Four Horsemen

Chapter 3 of the science fiction novel Elis Royd

Elis Royd

Chapter Three

Four Horsemen

“There’s a good boy,” Carver said, grabbing his big Shep by the jowls and affectionately shaking his head. He tugged on a shredded purplish Symaran foot clamped between the dog’s wet fangs. “Okay, Slobber, let go now. Come on, boy. Let go.”

The dog, so rudely torn from sweet reverie, rolled up his eyes until they burned into Carver’s. A steady growl rose from his depths.

Sheps are massive and naturally vicious; one of the few big canines to thrive in the topsy-turvy world of Elis Royd. Most of the smaller breeds succumbed to exotic pestilences long ago, or were simply stung out of existence by leapers. But Sheps, sturdy animals running chocolate brown to deepest black, are magnificently adaptable engines. A best-of mix of the original imported Rottweilers, pits, and mastiffs, they can be impertinent or withdrawn, lazy or restless, amiable, indifferent, or psychotic. So they’re happiest with a master who knows when to chum up and when to keep his distance.

Carver tipped back his second pint of the day.

A Gate Guard’s lot is a good one: long hours basking on a bulwark without a cloud in the sky. Carver had just reclaimed his recliner for the late morning snooze when an oddly tremulous growl made him crack an eye.

Slobber was standing almost perpendicular to the bulwark floor, his paws on the retaining wall, staring hard at the ground outside the complex.

Carver scraped himself upright and peered out at something beyond his drunkest dreams.

A large group of royds was marching purposefully to the Gate, looking almost organized. There must have been sixty of the things, male and female, adult to elderly, of every imaginable species. Most curious of all: the leader wore a kind of bannered overcoat, and the female at his side carried something like a placard covered with gibberish.

Carver sat straight up. “Well, I’ll…” He took Slobber’s collar with one hand and hit the pint with the other. “Hey!” he called down. “If you’re not a nightmare I’m damned. What the hell do you want?”

The royds chattered excitedly. At a prompting from his female, the overcoated male called back:

“We are a committee seeking redress for the atrocities of yesterday.”

“Redress?” Carver shouted, amazed. Slobber whined frantically.

The royds huddled. The leader cleared his long scaly throat. “Reparation, if you will.”

“Redress!” Carver went on. “Atrocities!” Slobber yanked him to his feet. “You’re the atrocities! Atrocious little buggers. Where’s my rifle, Slobbs?”

The dog, whining hard, dragged him along the retaining wall.

Now the leader was fidgeting all over the place. His female smacked his claw until he got up the nerve to shout again:

“We demand redress!”

Carver was able to brake Slobber by slamming into a pylon. He clung there, hanging half over the wall. “You demand re--you…demand?” His nails tore into the wood. “You?”

Slobber’s whine changed gears as a pair of guards edged up from behind. One leaned over and took a hard look. “Messy, man, messy. This is for Council.”

“Council, hell,” said Carver. “We’re going down.”

The second guard broke in, “Let’s not get involved, okay, Carv’?” He laid on a pacifying hand, but removed it at a warning snarl from Slobber.

“One of you guys open the gate.”

Without taking his eyes off the little royd spokesman, Carver choked up on Slobber’s collar. The dog pulled him staggering to the steps.

“Oh man,” said the first guard. “Oh man, oh man, oh man.”

“Just keep out of the way,” replied the second, shaking his head. “Don’t be an idiot.” He hauled down on the chain.

Carver ducked under the rising gate. It took all he had to keep Slobber at bay.

The crowd broke into small backpedaling groups, completely unprepared for this bizarre turn of events. There was genuine menace in Carver’s face. “Who demands redress?”

The little spokesman hunched, looking as though he’d faint. “Sir, we require--we request a word with someone in authority.”

“What do I look like?” Carver shouted. “The village idiot?” Slobber strained wildly, making Carver goose-step forward.

“Carv’!” called a guard. “Let it go, man, let it go!”

“That’s the respect you freaks show humans? Insults? You come here to insult us?” He stamped his foot so hard he almost lost control of the Shep. “Freaks, freaks--you’re all f*****g freaks!”

The female stepped directly between them. “You--” she said. “You keep your distance!”

Carver’s jaw dropped. She was…she was ordering him! There wasn’t a moment to lose. He drew back his fist and laid her right out.

Came a space of complete confusion, a crazy space, and then it seemed every royd in the crowd was screaming. Sweet music to Slobber’s ear--the dog tore free and went for the spokesman’s throat while Carver railed at the scattering royds:

“You think you can come here making demands and we’re all supposed to just smile and kiss your ugly green asses?”

A shot from the Gate tore through the spokesman’s shrieks. It was a shot fired in the air; a warning shot, meant to restore a degree of order.

“You think you can come here mocking a human committee--like you have the slightest idea what civilization’s all about?”

Another shot, then a series. The royds took off in all directions.

Carver disdainfully threw out his arms. “Aww, run then.” He wrestled Slobber off the corpse of the spokesman and dragged him back to the Gate.

“Bad move,” said one of the guards, hurriedly lowering the gate. “Real bad move, man.”

Carver ignored him. He walked Slobber back to their post, collapsed on his recliner and closed his eyes.

He ran his big hand back and forth across his dog’s head and scratched behind the ears. The hand, sliding down the muzzle, encountered the spokesman’s severed leg jutting from Slobber’s jaws.

Carver opened his eyes and his expression lit up. “What’s this, Slobby? Baby’s got a new toy?”

Slobber growled warningly.

“Okay, okay,” Carver said, wiping his hand. “Just teasin’, big fella.”

* * *

The inrush of light peeled open Carver’s bleary unburied eye. Slobber’s head rose slowly.

“What is it?” Carver grated. “I’m on my break, man. Let me catch some winks, willya?”

The light was eclipsed by the guards ostensibly under his command. “I’m afraid it’s bad news, Carv’,” said one. The door opened wide, revealing a contingent of six armed Administration guards. Four immediately aimed their rifles at Slobber; the other two dropped to their knees and hurled a weighted net. Carver was just able to roll free.

“What the hell’s going on? Get away from my dog!”

The Gate guards gripped his arms. “He won’t be hurt. Now hold still, Carver. Please.”

Carver was squeezed between the four rear guards and walked out of the room. The two others remained inside with Slobber. The door was kicked shut.

“What are you doing?” Carver demanded. “Let go of me!”

“Don’t resist,” hissed a Gate guard. “Please don’t resist!”

“Get your f*****g hands off me!” Carver kicked and bit his way free. He was just reaching for the door when a pair of rifle butts arrived half a second apart on each side of his skull.

* * *

A massive iron key turned in the massive iron lock. Carver blinked up from his cold straw bed.

“Story time,” said the armed black silhouette. “Let’s go.”

Carver was prompted down a series of halls to Administration’s Main Courtroom. Three other men waited outside, each accompanied by an Administration guard. The doors were thrust open and the party of eight walked into a big peeling chamber partitioned into two identical sections of tables and benches.

