The Blood-Rage (34) Still favoring her tender stomach, she bent low over the side of her mu-lynx and ripped up some grass with which to clean her blade and thought: Life and death are merely the reverse of each other. Put a mirror before either and you would see the reflection of the other. She sighed. If only there was just beauty and life. But my mother-teacher was right; there cannot be meaningful life without danger . . . and beauty without ugliness. It's the contrasts that allow us to identify and enjoy what there is. One must just observe, for reality cannot be wishes. But logic and acceptance didn't stop the longing, and she wished she was not the contrast for beauty. Ah, Darkcian, she mentally cried. In another place and time, we could have been lovers. The thought was almost too much to bear, causing a longing ache in her soul. Then, too, her certainty that he was going to die soon made the thought of the coming loss that much more poignant and the time to know him that much more urgent and precious. The little man was speaking to a skull propped on a rock near him. "Nothing has gone right since you were taken from me. First, my ambush failed because of a flawed warrior named Darkcian. Then this same one almost killed me with a dagger. I was sure that I had made no sound while I was spying on them, yet he detected me anyway. Uncanny. And where did he learn to throw a knife? Who taught him? Gods! And remember how fast he moved?" He shuddered then winced at the pain coming from his bandaged shoulder. "I wish I had reflexes like that." He nodded at the skull. "Yes, yes, I know. Still, I do pretty well with just a quick mind, huh? Remember how I talked that bitch out of killing me? Only quick thinking allowed me to strike a bargain with her. She was so consumed with hate for the male that she readily agreed to spare me if I would kill him for her. A touch of genius there on my part, hey?" He smiled nervously, and then snarled, "Still, that ambush failed, too, not by the male this time but by fools who couldn't obey instructions." He smashed one fist into the other. "I told them the female first then the males. Why do only the idiots follow me?" He put his face in his hands. "Patience, patience is the answer. I'll kill her yet. The key is the young male. Some strange love-hate bond attaches her to him. If I could capture him, she'd be mine." He sat in thought for a long time. "He could be the bait, the lure. But how, brother, how?" From on top of his mu-lynx, Gravestone spoke to Patra. "Second-love, in about another two turns our responsibility to Agon will be over. We're almost to the thinker's city." "I know," Patra replied. "It's been a great adventure, full of danger and grief. We've lost a friend and gained a son." "Don't think of Darkcian that way. You invite more grief. He may have only a few days to live, for they will surely order his death at the City-on-the-top-of-the-world once they find that, although a rational, he has nothing of real value to tell them. They will vote according to the Second Law. I know it!" Patra looked over at the warrior they had trained. Some thirty feet away, he rode beside Erendria, trying to talk to her. She could see her daughter's pinched lips and the angry set to her shoulders. Patra said to Gravestone, "I sometimes feel that we'll lose more than just him. Erendria, too, seems to be lost to us. Daily she grows more distant and defiant. She's on a collision course with her own uncontrollable rage." She sighed and added, "I feel so helpless." Is that why, she wondered, I'm looking at Erendria lately as a burden rather than an asset? Gravestone said sadly, "I, too, share your feelings." The breeze that morning was unpredictable, consisting of small gusts blowing from one direction and then another. It tousled Erendria's long, red hair. She was trying not to listen to her riding companion, for he wouldn't quit his incessant questioning. Suddenly, the word "healer" brought her to full attention. "Tell me about the healers," he asked. "It's a strange profession," she answered reluctantly. "How so?" "A healer heals those who are too sick or too badly wounded to recover by themselves. Then, when their patient has fully recovered, the healer kills them or makes them slaves." Disgusting creatures, she thought. He stated, "That makes no sense." "It does to a healer. One truly dedicated to the profession cares for their charges in the most kind and gentle way and are greatly skilled in the art of bringing the near-dead back to a healthy life. For a healer, the greater the effort to save, the sweeter is the time when the one who was saved must bow his or her head to the earth and give Agon the blood of life. And the ones who are healed must, of course, bow to the earth when ordered to do so. For if such persons were not able to heal themselves, they