The Dirdir Read online

  Escape was remote from its mind. It sprang upon Reith like a leopard, ripping with its talons. Traz ran forward brandishing his dagger and threw himself on the Dirdir’s back. The Dirdir rolled over backward, and tearing Traz’s legs loose, made play with his own dagger. Anacho leaped forward; with one mighty swordstroke he hacked apart the Dirdir’s arm; with a second blow he clove the creature’s head. Staggering and tottering, cursing and panting, the three finished off the remaining Dirdir, then stood in vast relief that they had fared so well. Blood pumped from Traz’s leg. Reith applied a tourniquet, opened the first-aid kit he had brought with him to Tschai. He disinfected the wound, applied a toner, pressed the wound together, sprayed on a film of synthetic skin, and eased off the tourniquet. Traz grimaced, but made no complaint. Reith brought forth a pill. “Swallow this. Can you stand?”

  Traz rose stiffly to his feet.

  “Can you walk?”

  “Not too well.”

  “Try to keep moving, to prevent the leg from going stiff.”

  Reith and Anacho searched the corpses for booty, to their enormous profit: a purple node, two scarlets, a deep blue, three pale greens and two pale blues. Reith shook his head in marvel and vexation. “Wealth! But useless unless we get it back to Maust.”

  He watched Traz limping back and forth with obvious effort. “We can’t carry it all.”

  The corpses they rolled into the pitfall, and covered them over. The net they hauled off into the underbrush. Then they sorted out the sequins, making three packs, two heavy and one light. There still remained a fortune in clears, milks, sards, deep blues and greens. These they wrapped into a fourth parcel, which they secreted under the roots of the great torquil.

  Two hours remained until dusk. They took up their packs, went to the eastern edge of the forest, accommodating their gait to Traz. Here they argued the feasibility of camping until Traz’s leg had healed. Traz would hear none of it. “I can keep up, so long as we don’t have to run.”

  “Running won’t help us in any case,” said Reith.

  “If they catch us,” said Anacho, “then we must run. With nerve-fire at our necks.”

  The afternoon light deepened through gold and dark gold; Carina 4269 disappeared and sepia murk fell over the landscape. The hills showed minuscule flickers of flame. The three set forth, and so the dismal journey began: across the Stage from one black clump of dendron to another. At last they came to the slopes, and doggedly began to climb.

  Dawn found them under the ridge, with both hunters and hunted already astir. Shelter was nowhere in sight; the three descended into a gulch and contrived a covert of dry brush.

  The day advanced. Anacho and Reith dozed while Traz lay staring at the sky; the enforced idleness had caused his leg to stiffen. At noon a hunt of four proud Dirdir, resplendent in glittering casques, crossed the ravine. For a moment they paused, apparently sensing the near-presence of quarry, but other affairs attracted their attention and they continued off to the north.

  The sun declined, illuminating the eastern wall of the gulch. Anacho gave an uncharacteristic snort of laughter. “Look there.” He pointed. Not twenty feet distant the ground had broken, revealing the wrinkled dome of a large mature node. “Scarlets at least. Maybe purples.”

  Reith made a gesture of sad resignation. “We can hardly carry the fortune we already have. It is sufficient.”

  “You underestimate the rapacity and greed of Sivishe,” grumbled Anacho. “To do what you propose will require two fortunes, or more.” He dug up the node. “A purple. We can’t leave it behind.”

  “Very well,” said Reith. “I’ll carry it.”

  “No,” said Traz. “I’ll carry it. You two already have most of the load.”

  “We’ll divide it into three parts,” said Reith. “It won’t be all that much more.”

  Night came at last; the three shouldered their packs and continued. Traz hopping, hobbling, grimacing in pain. Down the north slope they moved, and the closer they approached the Portal of Gleams, the more ghastly and detestable seemed the Zone.

  Dawn found them at the base of the hills, with the Portal yet ten miles north. As they rested in a shadowed fissure, Reith swept the landscape through his scanscope. The Forelands seemed quiet and almost devoid of life. Far to the northwest a dozen shapes made for the Portal of Gleams, hoping to reach safety before full daylight. They ran with the peculiar scuttling gait that men instinctively used within the Zone, as if they thereby made themselves inconspicuous. A band of hunters stood on a relatively nearby crag, still and alert as eagles. They watched the fleeing men with regret. Reith put aside all hope of reaching the Portal before dark. The three passed another dreary day behind a boulder, with camouflage cloth overhead.

