by Peter David
All of it happened within seconds. Ultimately the Danteri overcame their hesitation and did indeed drive forward, or at least the handful of survivors did.
They plunged headlong to safety, or so they thought.
In fact, what they plunged headlong into was ground that gave way beneath their feet. Falkar, bringing up the rear, stopped himself barely in time as he heard the alarmed howls from his men. The rumbling of the rockslide behind him was fading. On hands and knees, Falkar slowly edged forward and peered into the hole. Far below he saw the glint of some sort of underground cavern, and the broken bodies of his men down there. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw assorted hands and feet sticking out from between the rocks from the avalanche.
“Bastard,” he hissed between clenched teeth.
• • •
M’k’n’zy mentally patted himself on the back. He could not have picked a better spot for an ambush. In the week he’d spent in his futile (and yet, curiously, productive) Search for Allways, he’d familiarized himself with much of the Pit. When he’d taken refuge there now, he had done so knowing that he was capable of outthinking and outmaneuvering anyone who might be so foolish as to try and chase him down. A simple, small explosive charge which he’d detonated from hiding was more than enough to do the job of bringing the rocks down.
As for the hidden cavern, M’k’n’zy himself had almost fallen victim to it several years previously. Fortunately he had, of course, been alone, so his far lesser weight resulted in only one leg going through the insubstantial covering above the caves. It had scared the hell out of him when it happened, but a scare was all it had been.
For the warriors who had been pursuing him, however, it had been a good deal more lethal.
Still, caution was called for. He had no intention of making the same sort of foolish mistake that his opponents had made.
M’k’n’zy left the hiding place that he’d staked out in the upper reaches of the passageway and slowly made his way to where he could see the devastation. He peered down; thirty feet below, there didn’t seem to be anyone moving. There were limbs protruding from beneath rocks, and farther beyond, there was the massive hole through which the remaining soldiers had fallen.
He nodded approvingly, but decided that it would probably be wiser to maintain altitude where he could. The high ground was always preferable, after all
So M’k’n’zy began to make his way back to his home, back to Calhoun. He wondered what sort of reception would be there for him. He further wondered—hoped, prayed—that the Danteri had finally had enough. That this latest and greatest defeat had finally convinced them that the Xenexians would never give up, never surrender, never stop believing in the rightness of their cause. Sooner or later, the Danteri would have to get the message. If it took repeated pounding in of that message, then so be it.
He sniffed a change in the air around him, and he definitely didn’t like it. He had the hideous feeling that a storm was beginning to brew, and he knew from firsthand experience just how quickly such things could come up. There were outcroppings of rocks around him, plenty of places where he could anchor himself and not risk being carried away by the fierce winds that a typical Pit storm generated. As a matter of fact, he had passed what seemed to be a particularly likely sheltered area only minutes before. Smarter to retrace his steps and secure himself there until the storm had passed.
He turned around and, sensing danger, came within a millimeter of losing his life.
The blade was right at his face. It had been sweeping around, aiming toward his neck. If he hadn’t unexpectedly turned at that very moment, the blade would have severed the jugular vein. As it was, he reacted just barely quickly enough to survive as the gleaming blade sliced across his face, from right temple down across his cheek, down to the bone. Blood fountained out across the right half of his face as M’k’n’zy backpedaled frantically. But with him blinded by his blood, with pain exploding in his mind, the ground went out from under the normally surefooted M’k’n’zy. He fell, landing badly and aggravating further the already existing injuries to his arms.
And during all that, not a sound escaped from his lips.
“No cry of pain,” Falkar said, pausing to survey his handiwork. As an afterthought, he wiped the blade of his short sword on his garment. “I am impressed, young man. As impressed, I should hope, as you are by my ability to have crept up on you without you hearing. What with your being a savage and all, I’d think you’d pride yourself on your instincts and ability not to be surprised. So . . . were you surprised by being surprised?” he added, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.