were weak. The weak must die. It's the only honorable way." "Then why doesn't the healer just let the afflicted die? Why spend all that effort when death will come anyway?" Erendria lost her patience. "Why, why, why. Is that all you can ask? The answer should be obvious. Figure it out for yourself." They like to kill without risk to themselves. They are pain-lovers and cowards. To have a choice over another's life and death is the "healer's" only way to gain power. May God forgive me, I understand that last part. "Don't be angry," he said in that low, smooth voice of his. "I'm only trying to understand this world." "You understand it well enough to die. That's all that is important. You've spent too much time with the lok." I wonder how much he really knows? "Perhaps. One of the characteristics of knowledge is that it seems to generate endless questions. Just last night, for instance, the lok spoke of the off-worlders and one of their weapons, a beam-gun." "Yes?" What's next, she wondered. "Why do we use swords and daggers for combat when beam-guns exist?" A feeling of horror came over her, and she was sure it showed on her face. She then scowled and said vehemently, "What kind of test would combat have in that? Can you prove your strength in the pulling of a trigger? And if you could, how long would it last? A second? Two? No, strength and skill must be tested in a duel of many minutes or even hours. We don't fight each other to depopulate Agon but to eliminate the weak. We're warriors, not assassins. Our evolution based on natural selection is an unswerving path to strength, now and always." "Don't the civilized planets obtain the same goals by genetic engineering?" he asked. "The lok spoke of this some nights ago." "We don't believe in the use of science to gain our ends. Civilization and its resultant sciences are the curses of sentient beings. They surround rationals in total security and destroy their ability to cope with emergencies or dangers from the unexpected. In the end, civilization becomes the alien's prison, a place they dare not leave. As such, it narrows the space in which they can survive, becomes a limit from which they cannot break free. But worst of all, it brings fear. For all civilized people know they're weak compared to the barbarians, weak not in terms of killing a barbarian from a distance, with a beam-gun for instance, but weak in terms of facing a barbarian without the crutch of science to augment their strength. In other words, strip a civilization of its modern weapons, and its people would perish from the onslaught of mere animals. "We, on the other hand, reject the civilization of the aliens and by doing so keep our warrior class. As a result, we will be ever strong, ever adaptable to change, and ever flexible to deal with the unknown." Patra interrupted her, shouting across the distance separating them, "Look ahead, you two, at the poleward horizon." Erendria switched her gaze up. There on the smooth horizon, perhaps one hundred miles distant, finger-like structures were pointed toward the sky. The low-to-the-horizon suns made the structures look pale yellow. "The City-at-the-top-of-the-world," she murmured. "So that's a city," Darkcian said. "It's so big." "Tall, yes," Patra said, having ridden closer. "Made to look even taller because it's constructed on top of a plateau. It was done that way so as to always keep it above the ice of the glaciers. Sometimes in Friosan's-Time, the ice here gets half a mile thick." Gravestone also angled his mu-lynx over near them. He said, "It could house a million people but only about four-thousand really live there. Mostly it's used as scientific laboratories and a space port." "A space port?" Darkcian asked. "You mean where starships land?" "Yes," the older man answered. "But only Agonian craft. No foreign ones are allowed. Agon's location is a secret from the rest of the galaxy." Darkcian asked quickly, "Are there other cities on Agon?" "Yes, four more," Gravestone answered. "The rest are located in a band around the equator at equal distant from each other. Thus, no matter where a warrior is in the poleward hemisphere, he or she will be no more than three thousand miles from a city." Erendria watched the sudden excitement flush her young companion's face. She grit her teeth and asked her father, "How long till we reach this one?" "Two more days, I'd think. It'll depend upon that storm there." He pointed anti-spinward. Erendria looked in that direction. The sky was almost black, the clouds building even as she watched. In advance of the front, a brown haze hung close to the ground. "Sand storm precedes it," she said. "Yes," her father agreed, "it'll be here in about an hour. Stay close together." Erendria rode on and watched the storm approach, noticing that the others were silent as they harbored their own