Manhounds of Antares

Chapter Thirteen

I didn’t believe it.

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it.

How could I, again, have brought out the wrong person from under the slavering fangs of the Manhounds of Antares?

It was all a cruel jest of the Star Lords, to punish me for being a prince of onkers. Surely, after taking Tulema safely out, and spending so much time in her company, after she was safe, in Ordsmot, she had to be the right one! I lay there in the stink and gloom of the barred caves and I confess I came as near as I ever allow myself to despair.

Then I roused myself.

There had to be an explanation, and I was too stupid to see what must so clearly be dangling in front of my nose.

Princess Lilah. The Pallan Golan. Latimer the voller magnate. And Tulema the dancing girl. Well, none of these four was the one I had been sent here to seek.

Then an awful thought struck me.

Tulema had said, distinctly, that she was the last of those who had been with me in the cave when I arrived.

There was no one left for me to rescue — apart, that was, from a milling mass of a hundred or more filthy, unwashed, clamoring slaves.

So that must be the answer. I was to release them all.

I pondered on this carefully, for as I have indicated, the rash freeing of slaves, no matter how desirable that may be, is not wisely undertaken without much forethought. If these miserable creatures were released they would rush screaming into the jungle, and the Manhounds of Antares would lope after them, red tongues lolling in human imitation of hunting dogs, and devour them all. They would perish in the jungle. They would die on the plains. How many, if any at all, would reach safety?

I had vowed with my Delia to end the abomination of slavery on Kregen, thinking that a part of what the Savanti wished. But how would that vow help me now?

“By Hito the Hunter!” said a voice in my ear, a startled voice. “I thought you were dead for sure!”

I looked up from the floor and there was Nath the Guide, bending over me, wearing a mightily puzzled frown. Of course he could recognize me, for I had gone through the baths of the nine, and had my hair and beard trimmed, and so looked something like the Dray Prescot who had first arrived here. And, also, something else I should have observed much earlier then struck me. These so-called guides who claimed to guide people out to safety would hardly swear by the name of a mighty hunter. No, I should have seen that earlier.

“And I thought you dead, also, Nath.”

I refrained from immediately leaping up and dealing with him as he had left us to be dealt with by the great Jikai. It was through no help of his that Princess Lilah and I had escaped. “You disappeared, and we feared a leem had taken you.”

He cobbled a story together swiftly, and, truth to tell, he was more concerned with his lies than he was to find fault with my story of running and walking until strange beast-men had taken me and so, eventually, sold me back here.

Nath talked on, very volubly, about his concern for the slaves and how he sorrowed that he had been snatched away by wild beasts, and fought them, and so won free. In truth, there in the barred caves cut into the rocks, we had a high old time swapping lies, and this brought me back to something of a better humor.

“I would like to go out again, Nath, and this time escape clear away.”

“Of course! A party is due tomorrow. You must be with us.” Then, meaningfully, he added: “There are three Khamorros among us, and they are very fierce men.”

“So be it.”

There was no doubt in my mind why I needed to go out with a hunted party of fugitives. I would take their treacherous flier from them, as I had done before. I had to take care not to betray any knowledge of what had transpired here after my Jikai with Nath, and nothing of the disappearance of Inachos the Guide passed my lips. But I guessed Nath and his fellows, and Nalgre, may Makki-Grodno rot his liver, were mightily perplexed.

If I make keeping my fingers off Nath the Guide’s throat sound easy — believe me, it was not. Wild plans scurried through my head, and I slept fitfully, awaking with the others to rush at the stentors’

call to the feeding cave. In the morning we would be taken out and prepared in the slave barracks. Fantastic and unworkable schemes flitted into and out of my imagination, as a flick-flick shoots its tendrils out to gobble flies.

Many of the slaves had been beaten into submission and could not respond to the meal call, and the usual Kregan custom of six or even eight square meals a day did not always impel them to answer the stentors’ summons. I noticed a little Och with a chin fuzz and skinny arms and legs who, so Nath told me, was due to go out with us in the morning. Then this Och, a man named Glypta, pulled back as an ancient, yelling female Och rushed into the chamber beating her broom wildly behind her. Screeching like one of those devil-bats from the hell-caves of Karsk, the old Miglish crone rattled into the chamber, thwacking her broom at the Och woman, raising a great dust and commotion, catching the Och woman cunningly around the head, then switching to trip her legs and so tumble her sprawling into our filth.

“Keep off! Keep off, Mog!”