Present were only a bailiff and guards and, pressed into a huddle on the far side, a group of fourteen royds. Carver recognized them as the stupid little pseudo-committee’s nucleus, minus one spokesman, who had caused so much trouble at West Gate.

In the center against the north wall rose the judge’s bench, and, right in front, an oblong table bearing a plain wood coffin.

The bailiff announced: “His High Just Justice, the Honorable Wain.”

A black curtain was pulled aside and Honorable Wain strode to the bench. Iron-gray, hunched, bilious and lined. And, of course, sweating like a pig.

“Down, down, down. Everybody sit down.” He scattered some papers until he came to a rolled parchment. Wain donned his glasses and turned to the royds.

“This is an original copy of the Ellis Asteroid Constitution, brought to us by a royd seeking guaranteed naturalization via expiration on Administration grounds. His body disappeared so his argument was academic, though the Article, 73-A, is perfectly valid.”

Wain lovingly smoothed the parchment.

“Beautiful, is it not? Priceless; in far better shape than our own cherished copies.” He wiped his face and neck. “Your argument too is valid, and as you are the first to exercise your right to express it, I congratulate you. You are an organized body legally filing a grievance in an official Court of Earth Administration.

“Now, you claim in your statement that an Administration officer, Governor Quentis Wilde, led a party of three riders on a massacre of our local royds while on official business. This is your first charge. You are suing Earth Administration for unspecified redress to be defined as we go along.

“To begin with, you will need to confirm an identity.

“In that casket is the body of Governor Wilde. Each of you file by now, and tell me you are certain this is the man you witnessed committing the alleged atrocities.”

The first royd to peer in was a male Rauxus; pasty gray, with tiny flexible tusk-like feelers round his oval muzzle. He was dressed humbly for Court, in homemade straw vest and dyed burlap top hat, to resemble an Earthman shopkeeper featured in one of Administration’s archaic welcoming brochures. He looked back up with an expression of horror and disgust.

“This human has no face.”

“Governor Wilde,” Honorable Wain said impatiently, “suffered an accident with a firearm in his quarters. The surgeon has done an admirable job sewing the flaps and fragments together. Look again, and be certain.”

The little male stared long and hard. “He is the one.”

“Next.”

One by one the royds filed by. Each matched the Raux’ reaction, and each concurred with his appraisal.

“Fine. Now I’ll need you to identify his accomplices. Guards, bring forward the group prisoners.”

He turned back to the royds. “Search well these faces, and take your time. Are these the three humans under the charge of Governor Wilde?”

A female said, “We do not need time. They are the ones.”

“And you speak for your group?”

“I do.”

“Guards, return the prisoners to their seats.

“Now as to your second charge. You claim that a guard at our West Gate unleashed his dog on one of your own, killing him outside of Earth Administration walls. Do you see that man in this Courtroom?”

“I do.”

It was the same female. Carver looked her dead in the eye, his blood rising. The Courtroom was still.

“And?”

Their stare went on and on. Carver was letting her know he’d butcher her if it was his last act alive, and she was reading him plain. Her arm rose slowly. Every eye in that chamber was magnetically drawn, every breath held. “He is sitting,” she articulated at last, “directly across from me.” She pointed her long crooked first digit.

Honorable Wain’s eyes followed the motion and swung back. “And you are?”

“The murdered male’s widow.”

Wain clucked twice, dropped back his head and, addressing the ceiling, said, “Murder is such an explosive word. I am considering negligence on the part of a Gate guard, a serious charge to be sure.”

The royds grumbled and huddled.

The female said, “And the massacre? Also a case of negligence?”

Honorable Wain ground his teeth. “Take another look in that box, ma’am. It is quite obvious that Governor Wilde is beyond the jurisprudence of this Court. As to his accomplices, they were compelled to follow his orders. As to Mr. Carver here, it is evident he was unable to control a guard dog provoked by your mob. And as to the animal, it is presently kenneled and will be put to sleep this evening.”

Carver rose before his guard could respond. “Slobber!”

Wain looked over with distaste. “Slobber yourself, sir. Guard, restrain that man.”

He turned back to the royds. “Additionally, Sergeant of the Guard Carver was found intoxicated at his post. For this, there is the fine of one day’s wages. As he is no longer employed, the issue is moot and the fee waived.”

He sighed. “Once again, I applaud your mettle.” Wain peered over his glasses. “Please understand that your case is not being dismissed. I, like every peace-loving man of Earth, realize that all denizens of Ellis Asteroid are equal under the Law, and must be treated with the dignity, compassion, and respect demanded by our forebears. I am certain all good Earthmen can generously sympathize with your profound sense of loss. But I’m afraid this entire convoluted ordeal is a civil matter.”

“This,” the female hissed, “is a case of wanton killing--the heartless destruction of field hands, of bystanders, of innocent mothers and children! This is no ‘civil matter’!”

Wain slammed down his gavel. “You’ll hold your tongue, royd! This is my Courtroom, and it is run by my rules, and the verdict will be mine and mine alone! Do you understand that? Open your filthy little mouth again and I’ll have you jailed for contempt!”

The group of royds cringed, but the female stood tall. Her eyes flashed from Wain to Carver to the three guards. The Courtroom was quiet. Her eyes slid back to Carver’s.

“It is the verdict of this Court,” Wain pronounced almightily, “that these four prisoners acted irresponsibly. I find their conduct wholly unprofessional. It is therefore the judgment of this court that they be permanently relieved of their positions, and replaced by men more able to make mature decisions. Have the complainants anything to add?”

The little female burned against the huddle. “Empur se;” she muttered, “ulis rawn hom pynon.”

“What was that?”

“This is not over,” she said.

“It most certainly is!” Honorable Wain smacked down his gavel. “This Court is adjourned!”

* * *

A tall thin Administration guard, one of the pair responsible for subduing Carver’s dog, moved easily down the hall to a waiting room reserved for folks with Court business. He walked in and stared coolly at the royd female.

“Close the door,” she said.

He did so, took a chair opposite, and placed a rolled canvas bag on the table.

She lifted a pouch off her lap, untied the knot, and set down the pouch so its contents were visible. Showing were maybe a dozen precious stones. She took two of the smallest--a sea-green quartz chunk, and a brownish opaline pebble--and slid them across the table. “As we agreed.”

The guard in turn slid the canvas bag to a spot beside the stones. The female pulled it between her arms, unrolled it and took a peek.

Inside was the ratty wool blanket off of Carver’s bed, stinking of Earthman and dog hair. The odor was so high she was compelled to immediately re-roll the bag.

“I took a big chance getting that thing,” the guard said.

She met him eye-to-eye. After a long minute she said, “You are a brave human.”

“I could be court-martialed, or worse.”

She studied his face: eager but uncertain. Earthman sweat, the clammy stuff, was gathering at his temples. Finally she said, “That would be a shame.”

He licked his lips, clenched his fists, and tried again. “They could make me talk. They pay us so little…what choice would I have?”

