The point man had reached the area in question on the far side of the cabin. She stayed in back of the men’s semicircle, feeling helpless and a little irritated that she was not up to this kind of thing. And, for all her own great mass, she was still smaller, yet no more maneuverable, than the males.
Still, she held the rear guard, sword at the ready, and pulled her goggles back down. Her eyes were already beginning to hurt slightly.
“Colonel!” the point man called, his voice echoing slightly off the walls near and far. “Party of three. Hunters. Our people. Pretty messed up. They cut ’em up and then tossed ’em over the cliff. They’re forty, fifty meters down when the slope smooths out.” He didn’t attempt to whisper the word. If the killers were still around, they most certainly knew just where they were by now.
Asam considered, then turned back to Mavra. “Could it have been Gedemondans who did this?”
She shook her head violently. “Not a chance. If they want you dead, they just point a finger and you curl up and die.”
“Didn’t think so,” the Colonel muttered, and turned back to the cabin. “All right, boys, let’s go visitin’.”
They converged, very slowly and carefully, on the cabin until the closest was only a few meters from the front door. It was Mavra who saw that, for the first time, they were twenty or thirty meters out in the open from the rock shelf above. Something was up there, a shadow, a discontinuity . . .
“Asam!” she screamed. “Above and behind you!”
At that moment the attackers leaped off their high perches and fell toward them. There were more than a dozen of them, some armed with pikes, some with crossbows, others with swords.
They were bats—no, apes, of some kind, with bat’s wings—or— Whatever they were, they were small, agile, they could fly, had blazing eyes and sharp teeth, and wore some kind of dull coppery uniform.
But they were not flying down; rather, they made a controlled plunge, like skydivers, but with some maneuverability, and they were uttering singularly alien screeches that sounded like high-pitched bagpipes trying to yodel.
Two with crossbows loosed their bolts while still falling, but they missed their target and plowed into the snow; Jodl and one other who were at an angle to the fall whirled and raised their crossbows. From a firm standing position, they didn’t miss. The force of the Dillian bolts was so strong that the two struck almost seemed suddenly to fly backward, then hit the wall and start forward again, limp.
By the time this happened, though, the others were upon them, two leaping directly on Asam. They were small but extremely powerful; one fell right for his head and torso, the other for his hindquarters. The Colonel reared and twisted, flinging the one off his behind, then, dropping his own bow, he grabbed the other creature by its wicked, extended claws and heaved him against the rock wall with tremendous force.
Before Mavra knew what was happening, one was coming right at her. She waited, then thrust herself outward, both hands on the sword hilt.
The thing impaled itself on the sword and spurted thick red blood, but it was not dead; somehow, awful hate in its distorted, terribly ugly face, its right arm raised the sharp spear in its hand while its body weight on the broadsword forced Mavra down with it to the ground. She had only a split-second to decide what to do. Falling, off-balance, there was only one thing she could do: she accelerated the fall and rolled; the spear came at her, tearing through her thick fur coat, and she felt a stabbing pain in her left side.
Too mad to pay any attention to it, she got up with as much speed as possible and saw that the thing, still impaled on the sword, twitched and gibbered. A wave of utter fury swept over her and she reared up on her hind legs and came down, forelegs with their heavy steel shoes crashing into the thing again and again and again.
Meanwhile, the rest of the creatures were down and slashing now. They were effective; two of the centaurs were down, bolts or spears in them, but Asam still stood, a bloody but superficial wound on his equine body’s left side. Rearing, turning, charging, all the time yelling at the top of his lungs, he charged the things again and again. One of the creatures managed a roll and tried to take off into the air, throwing a spear at the raging Colonel. It struck, but all he did was flinch, cry out, more in fury than in pain. He reached around, pulled the spear out of his side, and threw it at the now airborne attacker. The spear struck the thing, and it paused for a moment, then fell like a rock over the side of the cliff.
Mavra whirled, oblivious to the pain, and charged into the midst of the fight. Suddenly leathery wings seemed to strike her in the face, then there was a massive shock, so hard it felt as if her brain were reverberating inside her skull, and then there was darkness. She never even felt herself fall.
She felt as if she were drowning in a sea of thick liquid, unable to get her bearings, unable to see anything but the swirling wet mass that was all around her. She tried to struggle against it, tried to fight its overwhelming, engulfing motion, but it was impossible. There was pain, dull throbs and sharp stabbing sensations about which she could do nothing, and it was alternatingly suffocatingly hot then icy cold. She thrashed out at the swirling, liquid mass, tried to beat it off.