M’k’n’zy didn’t say anything. He was too busy denying his deep urge to scream. He fought for control, breathing steadily, pushing away the agony that was eating away at him, dulling his senses, making it impossible for him to concentrate on the simple business of staying alive. His right hand was slick with blood; he was literally holding his face together.
“Did I take the eye out?” asked Falkar, in no hurry to finish the job. He had suffered far too many losses at the hands of this young twerp. In a way, he was glad that he had missed the initial killing stroke. That had been generated as a result of rage and—he hated to admit it—a tinge of fear in facing this crafty killer man-to-man. This way was better, though. Worthier. It was the best of both worlds, really: he could face his victim, and at the same time, not worry about him. “Perhaps I’ll take the other as well. I could give you that intriguing choice. Kill you . . . or leave you, but alive and blind.”
Truthfully, there was so much blood, so much pain, that M’k’n’zy couldn’t even tell if he’d lost the eye altogether. His red-coated hand was clasped over the right side of his face. He felt himself dangerously close to succumbing to the ungodly torment that threatened to paralyze him. And he also knew that there was no way, despite what Falkar had just said, that Falkar was going to leave him alive. Oh, he might blind him first. Watch his progress with sadistic amusement and then kill him. Desperate for time, M’k’n’zy said, “I have . . . no love for my eyes.”
“Indeed?” said Falkar. The steadiness of M’k’n’zy’s voice was slightly disconcerting to him. “And why is that?”
And M’k’n’zy started to talk. Every word out of his mouth felt thick and forced, but he spoke and kept speaking to focus himself, to stave off the pain, to buy time , . . maybe even to remind himself that he was still alive.
“These eyes,” he said, “in their youth . . . saw rebel leaders punished by having their unborn children . . . ripped from the wombs of their mothers. They’ve seen villages burned to the ground. They’ve . . . they’ve seen ’criminals’ convicted of minor crimes . . . punished by having limbs lasered off . . . one at a time, screaming for mercy. . . . receiving none. . . . They’ve seen my . . . my father tortured in the public square, punished for crimes against the state . . . a punishment ordered by you, you bastard . . . my father, beaten and whipped until a once proud man . . . was reduced to screaming even in anticipation of the blows. . . . They . . . they saw the look of pure shock on his face . . . just before his mighty heart gave out in the midst of the beating. . . . The last thing my father ever heard . . . was my begging him not to leave me . . . begging for a promise he couldn’t keep. . . .” His voice choked as he said, “These eyes . . . have seen the hand of tyranny . . . and before I grew to manhood, I wanted to lop that hand off at the wrist. . . .”
M’k’n’zy’s words made Falkar exceedingly nervous. Despite M’k’n’zy’s continued ability to out-think and out scheme Falkar’s own war chieftains, he had always harbored the image of M’k’n’zy as a grunting savage, operating mostly out of luck and a native wit beyond anything his fellow tribesmen might possess.
But what he had just heard was hardly the speech of a barely articulate savage. What the hell kind of person was capable of sounding erudite while losing blood out of his face by the pint? Suddenly all thoughts of toying with his victim, all intentions o
f dragging things out, evaporated. He just wanted this . . . this freak of nature dead, that was all. Dead and gone, and his head as a trophy.
What Falkar had not realized, however, was that M’k’n’zy’s little speech served one additional purpose: a stall for time that allowed the coming storm to arrive. The storm that M’k’n’zy had sensed, which Falkar was oblivious of. But he was not oblivious any longer when the full blast of the storm abruptly swept down upon them.
It roared across the near plain, up through the canyons, and hammered down around M’k’n’zy and Falkar just as Falkar was advancing on M’k’n’zy to carve him to pieces. The wind was howling around Falkar, and he had no idea which way to look. Without having any time to prepare for it at all, Falkar was suddenly at the heart of a whirlwind. He staggered, buffeted by the powerful forces around him, and insanely he actually tried hacking at it with his sword. The wind, in turn, knocked the sword away from him. He heard it clatter away, turned in the direction that he thought it had fallen, but wasn’t able to track it. Instead he found himself helplessly staggering around, unable to seek it out. He snarled “I hate this planet!” under his breath, and at that moment came to the conclusion that the Xenexians were welcome to the damned place. If he never saw it again after this day, he would count himself fortunate.
