The Blood-Rage (6) "Aggravation," she mumbled low and then said louder, "How much longer must I suffer these unfair orders?" Patra, having returned from the creek, was again nearby and apparently heard. She looked at her weapon's-complement, saw the look on his face, and interjected on his behalf. "Only your display of discipline will determine how long," she snapped. Then the older woman snarled in anger, "Let go of the stranger's hand! You don't need contact with him." Gravestone turned in time to see Erendria throw the mindless one's hand away from her. "Too much!" she shouted, "Too much! You trained my life, but you don't own it." She stepped forward and raised a clenched fist before her mother's face, knuckles outward. Patra responded immediately by spitting out, "You dare to dagger-challenge me!" "Yes-s-s, to first-blood," Erendria hissed in ritual reply and lowered her fist. She then stepped back and bowed from the waist, back straight, eyes never leaving her mother's. Gravestone watched Patra do the same. Although he could detect no change in either of their outward appearances--both stood relaxed, about nine feet apart, hands at their sides, and faces expressionless--he knew it was all a facade. He had seen this and what was coming many, many times before. Their anger needed blood. He thought: This becomes more dangerous every orbit as Erendria's rage grows and her control diminishes. I fear for Patra's life now. Damn their anger. Suddenly, without warning, he saw Patra draw her weapon. As the blade cleared its sheath, she flipped it forward with a hard snap of her arm. The weapon flew through the air like a miniature spear, heading for Erendria's throat. Yet her mother's dagger had not even cleared its sheath before Erendria made her own blade naked. She brought her dagger up, rotating the blade and shifting it one foot to the left; it neatly deflected her mother's weapon. He noticed that the movement of Erendria's blade didn't stop there but was shifted further left, rotated down, and launched toward her mother by a back flip of her wrist. The exchange was so fast that he was barely able to follow it. Patra's dagger was returning to her in an outside arc, being pulled by the elastic lanyard. Seeming to know that she wouldn't be able to catch it in time to parry her daughter's weapon, his mate had already judged the other blade's strike point and started to move her body to the left. Even so, the blade flashed by her throat so close that he was sure she could feel the wind of its passage. He grunted approval and thought: Fast . . . faster than the strike of a desert-spider. Males who challenge such weapons in the hands of these females are fools. If it weren’t for the ice- tigers, I, too, would train with the dagger-that-returns. He watched them fence for half-an-hour; the exchange of flying daggers sometimes too fast for his eyes to follow. The natural progression of the duel brought them closer and closer together until, soon, they were toe-to-toe, slashing, parrying, thrusting; all without the daggers leaving their hands. It was an exciting display of skill. And it frightened him more than he was willing to admit. Patra's diode-cloth was shining like a golden mirror, sometime reflecting the suns-light in multiple flashes. Except for her face, she looked like she was made out of metal. "HOLD!" Gravestone cried; and to his relief, both duelists froze their movements, daggers locked together. He walked between them, pushing them apart. "Blood flows from your left wrist," he said to Patra. Patra replied, "I was inside Erendria's guard and tried to jab the fingers of my left hand into her eyes." "And?" he prompted. Patra said, "She let the pressure on her dagger relax; mine slipped over it. And with her blade up, she parried the eye strike." "Why isn't your hand cut off then?" he asked. Erendria answered that question. "I twisted my blade so the flat side hit her wrist. The cut must have occurred because mother-teacher's hand was still moving forward." Gravestone nodded and ordered, "First-blood has been taken. This ends the challenge. Step back and let the earth have your anger." His relief at Patra not being hurt any worse made him weak. Love can sometimes be a sickness, he thought angrily. He watched Erendria and her mother step apart, bow to each other, and sheath their weapons. Gravestone knew that where the earth soaked up the blood, the grass would later grow twice as tall as where the red nourishment didn't touch. Agon was always thirsty and needing their blood. Damn the insatiability of this planet, he thought. He immediately felt that he had blasphemed. He was looking at Patra when he said, "One more scar for you while Erendria goes toward peak." "A teacher without scars has taught poorly," she replied, finding the pressure point on her arm to stop the bleeding. "For only by taking wounds does a teacher know that their student has mastered the lesson." With his hands on his hips, Gravestone retorted, "Then you have been an excellent teacher." He turned and stomped away. Watching him leave, a puzzled Erendria asked, "Why's he angry? We fought