nervousness. Storms, she knew, were like enemies, always dangerous and always unending. Soon Darkcian could feel the first strong gusts. Then came the sting of the sand, whipping against his skin. The wind had a kind of low moan to it and a hot, dry feel. "Single file," he heard Gravestone order. "Stay close." The moan became a howl, and Darkcian--the last in line--could barely glimpse the ground any more; it seemed to be shifting below the paws of his cat. He put his hands over his eyes, trying to see through the cracks in his fingers. This didn't work, so he hunched low over his mu-lynx and suffered with the rest as they plodded through the punishment of another of Agon's storms. Another hour passed, and his skin was starting to get raw from the relentless beating. He started wishing for the rain that had not yet come, that cool cleansing liquid that could wash the dirt away. He chided himself, thinking: I'll never become strong if I try to wish away hardships. Accept, accept. He suddenly detected a change in his mu-lynx's sense of presence. He straightened from his crouch over the beast and turned around to look backwards. The club struck him in the forehead with such force that an explosion of white light appeared in his brain just before a blackness of total depth swept in behind it. CHAPTER 37 The pain of others has little meaning to one who hasn't suffered. And so, too, with love. -From the Thoughts of Night Mist- He felt the sickness in his stomach before the electric-like jolt of pain appeared in his head. His body felt strange, distorted. He could feel that he was kneeling but couldn't, for some reason, move. A groan escape from his lips, and he opened his eyes slowly. Although a dense scattering of trees surrounded him, he could see through the branches that the sky above was clear, the storm obviously over. He turned his head to the left and found someone squatting on the ground before him. He frowned and blinked his eyes a few times. "Sometimes you can't focus your eyes for hours after receiving a blow like that," the little wizen man said, a smile tilting up the corners of his small mouth. "You hit me with--" was all Darkcian was able to say before he threw up his lunch. He didn't know, then, what was worse, the burn of the bile on his raw throat or the wave of pain from his head. "Yes, yes, with a tree branch, actually," the healer said. "Broke it right in half, too. I think you may have a slight concussion from that. But no matter. As long as you're alive, that's what's important." "Important for what?" Darkcian asked. "To lure in the red-haired bitch. I'm going to kill her slowly, very slowly." "Erendria?" "Yes." He suddenly jumped to his feet and screamed, "I shall peel away her flesh a sliver at a time! I shall spread- eagle her over a slow fire and cook her until her skin falls off! I shall cut off her fingers and make her eat them one at a time!" Spittle ran out of the corner of his mouth. Is this man crazy? Darkcian wondered. He tried to move but couldn't. What? The little man ran up to him and began to pound on his, Darkcian's, chest, shouting, "There no escape. You will die also." Darkcian tried to move his hands again, but they were bound behind his back to something anchored in the ground, a tree stump, he guessed. His legs were also bound behind him, probably to the same tree. The position bowed his back, making him thrust out his chest. Darkcian said, "Some think that the only power on this planet is the bringing of pain. Even though you are small, you gain stature by the pursuit of this kind of power, by killing. True?" The little man backed away, stopped, and tilted his head to the side. He was suddenly calm again. "Yes. That's the way of things. Power is wealth. Not many are able to see that." "But what about respect?" "Respect? Who cares about respect? That has always depended on size. The bigger the fool, the greater the illusion." His face got a puzzled look. "Why do you ask me these things? They are the questions of children." "I thought all people wanted respect." The wizen man stepped closer and, as he looked down, said, "I don't want people's respect. I want their fear." "So you won't have to fear?" He recognized one of Night Mist's lessons. "Fear is part of Agon. Anyone who's awake is in fear. Fear is normal: fear of the predators, fear of the heat-death, fear of the frozen-death, fear of failure, fear of the blood-rage. And you fool . . . you'll fear me as they all do, as she will. I've broken some of the bravest warriors on Agon. The two of you will be no exception. My brother and I will have our revenge." "Brother?" The little man pointed and said, "There." Near a sack containing the healer's personal belongings, sat a white skull. Darkcian sneered, "He seems greatly diminished since I saw him last." The healer appeared to get very calm, and