  During the middle morning a sky-car drifted overhead. “They’re looking for the missing hunts,” said Anacho in a hushed voice. “Undoubtedly there will be a tsau’gsh… We are in great danger.”

  Reith looked after the sky-car, then gauged the miles to the Portal. “By midnight we should be safe.”

  “We may not last till midnight, if the Dirdir close off the Forelands, as well they may do.”

  “We can’t set out now; they’d take us for sure.”

  Anacho gave a dour nod. “Agreed.”

  Towards middle afternoon another sky-car came to hover over the Forelands. Anacho hissed between his teeth. “We are trapped.” But after half an hour the sky-car once more drifted south beyond the hills.

  Reith made a careful scrutiny of the landscape. “I see no hunts. Ten miles means at least two hours. Shall we make a run for it?”

  Traz looked down at his leg with a wistful expression. “You two go on. I’ll follow when the sun goes down.”

  “Too late by then,” said Anacho. “Already it is too late.”

  Once more Reith searched the ridges. He helped Traz to his feet. “It’s all of us or none.”

  They started out across the barrens, feeling naked and vulnerable. Any hunt which chanced to look down from the ridge into this particular sector could not fail to notice them.

  They proceeded for half an hour, scuttling half-crouched like the others. From time to time Reith paused to sweep the landscape to the rear with his scanscope, dreading lest he see the dire shapes in pursuit. But the miles fell behind, and hope correspondingly began to rise. Traz’s face was gray with pain and exhaustion; nevertheless he forced the pace, tottering at a half-run, until Reith suspected that he ran from sheer hysteria.

  But suddenly Traz stopped. He looked back at the ridges. “They are watching us.”

  Reith scrutinized the ridges, slopes and dark gulches, but saw nothing. Traz had already set off at an erratic lope, with Anacho hunching along behind. Reith followed. A few hundred yards further north he paused again, and this time thought he saw a flicker of light reflecting from metal. Dirdir? Reith gauged the distance ahead. They had come roughly halfway across the barrens. Reith drew a deep breath and ran off after Traz and Anacho. Conceivably the Dirdir might not choose to pursue so far across the Forelands.

  A second time he halted and looked back. All uncertainty was gone: four shapes bounded down the slopes. There could be no doubt as to their intent.

  Reith caught up with Traz and Anacho. Traz ran with glaring eyes, mouth open so that his teeth showed. Reith took the heaviest bag from the lad’s shoulder, threw it over his own. If anything, Traz slowed his pace a trifle. Anacho gauged the distance ahead, studied the pursuing Dirdir. “We have a chance.”

  The three ran, hearts pounding, lungs burning. Traz’s face was like a skull. Anacho relieved him of the remaining parcel.

  The Portal of Gleams was visible: a haven of wonderful security. Behind came the hunters, by prodigious leaps.

  Traz was faltering, with the Portal yet a half-mile ahead. “Onmale!” called Reith.

  The effect was startling. Traz seemed to expand, to grow tall. He stopped short and swung about to face the pursuers. His face was that of a stranger: a person sag
acious, fierce and dominant, the personification in fact of the emblem Onmale.

  Onmale was too proud to flee.

  “Run!” cried Reith in a panic. “If we must fight, let’s fight on our own terms!”

  Traz, or Onmale—the two were confused—seized a pack from Reith and one from Anacho and sprang ahead toward the Portal.

  Reith wasted a half-second gauging the distance to the first Dirdir, then continued his flight. Traz soared across the barrens. Anacho, his face pink and distorted, pounded behind.

  Traz gained the Portal. He turned and waited, catapult in one hand, sword in the other. Anacho passed through, then Reith, not fifty feet in advance of the foremost Dirdir. Traz backed to stand just beyond the boundary, challenging the Dirdir to attack. The Dirdir gave a shrill scream of fury. It shook its head, and its effulgences, standing high, vibrated. Then, curvetting, it loped south, after its comrades, already on their way back to the hills.