well." I wonder, she thought, if someday I will kill Patra? The thought didn't disturb her in the least. "It's not that but envy," Patra said. "He's irritated because he has no one to sword practice with. He watches us dissipate our anger by tuning our skills and longs to also sharpen his fighting ability." "Well, if that's all, then his frustration will probably end soon. Rasp will see to that. All that old bastard likes to do is duel." And that may cause me to kill that fool if he's with us for long time. For some reason, that thought made her happy. "I know," Patra said and grinned, brushing sweat-soaked hair from her forehead. But the smile faded as quickly as it came, and her voice became sharp again. "Enough. We've work to do. I think your father-teacher is now going to mind-search for mu- lynxes. He may need help. Then, too, the stranger needs to be walked some more. Since you took first-blood, I'll give you the right of choice." Erendria thought a moment before answering. Then, deciding not to take advantage, she said, "I'll walk the stranger and take care of him as father-teacher ordered. But I hope the mu-lynxes aren't far so we can get under way soon, for I don't want to touch him any more then I have to. He's beginning to make me feel tainted." At the same time she wondered: How can I be drawn to him and repelled at the same time? Patra apparently didn't believe a word of that and gave a taunting reply, "Come now, when you first saw him, wasn't it you who said he was a magnificent specimen?" "Yi! It's true," laughed Erendria in spite of herself. "He must have been a great warrior once to have such body development and coordination. Tainted he may be, but ugly he's not." Gods no, she thought. The sight of him drives me crazy. And that thought drove the humor from her. Without control, she knew, she had nothing. Patra suddenly tilted her head, as if listening. Five seconds later she said, "Your father won't be needing any help after all, for he's just found three mu-lynxes. How unusual to find some so close. This must be your lucky day in more ways than one. You won't have to walk the stranger after all." Across the green plains there appeared three red shapes, almost a blur to Erendria's sight as they ran low, bellies touching the grass. Erendria marveled at seeing the animals at full gallop--they were covering twenty feet per second. She reached out with her mind to welcome the beasts and was immediately aware that none of them were either of the two that were ridden the day before. She wasn't surprised, for when not ridden, mu-lynxes are freed to roam and hunt at will. And because they range far, they are usually lost to recall. The beasts were not only running swiftly but in exact unison with each other. The animals tended to do that when together, because there was always a telepathic link between members of the species. These cats were of normal size, at least five feet in height and twice that in length. They were also silent creatures. The only sound they ever made was from the rustle of the grass they touched, their soft panting, and, indirectly, a squeak of terror from a lesser creature as it saw the bright-red beasts charging by. The mu-lynxes soon came bounding over the creek, careened into their camp, and slid to a controlled stop before Gravestone. They were panting and their large, pink eyes glowed with excitement; they were pleased to be with humans again and showed it. The oldest mu-lynx choose Gravestone; next in age, Patra; the youngest, herself. Each knew their place. Gravestone leaped upon his mount, so did Patra on hers. Her father looked down at her and said, "As before, the stranger will ride with you. If we see anyone during our journey, you're to flee with him until out of sight. We can find you afterwards by mind-searching for your mu-lynx." "Why flee?" Erendria asked with a change of mood. "He'll make a good excuse for a fight." The only real test of strength is in battle. This verbal fencing we do solves nothing, resolves nothing. Only in the killing of others can you establish without any doubt your superiority over them. Someday . . . "You can look for fights some other turn," Gravestone replied. "Right now he's too important to risk. I admit I'm proud that you've never known defeat, but I'm in equal measure dismayed because of your unpredictable recklessness. There are many tests yet to come, tests that must be solved by thinking not fighting. Will you survive the needs of your ego?" She could see him struggle to keep the concern out of his voice as he continued, "Someday you're going to find someone who can stand up to your dagger, and you'll be lucky if that someone wants only first-blood instead of your life." He motioned with his hand. "Now mount him up. We give this campsite back to Agon." Erendria kept her silence, leaped upon her mount, and, with her mother's help, pulled the stranger up to sit in front of her, the same way as the day before. And as before, it took all of their combined strength. The mu-lynx swished its tail nervously at finding a rational on its back that didn't mind-touch. But Erendria reassured