The Blood-Rage (32) Almost as one, the rest of the group turned and looked behind. "Where?" Patra asked, searching the cloud-fogged horizon. "There . . . somewhere. I feel it," the younger dagger said with, it seemed to Darkcian, forced casualness. "The filthy healer, I bet," Gravestone said bitterly. "Will the little bastard never give up?" "Maybe," Erendria said in that sullen way of hers. Patra said, "If we use this storm to hide our path and ride late into the night, maybe we can loose him." "It's worth a try," Gravestone agreed. Darkcian saw lightning flashes start in the distance, and he noticed that the mu-lynxes were getting jumpy. He took a deep breath and with the others pressed on, riding past suppertime and trying to ignore the rumbles in his stomach. Soon he noticed the wind was growing erratic, coming in little puffs of not much force; yet it was enough to be disturbing. It felt like someone was breathing on his back, and he had to resist the urge to turn around to see who it was. Nightfall and suddenly the storm was there! The wind howled across the prairie with such force that Darkcian had to hunch low over the back of his mu-lynx in order to keep from being blown off. He saw that all of the cats were beginning to walk in a crouch, slowly and carefully, each paw of each cat placed on the ground and its claws dug into the earth before a different paw rose to carry it forward. This slowed their progress considerably. And from the fact that the felines were becoming more and more nervous, it was obvious to him that soon they may have to stop. The lightning flashes that he had seen a short time ago in the distance, flashes that had been occurring at intervals of one minute, were now occurring in seconds all around them. He sensed they were being surrounded by lightning, as if a giant, electron- filled whirlpool was constricting in on itself. The thunder? It had become continuous, rolling in from all sides to assault his eardrums. He saw the cats flinch at each boom and flatten back their ears in terror. Yet he noticed that there was no rain, only the sting of blown dirt and sand whipped against his bare skin by the fury of the storm. Although he kept his back to the wind, his hands still had to cover his eyes to protect them from harm. And the power of the storm grew. Darkcian looked between the cracks of his fingers. Through the swirling brown dust, he could barely make out the shape of the rider ahead of him. He recognized the hunched-over form as Patra's, her wide shoulders bowed inward, trying to become a smaller target for the cruel, wind-driven sand. The muscles in her legs bulged with strain as they gripped the sides of her mu-lynx. He thought that Erendria rode behind him, but he wasn't sure and couldn't become so without the risk of going blind if he looked to the rear. Of Gravestone there was no sign, and Darkcian reviewed what the older warrior had said weeks ago: winds like this could grind flesh from bones. And still the lightning storm grew around them and over them, the flashes of megavolts of energy now continuous, lacing the black sky like squirming, yellow-colored blood vessels. Suddenly Darkcian felt a bolt of blue-white energy hit no more than a hundred feet away. Crack! The explosion of the vaporized earth almost blew him over. He saw Patra's mu-lynx hiss and hunch-up its back, almost dislodging his teacher. And the pungent and sour smell of ozone filled the air. Yet he and the other riders prevailed, clinging, fingers dug into fur, heads buried between their hands as they rode slowly on. Just when Darkcian thought they were going to be blown away, the wind started to diminish. Soon the velocity dropped to a mere breeze, then stopped all together. Calm. Darkcian came erect, puzzled and alert. The eye of the storm? he wondered. The lok had spoke of it. He noticed that the others were now sitting straight also, looking around nervously. But he found that the lightning and thunder had not stopped. The terrible flashes of electrical discharge were, in fact, increasing in power and frequency. What sound-assault to the ears the wind had given up, it seemed to him that the bone- rattling force of the thunder took up a hundred fold. Lightning hit everywhere, near and far, so bright it left after-images of dancing stars in his eyes. Darkcian covered his ears with his hands; the sound had become pain. He then felt a tingle from his skin, and a deep apprehension filled him. Suddenly the mu-lynxes stopped. They stood trembling, their eyes rolling, and their electrified fur bristling. Darkcian's right hand was gripped and torn away from his ear by Gravestone. The latter then shouted at him, lips only inches away, "The mu-lynxes know! They can feel the force in the air! We have to dismount and let them dig into the ground! We must get as low as possible to survive this energy-storm! Now!" Darkcian didn't answer but leaped from his beast and fell to the ground, hugging the soil, trying to claw into it, as if by strength alone he could sink under the grass and disappear from the fury above. He was vaguely aware that the others had done the same. Looking up quickly, he saw the mu-lynxes, now riderless and free, starting to dig into the ground with a frenzied panic. Dirt flew backwards from their front paws, passing under their bellies and between their hind-legs. Within seconds they had created four holes as large as their bodies. The animals immediately jumped into