“I’ll see Migshaanu the Ever-Vengeful tears out your liver and your tripes and strips your skin off!” The Migla was stuttering in fury, thwacking with her broom, a very witch in truth, from her mass of tangled hair to her bare and filthy feet. “You don’t trick Mog and regret the day you dropped into this world!”

And thwack! went the broom and the little Och shrieked and tried to spring up and run, and thwack!

down came Mog’s broom again in a gigantic rustling and swishing of twigs. Bedlam broke out with scuffling and dust flying. Then the Och managed to scuttle out. Mog leaned on her broom and the liquid sheen of her eyes as she leered after the Och sent a shiver up my spine, as I remembered Tulema’s avowed declaration that this Miglish crone was in very truth a witch.

“She’ll think on!” said this Mog the Migla, in a shrill cackling tone of satisfaction. “Ar!”

There was no Tulema to pull me away.

I stared at Mog.

And the thought dawned. The thought I felt a deep reluctance to face. The thought that must be a true thought. “Now, may Zair take my ib for a harpstring!” I said, but to myself. And so I continued to stare at this old harpy, this filthy harridan with the rat-tail hair, crooked nose, and nutcracker jaws, and I thought that I had taken four people out of here and all of them wrong and this — this monstrosity of a halfling witch — had to be the right one.

She had been here when I arrived. Tulema had said so. And she was still here. Mog the Witch!

Incredible!

What could the Star Lords be about, to want this object restored to the outside world of Havilfar?

However much I did not wish to believe what I had so belatedly discovered, I had to believe. And if I freed all the slaves and did not set Mog at liberty, I had the nastiest of suspicions that I would be hurled back here yet once more.

I set myself to talk with the witch, and she beat at me with her broom, and spat, drawing her filthy old blanket up around her shoulders as though I assaulted her, and bade me clear off or, by Migshaanu the Mighty-Slayer, I’d be sorry!

“But, Mog,” I said, “I can get you out of here.”

She cackled at that.

“Get me out!” she mocked. “Onker! Nulsh! And you’d take me out for the manhounds to gnaw on!”

“Not so, Mog.”

“Yes, yes, you great ninny!”

“But, Mog-” I said, breathing hard and gripping both my fists together lest they do harm I would feel sorry for after. “The guides!” I repeated what the deluded slaves believed. “The guides will take us through to safety.”

She leered at me, mocking, spitting, drool running down that promontory of a chin, the black hairs in her nose quivering. “Onker! Idiot! Nulsh! The guides are-” She swung a bright beady eye to where Nath was deep in conversation with a fair-haired girl, and she cackled like any loloo laying a square egg, and drew a corner of her gray blanket up over her face. “May Migshaanu the All-Glorious turn your belly to porridge and your back to paste!” And she scuttled from the chamber. I lost her in the gloom of the maze of passageways.

There was only one way to settle her hash for her.

I tried to get some sleep and vowed that if there was a bigger fool than me on Kregen he belonged to the Star Lords.

I had been blowharding a lot just recently. Mind you, I felt fully justified, but it was enough unlike me to make me take stock. Old Mog called me a nulsh and I knew that was as foul a term of abuse as most on Kregen. The rast, which is a six-legged rodent infesting dunghills, is often contemptuously referred to as a disgusting creature, and the term of abuse is likewise powerfully disgusted; but a rast is only one of the creatures set down on Kregen like us all and must act out its duties in its own nature. This old Migla crone was only acting as her nature impelled her. Surely, the circumstances in which she found herself were enough to make anyone scream, and the fact she had become a tame slave to sweep and cook meant only that she had a slightly less precarious grip on life than the rest. Anyway, she was coming out with me the next morning and that was all there was to that. I awoke to Nath’s ungentle toe in my ribs and I yawned and sat up with much play of knuckling my eyes and stretching. Although the air was foul, I came alert and ready for action the instant I awoke, the result of long years at sea being called in the dark of the middle watch to face crises of all imaginable horrors.

but I had the idea of putting Nath off guard.

All went as before. Again, and to my distaste, the Notor leading the brave band of hunters was this Trelth. His doughy face gleamed under the morning suns.

The band of runners lined up for Nalgre’s inspection. As was customary we all cringed back — even I, for I had no wish to start something that, in finishing, might end up disadvantageously for the Star Lords

— and, as you may guess, I was not thinking of them when I wished no foul-ups to occur. The thin old Och, Glypta, did not cringe.

He simply stood, upright, a distant lost look on his face, and I knew I watched a man who had already given himself up for lost and who put no stock by Nath the Guide’s encouraging words.

“Why do you not bow to me, Och?” demanded Nalgre. He was interested. He was accustomed to the instant servility of slaves. His whip twitched in his thick fingers.