  Anacho leaned panting against the Portal of Gleams. Reith stood with the breath rasping in his throat. Traz’s face was vacant and gray. His knees buckled; he fell to the ground and lay quiet, giving not so much as a twitch.

  Reith staggered forward, turned him over. Traz seemed not to breathe. Reith straddled his body and applied artificial respiration. Traz gave a throat-wrenching gasp. Presently he began to breathe evenly.

  The solicitors, touts and beggars who normally kept station by the Portal of Gleams had scattered, aghast at the approach of the Dirdir. First to return was a young man in a long maroon gown, who now stood making gracious movements of concern. “An outrage,” he lamented. “The conduct of the Dirdir! Never should they chase so close to the gate! They have almost killed this poor young man!”

  “Quiet,” snapped Anacho. “You disturb us.”

  The young man stood aside. Reith and Anacho lifted Traz to his feet, where he stood in something of a stupor.

  The young man once again came forward, his soft brown eyes all-seeing, all-knowing. “Allow me to assist. I am Issam the Thang; I represent the Hopeful Venture Inn, which promises a restful atmosphere. Allow me to assist you with your parcels.” Picking up Traz’s pack he turned a startled gaze toward Reith and Anacho. “Sequins?”

  Anacho seized his pack. “Be off with you! Our plans are established!”

  “As you will,” said Issam the Thang, “but the Hopeful Venture Inn is near at hand, and something apart from the tumult and gaming. While comfortable, the expense does not approach the exorbitant fees of the Alawan.”

  “Very well,” said Reith. “Take us to the Hopeful Venture.”

  Anacho muttered under his breath; to which Issam the Thang made a delicate gesture of reproach. “This way, if you will.”

  They trudged toward Maust, Traz hobbling on his lame leg.

  “My memory is a jumble,” he muttered. “I recall crossing the Forelands; I remember that someone shouted into my ear—”

  “It was I,” said Reith.

  “—then after, nothing real, and next I lay beside the Portal.” And a moment later he mused: “I heard roaring voices. A thousand faces looked past me, warriors’ faces, raging. I have seen such things in dreams.” His voice dwindled; he said no more.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE HOPEFUL VENTURE Inn stood at the back of a narrow alley, a brooding, age-blackened structure, doing no great business, to judge from the common room, which was dark and still. Issam, it now appeared, was the proprietor. He made an effusive show of hospitality, ordering water, lamps and linen up to the “grand suite,” which orders were effected by a surly servant with enormous red hands and a shock of coarse red hair. The three mounted a twisting stairway to the suite, which comprised a sitting-room, a wash-room, several irregular alcoves furnished with sour-smelling couches. The servant arranged the lamps, brought flasks of wine and departed. Anacho examined the lead and wax stoppers, then put the flasks aside. “Too much risk of drugs or poison. When the man awakes—if he awakes-his sequins are gone and he is bereft. I am dissatisfied; we would have done better at the Alawan.”

  “Tomorrow is time enough,” said Reith, sinking into a chair with a groan of fatigue.

  “Tomorrow we must be gone from Maust,” said Anacho. “If we are not marked men now, we soon will be.” He went forth and presently returned with bread, meat and wine.

  They ate and drank; then Anacho checked the bars and bolts. “Who knows what transpires in these old piles? A knife in the dark, a single sound, and who is the wiser save Issam the Thang?”

  Again checking the locks, the three prepared themselves for sleep. Anacho, declaring himself to be easily aroused, put the sequins between himself and the wall. Except for a single wavering night light the lamps were extinguished. A few moments later Anacho slipped noiselessly across the room to Reith’s couch. “I suspect peepholes and listening pipes,” he whispered. “Here are the sequins. Put them beside you. Let us sit quietly and watch for a period.”

  Reith forced himself into a state of alertness. Fatigue defeated him; his eyelids drooped. He slept.

  Time passed. Reith was aroused by a prod from Anacho’s elbow; he sat up with a jerk of guilt. “Quiet,” said Anacho in the ghost of a whisper. “Look yonder.”

  Reith peered through the darkness. A scrape, a movement in the shadows, a dark shape—a light suddenly flared up. Traz stood, crouched and glaring, arms concealed in the shadow of his body.

