". . . . found him on that spit yonder, more dead 'n alive, jammed in a dead tree, free days ago."
To S'kith there was something familiar about the voice. "Them Morkth-men is good workers. Too dumb t'stop, heh, heh! You gonna give me a goo' price fer 'im then?" There was a wheedling, whining quality to the voice.
Somebody snorted. "Likely not worth a bent copper, Sheela. He's probably so bent 'n buggered by the river I won't find a buyer for him."
"Naw! 'E's in good nick, I promise. Checked him out meself, all over. 'E's well hung too. Fought of keeping 'im for a stud for me old age, I did." The vaguely familiar voice went off into a cackle of laughter.
"He's entire?" The second speaker was incredulous. "Then he's no bloody Morkth-man. Stole the clothes y'showed me, likely enough. Stupid bastard."
"Well, I'll take 'em off, then. I'll not let 'is nuts stand between me an' a goo' price." The hide was pushed aside, and the skirted figure with long hair was suddenly outlined against the background of a river sand spit. The face was prune-wrinkled. It was something that S'kith had never seen before. Morkth-men were killed when they began to age past their prime. The eyes that looked out of the face were sharp, and flickered across his attempt to sit up.
"See, Ser Farno. 'E's in good shape, considering. Now, I'll cut his cods off quickly." The knife that came out of her sleeve was long and wickedly sharp looking. It was a mistake. The sight of the knife triggered defensive reactions. To the Morkth trainers the best form of defense is attack. The old cords that bound his wrists were no match for S'kith's iron-hard muscles. They snapped, and he was moving, propelled by his still-bound legs. The knife wrist was seized, forced down. The blade of his hand struck the knife wielder's neck. There was an audible brittle crack.
Without pausing to look at his fallen victim, S'kith took the knife and sliced his ankles free. Stepping into a crouch, knife extended, he advanced on the other person who had entered the cave with her.
"Keep away from me, you bloody madman! You've killed the old woman! You'll hang for that!" There was real fear in the fat man's voice as he edged back against the wall.
S'kith paused. "Woman? That was . . . a woman?"
Trying to press his way back into a crevice behind him, the man stuttered. "Yeah, I, I know she was an ol' bitch, and as ugly as sin, but you didn't haveta' kill her. Just . . . just lemme out, okay?"
"You are sure that was a woman? Are you a woman too?"
"Me!" Squeaked the fat one. "No . . . no really, I'm a man. Just like you. I saw . . . it . . . it . . . it was an accident. Honestly! Now I'll just go an' tell the Sheriff . . ." He made a sudden lunge, attempting to reach the mouth of the cave. S'kith cut him down without remorse. He'd killed a woman . . . that was wrong . . . somehow. He'd never wanted to kill warrior-brood women. He looked down at the tumbled body. Was this really what they looked like?
He lifted the dead woman's skirt. Yes, undoubtedly. She was physically different from him. So that was what it actually looked like. He had never been able to see it properly before. His emotions, those strange puzzling feelings, were stirred. If he had known the term he would have said that he was saddened by the killing. So, as it was what the females in the Morkth cells had always wanted of him, he had sex with the body. It was not particularly pleasant, but he felt it was the least he could do. Getting up afterwards he realized he was hungry. So he cut himself some hunks off his male victim, and ate them. He took some of the clothes and dressed. He stropped the knife carefully, and shaved his face and head. Then he cut some more steaks for later, put them into a sack, and set out into a world he felt he did not belong in. The gold from the slave buyer's purse was left scattered in the dirt of the cave floor. He had no idea that it was of any value.
* * *
It was nearly four hours later that the hue and cry was raised. The country was up in pursuit of the monster: Rapist, Murderer and Cannibal.
CHAPTER 4
The thin stream of filth spilled out of the broken pipe and onto the sand. Once, the pipe had extended far out into the breakers. But time and storms had eaten at it. Now, at low tide it spilled into a series of filthy pools and then trickled into the sea. Occasional seagulls swooped and picked, their mournful cries echoing in the mouth of the pipe, where a scared, hungry and bitter boy waited. The pipe-mouth circle of sky blue faded, becoming tinted here and there with orange and violet cloud streaks. It would be dark soon, and then he would set out.
The mountains . . . how would he get there? All the roads and trails would be watched. He also had no food, no way of carrying water, and a desert to cross. But he was a city child, to whom the distances on the map meant little, and the realities of crossing the desert meant nothing at all. He would follow the dry valley that the map described as the Syrah River. There would be no patrols, for there was no road there, and surely he would have finished crossing the desert by morning.