these short trenches and crouched low, shivering. Darkcian looked over to see his companions dive into the same ditches, on top of the mu-lynxes. He quickly followed suit and felt his cat trembling beneath him. The nose-burning stench of ozone was very strong now. Suddenly a bolt of lightning hit about ten feet away. Darkcian wasn't sure then if his body jerked from an electrical shock or from a rush of adrenalin. He went momentarily blind. His eyes seemed to burn through to his brain. He heard his mu-lynx mew in terror, and he buried his face in its fur. Are we going to die? he wondered. He felt the wind start to pickup again. The storm's eye is moving past us, he guessed and risked looking up. And there, in the open, was a figure, tiny in its distance from him. She stood straight and alone, naked of the diode-cloth, her hands on her hips as if defying the God of lightning to strike, even daring him. The intense light flashes made her body appear to him to be a brilliant white, so white no shadows or contours could be seen, thus hiding any scarring or facial expressions or even identity. But it was Sulamith; he knew it. The wind was whipping her long, black hair in all directions, making her look like a demon. Yet, somehow, he was sure that she was smiling, perhaps even laughing at him and at the fury of the storm. Her stance was like a dare. Was the dare to him or to the God of Lightning? He turned his gaze away. He didn't want to see her die, to explode into pieces of blood and tissue. Sulamith, he cried silently, his concern for her making him ill. He closed his eyes tight, tighter. In his imagination and terror, he saw, after each cracking-sound of lightning, her body dance in shock and then boil away in a red cloud, the wind blowing the dark vapor toward him. In his imagination he could even smell her blood and burned flesh. The vision made him tremble. Suddenly, a hand touched his shoulder. He was startled and jerked away. "What?" he stammered. Patra was there, smiling. She yelled through the wind, "The storm is passing us by. Stay put until the lightning stops. We'll head poleward then. Gravestone knows of a low-country pass that will lead us through the hills." He nodded his understanding and then looked backwards, seeking again the light-flashed form of Sulamith. But she was gone, the valley beyond barren. The only things left standing were the smoking skeletons of a few trees. CHAPTER 34 Even under the most close scrutiny, there is no sharp, clear line between life and death, love and hate. -From the Thoughts of Night Mist- Sulamith savored a grim satisfaction. She knew this storm was going to give her the time she needed to get ahead of the Kalts and their ward, time to setup an ambush. The thought of attacking someone from behind made her uneasy and full of guilt. Nevertheless, she had to kill the memory-lost one. He was the only man she had ever found that presented a real danger to her and had hurt her in a deep, personal way. Survival is the only goal, she thought. Damn honor. Agon and its rationals never showed me any. These thoughts made her shiver, for they were words out of the past, words that her mother-teacher had said, often. They were the words of a healer. She raced her mu-lynx away from the trees, knowing that there was where the lightning was more apt to be drawn. Soon she found that the land sloped gently downward, and she followed this lower path. True to her knowledge, the lightning was now striking the higher ground, making this way safer. Yes, she felt, this would be the way they would come. She shook her head; her ears were ringing from the terrible blasts of thunder. She came upon a small creek, leaped her mu-lynx across, and slowed her progress. The banks were sandy and soft. She continued on until the hills on either side narrowed the path. Here, she thought with certainty. They will pass through here. She mentally reined in the mu-lynx and dismounted. She then released the beast from her command and began to dig in the loose sand with her hands. Not too deep, she thought. Just enough to hide myself when the lightning-flashes light up the ground. She worked frantically, for they were near. She could actually feel Darkcian's mental scent. It made her ache all over. In a short time it was done. She quickly lay in the trench, pulled her diode-cloth over her, and scooped sand over the garment. Working quickly, she closed the remaining opening of her sand trench and lay still. She had done her preparation well and was satisfied. She was sure that from the backs of their mu-lynxes the approaching riders couldn't detect in this near blackness of night her position beneath the sand. She then fought the tension in her body by seeking the calm waters of the post ver meditation, but she also kept her senses open for sounds of approaching mu-lynxes or for pressure changes in the surrounding sand that the cats might cause. In the end, she wasn't successful in her efforts to relax; her mind was a whirl. She wasn't sure she could kill him, could cut away her love-hate that was like an open sore. Yet she must. But, on second thought, was that really true? She could walk away from this, from him. She could just turn around, ride in the other direction, and head for the Desert-of-Grief--that was her normal area during this season anyway. No, NO! He would haunt me forever if I did. This must be finished. Now! But, oh, Gods, it's going to be hard to do, like cutting