There seemed to be others in the mass as well; strange shapes and faces that would occasionally focus and then fly away. Some were horrible, gargoylelike creatures that swooped in and out but out of her reach, jabbering and mocking her; others were more familiar, yet no less threatening: giant, catlike creatures with glowing eyes; tiny, mulelike beasts whose eyes showed agony; phantom minotaurs, great scorpions, phantoms out of her past.
In the midst of all this activity, there stalked a small, frail-looking figure, his back to her, oblivious to all the horrors. She reached out for him, tried to call to him, but the liquid that she seemed suspended in prevented that, though he seemed oblivious to it.
Finally she managed some sort of scream, a scream of terrified helplessness. He must hear! He must! He must! She concentrated all she could muster on the walking figure.
He stopped, seemed to hear, and slowly turned. It was the face of Nathan Brazil she saw, and he stared back, looking more bored than sympathetic.
“Brazil! You-must-help-me!” she gasped, reaching out a hand to his.
He smiled, took out a coin and flipped it to her. “Glad to be of service,” he responded lightly. “Any old time. Got to go now. I’m God, you know. Too many things to do. . . .”
He turned from her and walked into the mists, not heeding her anguished cries, then faded into the swirling, milky whirlpool and was lost from view.
She was alone, alone again with the liquid and the horrors that floated by her, mocking her, striking out at her.
Alone.
“Help me!” she screamed at nobody in particular. “Will no one help me now?”
Figures appeared, kind-looking human figures. A handsome, middle-aged man and a stunningly beautiful woman. They stretched out their arms to her, beckoned her to come to them, to run to their protection. She started for them, but suddenly a great dark shadow came out of the whirlpool and intervened between the pair and her. A great, angelic shape in white robes, it smiled at her even as it put out its own outstretched arms.
She hesitated, then started to approach, but the kindly figure began to undergo a terrible metamorphosis, changing from its human perfection into some sort of hideous, ugly frog-creature that gibbered and drooled and turned from her to devour her parents far in the distance, laughing as it did so.
She felt herself falling, down, down, into some sort of pit still awash in that liquid that now had the foulness of decaying garbage.
She struggled even more against the noxious odor, reached out for something to grab onto, but no one was there, no one at all. She was sinking, sinking further into the filth and slime, and the terrible creatures still floated around laughing, mocking, joking, and jabbing.
A tough-looking pasty-yellow face with hair nearly white appeared at the edge, smiled at her, and offered a hand. But the hand decayed as Mavra touched it, became a skeletal thing. The infection finally consuming the old woman, and when that happened she felt herself sinking even more into the bottom layers of slime. She felt more and more alone, more and more like she was going to remain forever in this bottomless pit of torment and corruption.
Now another face appeared, a kind face, a face that was representative of all the races of Old Earth, a handsome face that said it wanted to help. He reached out his own hand and took hold of her, pulling her up, up from the muck and the mire, and for a moment she thought she was free. She could see air ahead, and stars, millions of twinkling, blinking lights spread everywhere before her.
There was a sound, a loud explosion somewhere near her, and as she looked again in horror, her savior’s face seemed to be coming apart, exploding grotesquely, and the grip slipped.
“Gimball!” she screamed. “No! No! My husband . . .”
But he was gone, and she was alone again, sinking again in the filth, never free of the swirling liquid, and it seemed to her as if the gibbering creatures were enjoying it all the more now.
Black shapes moved in, bound her, sliced her up into pieces of herself, made her a deformed, helpless monster. Still she struggled against them, fought the dark forces pushing her deeper and deeper in the muck. Another, misshapen, mutilated like herself, approached as the creatures swirling around started to close in on her, to choke her off. A gargoyle raised a spear and thrust it at her, hate in its eyes, but the other moved quickly, took the spear, and vanished, too, into the corruption.
A purplish light broke through the muck, and she heard Obie’s voice, calling to her, and she reached the light. “I’m your magic genie,” he told her. “Where in the universe do you want to go?”
“Everywhere!” she cried, and, in fast, flashing scenes she did. Yet, there was something wrong, very wrong. Every place they went had more of the foul corruption she thought she had escaped. Every place had more and more, all stinking, rotting, garbage.
The purple glow faded, and standing there, once more, was Nathan Brazil. He shrugged and gave her a crooked smile. “Well, what did you expect?” he asked her. “After all, I created the damn place in my own image.”
And there was just the swirling, engulfing liquid and the stench and corruption, the chills and burning sensations, the pain, and nothing else. Nothing. Nothing.
Alone. She was alone. Alone forever in the muck . . . She hated that muck, she hated that stench, and, most of all, she hated a universe teeming with life in which she could be so utterly, so completely alone. If this was the way the universe was, it was better destroyed, she thought fiercely. Clear the muck, throw out the garbage, clean and cleanse, cleanse . . . But so empty now, so alone, so very alone . . .
