The Forlorn

by Dave Freer

  They came closer, going through stall after stall. S'kith continued to watch them. The short one was truly amazingly broad, nearly as wide as he was high. The backs of his hands and his bare legs were covered in a thick down of reddish brown hair. As this extended into a bushy beard and curly hair mop, it was only the loose, faded-green canvas jerkin and lederhosen that he wore that stopped folk thinking he was a small pet bear. That, and the pale weimaraner-yellow eyes that stared out from under those bushy brows, intelligent and cold. Across his back was strapped a great, two-handed, jagged landsknecht's sword.

  The girl's hair was a deep and lustrous black, flowing back over her shoulders. Her eyes, slightly wet-looking, were faintly slanted, and as dark as the broad one's were light. Her high cheekbones were faintly lighter than the otherwise uniform smooth amber skin. Her soft mouth was set in a small pout above a determined chin.

  But it was not her face that caught most eyes. It was her body. It was . . . generous. Women were inclined to say, through slightly pursed lips, that she had just a bit too much of everything. Their husbands would agree, but their eyes would be faintly glazed. Despite the potential for marital discord, men found themselves unable to resist watching her walk away. She radiated sexuality the way a fire radiates heat. Her clothes were tight-cut but simple, and irrelevant; as every heterosexual male undressed her with his eyes anyway. She carried a bow and a quiver of black-fletched arrows, to bring down any man-prey out of range of her other weapon.

  The third member of the party, however, put off hopeful young men, and made luxury bed-slave merchants reconsider their immediate ideas of midnight acquisition raids. He was tall, head and shoulders above most men. His square-jawed narrow face was scarred here and there, the scars cutting across the age lines on the slightly sunken cheeks. The nose, however, was the dominant feature of his face. Powerful and aquiline, it led one's gaze into the never-still eagle eyes of a man to whom command was second nature. He might be old, a fact betrayed by the bald head and the lines on his face, but he walked with a powerful and dangerous strut. Instinctively, even hardened troublemakers stepped around this man.

  S'kith 235 was trained to note weapons as a first step in his assessment of potential enemies. He could see no obvious signs of any about this man. Why then did S'kith know that the bald man was so dangerous? On the shoulder of his battered jacket was an embroidered patch. It meant nothing to S'kith, but he noted how folk peered at it, and then backed off, sometimes bowing.

  At last they came out of the nearest stall, the proprietor still bowing obsequiously and rubbing his hands. His lacquered tones were tinged with regret. "Great Sirs, magnificent Lady, are you sure none of my fine stock suits your needs?"

  The broad man's voice was oddly high. "Not unless you're for sale, you fat rogue. I've a use for you." The grin full of big yellow snaggle teeth suggested whatever that use was, it wouldn't be pleasant.

  "Enough, Beywulf," the tall man commanded, his voice disapproving. "It's not the most appealing head, but leave it on his shoulders . . . for now. Come, we've a few more of these carrions' stalls to check through."

  The slave dealer was left wordless as they strode off.

  They walked past the cage. S'kith's eyes followed them . . . especially her. Her voice was deep, husky, fitting the body image. "What about the one in the cage, Cap?"

  They stopped, looking in at him. Finally it was the tall one who spoke. "H'mm. I've never actually tested one of those. It's an Alpha-Morkth warrior breed. The hair color is difficult to ascertain, but the physiognomy is plausible. Unfortunately, Leyla, they're castrated at puberty. It would limit their potential."

  It was the first of these mongrel humans who had recognized him for what he was. To the others all Morkth-men were alike. A flicker of interest drifted through S'kith's mind, but he refused to let it distract him from staring at the woman.

  She snorted. "If he's castrato then I've got nuts. Hey, Morkth-man, have you still got your balls?"

  Balls. That was what the warrior brood sows had called them. Like a hypnotized rabbit S'kith nodded.

  The tall thin man raised his eyebrows and slowly held out his hand. The broad Beywulf reached into a pouch at his waist, and produced an orb of dark stuff, which he placed in the outstretched hand.

  "Look, Morkth-man." He held the ball-like thing aloft, demonstrating. "Put your finger in this hole. Keep it there while I count to five."

