Dumarest 33 - Child of Earth (7 page)

And woke to a scream of rage.

It was day and in the light streaming through the curtain the crone stood glaring at him, her raddled face convulsed with fury. A slut, her body sagging beneath the filthy clothes she wore, lice crawling in her matted hair, sores on lips and chin. A fit mate for the man who woke and reared to his feet wiping the crust from his eyes.

“He’s eaten it!” She pointed at the empty pot. “The stew’s gone! The thieving young bastard’s eaten it!”

“I’ll teach him!” The man pushed her aside. He was naked aside from an apron around his loins. It fell as he stripped off his belt. The leather whined as he swung it through the air. “Now you greedy young swine! Stand still and be taught a lesson!”

Dumarest dodged as the belt swung towards him feeling the wind of its passing through his torn garment. Unimpeded the heavy buckle swung on to crack against the woman’s arm. Her shriek of pain was echoed by the man’s roar of anger. He rushed forward, belt swinging, the buckle catching Dumarest on the shoulder and sending him to stagger and fall beside the fire. Again he felt the impact of the heavy metal and rolled, reaching out, feeling heat, fire that seared as he gripped a handful of embers and flung them into the snarling face.

“God!” The man screamed pawing at his eyes. “He’s blinded me!”

The woman was fast. Water showered from a pot and washed away the ashes to reveal eyes filled with streaming tears. A face that had turned into a killer’s mask.

“I’ll get you,” he panted. “I’ll make you pay for that. I’ll have you screaming for mercy before I’ve done with you!”

Dumarest backed, his stomach knotted with fear, and felt the touch of wind against his shoulders as he left the cave. It was barely dawn and a milky opalescence softened the harsh outlines of the terrain. Wisps of fading mist clinging to the face of the cliff, shredding as the man lunged through writhing vapors forming a curtain to create an isolated area of conflict.

How to fight a man so much heavier and stronger than himself?

Dumarest turned, running to place distance between them, stumbling as his foot struck a stone. Stooping he snatched it up and held it poised to throw.

“Stop! Leave me alone!”

“Begging, you little bastard?” The man gloated, enjoying the moment. “Well, beg on, boy. I owe you nothing. Nothing but the beating of your life!”

The stone could be thrown but ifhe missed what then? A second stone would provide another missile and Dumarest looked for one as he retreated from his enemy.

He found it as the man charged.

Desperation fed power to his arm and he threw the stone with all his strength. It hit a temple, the man halting to touch his head, to examine the blood on his palm. Before he looked up the second stone had followed the first, striking against his cheek. In a frenzy he rushed forward, hands extended, fingers clawing. Dumarest felt them catch the neck of his garment to jerk the fabric from his body. A jerk
that threw him to the ground beneath his opponent, a fist smashing into his face, fingers closing around his neck.

Fear drove him to attack in turn. He writhed, sending his hands over the bloated flesh, searching the groin, finding the soft bag and gripping the testicles. He heard the shriek as he jerked and twisted, pulling with nails dug deep. Rolling clear to leave his opponent moaning, clutching at his groin, blood thick between his thighs.

More blood flowered beneath the hammering impact of stones from his sling. Missiles that tore flesh and shattered bone exposing the brain and turning the skull into an oozing pulp of grey and crimson.

The woman said nothing as he entered the cave but silently handed him a bowl of water, her eyes frightened, little sucking noises coming from her lips. Her man was dead, who would provide? The boy was better than nothing, a decision that dropped her hand from the knife tucked into her rags but Dumarest noticed the gesture and was cautious as she washed blood from his nose and mouth.

“He hurt you.” The woman was at his side judging the right time to establish her authority. “He was drunk, mad, crazed and dangerous. I was afraid of him. That’s why I couldn’t help you last night.”

Snorting he cleared his nose of clotted blood.

“I tried to stop him this morning,” she continued. “He pushed me aside. You didn’t see that, you were out of the cave by then. The bastard hurt me.” She winced as she pressed a hand to her side. “He was always hurting me. I’m glad he’s dead. Your nose hurt?”