Yet somehow she was not alone, not now, not at this point. She had the impression of someone hugging her, transferring warmth and caring to her, someone whispering gently to her, telling her it was all right, that someone else was there. She anxiously fought to open her eyes, to see who or what it might be, and finally managed, but the world wouldn’t focus. A figure, just a figure, no more, no less. A figure, bending down, concerned, worried. A weathered, tough, handsome face whose eyes showed some ancient wisdom and gentleness he might try to hide but could not.
Suddenly she felt terribly tired, terribly worn, and she sunk back, not into the coma, not into the muck, but into a deep, dreamless sleep.
She awoke, Wearily looked around, and tried to move. She was in some kind of harness and couldn’t quite get free.
There was a crackling fire in the fireplace. Two of the party were in sleeping stalls like herself, suspended by elaborate but obviously jury-rigged harnesses made of belts, straps, strips of fur, anything available.
Two other centaurs moved around, one stoking the fire and checking a pot of what was probably melted snow, the other standing at a small table and looking over some papers. Neither looked in the best of health themselves; the one at the fire, a mass of professional-looking bandages and deep scars, was favoring his right foreleg; the other, at the table, was Colonel Asam, whose humanoid torso was covered with puffy bruises. He, too, had a number of slick surgical bandages on various parts of his body.
“Asam?” she called out, sounding weak even to herself. “Asam, what happened?”
Both men turned, and the Colonel approached her quickly, a smile on his face. One of his eyes was swollen almost shut and his face was so bruised and puffy it shocked her, but he smiled, reached down to a pouch, and took out a cigar. “Well, well! Welcome back to the land o’ the almost-living,” he cracked.
She smiled. “What—who were those things?”
“Tilki. Pretty far from home, too. Bloody bastards. If this hadn’t been a nontech hex, they’d have had us sure. Them high-tech bastards usually are pretty lousy with close-up weapons.”
“Bandits?” she guessed.
He shook his head. “No. They had uniforms. Army. A neat little ambush team.”
“They were . . . assassins, then?” she asked cautiously, still thinking of Asam’s tale of a blood feud.
“Assassins, yes,” he agreed, “but not for me. We got ’em all—I think, anyway. Unless they had some they held back who took off when we got the upper hand. Doubt it, though. One or two more would’ve finished us.”
“Not for you? But—”
“I’ve got a translator, remember,” he told her. “I understood their jabberin’. No question in my mind it was you they was after. Heard your name a coupl’ve times. They mighta gotten you, too, if there’d been fewer of us, or if they hadn’t been screwed up by the earlier group of hunters. They picked their spot well —this would be the logical first night’s camp, and, flying, they could reach it without havin’ to go over the tall peaks. Trouble was, when they got here they found the hunters already there. They knew you wasn’t with ’em. I don’t think they had too clear an idea of your looks, but the others were all men and they knew you was a woman. Only a guess, you understand—no witnesses left. I’d say they probably drew out the hunters, who had no reason to fear and would be just damned curious at meetin’ Tilki up here, of all places. My guess the bastards took ’em so quick they never even knew what hit ’em.”
She considered this. “You said they were Army. Why me?”
He grinned. “You told me a lot about what was goin’ on right now. I’d say the Zone Council’s decided on war, sifted through their records to find who the key ringleaders on the other side would be, and are out to wipe out Brazil’s generals before they start. They might also be nervous about Gedemondas. Unknown quantity, you know. If you can’t get to ’em, they’re outta the fight.”
She nodded and looked around. “The others . . . ?”
His expression became grim. “We’re it. The surivors. Malk and Zorn, there, they’re gonna need better medical care than we can give ’em. In a way we were lucky they hit us here, instead of just inside Dilla—infection’s much less of a problem. We’re battling only the bugs we brought with us.”
“How are you ever going to get them to a hospital?” she wondered, feeling sorry for them.
“A group of hunters came through yesterday. They’ll carry the news to Uplake and get help. I think they can stand it here another day or two until help arrives. We’re not really into the bad country yet, so they ought to be able to get ’em down without much trouble.”
“I see. Well, I— Did you say a group of hunters came through yesterday?”
He smiled and nodded. “You been out three days. We thought we were gonna lose you. Most of your wounds aren’t really bad, nothin’ serious. It was the concussion that almost did you in. Bastard came in and hit you with a sapper.”
“A . . . a what?”
“Sapper. Stiff skin laced around lead shot. Damn thing can crack your skull. Don’t think it did, though —but you got a hell of a bump. Sent you into shock”
“Why . . . why am I trussed up like this?”
