are you so rich you can afford to throw away things of value?”
“You know I’m not, Earl,” she protested. “But if I take things which may later be recognized by a friend, I shall be blamed
for having caused their deaths.”
“Men like these have no friends,” he said flatly. “Let’s see what they were carrying.”
The clothes were ordinary, but of a better quality than they seemed. There was money, a phial of drugs from Brephor, spare
clips of ammunition for the discarded gun of the bearded man, and five rings of varying quality and size, all with red stones. Also there were a couple of sleeve knives and an igniter and flashlight with a self-charging
cell, but nothing more of interest or value.
Dumarest frowned as he examined the rings.. . .
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