Earthblood (37 page)

"A year—ten years. It's all the same to dogs. They ain't like a man. They're trained to hunt—and that's what they're doing."

"He's right, Roan," Sostelle said. "Kotschai will never forget the man who shamed him by escaping him. Perhaps we'd best leave now, and find another place—"

"I'm not leaving," Roan said. "If they want me, let them find me." He looked at the one-eyed Man. "If you fought them—if we all fought them—we could wipe them out. There are only a few hundred of them. Then you could leave this pesthole. You could spread out into the countryside, start new villages—"

The Man shook his head. "You was lucky," he said. "You got clear of 'em. But that was because you was in Upper Town, where they wasn't expecting no trouble. When they come down here, they come in packs, with nerve guns and organization. Nobody's going to jump that kind of force. And neither are you." He straightened, showing his teeth. "You're going to get out, like I said—or you ain't going to live long."

Roan laughed at him. "Is that a threat? Is being dead worse than living in this ghetto?"

"You're going to find out pretty soon—you and your . . . friends." He swaggered away.

"Roan," Sostelle started. "We could leave by night, make our way to—"

"I'm going out." Roan stood. "I need fresh air."

"Roan—you're challenging the dogs—and the Men as well . . . ?" Desiranne caught at his hand. "They'll see us . . ." Roan pushed her gently back. "Not us. Just me. Let them beware."

"I'm going with you."

"Stay here with Sostelle," Roan said flatly. "I've hidden from them for a year. That's long enough."

As he walked away, he heard Sostelle say: "Let him go, Mistress. A Man like Roan cannot live forever as a hunted slave."

The rumor ran ahead of Roan. People stared, made mystical signs, then darted out to follow as he strode along, taking the center of the hut-and garbage-choked street. Others slipped away into decay-slimed alleyways to spread the word. The last of sunset faded and the few automatic polyarcs that still worked came on, shedding their tarnished brilliance on broken walls, cracked facades, and Roan, walking the night with his shadow striding ahead.

"They're close," someone called to Roan from a doorway. "Better run quick, Mister Fancy-talk!"

He was in a wide avenue with a center strip of hard-packed dirt where flowers had once grown. At the far end was the wide colonnaded front of a building the roof of which had fallen in. It gleamed a ghostly white in the glare from a tall pole-mounted light. Tall weeds poked up among marble slabs there, and rude huts grew like toadstools in the shadows of the chipped pediments.

A dog appeared on the broken steps, standing tall, curve-shouldered, cringe-legged, cruel-fanged, wearing the straps and sparkling medallions of the police. Roan walked toward him, and the trailing crowd fell back.

"Stop there, red-haired Man!" the dog yelped. He drew the curiously shaped gun strapped under his foreleg and pointed it at Roan. "You're under arrest."

"Run," Roan said in a strange, flat voice. "Run, or I'll kill you."

"What? Kill me? You're a fool, Red-hair. I have a gun—" Roan broke into a run straight toward the dog and the animal crouched and fired and in the sudden shock of pain Roan felt his legs knot and cramp and he fell. The dog stalked up to him, waving back the gathering crowd. It's only pain, Roan told himself. He rested on hands and knees. Pain is nothing; dying without feeling his throat under your hands is the true agony

. . .

He rose to his feet in a sudden movement, and the police dog whirled, reaching for the gun, but Roan's swing caught him below his cropped ear, sent him spinning. With a growl, the dog scrambled to all fours, and Roan's foot met him under the jaw with a solid impact and the shaved body rolled aside and lay still. Roan stooped, picked up the gun, as a mutter of alarm swept across the mob.

"You see?" Roan shouted. "They're dogs—nothing more!"

"Now they'll kill you for sure!" a gaunt woman yelled. "Serve you right, too, you trouble-bringer!"

"Here they come!" another voice screeched. Two more dogs had appeared from the ruin, coming on at a relentless lope. Roan took aim and shot one; it fell, yelping and kicking out, and the other veered aside and dashed for safety. The crowd shouted now.

"But these are just ordinary dogs," the one-eyed Man had come up close to Roan. "Wait until you meet Kotschai, face to face. Then you'll learn the taste of honest fear!"

"They say he's three hundred years old," a short, clay-faced Man said. "His Masters have given him their magic medicine to make him live long, and with every passing year he's grown more wise and evil. My gran'fer remembered him—"

"He's just a dog," Roan shouted. "And you're Men!" Across the square a squad of uniformed dogs burst into view, fanned out, halted, facing the crowd, which recoiled, leaving Roan to stand alone. Then an avenue opened through the police and an immense dog paced through. In silence he advanced across the plaza, skirted the injured dog, which was crawling painfully, whimpering. A dozen feet from Roan, he halted.