“I have reached the bottom, the end. There is nothing more you can do to me. I have no more fear, for I am finished.”

Nalgre laughed.

“Aye! I have heard political prisoners speak like that, Och. They imagine — oh, they imagine many things, the degradation, the hollowness, the utter irrationality of imprisonment. They believe that in negation they overcome.” He laughed, and the sound chilled the blood. “I tell you, Och, you have no conception of the hell that can be yours if I wish.” He flicked his whip and the female manhound gamboled out. “I have no need, even, to cause you suffering from my man-hounds you do not as yet comprehend. The whip, ol’ snake, will quickly teach you that you have not reached the end of suffering. I can make you fear again, Och — as many political prisoners have found before.”

I knew he spoke the sober truth.

I was thankful to see that Glypta, too, through the miasma of his suffering, had been jerked back from that self-congratulatory abyss of suffering so many politicals, believing themselves beyond fear, indulge in. He cringed and Nalgre laughed.

What the slave-master might have done next for his amusement remained thankfully unknown, for Notor Trelth with a thick impatient rasp to his voice said: “Have done with the rast, Nalgre. If a slave will not bow the neck, have his head cut off and thus make him bow for good and all.”

A woman with Trelth, with pearls in her hair and a plump and well-fed figure she had somehow crammed into tight hunting leathers, so that she bulged, tinkled a laugh. “Let him run for our sport, Ranal!

I shall joy to tickle him!” And the fat fool had the effrontery to finger the thraxter at her side. Ranal Trelth chuckled. “He shall be all yours, Lavia, yours for yourself, my precious.”

I did not miss the tip of her scarlet tongue as it licked her rich lips, shining in the radiance of the twin Suns of Scorpio.

As we trudged off to the slave barracks, I heard the slavemaster Nalgre have the last word.

“Ah, but, Notor Trelth, if you take off the head of an impudent slave, he does not suffer!”

There would be no chance whatsoever of convincing my fellow slaves that Nath the Guide, the one man to whom they looked for deliverance, was a traitor. I did not stand in the same danger vis-a-vis him as I had done with Inachos, for I had told Nath nothing, as I had blabbed to Inachos. I had to wait my time, and then strike, and trust in my own skill and strength to bring me through. Of one thing I was absolutely, irrevocably sure. I could expect no help from the Star Lords beyond an insulting jibe from their spy and messenger.

Up in the first floor above the hard-packed earth of the slave barracks we found two other parties waiting to go out, and a third joined us later on, when Nalgre had attended to them. There were sixteen in our party, of whom nine were halflings. The three Khamorros did not appear to me, at first glance, to be friendly to one another, and there were two human girls, the fair-haired one and one with very short dark hair, who by that token had been slave for a very short time. The girls were frightened of the Khamorros, and everyone else was, too. Nath himself trod warily, and I remembered the brave futile fight of Lart on that very dirt below us.

Glypta the Och, with the return of fear, also needed the return of reassurance, and Nath spent some time with him. I welcomed that. I took myself off to the darkest corner and ate my food alone and attended to what it was necessary to do without crossing any of the others. The Khamorros kept up an argument, but I made no attempt to follow its ramifications. There were two of them against the third. I did gather that they were khams of different training disciplines, different syples, but that the point of dissension was not, as might have been expected, the relative superiority of their own syple. A certain amount of luck was with me, for when the suns went down I knew I would have two burs at the outside when only a couple of the lesser moons were in the sky. I waited with what patience I could muster.

When all was dark I carefully felt my way down the wooden ladder. Below, the guards were thrown into black relief by the glare of torches becketed into the walls alongside the door with its lenken beam. Lart had had difficulty in lifting that beam.

Like a wild leem of the plains, I crept up behind the first guard, silenced him, snaked across to the second, and served him likewise. I looked about for more, guessing they would be well on the alert for fear of the deadly men so well versed in the art of unarmed combat.

There was time for me to slip into the leaf-green tunic of a guard whose shoulders were almost the equal of my own, and to don his helmet. I extinguished one of the torches and cursed, a good Hito-the-Hunter oath.

The Deldar walked in from the guardroom, cursing in his turn. They all carried crossbows, ready spanned. Him, I tapped on the nape of the neck and dragged into the shadows. Two more I served in the same way so that there were six unconscious guards, sprawled on the hard dirt of the slave barracks. Then I lifted up the lenken beam and went out.

Getting into the barred caves was easy. No guard challenged me, for I was dressed as a guard and therefore above suspicion. And, too, no one had escaped from the caves of the Manhunters of Faol for many many seasons.