off my right arm. Can I do it? Can I cut away love? She knew that her mother could have killed this one, enjoyed it even. But that old woman had been strong. Was she, herself, anything less? She had this sudden feeling that after she killed him she would never be strong again; she would be even beyond weak. She would be like nothing. Gravestone's mu-lynx almost stepped on her as it passed. Sulamith felt the shift in the sand and tensed to the attack. When the last mu-lynx crossed her position, she threw back the sand laden diode-cloth, leaped to her feet, and drew the dagger, all in one smooth flow of motion. Although she was nearly blind in the almost total darkness, she was sure it was Darkcian's dim form that she saw only six feet away. He was astride his mu-lynx, his back to her as were the rest. Hoping that his acute hearing wouldn't detect the sand granules falling from her diode-cloth, her right hand rose above her head for the dagger throw. But she delayed, uncertain. You fool, she called to herself silently. Commit yourself. And she threw the knife. She almost despaired then, for his reaction was almost instantaneous with her throw. She watched him spasmodically twist around, while bringing up his left hand, his night-eyes somehow catching the glitter of the thrown blade. He moved his hand, deflecting the weapon off a metal bracelet. Ah, he's not human, she cried silently. The clank of metal against metal caused the others to look backwards. She noticed them hesitate as she caught the returning dagger and then threw it back toward Darkcian again. The clanking-sound occurred once more, and they reined in their mounts and leaped down. The women reached her before the man, Gravestone, did. Their combined counterattack against her lone dagger was quick and fierce. Sulamith survived the initial contact, she knew, only because she was a dagger-master. Still, she also knew that in the darkness it was speed that tells, for normal eyes cannot see a flying blade. She quickly gave the shorter of the two black forms a wound. She wasn't sure, but she thought it was the woman, Patra. Sulamith felt a sudden pain in her own right leg and dropped to her knee, thinking: Hamstrung! But she lashed out again and cut the taller one--it had to be Erendria--in the throat. But even as the strike was made, she knew it wasn't serious. As if to confirm that guess, the tall form stepped in quickly, faked a stab to her head, but instead drove the dagger through her right hand. Her weapon fell to the sand, and the pain made her gasp. The big, black form of Gravestone arrived a split-second later, and Sulamith felt the first icy fingers of real fear grip her heart. He fell upon her, wrestling until he had her in front of him, her back against his chest, her arms pinned. She watched then, with almost a sense of detachment, as the tall form of Erendria stepped in front of her with dagger raised high. "Stand free, father-teacher," she heard the young dagger order. "I'll cut the life out of it." "Wait," Patra ordered. "Who is it? The healer?" "No healer here," Gravestone announced. "She's too strong." "She?" echoed Erendria. "Curse this starless night. What dagger fights us?" She stepped closer to Sulamith's kneeling form. "Speak bitch." Sulamith remained silent. She knew she was going to die. It was always Agon's answer to failure. Let it be quick, she thought. I mustn't show weakness before these people. Give me the strength of my mother. "Let Agon take your blood, then," Erendria snarled and struck forward with her dagger. Simultaneously, Sulamith sucked in her stomach and steeled herself for the blow. But she saw, almost at the same time, the dark form of Patra stopping the weapon from reaching its target by grabbing Erendria's hand. "You forget yourself, daughter. Her punishment should come from the hand of the one she tried to kill. This is Darkcian's honor. Back away." "I want her blood, mother-teacher," the younger woman growled through what must have been clenched teeth. "No! Your blood-lust shames us all. Back off, I say!" "Daughter," Gravestone warned from his kneeling position behind Sulamith--his breath felt hot on her neck. "All right!" Erendria said. "Give him the honor, he who has no honor of his own. My time will come." She turned and stomped away. Patra bent down and seemed to search the sand. Soon, the older woman picked something up. Ah, it's my dagger, Sulamith suddenly realized. Patra cut the dagger's own lanyard with it and said, "Come here, student." As Darkcian's dark form appeared before Patra, Sulamith felt a great sadness building in her heart. Not him, she pleaded silently. Not him. The older woman reached down, explored her upper body, and then tore the halter from Sulamith so quickly it burned her skin. Patra then held out the dagger to Darkcian and said, "An attack from ambush doesn't deserve a quick end. Here, take this dagger and cut off her breasts. Destroy her womanhood and let her bleed to death; it's the Agonian way. If you don't kill her, I'll have Erendria do it. Choose." Sulamith felt a trembling start in her cramped legs as she saw Darkcian hesitate, but he finally took the knife and knelt before her. His warm hand cupped her right breast, and he said, "If I cut you here, what will you feel?" In a low voice she answered, "I'll feel the pain of the cut, but I won't feel less a woman. My womanhood lies within my brain, and you cannot cut that out." She tried to stop