Prison of Night

Ardoch reared, rising to stand on the tips of his toes, head thrown back, mouth open, arms extended, the sinews of his neck standing like ropes against the skin. His eyes were glazed, blind, and the pupils uprolled so that only the glisten of white showed between the lashes. From his open mouth came an animal-like panting. A mewing. A wordless, mindless drone.

And, standing, he burned.

Smoke rose from the skull-like head, streamed in oily tendrils from the sleeves of the scarlet robe; hung in a noxious cloud so that his figure became blurred and sagged as if made of wax, flesh falling from bone, the bone charring, turning black, becoming ash.

Falling.

Falling to lie in a small heap on the moldering floor.

To rest in a silence broken only by Lavinia's hysterical screams.

Three ships waited on the field and Dumarest had already made his choice; a compact vessel which would take him beyond the Rift and on to Izhma. A world where he would find computers and a society free of traditions, a planet on which the dead stayed that way and delusia was unknown.

Gartok said, "Well, Earl, I guess this is goodbye. But who knows? Someday we may meet again."

"When you get tired of the fleshpots, Kars?"

"Things are easy here," admitted the mercenary. "And a strong man can make his way if he is willing to abide by the rules. But, one day, it'll get that I want to see the stars. That'll be the time for me to leave."

As it was time for Dumarest to leave but he had more reason than a need to see the stars. A cyber had died and the Cyclan would know it. As they must know he was on Zakym. Others would be sent to find the trail and, again, the dogs would be on the chase.

"They'll learn nothing from me," said Gartok, quietly. "Nor from anyone else on this world. How many really knew you? How can they tell more than is already known?"

And how much did he know?

Dumarest looked at the man, seeing the scarred face, the flat, impassive features, but seeing more than lay on the surface. Like Zakym the man held an inner life; one that was shrewd and more complex than the one he displayed. An arrangement with the Church, he had said. Monks did not advocate violence and abhorred killing but justice was dear to them. Even poetic justice.

"The Sungari," said Gartok, abruptly, as if wanting to end the scrutiny. "They took care of the cyber, yes?"

Driving him insane with the stimulation of his brain, showing him vistas beyond imagining, using him, probing, discovering. Investigating the unusual specimen.

Testing him to destruction.

"Burning him." Gartok shook his head. "I'll never forget that. Turning a living man into ash while we watched. Maybe he deserved it, but, God, what an end! But why, Earl? Why?"

"They are curious," said Dumarest. "I appealed to that curiosity, And they could have wanted to show just how powerful they are. Remember that, Kars, if ever you are tempted to cheat them."

"I will."

"I think they wanted to complete the bargain they had made with me. We found Louchon dead later-he and the cyber were all that was left of the invading force." Dumarest added, casually, "You're staying at the castle?"

"Where you should have been, Earl. Lavinia-"

"No." He hadn't seen her since the time the cyber had burned.

"She could be made to understand. You had to reject her. I knew that and even Roland came to see it was all you could have done."

"But he hasn't said so?"

"No." Gartok rubbed the edge of his jaw. "I didn't trust that man. I thought he was working with Tomir-but it was Taiyuah who did that. Him and his damned worms! Well, he's old and will be dead soon."

Dead and forgotten and his petty intrigues ended. But others would live, Roland for one.

"He loves the woman," said Gartok. "You were right, Earl, the man is sick with longing for her. And I think that now she knows it. He was the only one who showed concern. And yet-how can anyone change so soon?"

They didn't. She hadn't. But time would work its magic. She would forget or, if not forgetting, cease to consciously remember. New life would come to fill her days and Roland would be there to provide the father and comforter she and the child would need.

His child.

Born on this strange and alien world. To grow in comfort and security as all children should. To be happy as was their right. The son or daughter he would never see.

A siren wailed from the field and Dumarest held out his hands. Gartok touched them with his own, palm to palm, the mercenary salute of friendship showing the lack of weapons.

"Good luck, Earl."

"Goodbye."

Gartok watched as Dumarest headed toward the gate, passed through it, moved across the field to the waiting ship. A man escaping from a world which had become a trap-but one still locked in the prison of his dream.