Vardoon moved among them, looking, frowning as he moved on, halting to pick something from a corpse. A thin chain bearing a small locket which he tucked into a pocket. The trinket was of little value but would be worth a meal or a session in the baths. He moved on, halting to stare at a body.
"Earl!"
Dumarest joined him to stare at the drawn face of Wiess. He hadn't died easily; one leg was bent at an impossible angle and a film of blood coated his chin and the clothing of his chest. As yet he had been untouched but as Dumarest stooped to look closer a shadow drifted overhead, then joined by others.
"Let's move on." Dumarest straightened and stepped from the body. Overhead the birds were circling, eyes like gems, beaks parted, the rustle of wings a thin keening in the frigid air.
"A moment." Vardoon bent over the body, fingers searching. "He could have something of value. Check the others, Earl."
The dead no longer had use for what they had owned. Trinkets, rings, coins, hidden wealth-all fruit for scavengers and life itself to the desperate. The birds circled lower as Dumarest moved away.
"Earl?" Vardoon lifted his head, scowling as he saw Dumarest leave the area. "They're dead, man," he said. "Why be so squeamish?"
Caution had dictated the move. Dumarest looked again at the birds, at the man now centered beneath them, the predator who had joined the others. To the birds he was a rival robbing them of their prey and, starving because of the storm, they would not be inclined to yield.
"Hart!"
Dumarest yelled the warning as a bird dropped to attack. It fell with folded wings, a living missile, claws extended, beak closed and poised to strike. It hit as Vardoon straightened, missing his head but tearing at his shoulder, claws ripping the layers of fabric as if they had been knives. Opened, the wings hammered like flails and the beak struck to lift, to strike again.
The blows missed the eyes but tore at the cheeks and sent blood to stain the chin, the cloth protecting the throat.
Vardoon snarled, hands lifting, fists hammering, ducking as he avoided the beak and claws, slipping as the bird rose to wheel aside, to be replaced by another, more, a half dozen frenzied, battering shapes.
"Earl! I- Earl!"
Dumarest was already running, stooping as he ran, one hand dropping to the knife in his boot, rising loaded with pointed, razor-edged steel. Ducking his head he joined the other man, cutting, the blade stabbing up at a menacing shape, feeling the blow and rake of claws on his back, the rasp of a beak on his skull. Blood showered in a carmine rain as a bird rose to flap weakly aside, to fall dying on the snow. Bait for a cluster of its fellows but others remained. Dumarest heard the thrum of wings and dodged, slipping as he threw up his left arm, feeling the shock and jar as claws tore at the muffling fabric, the plastic of his clothing beneath, ripping it to reveal the metal mesh imbedded within. Protection which saved him from laceration if not from bruising.
Recovering, he met the attack, dodging, the knife rising to send its edge against the long, scabrous throat-a cut which severed the head and sent the body flapping in a wild burst of reflex action.
As it fell Dumarest shouted, "Hart! Away, man! Away!"
‹›Run and leave the field to those who had claimed it first. The dictate of caution-a claw could rip out an eye, a beak tear open a throat and nothing could be gained to balance the risk. Vardoon snarled as he beat at a winged shape, hands clamping, twisting, breaking the neck before using the jerking body as a club to beat at others. A man touched with berserker fury, blood masking his face, eyes burning, clothing stained and smoking with freshly spilled blood.
"Hart!"
Dumarest looked up as the man lowered his arm, the dead bird trailing from his hand. Above, a silent shape dropped from the skies, a bird plummeting, claws extended, curved to strike, and would hit unless Vardoon moved but, lost in his rage, he would recognize the danger too late. Dumarest drew back his arm, threw it forward, the knife a blur as it left his fingers, to hit and drive deep into the body of the predator. Blood jetted as the creature spun, its raucous cry rising harsh and strident in a grating squawk which snapped Vardoon fully aware.
"Earl! What-"
"Move!" Dumarest ran forward, snatched up the dead bird, tugged free his knife. "Away, man! Hurry!"
Snow lifted in little cakes from beneath his boots as he led the way from the area. Behind them the birds wheeled, circling the wreck, sounding their triumph as they settled to feed on the dead. Vardoon glanced back at them, touched his face, scowled at the blood dappling his fingers.