“But you are a reasonable human.”

“Yes--I can be reasonable.”

She picked out a tiny violet chip, spotted and pale on one end, and slid it forward. Without another word she grabbed the pouch and bag and stalked out of the room.

* * *

Inside the holding tank, reality was just kicking in. The four ex-guards sat one to a wall, commenting in round-robin fashion:

“Booted off Administration,” said the first. He tried to snap his fingers, but produced only a mushy sound. “Just like that.”

“Nowhere to go,” said the next. This was true: coincidentally, all four were bachelors living in Administration quarters. “No job, no paycheck, no home.”

“Out of the Guard forever,” said the third. “My whole life…it’s over. I’m too old to look for something new.”

“I’m gonna kill that b***h,” said Carver. “I’m gonna screw her royd a*s right up a flagpole and watch her fly.” He turned to his company. “It was her what put us in this position. It’s royd logic: work one Earthman against another. If you think I’m gonna rot in the alleys of Administration while those freaks party it up you got another think coming.”

“You have a plan?”

“Listen,” said Carver. “I hate royds. I don’t disagree with them, I don’t dislike them--I despise them! So I’m gonna crash that party. I’m gonna break it up and burn it down and ride away with every precious stone and all the gold those b******s have glommed. Anyway, everything on Elis Royd is by Law of human origins and ownership, right? I’m gonna live like a counselor for the rest of my natural days, and I’m bringing any man who wants to come with me.”

“But see here,” said the first, “you can’t just run around beating up every royd you encounter. You’ll need weapons, and provisions, and a good horse for hard travel.”

“This place has an armory, right? There’s warehouses, ain’t there? It’s got stables, don’t it?”

“You mean--?”

The door opened and the bailiff strolled in. “Okay, I hate to see you guys leaving out the back door, but you’re free to go.”

“Where’s Kennel?” said Carver.

The bailiff regarded him sourly. “No visiting, Carver. It’s back of Items, but seeing the old slobberer again would just break your heart.”

Carver walked up and affectionately draped his arm over the bailiff’s shoulders. “Y’know, Henry,” he said, “you’re the first guy ever accused me of having a heart,” and threw him into a vicious headlock. Carver balled his fist, aimed, and knocked him out with two crushing blows to the nape.

“I thought,” someone whispered harshly, “we were going to take it out on royds!”

Carver smiled. “‘We’?” He stripped off the bailiff’s uniform. “Was that a slip, son?”

“It’s Redrick. Carl Redrick.”

“Maurice,” said another.

“I’m Albert.”

“And I’m gone.” Carver edged out the door while buttoning up the bailiff’s shirt.

“Quite the man,” whispered Maurice.

Albert nodded. “A man’s man.”

Carl made it unanimous. “An Earthman.”

They soon caught up, and then all four were quickly working their way down poorly lit halls to a courtyard exit. Sirius had set; the rush of twilight was on. Carver, guided to Kennel by the howls, marched up to the cages while his men waited in the lobby, peering through a small observation window.

“You guys have a large black Shep in here,” Carver said amiably, thrusting forth his chest. The badge caught and passed the overheads. “I’ll need the big guy for witness identification immediately. They’re holding the Court until I get back. So please make it fast, or it’s my a*s.”

Three minutes later he was in the lobby with an ecstatic muzzled Slobber. Carver called back through the door, “Friendly fella, ain’t he?” and waved.

Once they were outside he removed the muzzle and said, “Put forth your hands.” It was already dark. Each man held out a hand. “Down by mine.” The arms were lowered. “Everybody grip.” Carver clasped the three hands, making a knot of four. “Sniff, boy.” Slobber sniffed the arms up and down while the three men sweated. “Let go.” The locked hands released.

“Now he knows we’re buddies,” Carver said. “Now you can sleep without worrying your throats are gonna be torn out. He’ll protect you the way he protects me.”

“Smashing!” Maurice whispered, cramming his shaking hand deep into his coat’s pocket. “What now?”

And with those two little words Carver knew he was in complete command. “Now;” he said, “now we get us some leverage.”

They all knew the location of Armory. Each man calmly signed in, just like a thousand times before. Still in uniform, they marched into Stock. Carl closed the door behind them.

The lone officer scowled at Slobber. “Sorry, sir. No dogs allowed. You know that.”

Carver said, “Get him!” The Shep leapt almost without going into a crouch, springing, at a forty-five degree angle, straight to the officer’s neck.

“Hold!” Carver commanded. Slobber kept the terrified man motionless on the floor, his jaws clamped just above the jugular.

Everything went into a custodian’s cart: rifles, bows, quivers and arrows, various handguns, crossbows, combustibles, boxes and boxes of ammunition. Carver tore down Stock’s faded Terran flag and threw it over the cart. He leaned down to address the officer.

“Be a very intelligent man. Do not make a move or utter a word. Sleep here tonight, with one eye open, and forget whatever you think you may have seen.” To Slobber he repeated, “Hold!” and rejoined his men.

They calmly rolled out the cart, signed out on the register, and slipped into the night. In a minute there came a high trilling whistle. Slobber released his prisoner one fang at a time and meekly padded out of the building. The officer, controlling his breathing, gently closed his eyes.

“Provisions is on M Street,” said Albert.

“Right.”

Carver guided them to bins behind the stables. “So you’re gonna watch the guns right here, Al, and we’re gonna be right back.” They quietly emptied the cart.

Albert sat on the pile like a wary mother hen while the men rolled up L Street to M, where Carver had Slobber leap into the empty cart. He covered it with the flag and they wheeled their crouching cargo through the main entrance.

A heavyset woman commanded the desk.

“Delivery,” said Carver.

She looked up, bored almost to inertia. “In the back.”

“No, no,” Carver said, “special delivery.” He tore off the flag. “This is Fido. He eats people. But only bad people. Be a good people and order up fifty pounds of jerky; beef, turkey, and pork. Fifty pounds of freeze-dried fruits and vegetables, instant coffee, dried milk, salt and sugar. Oh, and eighteen liter bottles of Kentucky bourbon. For medicinal purposes. Please include in that order forty pounds of dried gourmet dog food, and one roll of strong duct tape.”

The provisions came up unattended on the freight elevator. The men loaded it all into the cart while Carver did up the woman’s mouth, wrists, and ankles with tape. He then taped her entire body, head to toes, to one leg of the heavy desk. They wheeled back to the stables.

“Credit where due,” said Carl, and bowed. “You, Mr. Carver, certainly know your stuff.”

Carver bowed back. “But I don’t know horses. That’s your department. Can you fellows persuade the proprietor to loan us four good steeds, along with a couple of sturdy pack animals?”

Maurice pulled a shotgun from the pile. “Just watch.”

Carver got comfortable with his dog and a liter of Kentucky bourbon. It was the genuine stuff all right, locked up in Warehouse so long the label had disintegrated. A pregnant moment: whereas an hour before he was looking at a dead future without a job or a roof, he now saw an opportunity for perpetual growth, and an escape from the routine of Administration.

