The Blood-Rage (29) Patra answered, "So, daughter, I see you have grown up so much since your birthday that you don't like to play cloud or word games anymore." "There's some truth in that," the younger woman answered. "I feel that a thousand turns have passed since my morning-of- mornings." "You're taking life too seriously, daughter," Gravestone said. "With the healer dead, we have no real worries anymore." "Until the next one, you mean," Erendria said. "In truth, she's right in that, second-love," Patra said. "There's always danger over the next hill, maybe even another healer, Agon deliver us." Rasp chuckled then. "The fool should never have run off with Erendria's blade in his shoulder. Everyone knows a dagger will track an animal to the ends of the earth in order to get back the weapon-that-returns." "A dagger cannot survive without her weapon," Patra agreed. She looked over at her daughter. "It's good that you found him. Did he scream when you cut his belly?" "He made no sound," the younger woman said in a low voice. "I've already told you that." She doesn't look us in the eye anymore, observed Darkcian silently. That started when she returned the next morning after our fight together. I wonder why? She walked in clean, her red hair shining in the morning light, and her dagger strapped to her leg. She then told her story, lying about how she threw the dagger into the "healer's" shoulder, daring me with her eyes to contradict her. And she has evaded our eyes ever since. Strange. Patra said, "Yes, I know. But you told the story so fast; I thought perhaps you had related that part wrong. Healers are usually a screaming bunch." "He didn't scream," she bit back angrily. "All right, all right. I withdraw the question. There's no talking to you of late." And Gravestone added, "A sword that won't cut true isn't to be used in battle." "Another of your secret-meaning clichés, father-teacher?" Erendria asked slowly. "If you wish to say something to me, use straight talk." "To you, I have nothing more to say," he replied. They were following the smooth shore line, riding mostly on the lake's beach where the soft sand made riding easier. Now and then Darkcian would see a warrior astride a mu-lynx. Always the other would veer away. An unsociable lot, he thought. The area of the hunt was another hour away, or so Rasp had said. These new sightings of warriors, both male and female, were from the lure of the impending kill of some poor creature. What was it Rasp had said, a Reaseian, some kind of blood-drinker? The only picture in his mind of that was the day-bats and the tree-spider Rasp had killed turns ago. Suddenly he felt a kinship to this alien. He, too, was hunted by every fanatical warrior who obeyed the Second Law. No alien can exist on Agon, no alien, no alien . . . no alien. The thought kept repeating in his head, over and over. "They gather for the hunt," Patra said. "Yes," Gravestone agreed. "If we keep on our present course, we'll be in the middle of it soon. We should veer anti-spinward for a few hours." "Do you concur, Rasp?" Patra asked. "Much as I hate to avoid a fight, yes. It's too risky with this many warriors in one area. It'll just be a matter of time before another zealous and his followers find the memory-lost one. We've been lucky so far." "You lead, then. We'll follow," Gravestone suggested. "All right. We turn here." Rasp headed away from the lake. "Will the Reaseian they hunt be on a mu-lynx?" Darkcian asked, following. "No, of course not," Rasp chuckled. "Only an Agonian or--", he paused to chuckle again, "--or a Wist has the mental makeup to mind-link with the cats. And there aren't any Wists on Agon, for obvious reasons." "How can one recognize a Wist?" Darkcian questioned again. "Ah, that's easy. They have an unnatural, almost unreal, beauty and hair that's so black it reflects almost no light. They say their beauty is so great that no one can gaze upon them without maddening desire. It's their irrational, cannot-be-resisted beauty that makes them so horrible. You're drawn to them unwillingly, even though you know they'll kill you. It's rather like the moth to the flame story where one willingly accepts life's end if one last ecstasy can be had before it. The ultimate horror with them is to lose the will to say no." "The lure of their beauty or of death?" asked Erendria with a cruel glint in her eye. "For me," Rasp laughed, "it would be both." Gravestone spoke in a tone that cut off Rasp's laughter. "You don't need to see one to be drawn into their web. The skilled ones can turn you into a quivering idiot from a mile away. All they need is to have sampled your mind's resonance. Those that can do that are called Wist primes." "What do you mean by skilled?" Darkcian asked. "An adult trained in