  The two men by Anacho’s couch turned to face the lamp, faces blank and startled. One was Issam the Thang; the second was the burly servant who had been groping with his enormous hands for the neck of Anacho, presumably asleep on the couch. The servant emitted a curious whisper of excitement and hopped across the room, hands clutching. Traz fired his catapult into the twisted face. The man fell silently, going to oblivion without apprehension or regret. Issam sprang for an opening in the wall. Reith bore him to the floor. Issam fought desperately; for all his slenderness and delicacy he was as strong and quick as a serpent. Reith seized him in an arm-lock and jerked him erect, squeaking in pain.

  Anacho flipped a cord around Issam’s neck and prepared to tighten the noose. Reith grimaced but made no protest. This was the justice of Maust; it was only fitting that here, in the flaring lamplight, Issam should go to his doom.

  Issam fervently cried out: “No! I am only a miserable Thang! Don’t kill me! I’ll help you, I swear! I’ll help you escape!”

  “Wait,” said Reith. To Issam: “How do you mean, help us escape? Are we in danger?”

  “Yes, of course. What should you expect?”

  “Tell me of this danger.”

  Sensing reprieve, Issam drew himself up, indignantly shrugged away Anacho’s hands. “The information is valuable. How much will you pay?”

  Reith nodded to Anacho. “Proceed.”

  Issam gave a heart-rending wail. “No, no! Trade me my life for your three lives-is that not enough?”

  “If such be the case.”

  “It is the case. Stand back, then; remove the noose.”

  “Not until we know the kind of bargain we are making.”

  Issam looked from face to face and saw nothing to encourage him. “Well, then, secret word has come to me. The Dirdir are in a state of frothing fury. Someone has destroyed an unlikely number of hunting parties, and stolen the booty-as much as two hundred thousands’ worth of sequins. Special agents are on watch-here and elsewhere. Whoever submits any information will derive great benefit. If you are the person of the case, as I suspect, you will never leave Maust except in prickle-collars-unless I help you.”

  Reith asked cautiously, “Help us how?”

  “I can and will save you-for a price.”

  Reith looked toward Anacho, who drew taut the cord. Issam clawed at the constriction, eyes bulging in the lamplight. The noose loosened. Issam croaked, “My life for yours, that is our bargain.”

  “Then talk no more of ‘price.’ Needless to say, don’t try to trick us.”

  “Never, never!” croak
ed Issam. “I live or die with you! Your life is my life! We must leave now. Morning will be too late.”

  “Leave how? Afoot?”

  “It may not be necessary. Make yourselves ready. Do those bags and parcels actually contain sequins?”

  “Scarlets and purples,” said Anacho with sadistic relish. “If you want the same, go into the Zone and kill Dirdir.”

  Issam shuddered. “Are you ready?” He waited impatiently while the three resumed their garments. On sudden thought he dropped down to rifle the corpse of the servant and clucked with satisfaction at the handful of clears and milks he found in the pouch.

  The three were ready. In spite of Issam’s protest Anacho maintained the noose around his neck. “So that you will not misunderstand our intentions.”

  “Must I always be cursed with suspicious associates?”

  The main avenue of Maust vibrated with movement, the shift of faces, colored lights; from the taverns came wailing music, drunken belches of laughter, an occasional angry outcry. By furtive shortcuts and dark detours Issam took them to a stable at the north of town, where a scowling attendant finally responded to Issam’s pounding. Five minutes of surly haggling resulted in the saddling of four leap-horses; ten minutes later, as the moons of Az and Braz simultaneously rolled up the eastern sky, Reith, Anacho, Traz and Issam bounded north on the gaunt white leaphorses of Kachan, and left Maust behind.

  Through the night they rode and at dawn entered Khorai. Smoke trickling up from iron chimneys drifted north over the First Sea, which by some trick of light appeared as black as a sea of pitch, with the plum-colored northern sky for a backdrop.

  Through Khorai they pounded and down to the harbor where they dismounted. Issam, wearing the most modest of smiles, bowed to Reith, hands folded behind his dark red gown. “I have achieved my goal; my friends have been delivered safe to Khorai.”

  “The friends you hoped to strangle a few hours ago.”