“No.”

“It will.” She lifted her hands towards him. “Unless you let me fix it you’ll have trouble later on. It will block your breathing.”

Dumarest said, “Give me your knife.”

“Knife? Knife? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The knife,” he said again. “The one in your skirt. I just want to see it.” Then, as she continued to shake her head, he added. “I might be able to make one like it. It will be useful when hunting. I’ll be able to get us more food.”

“You’ll hunt for me?” Dirt cracked in the creases of her face as she smiled. “You’re a good boy, Earl. I’ve always thought of you as my own. Stick with me and I’ll look after you. Stand by me and you won’t regret it.”

“The knife?” He held out his hand. “I’ll look at it while you fix my nose.”

It was crude, a strip of pointed and edged metal with slats of wood to form a grip the whole held together with lashings of twine. He turned it as her fingers pressed at his nose, pushing cartilage back into place, roughly shaping the damaged tissue.

“There!” She stepped back dropping her hands. “You finished with my knife?”

“I’m keeping it.”

“Keeping it?” Her voice rose in a shriek of protest. “Stealing it, you mean. First you kill my man then you rob me. Why stop there? Why not kill me too? Go ahead, you young swine. Kill me. Kill me, I dare you!” Her face changed as he lifted the blade. “No! No, I didn’t mean that!”

“How do you sharpen it? With a stone or a file? If you have a file I want that too.”

“A stone,” she said bitterly. “I haven’t a file. Not now. He sold it for a bottle.” She watched as he moved about the cave. “What are you doing now? Robbing me some more?”

“I need clothes.”

Clothes and food and something to carry it in. Water and a container for that too. A blanket against the cold of night and coverings for his feet to protect them against the
savage terrain. All the things that an adult had and that he had been denied because he was a child. But he was that no longer. He would take what he needed and make his way towards the east to live how he could.

A killer, a thief, a bully and a liar—a child of Earth.

They followed him. The men of the village eager for fun, for sport, for his agony and death. They had assembled and sat and drank and talked and listened to the wailing complaints of the crone and her lies and demands that something be done. Dumarest had always been a little strange, too reserved, too clever, a little too good at what he attempted. Incidents were remembered, others invented. His victim had been popular in his careless, drunken fashion and the sight of his corpse created unease. What had been done once could be done again. Other boys, goaded too far, could remember what Dumarest had accomplished and try to follow his example. And they could succeed. The stab of a point, the slash of an edge, the hammer blow of a stone—death could be delivered with such speed and ease.

“Kill him!” demanded the crone. “He robbed me! Took my things. My blanket and jug and knife. He stole my knife! He killed my man! You saw him do it! Let him do it! Watched as he beat his head and face to a pulp. Go and see it. See what he did. Take a good look. Bury him—then go and get the bastard who did it!”

A score of them decided it was a good idea. True the killer had a knife and he might well try to use it, but he was a boy and they were men and it would be safe enough to track him down, and make him crawl and beg and plead and scream as they broke his limbs, shriek as they tore out his eyes, moan as they used fire to sear his threshing flesh.

It would be a thing to remember. Once they had whipped and tormented him into a moving heap of lacerated
flesh and blackened bone, they would drag him back and hang him on a pole as an example. Something for all to see and hear if they were careful to leave him alive. A lesson to those who might be tempted to forget who and what they were and what would happen to them if they did.

“Let’s go!” said a man. He swigged the last of the liquid in his jug. “Let’s teach that little bastard a lesson no one will ever forget!”

They knew the terrain. They had hunted and roved and scavenged and they knew which direction Dumarest had taken. Knew, too, that he was young and relatively small and they could make faster progress. They had no doubt they would catch him. He was starved and weak and would have limited endurance. Fear would ride with him and terror would make him careless. He could even have made the mistake that there would be no pursuit. That they would leave him alone. That he could walk away from his killing as if it had never happened. They would relish reminding him it had.

