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The bounty-chasers had been on the trail for over a week, riding over the rocky scrub-land east of the Kailla river, on the trail of their quarry. The man was good, better by far than others they had tracked, and he had led them on quite a chase. Their kaiila were tired and they were near exhaustion themselves, but they were unwilling to pause for rest. They were close now; they had chased him into a winding canyon which dead ended not far from their current position. Sandstone cliffs rose up on two sides of them, stretching perhaps a hundred feet or more, straight up, unclimbable. The Warrior was trapped, and they knew it. So must he, by now. All that remained was his last stand, his capture or his death. None of the bounty-chasers were looking forward to that part of it. They had all heard stories about the scarlet caste; and in certain parts of Gor the exploits of those who wore the scarlet of a particular city were near legendary, tales to frighten children into obedience. "Don't neglect your chores, little ones, lest a Tarnsman of Ar fly through your window and carry you away into slavery." The stuff of childish nightmares, perhaps; but there was deep truth behind such tales, and the mettle of those whose exploits had built the fabled city of Glorious Ar was not a matter to be taken lightly. Seventeen of their comrades had discovered that already, shot down as they rode. Their bodies still lay where they had fallen, a ragged line of cadavers stretched out over nearly fifty pasangs of brush, bloating in the hot sun. "Let's call a halt, Captain," suggested Spendik. "My ass is sorer than a coin-girl's pay hole. Tarnsman or not, he can't fly on kailla-back. He can't get out of this canyon without our seeing him." Drue shrugged and reined in, signalling for the others to do the same.Wearily he climbed from the saddle, fumbling through his saddlepack for a wineskin. He swigged down a few warm mouthfuls of Ka-la-na and passed it to Sartori, who had also dismounted. The Cosian took it gratefully and drank. A few of the others gathered around, leaving their kailla untended. The animals wouldn't wander far; sweat-foam covered their flanks and they had been ridden mercilessly, almost to the limit of their endurance. And these were their FRESH kailla. Drue shook his head with frustration, wondering how their quarry's mount had survived such a chase. "I'll say one thing for him, for a man of the cities he's a good judge of kaiilla-flesh. That animal of his should have dropped twenty pasangs ago," muttered Drue. He wiped the sweat from his sunburned hairline wearily. He had already been forced to leave three of his men behind when their mounts had died from overexertion. Kuchik, their Paravaci guide, overheard the remark as he approached. "The Tahari tribesmen call him Sulimani," said Kuchik gravely, his native Wagon dialect heavily accenting his Gorean. "We Paravaci don't know what to call him. The Tuchuk Kavarik used to trade slaves with him out of Kasra, and he claims that this one can't be caught, that he's a wind spirit in human form. I don't believe that, but I do know he's been riding smart, keeping the hills between us while he stuck to the open plains when he could, and pacing himself. We've been riding wild, burning up our animals. Unless we take him soon he'll outdistance us and double back through the borderlands. He'll be west of the Ihanke in a week, out of our reach." Sartori coughed and spat. The Cosian claimed to have known their quarry years ago in Lydius, and had crossed blades with him twice. The second time had been the worst, but the Warrior had let him off easy in accordance with his caste codes. That had been four years ago, and his ruined eye still itched beneath the patch he wore. "I guess the fellow runs as well as he fights. For all we know he could be up in those rocks right now, sighting us with that crossbow of his." Spendik's eyes widened at the thought. He stared up at the surrounding cliffs nervously. His hands found the hilts of his fighting knives and he pressed backward against the rocks. To Drue's eyes the man looked like nothing more than an urt, caught outside of its hole. "Relax, Spendik. Our prize money is still a good way off, I'll wager." Both Donnez and Jager laughed. "Don't worry, Spendik," said Jager. "We'll protect you." Spendik gazed at them hotly. "Like you protected Alphon and Miren?" he spat. "They were just as foolhardy as you and they got crossbow bolts in their heads, and the others, too. This is no ordinary cutthroat we chase... this one was trained in Ar! He survived the Delta! Don't worry about me; you just stand out there with your weapons in your sheaths and draw his fire if he starts shooting." "Fine with me," retorted Donnez. "I guess you don't want your share of the bounty gold, pisshead." "That's enough," growled Drue. They had chased their quarry into this rocky deathtrap and he was liable to come out fighting. The last thing he needed now was dissension in the ranks. "There's a thousand tarns of gold at the end of this canyon, waiting for us to