"Who dares defy Kotschai the Punisher?" he growled. He was taller than Roan, massive-bodied, with the thick, sinewy forelegs of a tiger and jaws like a timber wolf. His body had been shaved except for a ruff around the neck and his pinkish-gray hide was a maze of scars. He was dressed in straps and bangles of shiny metal decorated with enamel, and there was a harness studded with spikes of brass across his chest, and above his yellow eyes was a brass horn that seemed to be set in the bone of his brute-flat skull. His tail had been broken and badly set, and it swung nervously, as though it hurt all the time.

"How does a dog dare to challenge a Man?" Roan demanded.

"It is the order of my master." The wicked jaws grinned and a pink tongue licked black gums.

"Can you fight all of us?" Roan motioned toward the silent mob.

"They do not count," Kotschai said. "Only you. I see you have a gun, too. But my dogs have more."

"You and I don't need guns," Roan said. "We have hands and teeth for fighting."

Kotschai looked at Roan with his small, red-circled eyes. He lifted his muzzle and sniffed the air.

"Yes," the dog said. "I smell the odor of human bloodlust." He seemed to shiver. "It is not a scent I love, Master."

"Then you'd better learn how to crouch on all fours and heel on command, dog," Roan said loudly, so that everyone could hear.

"I have never learned such lessons, Master," Kotschai said.

"You haven't had a proper teacher, dog."

"That may be true." Kotschai motioned his dogs back. He unbuckled his gun harness, threw it aside.

"It is said that once Man was Terra's most deadly predator," he said. "I have wondered long how it was that the pretty creatures I call Master made the dogs their slaves. Perhaps in you I see the answer."

"Perhaps in me you see your death."

Kotschai nodded. "Perhaps. And now I must punish you, Master." Roan tossed the gun to a Man, reached to his shoulder, ripped loose the clasp that held his garment, wrapped the ragged cloth around his left forearm.

"Now I'll instruct you in courtesy, dog," he said, and Kotschai snarled and charged.

Roan's padded arm struck into the open jaws as the dog's bristly body slammed against him. He stumbled back, twisting aside from the horn that raked his jaw, locked his free arm around the dog's shoulders, keeping his face above the vicious chest spikes, and together Man and dog fell. Roan locked his legs around the heavy torso, and Kotschai snarled, raking with all four limbs as Roan's locked arms and legs crushed, crushed—

With a frantic effort, the dog wrenched his jaws half free of Roan's strangling forearm, lunged for a better grip with his teeth, and Roan struck with his fist, kicked free, hurled the animal from him. Kotschai scrambled to his feet, jaws agape, the stubble along his spine erect. Roan faced him, blood on his arm, teeth bared in an ancient defiance. All around, dogs and Men stood silent, gaping at the spectacle of Man pitted against beast. The dog charged again, and Roan slipped aside, dropped on the broad back, locked ankles under the dog's belly, wrapped his arms around the thick neck, pressing his face close to the mightily muscled shoulder. Kotschai went down, rolled, and Roan held on, throttling the breath in the dog's throat. Kotschai reared high, tottering under the weight of the Man on his back, throwing his horned head from side to side, and Roan's grip loosened—

At once, the dog twisted, the great jaws snapping a hair's breadth from Roan's unprotected shoulder. Roan doubled his fist, struck a smashing blow across the dog's face, but the jaws snapped again, and this time they met hide and muscle. Roan found a grip on the corded throat, forcing the fanged head back, and he felt the locked teeth tear his flesh . . . The garment wrapping Roan's arm had slipped down. It flapped in the dog's face, and the animal snapped at it, and in the instant's diversion, Roan ripped free. But even as he retreated a step the dog was on him, and again the rag-snarled fist was thrust into the yawning jaws, and again Roan fell, and now Kotschai was above him, snarling and worrying the impeding rag, struggling to find a clear thrust at Roan's throat, while Roan fought to hold the fighting body close . . .