He couldn’t see anything. He went to one knee, squinted fiercely, and bowed his head against the blasting of the wind. He felt around, hoping against hope that he would be able to locate his weapon. He’d probably have to track down M’k’n’zy all over again, because certainly the little barbarian would use this convenient cover to escape. That was the problem with Xenex: Nothing on the planet was ever simple.
And then wonderfully, miraculously, his questing hands discovered his fallen weapon. As the wind shrieked around him, his fingers brushed against the unmistakable metal of the blade as it lay on the ground. He let out an exclamation of joy and tried to reach over for the hilt so he could pick it up.
Suddenly the blade was lifted off the ground and for a moment he thought that the wind had tauntingly snatched it away once again. He lunged after it . . .
. . . and suddenly found that it was buried in his chest, up to the hilt.
And there was a mouth speaking softly in his ear, a nearness that almost seemed to imply a degree of intimacy. A voice that whispered, “Looking for this?”
Falkar tried to reply, but all he managed to get out was a sort of truncated gurgle. The sound of the storm diminished, replaced by a pounding in his head that blotted out all other noise. And then he rolled over onto his back, and the last thought on his mind was—unsurprisingly—the same thought he’d had only moments earlier. . . .
I hate this planet. . . .
II.
TRYING NOT TO THINK about what he was doing . . . trying not to let the pain overwhelm him completely . . . M’k’n’zy held his face together until he was reasonably sure that blood was no longer fountaining from the gaping wound. He had no idea just how temporary the stoppage was. He was certain that the only thing preventing more bleeding was the pressure that he was applying, and considering the fact that he was fighting off unconsciousness, he had no clue how long he could continue to apply that pressure. He had visions of slumping over and bleeding to death through his sliced-open face.
He wondered if he would dream in that state. He wondered what he would dream of. Would his father and mother come walking out of swirling mists, extend a welcoming hand to him and bring him to wherever it was their souls resided (as the priests of Calhoun preached)? Or would there be blackness and oblivion (as M’k’n’zy suspected)? Then he realized his thoughts were drifting and he forced himself to focus once more.
The storm had begun to subside, and M’k’n’zy began rummaging around Falkar’s body, using one hand while continuing to apply pressure to his face with the other. He was reasonably sure by this point that his right eye was intact, if for no other reason than that he didn’t think anything was oozing out of the socket. But he could still barely see worth a damn, and he was operating more on feel than on sight.
He had already stuck Falkar’s sword into his own belt. He felt the ornate hilt, and decided it was so elaborate that it was probably connected somehow to the royal house from which Falkar hailed. He checked around Falkar’s belt and discovered some sort of pouch attached to it. He pulled on it, and it refused to yield. He yanked again, this time channeling some of the pain he was fighting off into the motion, and the pouch obediently came free. He rummaged through the pouch, hoping to find something along the lines of a first-aid kit. But there was nothing like that. Instead it appeared to be a tool pouch of some sort. Not unusual even though someone of Falkar’s rank could hardly be considered a common repairman. Danteri prided themselves on being prepared for all manner of situations, and being able to make quick fixes would certainly fall under that consideration.
Then his fingers curled around something that he immediately realized could very well be of use. It was a small laser welder, handy for repairing any cracked metal surface (such as, for instance, a broken sword, or perhaps a vehicle with a hole torn in the side).
It was not, of course, intended for flesh. Unfortunately, that was the use that M’k’n’zy intended to put it to.
M’k’n’zy sat down, bracing his back against an outcropping of rock. He brought the hilt of the sword up to his teeth and bit down on it. And then he raised the welder to his face and flicked the switch. From the two prongs which extended from the top, a small, intense beam of light flickered for a moment and then held steady. He adjusted the controls, trying to bring it down to its lowest intensity, but even that looked daunting. He could not allow himself hesitation, however, for he felt blood starting to flow anew from the wound. He had no idea how much blood he had already lost, but if he didn’t do something soon, there was no question in his mind that he was going to bleed to death.