Inside the barred opening I ripped off the leaf-green uniform. Guards came in here in search of pleasure, and some, at least, never returned. I padded on towards the feeding area. Mog the Migla lay asleep on her filthy pallet in her den, surrounded by discarded bones and cracked and rimed platters — and her great bristly broom stood against the wall. I lapped a length of her foul blanket about her mouth and seized her and lifted her upon my shoulder and so, without a cry or a struggle, carried her swiftly outside. A guard lowered the point of his spear as I stepped through the unlocked gate. Its bars were barely visible in the faint filtered light of the tiny hurtling moons.

“Now, by Foul Fernal himself! What is this?”

Had he talked less and used his spear more, he might have discovered what this Foul Fernal, whatever demon he might be, would now never tell him, for I stepped inside his spear and with my one free hand gripped him and cross-buttocked him with such force that his spine snapped. But he did have time to scream, whereat I let out a low Makki-Grodno oath.

I took his sword and spear and left him where he fell. I gathered up the leaf-green uniform and helmet, and carrying all in an awkward bundle, raced into the darkness.

Some distance along the trail the fugitives took to leave the compound I found a nice comfortable spot partway up a tree bole, and with movements very rapid and barely seen in the gloom, lashed Mog safely to the trunk. Her tattered blanket provided gag and bindings. Her eyes glared at me and I saw no terror in them, only a mindless and shaking sense of outrage and feral hatred. I slammed in a palisade of thorns that, although skimpy, would serve, and then dashed back. If you ask why I did not at once flee with Mog through the night jungle, you have not yet rightly understood me. I knew the fliers were kept nowhere near the caves. Where they were kept I did not know. The Jikai villas were some way off and would be guarded. If I aroused the compound now there scarcely would be a hunt the next day. I had left the barred cage door open. The dead guard lay sprawled just outside. That would cause commotion enough.

Back in the slave barracks I flung the uniform back on the guard, kicked the Deldar, who was moaning, and scampered up the stairs. Up there all was quiet. I crept to my corner and lay down. A shadow moved. A man eased gently up to me.

A voice said: “You tried to escape, dom. You came back. Why?”

I recognized the voice of the third Khamorro, a light, pleasant voice, to come from such a deadly kind of man.

“If you wish to know,” I said, “go down and see.”

He chuckled. “I am going to escape tomorrow. I would not wish anyone to spoil that for me. I hope you have not done so.”

“Go to sleep.”

I was perfectly ready in case he leaped on me. But he did not. I heard him ease himself back to his pallet. His voice trickled through the darkness. “You are a strange man. Tomorrow, we will see.”

With the morning there would be the final nonsense with Nalgre, and his female manhound, and then we would set off through the jungle. I hoped this Khamorro would welcome what he then discovered. All followed exactly as before.

The only difference that a dead guard had made, and an open cage door, was a strong body of guards marching into the slave caves and beating about, aimlessly, and then marching out having found nothing and accomplished nothing. The slaves ready for the run today were counted, and then counted again. The Deldar, who had awoken first, must have said nothing of the inexplicable sleep he and his men had indulged in. But, as none of the slaves had escaped, there was no harm done. If anyone noticed the absence of old Mog, they would scarcely credit that she had slain a guard and taken off into the jungle, witch or no witch.

The Khamorro who had spoken to me, whose name was Turko, gave me a meaningful glance. I ignored him. Strange, how to look back on that day I can so clearly recall how I wished this Turko the Khamorro to hell and gone! Strange, indeed, is the way of fate.

With which not particularly original reflection we all began our march into the jungle, hunted men and women and halflings, sport for the great Jikai.

Nath the Guide led off very smartly, acting his part as the guide and mentor of this little band of fugitives. He had decided we should strike north, and his words were the selfsame words that Inachos had used. They learned their duplicity by parts, these treacherous guides!

When we came to where I had left Mog I sprinted ahead, and with the dead guard’s thraxter cut her down.

She came all asprawl into my arms and I caught her odor and I gagged.

“You nulsh! Migshaanu the All-Glorious will fry your brains and frizzle your eyeballs and rip out your tongue and-”

I said: “If you do not still that wagging tongue of yours, Mog, I will probably rip it out, instead of Migshaanu.” I was bending forward, glaring at her, mightily wroth. She looked up with those bright agate eyes, and saw my face, and she stopped talking. I have noticed that effect I have on people. It is not something I am proud of. But it is, nevertheless, mightily useful at times!

Nath shouldered up, flustered, shouting: “What is this! What is she doing here? Mog — Dray Prescot

— what-?”