A minute that was an eternity passed, while the two antagonists contended, chest to chest, their agonized breathing the only sound in all the wide plaza. And slowly the jaws grew closer, as Roan's grip loosened. He looked into the yellow eyes, and felt the hot, inhuman ferocity that burned an inch from his face now. And then he saw another face, above and behind that of the dog—the features set and pale, the one eye glaring—

There was a shock, and the pressure was gone. Kotschai kicked convulsively, growling; the growl became a howl, choked off. Roan thrust the two-hundred-pound body from him, got to his knees, then to his feet. Blood was running hot across his chest from the wound in his shoulder, and his breath was raw in his throat. He was aware of the Man standing before him, looking half triumphant, half afraid, and of a roar from the mob of humans, and of the dogs starting forward uncertainly, guns ready. Roan shook out his torn and bloody tunic, pulled it on.

"Thanks," Roan said, then yelled and charged the advancing dogs. He felt the wash of fire as the field of a nerve gun touched him, and then he was on the nearest dog, feeling the solid smash of his fists on hide, and then the shouting was all about him and the ragged horde leaped past him, howling out their long-pent fury. The dogs fought bravely, but as quickly as one Man fell another leaped his body to grapple his antagonist. The police had fallen back almost to the broken marble steps of the ruined building before whistles and barkings sounded from a sideway, and now more dogs arrived, long pink tongues hanging out, stub tails whipping, firing as they came; and still more Men scrambled to join the fight which had spread all across the square now.

The one-eyed Man was beside Roan. His face was bleeding from a dog bite but his single eye gleamed with life.

"I killed three of 'em!" he yelled. "Got one by the throat and choked him till he died!" He ran on.

The dogs had formed a tight phalanx, guns aimed outward to sweep the crowd, and they retreated slowly as Men rushed at them, shouting curses, leaping the bodies of the fallen, striking out with clubs, knives, fists. Now the dogs reached a narrow way, and more Men fell as the enemy retreated, leaving a trail of casualties behind them. They reached a gate and slipped through it and it clanged behind them. The Men tried to climb it, but the dogs shot them down, and they fell, all but one who hung, impaled on spearpoints.

But a wild yell was echoing along the street, across the plaza. Men and women danced, screaming their triumph. The one-eyed Man was back, seizing Roan's arm, pumping his hand.

"We beat 'em!" he was shouting at the top of his lungs.

"They'll be back!" Roan shouted. "We'll have to collect the weapons, set up a defensive position . . ."

No one was listening. Roan turned to another Man as One-eye darted away, tried to explain that the dogs had retired in good order for tactical reasons, that they would renew the assault as soon as reinforcements arrived with heavy weapons.

It was useless. The Lowers capered, all yelling at once.

Something made Roan look upward. A point of brilliant light sparkled and winked against the night sky, and Roan felt the clutch of a ghostly hand at his heart.

"A ship . . ." he said aloud, feeling his voice choke.

"Roan!"

He whirled. Sostelle was there, unruffled by the frenzy all about. "The Lady Desiranne commanded me to come . . ."

Roan clutched at him. "It's a ship!" he said hoarsely, pointing.

"Yes, Roan. We saw it from the rooftop. Oh, Roan—is it—your ship . . . ?" A great searchlight lanced out from the port area; the finger of chalky bluish light glared on low clouds, found the ship, glinted on its side.

"No," Roan said, and the ghostly hand gripped even tighter. "It's not my ship. It's a big one—a dreadnought of the line. It's Trishinist and his plunderers of the Imperial Terran Navy."

Roan and Sostelle watched from the shelter of the causeway as the mile-long vessel suspended itself five miles over the city, like an elongated moon ablaze with lights from stem to stern. Its pressor beams were columns of pale fire bearing on smoking pits spaced at hundred yard intervals across the flower beds and glassy pavement of the landing ramps. Three smaller shapes of light had detached themselves from the mother vessel, dropping quickly toward the earth.

"They're landing about three hundred men," Roan said. "How many fighting dogs are there?"

"I don't know, Roan. Perhaps as many, perhaps more—but look there—" From the Upper City, a flock of flyers had appeared, moving swiftly toward the port. Roan could see the crossed bones insignia of the police blazoned on the sides of the grim, gray machines. The landing craft from the ITN

battleship were settling to the broad pavement now; ports cycled open; a cascade of men poured out of each, formed up in ragged columns. The police flyers closed ranks, hurtling to the attack at low altitude. Something sparkled from the prow of the first of the landing craft in line, and the lead flyer exploded into arcing fragments with a flash that lit the landscape for two miles around in dusty orange light. The other police vessels scattered, screaming away at flank speed, hugging the ground, but not before an aerial torpedo got away to burst near an ITN column, sending half a dozen men sprawling.