And in this same vision he saw an ugly little royd woman with a long branch stuck up her privates, screaming like a banshee for mercy, and he saw that bright sticky red branch moving out her misshapen mouth, up her low barrel proboscis, and straight into her squealing lesser brain. Her death would be long and deep and smooth; as long as his coming reign of terror, as deep as the luster of countless precious stones, as smooth as the rich flow of bourbon now warming his homeless belly.

A compound clatter drew him out of his dream.

The steeds were beautiful, running roan to deepest brown. The pack horses were speckled gray fillies, bearing new saddlebags and harnesses.

The men provisioned the packers and made their way to a rusted egress-only turnstile that would lead them forever out of Earth Administration. “Just a second,” said Carver, and dismounted. He stepped over to a dismal tree and snapped off a dead branch. He measured it, with his eyes and with his mind: between the legs, out the mouth, up the nose, in the brain.

“What’s that?” called Maurice.

Carver slid it into a saddle sheath.

“Oh, just my lucky stick.”

* * *

“Knock knock.”

Carver pulled aside the hut’s flap and stared inside.

Slobber’s head poked round his shoulder--the dog’s eyes were gleaming, his gums black and foaming over; he looked rabid. To the huddling Besm family, no sight could have been more terrifying.

This was a much different-looking Carver than the man of a week before: his gray-shot beard and mussed hair gave him a wild appearance, and the stress lines of rugged living and three score royd murders made him seem far less sane than he really was.

“Mind if we join you?”

He made his way on hands and knees, one arm pressed through Slobber’s collar. He sat cross-legged, and to Slobber said, “Still!”

The dog grudgingly reclined and just stared: he knew another kill was in progress, and had learned to savor the moment. No scent was headier than royd terror.

“I’m looking for someone,” Carver said, “and was wondering if you good folks could help me out. So far I’ve had no luck at all.”

He drew a long throwing knife from an ankle sheath, using it to make his points in the air.

“She’s a royd; I don’t know for sure what species. Ugly as pus on s**t. But I thought maybe you guys might recognize her if I gave you some background.”

The grandmother picked up an infant and protectively cradled it in her arms.

Carver’s whole face lit up. “Aww! How cute! How old?”

The family was silent.

Carver had a worn rifle sheath strapped to his back, and in this sheath he carried the branch removed from Earth Administration. He’d given it considerable attention in his spare time; whittling, smoothing, engraving designs. He displayed the branch proudly.

“See this? It’s my lucky stick. It’s for someone special; that royd s**t I just mentioned. I’d like to dedicate it, but for the life of me I simply can’t remember her name. Anybody?”

The family’s eyes were all over the place.

“Anyway,” Carver went on, “she’s the widow of another royd; some henpecked pissant who went and got his self killed outside of EarthAd just over a week ago. Seems this husband was trying to start a big to-do about our ex-governor’s little hunting expedition, but I’m pretty sure she’s the brains behind the whole operation, not him. Sound familiar? Everybody knows you royds are a regular party line when it comes to piss and propaganda.”

He brought the blade up close to the face of an elderly male, evidently the grandfather, and pointed it like a bully stabbing a forefinger.

“You? Any bells?” He moved to a middle-aged female. “How’s about you?”

Carver’s eyes darkened. “Are you monsters mutes, or just idiots?”

Slobber began a long low growl that rose in pitch like a cello moving up the scale in legato. Carver screamed at the father: “You?”

He tore the infant from the grandmother and held the knife to its throat.

“Emra,” mumbled the middle-aged female. “Widow Baldain.”

“Ah! And how would that be spelled?” Carver carefully engraved the name as the female spelled it out. He looked back up with a smile. “And where would I find her?”

“On move.”

“Where do I find her!”

“She find you.”

“Last chance.” He pressed in the blade until the infant shrieked. “Where do I find her?”

The female looked away. “Funeral. Funeral Baldain.”

“Where’s this funeral, damn you! Where do I find her?”

“Maert’n.”

“North of here?”

“In Maert’n. Maert’n.”

“Thanks.”

Carver grunted in the sudden spray, though his eyes remained wide and fixed.

“Now, was that so f*****g hard? Love to stay and chat, folks, but I’ve really got to run.”

* * *

His mind was racing as he strode up to his men, the front of his shirt sopping blood. Carver wiped off the knife, snapped it in its sheath, and whistled. Slobber immediately bounded out of the trashed hut.

“I think we’re getting somewhere now.”

Albert glared from his horse. “We’re getting nowhere.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He means,” said Maurice, “that your obsession with this dumb old royd is a dead end. For us, anyway.”

Carl broke in, “I think what we’re trying to say here, Carv’, ol’ pal of ours, is…how do I phrase this…oh, yeah: just how much f*****g loot did you pull out of there, anyway?”

The three riders were hot, dusty, and dog-tired. Carver looked them over. “How long has this been going on?”

“How long have we been on the road?”

Carver shook his head incredulously. “We’re already rich as b*****s. What in the world is everybody’s big hurry? It can only get better.”

“It’s like you said,” Carl rumbled. “We’re loaded. And now we want to spend it! We’re sick of living like tramps!”

“Well, I’ve got some big fat news for you, tramp. With a little gentle persuasion, I just learned the location of the royds’ Great Hoard.”

Carl sneered. “A fairy tale.”

“Believe what you want. I just got it from the source.”

“Where then?”

“North of here. Place called Maert’n.”

Maurice leaned down. “Define ‘Hoard’.”

Carver spread his arms. “Picture an underground mountain of precious stones, growing since Elis Royd began. Now picture that mountain gleaming with nuggets of gold, and with silver ornaments polished to a high sheen.”

“I’ve heard of Maert’n,” Albert mused, “but I’ve never heard of this underground mountain.”

“Then maybe you guys should start taking notes, instead of sitting around on your asses complaining all day.”

“I’m game,” said Maurice. “But, Carver, if there’s no hoard it’s the end of the road, okay?”

“Okay. If that’s the case we can head home, keep going, or split up every man for himself.”

As they pressed on, Carver embellished by way of imagination until he half-believed his own fabrication. But it was obvious his command was seriously diminished. The group bent to a more democratic approach, discussing rather than following. When it came to directions, Carver’s straightforward methods were voted down. Instead, Maurice asked passed royds how to reach Maert’n, and by duly following these directions they eventually found themselves moving through treacherous territory filled with softball-sized gnats and vile-smelling fumaroles. A stuffiness filled the air, bringing about a running stupor. The underbrush, a hybrid of a Terran import and one or more species of extraterrestrial flora, snatched at the horses’ passing hooves. As the sultriness grew, the woozy riders were forced to dismount, leaving their steeds to graze on mireweed.

“Screwed!” Albert spewed. “We’ve been lied to all the while. This way goes nowhere. Worse--it goes somewhere I don’t want to know about.”

“I’ve got to rest,” said Carl. “Something in my bones.”