the evil ways. They're born with the psi ability. But after they're trained by their own kind, they become horrible, fiendish . . . and dangerously powerful." "But still beautiful," Patra said softly. Gravestone looked at her strangely and nodded. "Yes, still beautiful, beautiful beyond reason." They share a secret, Darkcian thought. Erendria said, "Why do we talk of these almost mythical creatures? They haven't been allowed on Agon for decades. You and mother-teacher hunted the last of them, didn't you father- teacher?" "Yes, the last. The council determined that they were too dangerous even for us." "Then let's talk about the Reaseians," she said. "Maybe we'll see one." "Not much chance of that now," Rasp said. "We're miles from the center of the hunt, and the distance grows as we ride. You'll have to be satisfied with the blood of Agonians, pretty one." "Yours will do," she snapped. Rasp laughed loud and long. At Ardent's setting, they agreed to stop, mostly from Patra's insistence. Darkcian--and he was sure Patra also--could see that Rasp was in agony from his leg wound. She didn't dare help him dismount, but hovered around him anyway, fussing all the while. After he had successfully dismounted, they freed the cats. Darkcian then asked permission to hunt on foot for his evening meal, arguing that he was an adult; and that it was time. Gravestone agreed with the wave of his hand, saying, "If you can kill ten of Agon's warriors, you can surely kill a deer." The young warrior made certain that Erendria didn't try to follow him as he trotted spinward and away from the yellow glow of Friosan. I must never turn my back on her now, he thought. She looks at me with a new gleam in her eye, one of smug satisfaction. I wonder why? Seven turns ago it was deadly anger. What's she planning? There were no answers to these questions, he realized. But, then, that was nothing new; he had few answers to the more important questions that bothered him. An hour of running on foot finally brought the sighting of a plain's boar. He watched it for some time, noting its grazing direction. He did a fast computation and circled the beast to its left, staying downwind. He choose a gully for the attack, crouching down below its bank and using his hearing to detect the boar's approach. He thought with some dismay: Each time I eat something has to die. It took longer than he had anticipated, but he finally heard the scraping sounds of dirt being moved above him. He leaped upward from his crouching position with sword in hand. The thing in front of him snarled and leaped over his out- stretched sword and fell into the gully. It wasn't the plains boar. The being whirled to face him. It was as tall as he, with two legs and arms and a fine coating of brown fur on its body. A low humming sound was coming from its throat, and Darkcian felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. What in Agon's hell is it? They circled each other slowly. The being opened its mouth and showed four long, sharp teeth. The range of movement of its jaws was enormous. It could have encircled his entire leg within that opening. The being stopped suddenly and closed its mouth. Without the teeth showing, much of the apparent ferocity of it disappeared. It doesn't wish an engagement, Darkcian realized. He lowered his sword and straightened from his crouch. A voice from behind him spoke, "It won't attack if you don't." He whirled around and looked up into the ice-blue eyes of Sulamith. She stood on the bank of the gully, her tall, slim form covered with a diode-cloth. Except for her eyes, the shimmering cloth covered every inch of her. "Are you partaking of the hunt?" she asked. "No, I seek food. Where have you been? I've looked for you every night." "A Reaseian doesn't make for a good meal. The meat is too tough, I've heard." "I've been worried. I couldn't find any trace of you." "Of course, you could kill it just for the sport." "Damn it, Sulamith. Talk to me." "I am." "No, you're not. You're talking at me." "I have nothing to say to you. Are you going to kill it or not?" He turned back to the alien and studied it. Its eyes were amazingly human. There was intelligence there . . . and fear. "I don't desire its death," he said and added, "Why are you angry with me?" "You should desire its death. It's alien." He turn halfway back to Sulamith, so that he could look at her yet keep the Reaseian in view out of the corner of his eye. "I guess I'm not a good Agonian yet." "The old one with you, the one called Rasp? He would beat you for saying that." "No one beats me anymore." "Ah, yes. I forgot. You accept no abuse anymore, do you? That's not what I saw a week ago. The red-haired, blood-thirsty bitch looked to me as if she abused you plenty!" "You saw that?" he gasped. "It