“We’ll get you unhooked if you feel up to it.” He reached over and started undoing some of the knots. “Like some of the large animals of the world that are our distant cousins, we breathe back of our underbellies. If you’re down on your side for more than a couple hours, your own weight will press down on the lungs and suffocate you. We had to get you up and keep you up—not easy, I’ll tell you. The two of us ain’t in the best shape, either, but we’re a lot better off.”
“I . . . I saw you take a spear . . .” she began.
He chuckled. “Oh, it takes a lot more’n that to get me. Didn’t hit anything vital and only hurts when I laugh. We’re just lucky they moved so fast from their home hex they didn’t have a chance to really look things up properly. All their tips were poisoned with what I guess they consider a horrible deadly toxin. Tannic acid. Maybe the next time we meet those bastards we ought to dump a pot o’ tea on each of ’em!”
She laughed, and when she did she felt all the wounds and bruises and sores she had accumulated. There were a lot of them, and over a large area, but she had had as bad or worse before and it hadn’t bothered her for long. Uncomfortable, yes, but little else.
Freed from the harness, she stood alone and tried walking out of the stall. Immediately she felt dizzy and wobbly, and had to hold on. “Guess I’m still a little weak,” she muttered to herself.
“Take it easy,” he cautioned. “That’s a nasty crack on the head. Ease into normal activity.”
She tried it again, more cautiously, and found that as long as she was holding onto something it was all right. He went up to her and let her lean on him, and together they made it out into the main room.
“Feel like you could eat something?” he asked her. “You really should.”
She looked over at the bales of strawlike material at the far side of the cabin. She didn’t really feel like eating, but decided he knew best.
The stuff tasted awful, but she found herself unable to stop once she started. Asam chuckled and told her to go ahead. “You don’t realize just how much food we Dillians need a day. Eatin’ regular like we do, that is. When you take it in at one gulp after a few days off, it can seem pretty piggy.”
Piggy wasn’t the word for it, she decided when she was finished. She went through most of a bale, a little at a time, and each bale weighed close to twenty kilos.
Later she did feel better, and managed to find a small mirror. She had double black eyes and felt like she had bitten the inside of her mouth half through, but otherwise the damage didn’t appear all that bad. The wounds on her equine back and side were painful and there was some internal bruising, but there didn’t seem to be serious damage and she felt she could live with them.
Asam, too, was as tough as his reputation. After seeing him in action, she decided she wouldn’t doubt any of his stories and legends again, and she said as much.
He grinned. “You did pretty fair yourself, you know. I don’t know too many folks, man or woman, could hold their own like that.” He looked at her and the grin faded, but only a bit. “You know, you asked me once whose side I was on. After this, you don’t have to ask any more. You understand? And not just me. Those fools did half the work for you. They slaughtered innocent Dillians in cold blood, Dillians with no politics, no positions, just good, ordinary people. I know my people, Mavra. They’ll want to get even.” He paused and smiled broadly once again. “And as for me, I’ve gotten to know you and see you in a number of different situations. I’d be proud to serve with you, any time.”
She smiled, took his hand, and squeezed it. She felt like hugging the old adventurer, but they were both too bruised for that. Still, she thought back to that dream, that bastard child of her innermost mind that had been raised by the sapper. She wished she was as certain of her side and her cause as he now seemed to be.
“So what do we do now?” he asked her. “I wouldn’t stay here much longer, if you feel like moving. There’s always the chance that they had somebody as observer, or maybe agents in Dillia will carry the news. Either way, they hit us again here as soon as they can mount another force. I’ve been uncomfortable with the idea for the past couple of days. How do you feel?”
“Lousy,” she replied glumly. “Still, what are the options?” She looked at the cabin, which had become such a hospital ward.
“We can wait for the rescue party. They should be here in the next few hours if luck holds. Remember, they had nobody to send without leavin’ Uptake without its one good healer. Probably a good, strong team came in on today’s boat or on a special and they’re on their way even now. They’d need supporting equipment, anyway, which would slow them down.”
Going back. She wanted to go back, back to the peaceful village with its ale and companionship and gentle waterfalls.
“If anybody wants to make a try at us, that’ll be the time to do it,” she pointed out. “And any observer will have a pretty good description of me now.”
“The only alternative is for us to press on,” he pointed out. “And neither of us is strong enough to carry a full load or force-march. In a few days, yes, but not now. You’re still pretty rocky, and the trail gets pretty hairy from here on.”
She went over to the table Asam had been standing at when she had come out of it. Spread out was a chart of Gedemondas, a topographic map with trails, shelters, and cabins marked. It was easy to find where they were now, the first cabin above the snow line. She studied the map, and he came over and looked over her shoulder.
“What’re you lookin’ for?” he asked.