Carver studied them sourly. “So what did I tell you about royds? But no…you guys have to play Tourist instead of beating out some solid information.” He uncapped a fresh liter of bourbon.

“Maert’n,” Maurice mumbled, twisting a lip, “Maert’n…a nice place to hang, you’d say?” He turned his half-shadowed face to Carver’s. “Now I wonder where we might find that on the map.”

Carver swallowed mightily. “Royds don’t make maps! They don’t think like us. When are you guys gonna get that through your heads?” He watched a leafy tendril creep up a filly’s foreleg. Something misty and bulbous landed on her rump, but she flicked it away with her tail. Carver really knocked back the bottle.

Carl said, “My guess is we’ve been set up.” He ripped open his shirt. “I can’t breathe.”

“We’re mired,” Maurice noted. “We have to get out of the lowlands; look for higher ground.” But he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. “A campfire,” he panted. “Keep away the insects.”

“Capital idea!” Carver blurted. He’d already downed a fifth of the liter. “I wholefartedly agree!” He rolled onto his side, hugging the liquor. “Let me know when we’re cruising.”

Twilight came on like a runaway locomotive. The men watched Carver heaving there, occasionally drawing the liter to his mouth and slurping steadily in the manner of a baby at its bottle. Sparks appeared in the gathering dark, slowly drifting to the ground to begin their nightly reproductive cycle among swarms of ravening dirtbabies. Every now and then a long pallid tube wound down a stalk and swept tentatively along the ground.

“Mountain of treasure…” Albert muttered. “Bullshit like all the rest.” He turned his heavy eyes to his friends. “We’ve got what we came for. Why are we hanging around with him?”

The other two were silent.

Finally Carl said, “Maurice is right. We need a campfire.”

Curled up next to his snoring master, Slobber watched curiously as the men scavenged tinder and put up a blaze. His eyes, reflecting the light, gradually fell closed.

“I’m done and undone,” Carl said, flopping onto his roll. “This is as far as I go. I’d rather take my chances in the shadows of EarthAd with gold in my pockets.”

“I for one,” seconded Albert, “cannot give you a single intelligent argument to the contrary.”

Their eyes all met.

“In the morning, then,” said Maurice. “Before he wakes.”

Carl and Albert nodded. “Before he wakes.”

The men stretched out like the dead, their skulls stuffed with mud, their ears singing. Mouths fell open, gulping the hot hanging air.

And the sleepers squirmed and twisted down their stalks. They inched along the ground while the horses, having grazed their fill on mireweed, heaved and swayed on trembling legs. A ruddy mist drifted over the hollow, obscuring the stars. Somewhere a gninr began its piercing guttural call, quickly answered by a female half a mile away.

And the sleepers crawled across forearms and crept over chins, slithered into mouths and slid down throats, deadening nerves with glandular secretions along the way.

On Carver’s side of the fire they were absent. The bourbon on his breath kept them away, and Slobber’s rapid panting worked against infiltration.

One by one the horses dropped. One by one the grouped slumberers clutched their guts and went into the fetal position. And the fire sighed and died, and Elis Royd’s vermin-choked shroud fell full on the unconscious four horsemen, three turning fitfully and one snoring well, and on the whining and kicking black Shep, happily mauling royds in a dream.

* * *

A Rauna coach clattered up the dirt drive running half-around a low brick and steel compound. An ancient, gaunt Utpu female wheeled out to meet it, just as she did for all callers and customers. Her chair was custom-crafted for Utpua, who possess only stubs for upper limbs, and a single, powerful, tadpole-like lower extremity. The vehicle’s point of locomotive thrust lay in the base’s geared arbor, rather than in the wheels themselves. Healthy Utpua are able to move upright with vigor, by a kind of serpentine semi-pirouette. Advanced in years as she was, Irith was only able to propel herself with steady arbor-pulls utilizing the great nether dorsal muscle, where she still possessed the strength of her species. The problem, at her age, was standing.

Emra stepped unassisted from the coach. When she was properly composed the driver handed down a sloppily rolled canvas bag. Emra glided up to Irith and bowed. They touched foreheads. “It has been long,” Irith hissed. They closed their eyes.

“This cannot wait.”

They rolled their necks side to side while their foreheads remained in contact, exchanging pheromones.

Irith said: “You consort with Rauna?”

“The need is pressing.” Emra stopped rolling, permitting transmission of a single focused thought. “From now on, consorting can only mean ‘with Earthmen’.” Their mouths were centimeters apart, their brows sopping. “I have overseen Baldain’s funeral.”

“I have heard.” Again their necks rolled. “Eight days. Many hundreds of mourners, of several species. You are honored.”

“Yes.” Emra straightened. Their brows relaxed; the hundreds of gaping follicles distended, the prehensile nerve stems receded. Emra offered, “You wish?”

Irith nodded curtly. “You may.”

Emra pushed the chair over the drive and into Irith’s main chamber.

Irith was the asteroid’s richest royd female; a clinging legend, both feared and respected. Her success only confounded the royd population, but the secret to her wealth would be perfectly understandable to anyone within the EarthAd enclosure, for although the Utpua were one of the species most unlike humans in appearance, they were by far the most similar in terms of cunning, and savvy, and in the predisposition to exploitation.

Only one other royd species was on par with the Utpua. These were Emra’s people, a matriarchal breed of world-builders and world-breakers, of which she was a prime specimen. Though Irith and Emra were genetically bound to despise each other’s guts, they could still find a strange, cold camaraderie in their exclusiveness, and in their common distaste for passive royds.

Irith’s great chamber was an open display case for her goods. Tools, barrows, coach parts, medallions and body rings--all were laid out on tables and wall shelves. There was no security, there was only Irith. Royds do not steal.

“Root tea?” she suggested.

“Thank you, no. I am rather pressed.”

“Let us proceed.” Irith took over the locomotion of her own chair, while Emra held aside a succession of heavy black curtains. They came to a thick wood door. Irith nodded and Emra drew it wide.

At their scent a terrifying scream broke the darkness. Something large began thrashing about, panting wildly, banging against its steel-rail walls.

Irith, striking a match gripped in her pursed mouth, lit a high twisting candle.

The room was actually an oblong cage containing a single dojhyr, the last of its kind. When it smelled Emra standing there, an untested royd presence, it leapt directly onto the facing bars and slashed futilely with a massive three-pronged claw.

Emra was now only the second royd to view a dojhyr up close and live to tell about it.

In a state of complete repose, the healthy dojhyr resembles nothing so much as a shiny blue-and-green marble flecked with gold--if that marble happened to be the size of a medicine ball, and plated with flexible, wafer-thin scales that tremble or peak according to emotion. When on the move, that perfect sphere takes on a panther-like shape and stride, but in a highly fluid sense. The belly hangs low to the ground, while the long forelimbs and short hindlimbs c**k and propel the dojhyr like a projectile. It’s a mainly-airborne stride, impelled by great digging turns of those trident nails, and steered with muscular variations of broad, triangle-shaped wings that disappear when the forelimbs retract.