go and collect it. Plenty for everyone." "You can have my share," muttered Sartori. "All I want is a piece of him for what he did to me. All I want is his eyes." "Just let me get close," added Spendik. "I'll ram my knives right down his stinking throat." "First you have to get past his teeth," announced Kuchik. "He's Warrior-trained, which makes him just as deadly as he is smart. He sits a kailla like a Tuchuk and he fights like he cut his teeth in the Stadium of Blades. But I wouldn't worry about that crossbow of his; a tarnsman's hip quiver holds seventeen bolts and whether he rides a tarn or a kailla, that's a tarn crossbow he's using. He's shot down seventeen of us. We've been hot on his track, he hasn't had time enough to find or make more. That means he's out of quarrels, and he'll have to let us get close." "Can he climb those cliffs?" asked Drue. "That's suicide. He'd have to abandon the kailla and set out afoot. There's nothing but grasslands on the other side of this canyon, stretching for hundreds of pasangs. If he tries to cross it the savages will chase him down and cut him to pieces." Drue nodded at this. The Red Savages of the Barrens were among the deadliest adversaries on Gor, a reputation they earned by slaying any outlander who came their way. Even the Warriors of the High Cities feared them; years ago an expedition had been sent to open a trade route through the Barrens, accompanied by an entire legion of Thentian Warriors. Their bodies had been found mutilated and staked down over a hundred pasang radius. It was rumored that some Red Savage chieftains still wore the helmets of the slain commanders. "Alright, then," said Drue. "The sun will be down in a few Ahn and I don't want to risk losing him in the dark. We'll camp tonight and try to corner him first thing in the morning when we're fresh and rested. Kuchik, find us the the most defendable campsite you can, ring it with those Paravaci snares of yours. Jager, you take Donnez and a few of the others and go scout the area. Shout if you see anything." By this time the remainder of the band had realized that this was not a temporary rest stop and had climbed from their kailla. They approached curiously and Drue counted them. He had left the city of Ti with over thirty men. Now they numbered less than a dozen. That meant more gold for each of the survivors when they brought their quarry down. It also meant that they had lost much of their numerical advantage, but the odds were still eleven to one in their favor, including a vengeful Cosian weaponsmaster and a trained Paravaci huntsman. No one could stand against such odds, not after the rigors of the long chase. Not a Warrior of Ar, even a former duelist from Port Kar; not a Priest-King himself. No one. There was a sudden scream from his left and he spun in place, instantly alert. Donnez was down, screaming shrilly, an arrow protruding from his chest. Drue leapt for cover, drawing his sword and scanning the rocks above. Curse that blasted Paravaci guide to the Cities of Dust, he thought angrily, the Warrior's quiver must hold more than seventeen quarrels... He was wrong, and he realized it at once. The arrow which had felled Donnez wasn't a crossbow quarrel fabricated in the smithies of Ar, it was longer and rougher, raggedly fletched with jard feathers, much different than the missles which had slain the others. Was their enemy somehow making more? Then he heard the first warcry, echoing toward him from within the canyon. It was followed by more, a terrifying clamor of shrieking voices, and the approaching thunder of the claws of kailla. All around him his men were running for their own mounts, eyes bulging with fear. Drue saw Kuchik drop his saddlepack and spring instantly into his saddle, turning and galloping away toward the canyon's exit. A few of the others struggled to remount and follow. Red Savages, he realized wildly, Yellow Knives. A tribal raiding party was in the canyon with them. The tribesmen must have come here to rest their horses before a raid. More arrows whizzed through the air around them, impacting on the rocks and skittering away. Another of his men fell, pierced through the neck. Drue started to break for his kailla but the untethered beast had panicked and raced away, following Kuchik and the others. He was trapped, on foot, and the raiders would be on top of him within Ihn. He saw a narrow cavelet between two large rocks and ran for it, wedging himself desperately inside it to hide. He crouched then, praying to the Priest Kings that he not be seen, as the approaching riders burst into view. They were clad for the most part in roughly tanned leather, their moccasins and headdresses trimmed with the fur of forest sleen. Many of them wore intricately woven fighting harnesses made from straps of leather, into which were woven scabbards for their long fighting knives and tethers for their war clubs and hatchets. Each carried a bow or a lance, and some carried round shields of stretched and dried hide and wood, upon which were painted stylized likenesses of black birds, possibly jards. Their weaponry and headdresses