He learned they were coming. Far back in the distance a bird had risen to wheel and glide away and, by so doing, had signaled the presence of strangers in its domain. He knew who they had to be and could guess at their numbers. Guess, too, as to how long they would take to reach his present position.

By dusk, he calculated, studying the sun. Maybe before, but he doubted it. For them dusk would be soon enough and the darkness of night would give an added zest to what he knew they intended. But it would also give him an advantage.

Shards rattled from beneath his feet. The rags with which he had bound them protected him from the jagged edges but the sound would carry and a hunter would recognise it for what it was. He repeated it, a third time,
then stepped slowly and stealthily to where the opening of a narrow gully pierced the surrounding mounds of the terrain.

The setting sun filled it with shadows and a straggle of trees resembled hostile sentries mounted on vantage points and glaring at the opening, the expanse beyond. Stones lay scattered around and Dumarest paused to study them. He had lost his sling but it was not a good close-quarter weapon. It took time to load and get into action and, when spun, would produce a sound recognizable to any hunter. The knife was better but it was small and fragile and to use it at all meant he would have to get in really close. An attack from the rear and a quick slash to cut the throat or a stab to sever an artery. An attack which might work if the target was alone but relative size came into it and that advantage was not his.

Carefully he chose from the scattered stones.

A sling wasn’t essential to launch a missile. He had hands and arms and a back and shoulders to provide muscular power. The thing was to get close enough, to throw fast and hard enough, to have a reserve in case of need. The stones would provide it. He had reason to know how effective they could be. Others could have forgotten.

Standing among the trees he heard them coming. He stood against a bole, arms lifted, a stone gripped in both hands. A heavy rock treble the size of his clenched fists, its weight taking its toll, giving birth to muscular tremors and a mounting, numbing ache. Things he had expected and ignored.

The bole of the tree eased his weight and gave a degree of support. More important it enabled him to stand immobile. To wait in the thickening shadows as the rasp of boots grew louder.

“You in there?”

The voice was loud, blurred, careless. The man a shape that gained features and details as it came closer. A big man, blotched with sores, his clothing ragged, his temper short. A man Dumarest recognized.

“Earl! You in there? Answer me lad. Let’s end this and get back home. I’ve food and a fire and you’re welcome to share.” He added, “Trust me. You’ll come to no harm. I give you my word on that.”

The rasp of boots grew louder as the man came closer. A hunter and a good one but a liar all the same. His head moved as his eyes searched the dimness for a betraying trace of movement that Dumarest knew better than to provide. He held his breath as the man turned to face the tree against which he stood, eyes studying the bole, the silhouette, eyes and mouth opening in recognition at what he saw.

“By God, I’ve found you!” His voice rose to a shout as he ran towards his prey, coming close. “Hey! Here! I’ve—”

The shout died as Dumarest swung forward from the hips, the stone he held flung with all his force, arching from his hands to land directly against the gaping mouth. Teeth shattered, bone, blood jetting as the man fell dropping the spear he had carried. Dumarest lunged forward, snatched up the weapon and slammed the blade into the fallen man’s heart.

Then he was running, weaving between the shielding trees, hearing shouts and curses behind him, the sounds of pursuit that faded as he gained distance and safety. Darkness closed around him and he moved steadily towards the north living as best he could. A time of tribulation then, at the limit of his endurance, he stared at the strangest thing he had ever seen.

S
handaha said, “You had a most unusual upbringing, Earl. Not all childhoods are the same. Some can be far more distressing and dangerous than others.”

“As mine was.”

“Not necessarily. You doubt it?” Shandaha leaned forward in his chair, eyes intent. “You think that because a child is not beaten then it must be happy? No childhood is ever that. Each child is vulnerable, ignorant, dependant on the whims of others. Living in a cage designed with the best of intentions but illustrating the world of adults not that of a child. It can be fed, clothed, housed in comfort yet denied the simple things that give simple pleasures. And worse—the mind warped, the imagination stifled, rules and regulations imposed which, in themselves, form a prison.”