But most arresting of the dojhyr’s appearance is its “face”. The thing has no eyes or ears, no nose or mouth--only a perfectly round, incredibly sensitive central diaphragm the size of a dinner plate. This diaphragm is a nervous nexus; all sensory activity is focalized here according to importance: sounds are received as tympanic vibrations along the pliant rim, and motion detected by thousands of villi-like nerve buds grouped about the center, similar to the waving tentacles on a sea anemone. But scent, that prime survival mechanism for all large ground predators--scent is processed by numberless colonies of spontaneously replicating olfactory glands in the diaphragm’s great yearning heart--a purplish taste-smell nucleus that dilates for feeding, and upon direct contact forms a peristaltic funnel for ingestion. The dojhyr also respires through this opening, and produces its one lung-driven sound, a heart-stopping scream designed to stun its prey. That scream is brought to a howling apex at the kill.

“There is no mate.” Irith spoke matter-of-factly, but with a poorly veiled and most unbecoming tinge of sentimentality. “He will leave no small one behind.”

“A shame.”

On a table beside the candle was a dully shining upright musical device, built like a section of spinal column with seven broad vertebrae of increasing breadth. These were bells of xhilium, a prized artifact of Irith’s, off-display and not for sale. She leaned in and, using the middle stub of her left prehensile upper limb, awkwardly rang the top bell. The tone produced was high in pitch, ethereal, and cathedral-sweet. The dojhyr’s diaphragm vibrated and it leaned toward the sound. Irith rang the next bell, lower in pitch by half an octave. The dojhyr’s claws slipped down the bars. Step by step she rang the bells, until the nether tone sang sepulchrally, low and long, and the dojhyr lay in a slowly heaving stupor.

“The last,” Irith whispered in the echoes.

Emra turned. “I pay well.” She removed her pouch, placed it on the table, and loosened the cord. Nine precious stones sparkled in the candle’s glow.

“You bring a scent?”

Emra placed the canvas bag beside the gently shimmering instrument. Irith used her mouth to crack the top and immediately recoiled. “Stench of Earthmen! What is this?”

“The blanket of a guard at EarthAd, infused with his and his dog’s odors.”

“Of what significance is this filthy thing to you?”

“It is the blanket of the guard who unleashed his dog on our committee, killing Baldain.”

“I see. You may keep your stones. This is not a commercial matter.”

Emra bowed. “Your grace.”

“And yours.”

Irith now rang the bells in reverse, low to high, and the dojhyr gradually came to its senses. She motioned to a grasping tool leaning against the wall. “Remove the scent.”

Emra used the scissor-pronged device to fish out the blanket. At the smell the dojhyr went mad, banging against the bars and hooting by way of a furiously oscillating larynx.

“Pass it through,” said Irith. “And mind your distance.”

The warning was unnecessary: the dojhyr immediately grabbed the blanket and rubbed it desperately in the diaphragm, emitting little hysterical yelps round the folds. It then curled up into a perfect ball and, with the blanket stuck in its orifice like a rat in a dog’s mouth, went rolling wildly about the cage, smashing against the bars, spinning in demented circles on the floor. When it was exhausted it lay weeping softly, shreds and hairs embedded in its scales. The blanket’s stench permeated the room.

“The release,” Irith said, motioning with her head to a lever high on the wall. “Pull it down.”

Emra climbed on a chair and used her weight to haul down on the heavy steel rod. A catch snapped, and the rear wall collapsed. The last of daylight burst into the room.

“Now let go,” said Irith. Emra did so, and the rear cage bars collapsed onto the wall. The dojhyr screamed and bounded into the world.

“The last of his kind,” Irith whispered again.

“You wish?” Emra inquired.

“You may.”

Emra wheeled her out; past the curtains, through the great chamber, and onto the drive.

“You will not stay for tea?”

“I must be at Maert’n by midday.” Emra leaned down and their foreheads met.

After a moment Irith mumbled, “I see…would that I could join you--but the years.”

Emra, gripping the pouch of gemstones to her chest, bent lower and gently kissed Irith on the lips. “Thank you, good mother,” she whispered, and held up her hand for the coachman.

* * *

Carver was wakened by the sound of Albert puking his guts out. He opened an eye, sat up, and reached for a fresh liter. Carl and Maurice were hunched on their blankets, looking very ill.

“What’s eating you guys?” Carver called. “Or, better yet, what you guys been eating?” He raised the bottle and grinned. “Maybe it’s time you changed your diets.” He took a swallow, mussed Slobber’s head. “You ain’t been in my buddy’s food now, have you?” He stood up with a huge hangover yawn, stretched his arms, took a lazy look around, and howled from the bowel--

“God damn it!”

He stomped over to the horses’ bodies, absolutely livid. They’d been bled white; their only color was in the hundreds of brown sucker rings dotted heads to hooves.

“Damn it again!” Carver swore. He vibrated his boot on the ground to mimic death throes; an old Groundskeeper trick. When the bleeders piled on his boot he went ballistic with his rifle’s butt, squishing six or seven. Slobber latched onto a good one, tearing it out eight feet before the neck snapped. Carver immediately crammed his rifle into the vacated hole and fired four times.

“You didn’t get her,” Carl moaned. “Maters retreat when they’re wounded.”

“Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.” The group’s little experiment with democracy was done with--Carver was right back in command. “We’re moving out. Now.”

“Without horses?”

Carver cocked the rifle and laid the barrel’s tip in the hollow behind Carl’s left ear. “I got me three good pack animals right here.”

“You’d shoot me,” Carl grated, “in cold blood?”

“Doubtful. I’d probably let Slobber have a go at you first. Everybody up; I don’t care how sick you are. Grab the harnesses, grab the gear, grab the victuals. We’re marching back the way we came.”

“But that’s,” gasped Maurice, “miles!”

“Good for the digestion. Royds have horses, as well as carts and coaches. We’ll snag us a few ponies and be right back in business. And I don’t want any more of this double-talk and sassafras! I’m the only man with the good sense to lead. Now move!”

Right off the bat the march went sour. Albert pitched into the weeds, clutching his belly and hacking up bloody mucus. Carver kicked his thigh, then the small of his back. “Get up, man. Carry your share. Don’t think you can pull this crap on me.” Albert went directly into convulsions, remaining prostrate despite Carver’s persistent kicks and threats.

“Leave him alone!” Carl gasped before doubling over.

Carver studied both their faces. “No! It’s sleepers for sure.”

Maurice turned desperately. “Don’t say that, Carver! Why aren’t you sick, then?”

“Beats me.” They watched the men twitch and kick, hands tearing at their ribs and throats. Slobber nosed up curiously.

“Oh God!” Maurice cried, and spewed vomit and blood from his nostrils.

The bleeders were on Albert even before he’d succumbed. Carver tore out their last campfire pouch, ripped away the seal with his teeth, and wrung out half the kerosene over Albert. The bleeders writhed madly but, overwhelmed by their ravenous mater, retained their suckerholds. Carver struck a match to a kerosene-saturated twig, dropped it quickly, and stepped away. The bleeders whipped back into their holes.