  Mutely he did as he was told, still staring at the woman. She looked at the tall man questioningly. He looked at the orb, and then with a hiss of indrawn breath, he nodded. Quite calmly she untied her waist sash, the front of her dress falling open. Taking the flaps in either hand, she pulled it wide open, exposing her nakedness to his devouring eyes. S'kith stared, his mouth falling open. Somehow he instinctively knew this was how women should look. Then he reacted with a yelp of pain. The inside of the orb was suddenly icy, and drawing, compelling. He pulled his finger away in fright and the cold and the strange feelings were gone.

  "At last!" The tall man's eyes blazed, and a wintry smile played on his thin lips. "Of all the unlikely ones. The emotional readout is strange though . . . I hope . . . I think he will do!"

  "Hey you! Get away from there." The bulky sergeant came belting out from between the tents, hand on his sword. Slowly the threesome turned, looking at him, the girl calmly fastening the waist sash, and the short man-mountain reaching over his shoulder. The tall man spoke in an arctic voice. "Are you addressing me, sirrah?"

  Arriving behind their leader at a trot, and fanning out in a half-circle around the three, came some twenty-five of the city watch, their pikes at the ready.

  Many men would have wilted before the eagle-eyed man's question, but this sergeant stayed calm. He did, however, wait to reply until he was sure all his men were ready. Then he stepped forward, deliberately pushing into the personal space of the tall man. "Yuss! I was. And you'll listen to me unless you want to swing next to your little caged friend."

  "Relax, Sergeant. The slave is no friend of mine. Why is he in a cage? I should like to purchase him." The tall man spoke calmly, although something about his voice suggested that he also spoke with great restraint.

  "Huh! Likely bloody story," said the sergeant, scornful. "You don't know why the murdering cannibal's in the cage? You want to buy him? Don't give me your crap, mister. The whole bloody country knows what he's done. I suppose you'd like me to think you don't? That you just dropped in from 'eaven, complete with your bloody Cru badge!"

  There was an abrupt hissing sound. It happened so fast that even S'kith's warrior reflexes found it difficult to see, and the ordinary city watchmen certainly had no chance to react. The huge jagged blade rested against the sergeant's neck. "Give the word, Cap."

  The tall man raised his eyebrows, tilted his head slightly. For a long silent minute he stared at the sergeant, taking in the sheen of sweat leaping out on the fellow's forehead. Then he shook his head. "No, Beywulf. The sergeant didn't mean to insult me . . . did you Sergeant?"

  "No, no . . . but I'm warning you, hurt me and there'll be trouble. Just get on your way, and we'll say no more of it, my word on it," said the sergeant, his bravado growing with each second of potential reprieve.

  "Very well. Remove your sword, Beywulf. The sergeant will tell his men to put up their pikes."

  The sergeant was relieved to have the weight of the long blade lifted from his neck. But there was a warm wetness seeping down onto his collar. The sword had been sharp enough to cut just by touching. The sergeant staggered away, back to his men. He moved a healthy distance behind them. But he was a petty-minded soul. He'd given his promise, yes, but he would still let them feel the weight of his authority. "Nar then, come along you three. I said you could be on your way, an' I keep word, but that way is now outside the city gates before this murderer hangs. And just to make sure you unnerstand that, we're going to see you along it."

  In a fringe of pikes they were marched away. S'kith watched them go
, curiosity bubbling in his head. What did "hang" mean?

  Sunset came. The scaffold was finished. The traders' stalls and tents were packed up, but the merchandise stood assembled, watching and waiting. Several bonfires were kindled about the square and vendors, selling everything from sweetmeats to abortifacient powders, plied a brisk trade among the growing crowd. A drum began to beat out a slow tattoo. The pickpockets waited, selecting their marks. A brief scuffle, quickly quelled, broke out outside the ale draper's noisome place. Then, at last, five men, one of whom wore a black hood, came to the cage. They led S'kith out and up onto the platform. As he climbed the stairs silence fell like a curtain across the crowd. Only the slow drumbeat continued.

  It was only when they led him to the front of the platform, and the hooded man put the thick noose around his neck that S'kith 235 truly understood what they meant by "hang." What a stupid way of sending flesh to the rendering! The struggling would almost certainly spoil the quality, and make it tough. The hooded man adjusted and tightened the noose. S'kith began his bioenhancement exercises. He would resist as long as possible, and at least he would not feel the end.