it, but her voice rose suddenly against her will. "So go ahead, cut them. No child will ever suckle them anyway. Go ahead, do it!" She thrust out her chest. Do it, do it! she screamed silently. Her heart was pounding; the breast in his hand now hot. She then tried to stop the equally hot tears from spilling down her cheeks. Her breasts had never known a man's touch before, and now for him to touch, to gently touch, to . . . to . . . Oh, Agon, even for you it's too cruel. She dimly heard Gravestone say, "There's something familiar in that voice." Darkcian seemed to ignore the older warrior and instead looked over his shoulder at Patra. "I've the honor of her demise. Therefore it's my choice on how it's done, is it not?" Oh, God! His hand is a caressing touch. Why is he torturing me? Do it! DO IT! "That's true," the older woman said. "But you should give her a death befitting the crime. The removal of her breasts will cause great pain." Sulamith watch him turn back to her and say, "I don't wish to practice a cruelty that is so Agonian. I choose for her a quick end." He dipped his head and seemed to study her body. She felt a strange feeling, like a cold wind was blowing through her stomach. He put the knife's tip to her skin, just below the rib cage, paused as if thinking, and then suddenly drove the dagger into her. She felt the blade projecting all the way through to the hilt, the tip ripping out her back like a burning flame. Ah! My love, she moaned silently. The pain was so great she gasped. While overwhelming sorrow flooded her mind, she jerked herself forward, trying to drive the blade in deeper. She become vaguely aware that Gravestone had released her, sensed him scurrying backwards, and then standing. With her now-free hands, she reached forward and gently grasped Darkcian's knife arm--he still clenched the dagger's handle in a vice-like grip. She stroked his arm softly and said in a gentle whisper that only he could hear, "Forgive me for not being all that you wished . . . and . . . and forgive my anger." He moaned and jerked his hand from the dagger and her touch; it was like being severed from love. No! Don't leave me! she screamed silently. Let me love you . . . let me love you for this act of kindness. She bent forward then, her forehead lax on his chest. His skin smelled like strawberries. Darkcian shuffled backward, feeling a swift panic as he wiped his blood-wet hand on his chest. Sulamith, Sulamith! he shouted within his tortured mind, Please understand that I had to do it. A remorse feeling of excruciating intensity followed. He watched, horrified, as she doubled over the knife's handle, as if hugging it to her, until her forehead touched the ground. From here, she slowly toppled over onto her side, took a deep breath, and let out a long sigh. The silence became so complete that Darkcian could hear the distant rumble of thunder. Death, it seemed, brought a certain respect even from the hardest among them. Darkcian cried then, not openly but inside where his mind seemed to be convulsing with grief. Never had he felt anything like this insane anguish, an emotion so deep and powerful it shook his psychic to the core. He screamed inside again and again. He knew then that he would never be whole again; he would be forever lonely. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gravestone step forward. The older man broke the heavy silence with, "I'll take her head with us. We can see who it is, that way, come daylight." He raised his sword. Darkcian leaped up and forward, grabbing at the older warrior's upturned arms. "Don't mutilate her body," he implored. "She died well. She deserves some honor." "In truth, he has a point, second-love," he heard Patra say. "She did die well. Not one begging word escaped her. Do you really want to carry a bloody head with you through the rest of the night?" Darkcian suddenly felt Gravestone relax. The older warrior said in a gruff voice, "Well, since you put it that way . . ." Gravestone shrugged off Darkcian's hands and sheathed his weapon. "Come," he barked, "this fighting at night is too animalistic. This woman must have been insane, some poor demented thing wishing to die. Probably an old dagger with a death wish. And now, more strongly than before, I feel the healer is somewhere back of us. Let's adhere to the original plan. If we ride another hour or two, we may distance the little bastard far enough so that he'll never find our trail again." Darkcian turned at the sound of Erendria approach. "I don't mind carrying a bloody head," she said. The hate that then burst forth from his mind brought Night Mist's stinging censure. STOP THAT! HATE IS UNWORTHY OF A THINKING BEING OF YOUR CALIBER. ANGER YES. BUT NOT HATE. He--and he sensed the rest--all looked at her in a heavy silence that seemed to speak more than words. And that seemed to stop her. In a few seconds, Darkcian mentally called his mu-lynx, mounted, and rode away, hoping with all his heart that they would follow him. We must reach this ride's end quickly, he thought. He tried to keep his panic in check, thankful the others could not see the sweat rolling down his face. He looked back with his mind-sense and saw Erendria hesitate a moment, then she and her parents joined him. He rode off with the Kalts, loathing himself and them. The tears started soon after as he cried with sharp but silent sobs of unimaginable heartbreak.
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