The one comfort be took was that his face was already feeling so numb, he doubted he had much sensitivity left in it.
He brought the welder up to his face and took several deep breaths, once again doing everything he could to push away whatever pain he might feel. Then he touched the laser welder to his skin at his temple, at the top of the gash.
He immediately discovered that he was still more than capable of feeling pain. A sharp hiss of air exploded from between his teeth even as he fought to keep his hands steady, struggled to make sure that his head didn’t move. He bit down even more tightly on the hilt. He smelled meat burning and realized that it was him. He kept telling himself, Detach. Detach. Ignore it. The pain is happening to someone else very far away. It’s not happening to you. Watch it from a great distance and do not let it bother you. And as he kept repeating this, slowly he drew the laser welder down the side of his face. It was delicate work, because—working entirely by touch—he had to hold the pieces of his traumatized face together and heat-seal them, while at the same time keeping his fingers out of the way of the laser itself. Once he got too close and nearly bisected his thumb.
He had no idea how long it took him to complete the grisly task. When he finished, the laser welder dropped from his numbed fingers. He slumped over, the world spinning around him, and it was only at that point that he realized he was still chomping down on the hilt. He opened his mouth slightly and the short sword clattered to the ground. He noted, with grim amusement, that he had bitten into the hilt so hard that he’d left tooth marks.
He was still chuckling over that when he passed out.
When he awoke, his first thought was that he had been lying there for about a week. He couldn’t even feel his mouth; his lips had completely swollen up and gone totally numb. Blissfully, night had fallen. The cool air wafted across him, gentle as a lover’s embrace.
His mind informed him that this was the time to move. This was the time to haul himself to his feet and get the hell out of the Pit. It was always easier to travel at night. And he decided that that was exactly what he was go
ing to do . . . as soon as he had rested up just a little more. He closed his eyes and—when he opened them once more—the sun was just starting to come up above the horizon.
And a creature was coming toward him.
It was small, scuttling, and seemed particularly interested in the pool of blood that had coagulated beneath his head. And, as a secondary curiosity, it also appeared to have taken a fancy to the newly soldered gash in his face. It had a hard shell, black pupils eyes, and small pincerlike claws that were clacking toward M’k’n’zy’s eyes. Given another few seconds, it would easily have scooped out M’k’n’zy’s right eye as if it were ice cream.
M’k’n’zy didn’t even realize that he was still clutching the sword. All he knew was that, instinctively, his hand was in motion and he brought the gleaming blade swinging down and around, slicing the creature efficiently in two with such force that the two halves of the beast literally flew in opposite directions.
He smiled grimly to himself, or at least he thought he did, because he couldn’t feel anything in his face.
Slowly he forced himself up to standing, his legs beginning to buckle under him before he managed to straighten them out. He tentatively rubbed the caked blood out of his eye and was pleased to discover—upon judcious blinking—that the eye was most definitely in one piece. He surveyed his surroundings, confident in his ability to find his way around in the Pit.
That self-possession lasted for as long as it took him to get a look at his whereabouts. That was when he came to the sudden, horrendous realization that he had no clear idea where he was. “It can’t be,” he muttered through his inflamed lips. “It can’t be.” He had been certain that he knew every mile, every yard of the area.
But he had collapsed right in place . . . hadn’t he? No. No, apparently not. Because now, as M’k’n’zy ran the recent events through his head, there were brief moments of lucidity interspersed with the unconsciousness. He realized that, even barely conscious, he had started trying to head for home. It was as if he’d been on autopilot. But because he’d been operating in an ill, semidelusional state, he hadn’t gone in any useful direction. He supposed he should count himself lucky; after all, he might have walked off a cliff. Still, he had lost enough blood to float an armada, he had a gaping wound on his face, he felt a throbbing in his forehead, and his pulse was racing. He had a suspicion that he was running a fever. Well, that was perfect, just perfect. In addition to everything else he probably had a major infection of some kind.