were adorned with ritual beading, bits of polished copper and carved bone. All bore the markings of ceremonial paint on their faces and bodies. A few also wore pieces of scavenged equipment, and Drue thought he recognized the rank insignia of Thentis on one of the helmets. Those of his men who had been caught out in the open were cut down where they stood, butchered by lance and spear. He saw Spendik fall, his skull crushed inward by a sweeping war club, and he watched bitterly as Sartori was herded away from his kailla and surrounded. Sartori was known for his skill with a blade, but the weapon proved useless; the tribesmen simply stayed out of range. The Cosian was ringed by riders and peppered with arrows until he collapsed spitting blood. It was over quickly. A few of the tribesmen dismounted to strip the bodies of anything useful and to take scalps, but the rest galloped away in pursuit of Kuchik and the others. Drue held his breath as he watched the tribesmen search his saddlepack. One of them found his wineskin and sniffed it cautiously, then passed it to his companions with a chuckle. Thirstily they drank. Sweat beaded the bounty-chaser's brow. Drue shifted, trying to readjust his sword for use. Somehow the tribesmen heard him. They froze, their eyes narrowing as they scanned the area for any movement on the canyon floor. One of them saw the rocky cleft where Drue was hidden and crept toward it, drawing his fighting knife. Drue could not ready his own weapon without betraying himself; all he could do was wait and hope that the painted savage somehow failed to see him. Without warning the plainsman let out a piercing war-cry and ran toward Drue's hiding place. Drue screamed, trying desperately to free his weapon, but his arms were pinned, useless. Suddenly a roaring noise filled Drue's ears and rocks began to fall from the cliffwall above. The tribesmen had just enough time to glance upward fearfully, then the entire canyon seemed to come down on top of them in a huge avalanche of dirt and stone. Night had fallen by the time Drue managed to dig his way out. His hands were scraped and bloody and he had long since broken off the tip of his sword with digging, but none of that mattered. What did matter was the sweet smell of fresh air. He was alive; tons of falling rock and debris had crushed and buried the tribesmen, but the huge stones of his hiding place had sheltered him, protected him, and he was alive. He glanced up at the cliffwall, amazed that it had crumbled when it did. Otherwise the Red Savages would have dragged him into the open and gutted him, just as they had slain the others. His nose suddenly caught the smell of burning wood, and over that the beckoning odor of roasting meat. A campfire was flickering a short distance away down the canyon, not far from where he stood, and a figure was sitting beside it. His eyes squinted uncertainly through the darkness, widening when they recognized the familiar face of Kuchik. The scout's kailla was tethered nearby, just beyond the ring of light. Kuchik. Drue had known the Paravaci scout for a long time, even before the fall of distant, nine-gated Turia so many years ago, and they had been through a lot together. His friend Kuchik had come back to look for him. Somehow the Paravaci had managed to elude the rest of the raiding party and had doubled back, still hunting their quarry, still seeking the bounty gold. That wily bastard. Drue stumbled toward him, his mouth watering at the tantalizing scent wafting from the fire. "Kuchik!" he called, "Kuchik it's me! It's Drue! Those painted savages killed Sartori and the others, but I escaped, somehow there was a rockslide..." His foot snagged on something and he fell, cursing. He looked down at his legs. They were bound up in one of Kuchik's Paravaci snares. He struggled to free his legs but the knots held firm. The dagger had slipped from his hand and lay just beyond his reach. "Kuchik! Kuchik, you fool, help me untie this thing!" He glared at the scout and froze. There wasn't any meat roasting over the fire; the smell was coming from Kuchik's foot, which protruded from his leg at an awkward angle. It had fallen into the fire and was smoking greasily. Drue's eyes bulged. Kuchik couldn't hear him; Kuchik's eyes were glazed and his neck had been broken by an expert. Kuchik was dead. "KUCHIK!" screamed Drue. "Somebody untie me! Anybody!" "No need to shout," said a fellow in a scarlet tunic, stepping from the shadows, "I'm right behind you." His voice was tinged with the accents of Ar. His arms and hands were still covered with dust from the effort of freeing the boulder which had begun the rockslide several Ahn earlier. "When one hunts, bounty-chaser, one should try to remain aware of who is the hunter, and who is the hunted. Don't you agree?" The flickering firelight played upon the blade in his hand. Drue was too stunned even to beg for his life. Not that it would have done any good. Those of the scarlet caste rarely left such work unfinished, and those of Ar seldom left a live enemy behind them.
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