"Damned vermin! They nearly got my eyes. That last one would have blinded me for sure if it hadn't been for you."
"I was lucky."
"You were fast," corrected Vardoon. "I've never seen anyone move as fast. Skilled, too. If you hadn't hit I'd-" He shook his head, unwilling to voice what could have happened. Ripped, blinded, at the mercy of the elements and his sole companion. Something which hadn't happened and so could now be forgotten. Looking at the dead bird Dumarest carried, he said, "For us?"
"Yes."
"Smart thinking. I should have held onto the one I had but when that thing almost got me I lost my appetite. Well, Earl, when do we eat?"
They were safely away from the other birds and to wait longer would be to lose the body heat their prey contained.
Dumarest set down the bird, sliced it open, cleaned and skinned it, divided the carcass into two equal portions. Chewing the raw, tough flesh they moved on. That night they saw the trail of a ship rising from the field. By dawn they had reached the town.
Chapter Three
It lay in the cup of hills; a jumble of blank-walled houses roofed with truncated pyramids, the roofs adorned with windmills which flashed and glittered as they spun as if they were decorations on a festive tree. A place of narrow, winding streets designed as a protection against the knife-edged winds of winter, just as the steep roofs guarded against too great a weight of snow, the blank walls the savage impact of driven hail.
A city now closed tight against the hostile elements with movement confined to underground passages. A refuge containing warmth, food, the luxury of baths.
"If you will turn now?"
The girl was young, nubile, detailed to attend him after the session in steam and heat. Near-scalding vapor which had driven out the misery of cold, as earlier food had banished hunger. Obediently Dumarest turned to lie supine on the couch. Above, the ceiling was adorned with stripes and swirls of color each swath set with minute flecks of glistening material.
"Does this please you?" Her hands were flowers laced with steel, the oil scented with musk, her skill obvious as she probed at muscle and sinew. "A little harder? Tell me if I cause pain."
Framed against the decorated ceiling, her face was round, pert, wreathed in a helmet of russet hair cut so as to form upcurved points on either cheek. Her lips were full, smiling. She wore a short garment of diaphanous material arranged so as to leave one shoulder bare, belted to display the swell of hips and buttocks. As she worked her breasts moved in unfettered abandon.
"You've been hurt in the past." Her fingers traced the pattern of cicatrices on his torso, thin lines of scar tissue which were the fruit of edged and pointed steel. The price he had paid to learn a savage trade. "A fighter?"
"No."
"But no stranger to the arena." She was wise beyond her years. "From the workings? If so you may find it hard to get along. If you're interested I know someone who could arrange a bout."
"I'm not."
"A pity. If you're as good as you look you could clean up during the winter."
Or die if luck was against him. Be maimed, crippled, slashed and left with severed tendons, blinded, ruined. He inhaled, filling his lungs with the scent of perfume and oil, adding the remembered smells of sweat and blood, the stink of fear. Seeing the glare of lights, the ring of avid faces, the feral eyes of those who had paid to watch. Vultures screaming for action. Men and women eager to taste vicarious pain, to enjoy vicarious wounds. Beasts yammering for the spectacle of death.
"Relax," said the girl. "You're getting tense." Her hands moved to knead his thighs. "You staying the winter?"
"Probably."
"You could do worse. Things quiet down after a while. Ships don't call during the bad season and there's not much doing until the spring. That's why a good fighter can make decent money. Anything which entertains is popular and a clever man could really enjoy himself. In fact I guarantee it." Her tone left no doubt as to her meaning. "I hope you stay."
"Why?"
"That's a stupid question." She lifted her hands from his body. "That's all for now. If you want to sleep go ahead. If you want anything else just press the button."
The bell which commanded a variety of joys-at a price.
Alone, Dumarest looked at the decorated ceiling and the images it contained. Figures born from the glint of light in color, the shape, the twists which caught the eyes and lulled with hypnotic associations. A dead man with a twisted leg, the gaping beak of a dying bird, a figure stained in blood, which took on the shape of a cowled man with a bleak, skull-like face. A smear of scarlet which spread as he watched to fill his vision.