it with gently pats to its furry side and soft mind-touches of her own. As they glided down the slope of the hill with Gravestone in the lead and the rest behind riding side by side, Erendria saw that the light from Friosan and Ardent was beginning to warm the morning air and turn the sky into its normal color of light-blue, almost violet. She looked back to see if any traces were left of their camp. There were none. And this satisfied her, for she was always conscious--as were all--of Agon's Fourth Law: except for their five cities, the surface of the Agon was never to show any permanent signs of the presence or passage of humans. All things, she knew, must return to dust. Death has always ruled over life. CHAPTER 6 The surface of Agon must never show the passage of humans (the planet must remain environmentally pure). -The Forth Law of Agon- The small, wizened man, the second in command of a group of nine riders, frowned as he turned to look backwards at his warriors. They were strung out in a jagged line almost a hundred feet long, showing their fatigue; some were even asleep on their mounts. He sneered at their weaknesses and felt an overall disgust at the slow progress they had been making in crossing the great prairie. He faced forward to listen once more to the complaints of his brother, thinking: Damn fool. I'm getting tired of his doubts. The big man spoke. "I'm not sure our revenge is worth the discomfort of this long of a hunt. So the woman killed some of our men, so what?" "What's this, brother, no loyalty to past-dead comrades? "Shit, most of this group are just thieves and fools. We owe them nothing." "Perhaps, but as leaders, we need to set an example. It would be dishonorable to not seek justice for those who have died." "Crap. You really want this woman because she's ugly," the big man rumbled. "Agon's hell, there are many who are scarred- ugly, myself included. What's so unique about that?" The little man glanced down at the three skulls that were hanging by leather straps over the back of his brother's mu-lynx. The skulls were small-boned ones, those of females. He, like his brother, loved skull trophies. "Ah, my brother," he said looking up, "but there are none as scarred-ugly as her. Remember, she wears that diode-cloth to hide her horribly burned body. She's like an open sore to Agon, and that outrages my sense of beauty, as it also should yours. Someone that ugly shouldn't live." "Cat shit. That's just your excuse for hunting. You love to hunt and kill women. And I don't know why I let you talk me into it, too. For example, take the last one we hunted. You wanted her destruction because she was too short. But this one is different. This one needs our caution, for the diode-cloth- covered bitch is skilled and strong. She's killed four of us so far." "I think her strength is an illusion. If she'd fight you, she wouldn't appear so strong. But, as yet, she evades that encounter. She fears your sword like most of the daggers of Agon." He turned his wizened head, spat, and then turned back to his companion to see if his own words were having the effect that he wanted. It was always good sport to goad his brother. "I'm not sure that's true," his brother returned. "I think the bitch toys with us. She could have lost us days ago--that's not hard to do here on the plains--but she hasn't. Why? She enjoys killing us. One by one she picks us off. It's as if she is saying that she is stronger than us and thumbs her nose at our efforts. It's infuriating." Wiping his chin on a skinny arm, the smaller man said, "Patience! We'll corner her soon. It's only a matter of time. Her luck won't hold forever." "She's extracting too high of a price. Four warriors dead. Four!" "No matter. What is death to a warrior? When we finally capture her, the torture will be long to avenge them. I'll hang her by her arms over a sword planted in the ground, so that only her own strength will keep the blade from impaling her. As she tires, her body will lower down onto the sword and slowly, oh so slowly, pass into her rotting flesh." Suddenly afraid his brother might notice the strange gleam in his eyes, the little man looked backwards again. But his brother must have seen, for he snapped, "She's fought well. Her end should be quick." "We shall see; we shall see," he replied and shivered at the thought of her screams. Suddenly, he heard his brother grunt. He turned forward in time to see the huge man shift his bulk again on his tired mu- lynx. The big man was trying to ease his sore posterior into some position of comfort but obviously was not succeeding. The experienced warrior truly looked as though he had been riding all night and half the day. This weariness seemed to make the hundreds of small knife scars that marred most of his big body stand out in sharper relief. "I question whether this sport is worth it," his brother said. "I grow tired of tracking her. It has been ten turns now." "The more the effort, the sweeter the blood. There's never any fun from an easy kill." He only likes the kill, never the suffering. Why is that? "But the bitch comes in the night when we can't