  Then, just as the executioner was about to push S'kith to the edge, an intense ruby beam cut through the darkness and sheared the rope. Except for the pickpockets, who hadn't been watching, the crowd were dazzled. Too dazzled to see the arrows that the marksman on the roof had put into the bonfires. Moments later the fires exploded, scattering burning logs and embers into the crowd.

  S'kith had seen the discharges of energy weapons before, although they had been incandescent purple, not a blaze of red. He had known what they were, but he'd thought they were meant for him rather than the rope. That anyone might come to his rescue never occurred to him. Thus it was not surprising that he fought like a kif-crazed dervish against the vast arms that encircled him. Then a skilled hand squeezed his carotid artery, and he knew no more.

  * * *

  He'd been vaguely aware of the bouncing motion for some time. When was it going to stop? He was going to vomit any minute now. He opened an eye warily. The earth was moving past him. He was hanging over the side of some large brown moving thing. A horse . . . he was tied onto a horse. And that was sunlight falling on his face. Sunlight splintered by pine needles. He must have made some sound because someone said, "Our little bundle of joy is awake, I see. Can we call a halt for a few minutes, Cap?"

  "I think we can afford a little time, Leyla. By the sound of it, it will do Beywulf's horse no harm to rest a while anyway." The tall man still sounded remote.

  They stopped. The trio dismounted, tied their horses and remounts calmly before turning any attention to S'kith. He too waited silently, his mind rapidly paging through possibilities. In the Morkth-man's philosophy he could see no good reason for what they had done.

  The tall man reached into his saddlebag, and produced a braided-handled cattle goad. "The closest I could find. Here, Leyla, you'd better hold it. Morkth females give orders and punishments, you know."

  The sight of the goad had made S'kith wide-eyed and rigid with fear. She looked at him, a strange almost feral-hungry expression coming into her eyes. "Well, Morkth-man, fancy a little . . . spanky?" She stood legs apart, and fondled the whip suggestively. It brought a guffaw of laughter from Beywulf, who was untying the knots that held S'kith on the horse's back. "Really, Leyla! Haven't you ever got anything else on your mind?"

  To S'kith however the whip was totally unfunny. When Beywulf pulled him off the horse and released him, he immediately sank down on his knees and grovelled in front of her. "Command me, Mistress."

  This only made Beywulf laugh even louder. With a look of irritation at him, the girl slapped the whip against the palm of her other hand.

  "For God's sake don't hit him with it," said the tall man.

  "Why ever not? I've hit men with far worse. And," she licked her upper lip, catlike, "some of them even liked it. Called me mistress, too."

  "Not this one. He'd die. As far as he's concerned that's a Morkth discipline prod. To other Morkth it causes pain; to humans irredeemable nerve damage. More than a few blows and he'll start having fits, with pain stimuli coming in from each nerve in turn. It just recurs and recurs until the victim dies. Now, tell him to come and sit here and listen to me. You two prepare some food."

  * * *

  S'kith sat with the plate of food on his lap, attempting to use the clumsy wooden spoon which Beywulf had quickly whittled for him. He covertly watched the other three eating, and tried to imitate them. His mind was still boiling with what the man called Cap had told him. His hand unconsciously went down to the stitches on his side.

  "Leave them alone, man. Eat your food." Cap said.

  "Yeah, Morkth-man, what's up with you? Don't you like my cooking?" Beywulf asked, his voice half-mocking, half-serious.

  S'kith's natural caution helped him to bite back his first reaction to the question. The food was, well, hot, and tasted nothing like the Morkth rations he was used to. It did all sorts of things to his taste buds, which were unaccustomed to such stimuli. And none of it was alike. Morkth rations were blended to uniformity. If any ingredients were cooked it was because they were going off. He'd never had warmed food before. His taste buds revelled, but his mind revolted. It wanted the comfort of something familiar.

  "Well, Morkthy, what do you think of it then?" asked Beywulf again.

  S'kith realized he had to give some kind of reply. "I am sure it is very nutritive," he said at last. "Why is it eaten hot?"