“Please, Carver,” Maurice cried. “Burn me too, man, I’m begging you. Don’t let them suck me, Carver. Don’t let them.”

“You have my word,” Carver said solemnly. “I promise to do you too.”

Maurice shook all over. “Man, I--” and his legs appeared to be kicked out from under him.

Carver stepped over to Carl, lying on his back with one hand tearing at his gut and one hand raised in supplication. His heels were battering the ground like jackhammers. A bleeder raced up his trouser leg, another rolled over his throat. Carver squeezed out the last of the kerosene. He looked down into the man’s raving eyes just as the sputtering match hit him.

He then turned to Maurice, trembling on hands and knees. Carver dangled the exhausted kerosene pad, said, “Sorry, friend,” and put a bullet between his eyes. He whistled sharply, and as Slobber bounded up said, “Keep moving forward, boy. Don’t look back.”

They marched on for what seemed hours. Carver was now down to just a rifle and shotgun, his bow and six or seven arrows, and a few pouches of ammunition. Man and dog sat in the shade of a warty hybrid waiting for the day to cool, though it was barely past noon. Carver slapped a hand on the back of his itching neck, and brought it back squirming with life. With a little cry he hopped to his feet, hurled the leaper to the ground, and stamped on it twice. Immediately another landed on his left shoulder. They came on like angry bees, injecting their eggs in every available square inch of naked flesh, until all he could do was run along bellowing with Slobber barking at his side. Carver rolled in the dirt, swatting furiously, and in the end was spared only by outrunning the little monsters. He bit at all the sores he could reach, sucked out the eggs, spat and sucked out some more. The toxins were already kicking in. He thought he’d go mad with the itching and burning and vacillating delirium; the only course for physical relief was to rub in dirt and try to keep out of Sirius’s rays. The disorientation would pass in time. Slobber had been spared by his body fur; the big Shep urged on his fading master with nudges to the calves and thighs. Carver wandered in a daze for a while there, and when Slobber finally pulled him out of it with a low intense growl, he found himself tangled up in bushes by a winding country road.

Coming up the road was a rickety little wagon pulled by a single gray pony. “Still!” Carver commanded.

When the wagon was almost alongside, he stepped out waving his arms. He must have been a terrifying sight to the royd driver, covered as he was with hot red bumps and dirt, raggedy and unshaven, a wild look in his eyes that belied the broad convivial smile.

“Thanks for stopping,” Carver panted. “You’re a lifesaver.” His eyes ran over the pony and wagon, then took in the driver’s oversized hooded cloak. “I’m looking for a place called Maert’n. I’ve a rendezvous with a little woman there.” He winked and smiled all the wider. “You know how it is.”

“This road will take you to Maert’n,” the driver fumbled. “This road will take you to many roads.”

“But how’ll I know it’s Maert’n when I see it? I’d hate to just pass on by.”

“Steam,” the driver managed. “You will see lots of steam.” He nervously raised the reins. “I must go now. I am sorry, but I am not permitted to pick up riders.”

“That’s all right. Your boss won’t know a thing.” He aimed his shotgun between the driver’s eyes. “Now pull off that cloak. I’d hate to get it all bloody.”

* * *

Even from a distance, Maert’n can be identified by the great broken swath of runoff steam rising from the vents over Elis Royd’s subterranean power plant. The vents run along the floor of a gorge a hundred feet deep, and this gorge is perpetually filled with steam. Maert’n is a royd word, meaning, roughly, death breath, so named due to the subtle but incremental effects of minutely radioactive steam. For generations the local royds have obtained drinking-and cooking water from the gorge--and tradition being what it is, they’re not about to change their ways. Their method is to tie gigantic resin-painted tarps from one side of the gorge to the other, with a line secured to an eye at each corner. The rising steam causes the tarps to billow upward. By tying winch lines to rings sewn into the tarps’ centers, royds hauling from either side are able to stretch these tarps so they’re shaped like tents. The steam condenses on the undersides and rolls down into troughs positioned along the sides, and the channeled water drains into casks and barrels on the clifftops. There are dozens of these peaked tarps running above the gorge. They don’t catch all the steam, of course; plenty escapes to give Maert’n her famous hazy horizon.

The man in the little wooden wagon pulled his pony to a halt. He’d been following the long road that runs along the clifftop, looking for a bridge or some sign of habitation. He wiped his face with the hood of his cloak and studied a copse of trees opposite the gorge. There were huts and several spaces for cooking and washing, and what appeared to be some kind of inn. A large black dog jumped out of the cart.

The man reached behind him and, carefully and systematically, reloaded and double-checked a rifle and shotgun. He shrugged on a quiver and bow, tightened his throwing knife’s ankle strap. Just before descending he pulled out an ornately graven three-foot branch. One whittled tip was as sharp as a thorn. He kissed this branch and slid it into a shoulder sheath. With the dog champing at his side, he made certain the weapons were concealed by the cloak and pulled the hood low over his face. Then, scratching his arms like crazy, he began the slow hike to the inn.

* * *

“Good afternoon.”

There must have been two dozen royds lounging at tables in the inn, and perhaps a dozen more in the kitchen and playroom. Nobody was lounging any more. Every face in the place was cut in stone, and staring only at the giant hooded figure taking up the rear doorway.

“I’m looking for a certain royd female. You’ll all know who she is when I mention her name--heck, the way I understand it, she’s just about famous around here.” The figure whistled softly. An enormous black dog appeared behind him and quickly made its way in.

The two moved quietly down the aisle between tables. “Her name’s Emra. She’s a million years old and physically too disgusting to describe. But she took something precious from me. It’s called a livelihood, though I doubt any of you’d be familiar with the concept.” He used his concealed weapons to raise the cloak, placed the rifle’s barrel in a young royd’s throat and the shotgun’s barrel between the lips of another.

“Emra,” he whispered. “Say it.”

Both royds froze up.

“Say ‘Emra’. If you don’t I’ll blow your f*****g heads off and my dog will eat what’s left.”

The royds couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

Carver threw back his head, bellowed, “Where’s Emra!” and simultaneously fired the rifle and shotgun.

The whole inn erupted with screams. Carver stomped through the place, blasting anybody available and shouting, “Where’s Emra? Where’s Emra? Where’s Emra?” Slobber took care of the slowest runners; Carver pursued the rest outside. “Where’s Emra?” he howled, shooting fleeing royds in the back.

The little figures seemed to vanish in the trees. Carver was able to kill only the ones brought down by Slobber, and, dogs being dogs, the Shep wasted precious time mauling single royds, allowing most to escape. Carver moved out of the trees into the open, halfway between the inn and the gorge. He whistled sharply. In seconds he was joined by Slobber.

“You guys come on out of there!” he called. “Come on out and I won’t hurt you. All I want is one little answer. You just tell me where I can find that rat w***e and I’ll leave you alone.”