soon he said, "Do you now seek to anger me so that I'll kill you in a rage rather than the slow way I have planned?" He shook his little head. "It won't work. I've seen all the ways that men faced with pain will use to quicken their ends. But you must realize that power is in the hands of the torturer. Why should I quickly end what can be prolonged? You are for me to enjoy. The longer you live in pain, the longer my pleasure. Don't you see that?" "I don't see pleasure in pain." "Then you're a fool who doesn't understand power." He looked sad all of a sudden. "My brother was like that." "Your brother was many things. What I saw last in him was the courage to die. I respect him for that, and for that I'll remember him. But you're obviously not his equal. Who will remember you with respect? No one. You, if remembered at all, will be known for cruelty, like any common predator. Have you no honor?" The healer pulled back his lips, exposing his teeth like an animal. He hissed, "I'll start your torture by cutting out your tongue. One can still scream without a tongue, although one cannot speak foolish words again." "My screams may bring the Kalts." The little man smiled. "I'm counting on it. Even now they search for you, not together, but singly, spread out, thinking you lost in the storm's front. All I need to do is spy out the bitch's position, wait until only she nears our location, and then make you scream." He chuckled. "She'll come running, running to see you die--Gods, but she does want to see you die. But instead, she'll be running to me, to pain and death. Unlike the last time we met, this time I will be the hunter. This time I will dictate the terms, and they will not be to her liking." He chuckled again. "You no longer have a storm in which to hide and attack from behind. And you're such a filthy coward, one who would never stand up to her face to face. How do you purpose to best a dagger-master?" "Although we are too far poleward for night to be complete anymore, the trees here will add to what little darkness there is. And the gloom is better than the blowing sand. No one can see clearly in the dark, and a club will do the rest." He ran his finger through his wild hair and added, "You're such a fool. You still don't understand about the unimportance of respect. You seek to anger me by calling me coward, yet why should I care about how you think of me?" Darkcian shook his head, at a loss to understand this creature, much less reply to him. The healer nodded his head, as if he could read his captive's mind. He then said, "I'm curious. Why were you kneeling on the ground during the Kalts' battle with my brother and his men? What was your weakness then? I haven't seen any such weakness in you since. In fact, you've been a formidable opponent." Time, thought Darkcian. I need time to delay this maniac, time to think. He said slowly, "I'd lost my memories, all memories. I couldn't function in any capacity except the basics, like breathing and walking. The Kalts have told me that to their knowledge no Agonian has ever had that happen to them." The healer frowned. "I know of two cases where a blow to the head produced amnesia such as you just described." "I had received no blow." "M-m-m-m-m," the little man hummed, stroking his jaw. "There are no drugs on Agon that could induce a loss of memory, although the aliens on other worlds do have such chemistry. So what you have described is impossible here on home world. And no Agonian could loose his memory by natural means. Are you sure you didn't meet up with a Wist prime?" "Prime?" "One of the females who has mastered the seven levels of the mental resonances." "I don't understand what you are saying. Besides, how could a Wist exist on Agon? They're alien." "Of course. The question was rhetorical. No Wist could exist on Agon. They're the vilest demons in the galaxy, and one would be recognized immediately if it set foot on Agon. Still--" he grinned, obviously with the effect of what he was thinking, "What if a Wist found her way to Agon about a month ago? What if you were the first Agonian she met? Huh? One could stay alive for a month. After all, this is Fleeing- Winter, the mildest of all of Agon's seasons. Now even the softest off-worlder could with luck survive thirty days on Agon. All they'd have to do is hide from Agon's warriors and predators. Maybe there's a Wist out there," he gestured behind himself, "prowling around in the dark, hiding, killing now and then for blood." He grinned again. "Have you felt a dark presence following you?" he asked. The words shocked Darkcian's eyes wide open. "A presence?" he asked. "Yes, something unseen, something just beyond the light of a camp fire, something that sits and watches, something evil." He suddenly laughed in a high-pitched squeal.
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