  "A beautiful fricassee of a fresh young leveret, done in its own blood and red wine with garlic and wild mushrooms, and homemade spaetzle, and you're sure it's very nutritive, and you ask me why we eat it hot. Well bugger me! Last time I'll waste good vittles on you, you odd fish. Eat your nutrition then . . . while it's hot." The broad Beywulf helped himself to yet another plateful as he spoke.

  S'kith kept quiet and ate. These mongrel humans were truly strange, but he was a master at adaptation.

  * * *

  Keilin had walked on determinedly all night. Two hours after the flood wall had come beating down on him, the water had begun to subside. By morning there were only drying puddles on the sand. The hills on either side of him were far bigger now. At last he was coming to some almost-mountains. They still bore no resemblance to the beautiful, forest-clad things he'd seen in the book, but perhaps he would still find those. The air was cooler here too. Going on in the small hours had been agony, but he knew that to stop here was to die of exposure. But the character of the land was changing: There were occasional sparse aromatic-leaved bushes and tufts of coarse grass in the watercourses. He'd walked awhile, until it got too warm, and then found a shaded resting spot among the broken rocks. He lay down, desperately tired. Sleep was slow in coming, he was so hungry, but eventually tiredness carried him beyond the threshold. Till the cool of evening he'd wandered through strange dreams of empty white plains adrift with white flakes.

  The eerie pip-pip sound in the dusk nearly made him run for cover. He'd been attempting to stretch his lips down to the scummy water in a narrow crack in the now-dry rapids. Who would have thought that the water would all vanish so quickly?

  It was a bird; a speckled, brownish hensized thing. It was looking at him with round, suspicious tea-colored eyes. Keilin had never seen a sand grouse before, but he'd dined off pigeons and seagulls often enough. And before he'd made traps, he'd learned to throw stones with some success.

  The boy eyed his kill. Just the sight of it made him hungry. He had no means of cleaning it, or cooking it. And then an errant breeze carried an unexpected scent to him: wood smoke. He turned, questing with his nose. It came from upvalley. He was none too certain about meeting the locals, but perhaps he could steal a firemaker, or even just a live coal. Eventually, in the gathering darkness, he caught the flicker of light from a hidden fire. As quietly as he could Keilin crept closer. At last he could see the small neatly constructed blaze, almost entirely hidden by slab
s of sheetrock. There was no one sitting beside it, and no signs of an encampment of any sort.

  For a moment Keilin hesitated. But hunger drove him on into the limits of overconfidence. Whoever had lit this fire was plainly off having a leak or still hunting. A dash now, and he could have that small ember-tipped log, and be away in fifteen seconds. He sneaked closer, and then stood up and darted forward—

  —to be frozen in his tracks. The voice from behind him suggested that moving would be the last thing he ever did. It was an old voice and, if anything, it sounded amused. Someone came up behind him, and then circled around to face him. The man was undoubtably old, his face folded and lined. However, there was nothing decrepit in his movements. Certainly the black-hafted, bright-bladed spear he held with such assured ease suggested that he should be treated with extreme respect.

  "You make enough noise for ten men, boy. Think I'm deaf, do you?" He chuckled, the black finger of the spear reaching towards Keilin's ribs. He stared carefully at the boy. "But mebbe I'm goin' blind. Were you plannin' to brain me with that bird? Where's your weapon, boy?"

  Keilin felt his legs wobble under him. The jewel was cold on his chest. "Please," he stammered, "I just wanted a coal . . . just something to start my own fire and cook my supper. I promise . . . I haven't even got a knife!" To his intense shame he felt a tear trickle down his cheek.

  It might have embarrassed him, but it plainly eased his captor's mind. "Sit down, boy, afore you fall down," the old man said with rough kindness, lowering the spear, "and don't start blubbering now. I don't mean you any harm, son. Just that a man's inclined to be suspicious o' strangers out here, especially when folk try and sneak up on you. You're welcome to a piece of my fire, if you wants it, and welcome to cook your fowl here if you like." He cast a knowing look at Keilin's nervous upturned face in the firelight. "You don't have much to fear from old Marou, boy. And iffen you don't have the means of makin' fire and you don't even have a knife I'm willin' to bet you don't have the faintest idea how to cook the bird either."