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there were rashas in hell, too. Well, that figured. But the scent of flowers didn't fit in, somehow. "My sister and her sons were in that village they burned with their devil-fire," the second voice snarled, "They're demons, all of 'em! Who's to say a demon can't look like a man? I say kill him now and hunt down the others as fast as we can and kill them too!" "Saint A'assioo said that hatred is a sickness," Rhomda said, "There is much of that sickness in our lands, and much healing is needed, but killing will not heal it." His voice hardened. "I will hear no argument; I speak with the voice of the Order, carrying the commands of the Blessed Ones, and I myself am under their discipline, even as with all of you. Obey me!" Dane's head clubbed to bursting; he blinked. Wood smoke filled his nostrils. A new discomfort forced itself through the general ache of his whole body; something hard was digging into his back. He tried to wriggle off it His eyes snapped open. His hands were tied together. Firelight threw vague moving shadows on the white gauze which had been spread above them to shield men's souls from the stars. Duller shadows flickered on the wall of stone at his left. Beyond his feet, well under the cloth, Master Rhomda stood, braced, hands on hips, facing a number of men whose teeth were gleaming and whose eyes were red in the firelight. "I go to make my report," Rhomda said, calmly, "I shall return as soon as possible; guard them well." His voice hardened. "If I do not find them safe and sound both of them you will all answer to the Blessed Ones; I promise you that in the name of the Anka'an." He turned and strode off calmly into the blackness of the jungle night, vanishing from Dane's sight between one blink of the firelight and the next. It kept flicking in and out, light and dark, like his Wavering vision. A rasha screamed out there in the darkness; the fire crackled, making the shadow flap against the gauze overhead like black bat wings. Rolling his head, ignoring the thunder of pain that roared through it, Dane saw Joda, roped and tied, his face smeared with blood and mud. But he must be alive. They wouldn't have bothered tying up a dead prisoner. Joda's feet were free, if he wanted to run. But rashas were hunting, out there, in that haunted darkness beyond the tent. Even if you weren't afraid of Star Demons, there were rashas, and granths, and God knows what else ... Dane's head felt as if it had been slit like Master Prithvai's, he could feel the split line down the middle, surely if he moved it, the left half would fall into the fire and the right half would roll out there into the jungle, for the rashas . . . no, that was crazy . . . Dane got the rope tying his hands into focus, saw that the rope stretched from his hands, was tied to a stake driven into the ground. It hurt like hell to move his eyes, making the dark waver and flicker and descend or was that the uncertain light of the campfire? More urgent than pain was something else; he twisted, ignor- ing the shattering pain, ignoring the way in which his vision blurred and darkness came down, searching frantically with his aching eyes for a third roped and tied form, somewhere inside the canopy. Rianna! Where -was Rianna? a a T T n n s s F F f f o o D D r r P P m m Y Y e e Y Y r r B B 2 2 . . B B A A Click here to buy Click here to buy w w m m w w o o w w c c . . . . A A Y Y B B Y Y B B r r But there was no sign of her. There were the men, clustered in the improvised Belsar version of a tent, under the gauze which shut out the demon-haunted stars. There was Rhomda, out there in the jungle and why wasn't he afraid of the stars, and their demons? And there was Joda, tied up, dead or unconscious or asleep. But Rianna wasn't there. Nowhere, in the flickering darkness that came and went with the small uncertain fire, was there any sign of Rianna, or of her unconscious body. They wouldn't bother tying up the dead. So that meant she was dead. They'd killed her. Dallith, Cliff-Climber. Now Rianna___ Savage men were laughing around their fire, the .fire they had built to ward off Star Demons and hunting beast-eyes and the ghosts of their dead. And Rianna was dead out there for the rashas and the prowling scavengers of the night. Had they killed her cleanly, at least? Or had she been left wounded, prey of the first hunting-cat? Or had those vicious savages taken pleasure in violating a wounded, dying spear-woman, delighting in the knowledge that she was conquered at last, and at their mercy? Dane's arms tensed, muscles knotting at his wrists, and the cords cut into his skin, Rianna . . . dead under the demon-stars of Belsar, her body thrown to the prowling scavengers of the night . . . he'd teach them to laugh! He'd teach them to fear Star Demons! At his feet he could see, now, wavering black forms flickering in and out of darkness; the men of the raiding party, coming and going across his field of vision as they spread their blankets for the night; huddling together in the flapping wings of the firelight, hiding from the stars. A single man stood guard, spear at the ready, not too far from the fire. Somewhere out in the night, a rasha screamed at the kill. Dane's arms swelled and strained, trying to force his wrists apart. His teeth clenched with effort, and his head was splitting, his eyes flickering in and out of focus or was it the flicker of the fire? He realized dimly that part of it, at least, was the way his eyes were behaving. He must have concussion; first the blow he had taken escaping from the city, then Rhomda's spear, knocking him out. He'd had concussion once before, the day before a karate tournament; he'd felt like this then, sick, dizzy, aching; he'd gone in and fought anyway. He hadn't won, but he'd made a good showing. He could do it again. Rhomda's spear had killed him, but he wasn't going to let a little thing like being dead stop him, was he? Blackness hovered beyond the shifting firelight, making the motionless form of the spearman dance against the gauze. Part of Dane's brain knew he was not rational, and he struggled to focus eyes and mind. His nails were cutting into his palm. The ropes bit at his wrists with little twisted teeth. The ghosts of all those he had failed to protect were watching him reproachfully from the shadows, Cliff-Climber's yellow eyes mocking him, Dallith's brown eyes like those of a wounded fawn, the cool, practical green eyes of Rianna somewhere in the darkness, her face dyed to an even duskiness, making all of her but her eyes a part of the shadow. Waiting for him, out there with Dallith and Cliff- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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