In response there came the weirdest scream Carver had ever heard. He turned and stared up at a rocky knoll some two hundred yards away, where a round bluish-green thing was bouncing on its haunches, sniffing left and right.

“Well, f**k me,” Carver mumbled, mesmerized.

The thing appeared to catch its bearings. It faced the man and dog, screamed again, and charged downhill. It came directly at them, full-tilt, fairly soaring between bounds. When it was only a dozen feet away, Slobber shot out of his crouch and brought it down.

The two rolled off as a unit, snarling and panting. They fought all down the grade and up to the tree line, clear to the clifftop and back, sometimes thrashing hysterically, sometimes locked up in a compound death grip. About that grip: Slobber had his jaws closed permanently below the dojhyr’s diaphragm, while the dojhyr’s spike-like claws had the Shep in two places--the throat and head. There came a moment when time seemed to freeze. A determined peal rose out of the dojhyr, followed in a few seconds by a cry from Slobber that broke Carver’s heart. In a dazzling move the dojhyr ripped off the dog’s head--tore it, like a strongman sundering a phone book, and hurled the parts down.

Carver immediately dropped to one knee. He didn’t waste time: before the upright and fully extended dojhyr could reclaim his scent he pulled out his bow and an arrow, drew a bead, and placed a shaft in the animal’s right shoulder. The blind dojhyr felt about, grasped the arrow, and snapped the shaft. Carver tore off the hooded cloak. He retreated a few steps, drawing out his rifle as he moved. This time he lay full-out on his belly, took careful aim, and shot the hunching dojhyr in what he estimated was the breast. The thing screamed and spun like a top. When it stopped spinning it was facing straight at Carver, the diaphragm huffing and twitching rapidly. Carver retreated ten paces and fired again: same result. Still backpedaling toward the gorge, he paused every ten paces to get off another round. But now the bleeding dojhyr was stalking him, and Carver was running those paces before firing. When the rifle’s magazine was spent he dropped everything and took off at a sprint. With nowhere else to turn, he ran back and forth along the clifftop until he staggered out onto a little precipice and found himself cornered.

The dojhyr veered as it came on, perfectly following Carver’s deliberately erratic dash. Even so, it was badly damaged, its focus impaired. Sensing this, Carver kept low and backed up as quietly as possible. But now he was at the narrow end of a wedge overlooking the misting abyss, and his pursuer had him cut off. He faked a run to his right; the dojhyr moved to its left. He then tried to his left and got a perfectly timed response. The animal went down on all fours and approached slowly, slapping its foreclaws left and right in anticipation. Carver laid on his belly, gently using his elbows and knees to walk his body backward until his feet encountered only space. Without looking away, he began to shinny down the cliff.

It was a bad spot for shinnying; a terrible spot. He hadn’t managed five feet before his root handholds gave. Carver slipped a few more feet and found himself dangling by a hand and foot, almost obscured by rising steam. He managed to kick out a toehold, but the moist earth gave at once. In a minute the bloody blue and green globe loomed above him. Carver could tell his scent was being torn by the hot mist; he saw every oozing detail in that obscene diaphragm, wiggling erratically. Now the dojhyr stood erect and dug its rear claws deep into the ground. It spread its forelimbs very wide and, incredibly, began to descend its upper body in an arcing trajectory, inch by inch, using its wing flaps to buoy against the air. Carver watched its hindlegs trembling with the strain. The billowed body extended almost perpendicular to the cliff, then, lowering in slow motion, gradually tucked into itself until the entire animal, supported only by its rear claws, was pointing downward and away from him at a fifteen degree angle. After hanging there like a bat for a few seconds, the dojhyr used its front claws to drag itself down foot by foot, stretching its body to the limit. When both claws were firmly planted on either side of Carver’s head, it abruptly twisted its distended neck and, the diaphragm right in Carver’s face, screamed the scream of the kill.

In one move Carver whipped his throwing knife from its ankle sheath and plunged the blade directly into that respiring funnel. The whole diaphragm collapsed. Twin geysers of blood blew into the steam, and the dojhyr plummeted a hundred feet to the iron grates below.

Carver was left hanging by one hand while the waving knife bit repeatedly, and ineffectually, into the cliff’s side. The hand went numb as blood left his arm. He felt the last of his strength going, and with it his consciousness.

Not two feet above him, a sudden flurry of activity knocked out a crudely plugged aperture in the cliff’s side. A pair of odd yellowish hands with long clawed fingers pulled away the dirt, and the narrow, pale-eyed head of a qrty poked out of its burrow. When it saw Carver dangling just below, it gripped the broken roots around the opening and bobbed its head in dismay.

“Please,” Carver grated. “Mercy.”

The qrty cocked its head left and right. “Maur-sai? Plees?”

“Mercy,” Carver repeated. He managed to wedge one boot into the cliff wall, but the spot was crumbling even as he dug in. He released the knife and desperately scraped with his nails.

“Maur-sai?” The qrty tentatively moved a hand forward. Its fingers twitched just above Carver’s. “Maur-sai? Plees?”

“Yes,” Carver managed. “Mercy.”

* * *

Up on the field, a colorfully dressed coach wobbled to a halt and a small royd female carefully climbed down. Without a word to the coachman, she padded through the weeds to a pair of dark objects scattered some twenty feet apart. The larger object was a beheaded Shep, its body covered with slashes and puncture wounds. The smaller was the dog’s head, its contorted muzzle frozen in a permanent snarl. Forty feet along lay an old gray hooded cloak, and a little farther on a miscellaneous sprawl of weapons. Her eyes fell on a deep three-nailed print, then another. The royd followed the trail with great intensity, steam settling on her shoulders and brow.

She came to the precipice and peered over, standing perched only a few feet west of the flagging drama some ten feet below. The disturbance caused a small chunk of loosed earth to tumble and disintegrate.

The qrty looked up, its whole face pleated by concern. “Maur-sai? Plees?”

“For the love…” Carver gasped. “Oh, please.”

The female shook her head sharply. “No. Septu lai mot ennari. No mercy.”

The qrty hung its head and quietly backpedaled into its hole.

Carver’s raging eyes locked with the female’s. “You b***h,” he gasped. His throat seized. He plummeted into the steam unable to scream, still staring up at the tiny figure watching him fall.

Emra studied the rising haze until her eyes were burning. She turned and strode with great dignity across the field, pausing twice to sharply clap her hands. Royds loitering in the trees ducked and scattered; the show was over. When she reached the vestiges of battle, she poked about until she came up with Carver’s lucky stick. She grasped the branch in her left hand, picked up Slobber’s head in her right, and glided to the coach.

The driver helped her up, then placed the dog’s head on the bench between them. Emra wedged the highly-worked branch into a space between the bench and iron frame, so that the top eighteen inches pointed up and to the fore. She and the coachman jammed Slobber’s head onto the branch; their primitive version of a hood ornament. Emra twisted and adjusted the head until it faced directly forward.

“We go now?” the coachman panted.

“Yes. Now we begin.”