One of the Khamorros, the largest of the three and a thumping ugly great fellow, bellowed out in anger:

“The old crone cannot march! She cannot come with us — you must leave her, cramph.”

“I will carry her, if need be.”

For I had felt a surprising strength in that thin figure when she had tumbled out of the tree upon me.

“We shall not wait-”

Turko walked up with a lithe swing, his dark hair tumbled about his face, his features bronzed and clear, and, as I noticed for the first time, a look about him at once reckless and contained. With all this his build, all muscle and sliding roped power, advertised his enormous physical development, and, if that were not enough, he was damned handsome too, into the bargain.

“Leave it, Chimche,” he said. “This nul Dray Prescot will carry the crone, as he says, or be left behind.”

The bulky form of Chimche started to quiver and Nath said quickly: “We had best press on. There are shoes and food and wine ahead — and knives.”

I had to keep my fingers still. I knew that wine.

So we hurried on along the trail, with Chimche turning often to give me a glare. But I had given him no further cause of offense, and I was carefully watching Mog. Having seen how matters stood, and at her first immediate rush back down the trail being firmly stopped by me, she screeched and waved her arms but trudged along. Every now and then I had to give her a push. I watched her, as I say, very carefully; the impression had formed that she play-acted rather more than she cared folk to perceive. And her walk, once the shuffling scuttle she habitually adopted in the caves proved troublesome swinging along the trail, changed imperceptibly into a much firmer and longer tread. She would not be the first woman to make herself look old and hideous in captivity.

Still, she was a halfling and, by Zair, she was hideous in reality!

When we reached the cache of food and clothing Mog was more than happy to rest. We donned the gray tattered tunics and took the knives and put on the shoes, and all this petty finery was designed to make us feel we had outwitted the manhunters, to give us hope, to make us run!

Mog wouldn’t wear the shoes Nath offered.

Toward the end of the march I had to carry her, slung over a shoulder, and every now and then a filthy dangling leg would give me a sly kick, just to remind me.

When we made our camp up a tree, erecting a palisade of thorns, and Nath prepared his lower aerie, I knew the time approached. Nath hefted up the wine bottles, their leather bulging. I was looking at Mog. She was tied in place. I knew she had the willpower and the courage to march back through the jungle. Now, as Nath offered her the wine, she cowered back, trembling.

“No, no, Nath. I do not want the wine.”

Chimche bellowed at this, his dark florid face flushed.

“Then give it here, you crone!”

“Why will you not drink the wine?” persisted Nath. He upended the spout over Mog’s mouth, trying to force her, letting the wine drop through in that frugal way Kregans have.

“No!” She was terrified now. “No, the wine is drugged! We will all sleep and the monsters of the forests will eat us!”

Turko laughed at this, but Nath backhanded Mog across her rubbery lips. “Drugged!” he shouted, in a fury. “You lie, old crone! You lie!” And he hit her again.

I took Nath the Guide’s arm and bent it back.

“She does not lie, Nath. The wine is drugged so that you may creep off in the night, and leave us prey to the man-hounds.”

He stared at me, his arm bent back, and a sickly smile distorted that frank and manly face. We all saw. We all saw the guilt that glazed on that face.

“By the Muscle!” bellowed Chimche, shoving forward. “It is true!”

The other Khamorro, Janich, elbowed up, pushing me out of the way, reaching for Nath the Guide.

“The wine is drugged and the guides are false!” screeched Mog. Her agate eyes glared up in the terror of the moment.

Janich’s hefty push and Nath’s convulsive effort broke my hold on his arm and he scuttled back up the tree branch. He stared down on us, and saw the murder in our eyes, and he screamed at us.

“It is true! It is true! The wine is drugged and you creeping yetches will be dead tomorrow when the Manhounds of Faol tear your limbs apart and splash your blood into the jungle.”

Shouts and calls broke out as the slaves tried to get up the tree at Nath. He lifted his knife. I think, then, he knew he was doomed, for the Khamorros are frightful fighters, and he with all his forest experience knew he would not elude them among the trees. But he would make the effort. You could feel sorry for him, as you might feel sorry for a risslaca — about to kill and eat a dainty lople — being suddenly caught in a snare and feathered with barbed arrows.

“You are all doomed!” Nath the Guide screeched it down at us. “And the witch shall die first!”

The whole reason I was here, in this hideous situation, was to rescue Mog the Migla and take her to safety. And now, with the speed of a striking leem, Nath hurled his knife at the old Miglish crone. The knife flew, a darting sliver of steel in the forest gloom, full at Mog’s unprotected throat.