was my misfortune, yes." Ah, now I understand. JEALOUS, MAYBE ENVIOUS, came the thought within. Yes, he agreed silently and suddenly felt good deep down. He said aloud, "I tried to resist, but the strength just wasn't within me. Was it a thing I shouldn't have done?" The last warm rays of Friosan bounced off her shimmering garment, making her look like a golden statue. Her steady blue eyes were searching his. Suddenly they turned soft, very soft. "Yes . . . no . . . I don't know. I was in similar lust for you that night in the forest. Remember? When was that? A million turns ago?" His mouth opened, and it took him three tries before he was able to blurt out, "You desired me then? But . . . I'm tainted and unsuitable for a dagger of Agon." That was desire she felt! That explains so much! Some hardness returned to her voice. "You weren't unsuitable to the battle-hungry bitch." He couldn't stop his puzzlement from showing. "Why was I not? And for you, too, why? There's a contradiction here I don't understand." Her eyes softened again. "I do understand, and I've been unfair in badgering you. If there's one thing I should understand, it's desire. I know that makes no sense, but I can explain it no further." A humming sound came from the alien again. Her eyes shifted and she said, "We have to decide about this one. The hunting warriors of Agon are coming. They can't be far behind, for she would be easy to track." "She?" "Yes. This Reaseian is a female." He shifted his gaze also. "That's not obvious to me. The fur hides much, I guess?" "It doesn't hide its intelligence. The alien thinks much like we do. It feels and fears and . . . desires." "I cannot kill it." "They will torture it to death." He frowned. "Why?" "It's alien, the hunters Agonian." "We are Agonian also." "We are weak and tainted. Have you forgotten?" "Mercy is a weakness?" "On Agon, yes." He shook his head. "I will not kill it." Sulamith drew her dagger in a flash of movement so quick he almost didn't see it. The blade flew through the air and hit the alien between its eyes with a thudding-sound so loud Darkcian flinched. Death was instantaneous and the Reaseian fell to the ground. She said sadly, "I won't see it tortured." He was shaken with the suddenness of her action. Sheathing his sword slowly, he said, "Was there no other alternative?" "Can you think of one?" "No, but that doesn't mean there shouldn't have been one." A deep feeling of sorrow filled him. "I understand. I'm more sorry than you. Never think that it was easy for me to do that." She jumped down into the gully to retrieve her dagger. The lanyard was not strong enough to pull the stuck blade from its tightly wedged location in the creature's skull. He helped her by holding the Reaseian's head while she tugged. The dagger came loose with a grating sound that made his stomach lurch. Afterwards, they stood looking down at the poor creature. Darkcian said quietly, "I, too, understand. But killing shouldn't have to be the answer to a sentient being that came here not by its own volition. We shouldn't have to test ourselves by destroying others." "That statement borders on treason. How else do we measure our strength?" He looked at her with suspicion. "Are you now agreeing that Agon's test of strength is right and just?" Her voice turned sad again. "No. I only wanted you to think of an alternative." "Ah, you test me." "And?" "Is the sole criteria for survival the ability to bring destruction to an adversary?" "Yes, usually." "Usually?" "I mean, if the adversary is trying to kill you--" "And if it isn't?" "Then it's a moot point." "And if it is?" "Death, of course." She frowned. "How about . . . negotiation?" "That assumes reasonable behavior on the part of your adversary." "And of yourself, surely." She gazed at him hard, then smiled. "I see your point. Well done. Still, when mutual reasonableness does not prevail, battle is the correct path." "I agree. But one must be certain that the lack of reason doesn't occur with one's self. That, to me, seems to be the crux of this search for alternatives." "Yes, I also see that point. However to implement such a change, you would have to get Agonians to think in non-absolute terms, in other words, not to be dogmatic. Impossible! They'll never let go of the teaching of their ancestors, of the Laws, and of their hate for different races." Darkcian thought for a long time before he answered, "I think you're right. It makes me sad." Sulamith moved away from the body, saying over her shoulder, "Come. I don't want to be credited with this kill. Anonymity has long been a part of my survival plan. I don't want to jeopardize that." He followed, deep in thought.
Go to part: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44
Copyright © 1992 L Clayton Bennett |