see. No sane person fights at night. It just isn't done." He shook his large head. "She comes then because she's desperate. She can't see either, I'm sure. She's just been lucky. Besides, those attacks have stopped since we started posting guards." "Yes, but now all of our band is too sleepy and tired to fight with full strength." "It matters not whether they can fight well, only that you can when the time comes. Haven't I let you sleep your fill, guarding your life with my own?" The bigger man grunted, "Sometimes you let me sleep too long. You should wake me in the middle of the night like you use to, little brother." He looked sideways at the smaller man and grinned. The smaller man grinned back. CHAPTER 7 Humans create most of their own enemies, as if to test the control they have over fear. -From the Thoughts of Night Mist- As the morning wore on, Patra noticed that Erendria appeared to be growing happier, even though the mindless one was still in her daughter's keep. She was sure Erendria had yet to understand, much less resolve, the real questions and dangers that this man posed, not only to the warriors of Agon but also to her own young self. Ah, Patra mentally sighed, being young is so difficult, while at the same time so good, so full of searching, so full of discovery. It's such a big universe, and there's so much to learn about worlds other than Agon. After we reach zenith, I'm sure Erendria will "go-lonely" and off-world. The thought made her spirit fall. The aliens will kill her. They won't tolerate her rage like we do. Still watching her daughter, Patra saw her hug the stranger, laying her chin on his shoulder, her cheek to his lower neck. Earlier she had caught Erendria exploring his body with her hands. Patra shook her head. So little control, she thought. When her mind wanders, she forgets to hate his weakness; and her body speaks of its secret wants. Many more miles passed before Patra caught her daughter looking at her again. She returned the gaze, seeing the excitement of life in the young green eyes that were so piercing and cold, yet, in another way, warm. Having been caught staring, Erendria turned away, brushing part of her waist-long red hair from her face. The tousled strands were fine as a desert- spider's web and flowed behind her like fire fanned by the wind. Patra thought: She looks dangerous and wild, a lot like me twenty-one orbits ago, before I committed the unforgivable sin against Agon. She shook her head to dispel further thoughts along that line. Their mu-lynxes veered to miss a large bolder. One beast went left, the other right. Her daughter hugged the man close. Using this respite and feeling that the temperature had risen considerably--she could no longer see her breath--Patra striped off her diode-cloth on the run, rolled it up, and put it into her weapons-pouch. This was no small feat to do from the back of a running mu-lynx, but the skill of a lifetime made it appears easy. As the beasts closed again, she reined in behind Erendria, while automatically scanning the plains with a huntress gaze, her eyes never still. She had survived a lifetime of swift attacks from Agon's predators by this constant, never relaxed attention to the land and what it hid. Not the slightest detail was missed. Something caught Patra's eye then, and she looked up to see a huge flight of day-bats heading poleward. The sky became dark with their numbers. Life is stirring again, she thought and looked at her daughter, adding silently, and not just in the beasts. She became conscience again of the rushing wind--warmer each hour since the shivering cold of morning. Now the air was pleasantly cool and brought the fragrance of a thousand varieties of wild flowers that dotted the plains with all the colors of a rainbow. It's funny how I'm of such a changeable mind, she thought. I view the warmth of Friosan and Ardent as a welcome thing now. Yet in three short months, I'll be cursing them because of too much heat. From many such contradictions, I guess we should learn to never love anything too long, for it will surely change and turn against us. Maybe that's why we Agonians seem to hold everything in a love-hate relationship. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Erendria lifted her arms to the sky and seemed to glory in the flow of this new warmth around her almost nude body--the yellow brief and halter concealed little. Patra was also sure that her daughter was probably wishing that her bossy mother would not speak of any new lessons this special morning. For today was not the day to think about the perfect death. Instead, with Friosan's-Time over and the warmth of these coming days a rebirth for all living things, it was a time for rejoicing. She thought exultantly: We won't have to wear a "diode-cloth" all day for another ninety turns of Agon. What freedom! Suddenly the good feelings of this wonderful day returned to her; and, with it, her heart sang for the beauty of the bright green grass, the flowers, the crystal-clear streams, and even the occasional cry of a circling day-bat.
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