He lay half-stunned for a moment, his breath knocked out of him. There
was a terrible reptilian screaming sounding thin through the roar of
the wind. Vague shapes bolted past him, and twice he was nearly crushed
by their trampling hoofs.
Luhar and Freka must have waited their chance. It was so beautifully
easy. Leave Stark alone and afoot, and the storm and the desert between
them would do the work, with no blame attaching to any man.
Stark got to his feet, and a human body struck him at the knees so that
he went down again. He grappled with it, snarling, before he realized
that the flesh between his hands was soft and draped in silken cloth.
Then he saw that he was holding Berild.
"It was I," she gasped, "and not Fianna."
Her words reached him very faintly, though he knew she was yelling at
the top of her lungs. She must have been knocked from her own mount
when Luhar thrust between them.
Gripping her tightly, so that she should not be blown away, Stark
struggled up again. With all his strength, it was almost impossible to
stand.
Blinded, deafened, half strangled, he fought his way forward a few
paces, and suddenly one of the pack beasts loomed shadow-like beside
him, going by with a rush and a squeal.
By the grace of Providence and his own swift reflexes, he caught its
pack lashings, clinging with the tenacity of a man determined not to
die. It floundered about, dragging them, until Berild managed to grasp
its trailing halter rope. Between them, they fought the creature down.
Stark clung to its head while the woman clambered to its back, twisting
her arm through the straps of the pad. A silken scarf whipped toward
him. He took it and tied it over the head of the beast so it could
breathe, and after that it was quieter.
There was no direction, no sight of anything, in that howling inferno.
The caravan seemed to have been scattered like a drift of autumn
leaves. Already, in the few brief moments he had stood still, Stark's
legs were buried to the knees in a substratum of sand that rolled
like water. He pulled himself free and started on, going nowhere,
remembering Kynon's words.
Berild ripped her thin robe apart and gave him another strip of silk
for himself. He bound it over his nose and eyes, and some of the
choking and the blindness abated.
Stumbling, staggering, beaten by the wind as a child is beaten by a
strong man, Stark went on, hoping desperately to find the main body of
the caravan, and knowing somehow that the hope was futile.
The hours that followed were nightmare. He shut his mind to them, in a
way that a civilized man would have found impossible. In his childhood
there had been days, and nights, and the problems had been simple
ones--how to survive one span of light that one might then struggle to
survive the span of darkness that came after. One thing, one danger, at
a time.
Now there was a single necessity. Keep moving. Forget tomorrow, or what
happened to the caravan, or where the little Fianna with her bright
eyes may be. Forget thirst, and the pain of breathing, and the fiery
lash of sand on naked skin. Only don't stand still.
It was growing dark when the beast fell against a half-buried boulder
and snapped its foreleg. Stark gave it a quick and merciful death. They
took the straps from the pad and linked themselves together. Each took
as much food as he could carry, and Stark shouldered the single skin of
water that fortune had vouchsafed them.
They staggered on, and Berild did not whimper.
Night came, and still the khamsin blew. Stark wondered at the woman's
strength, for he had to help her only when she fell. He had lost all
feeling himself. His body was merely a thing that continued to move
only because it had been ordered not to stop.
The haze in his own mind had grown as thick as the black obscurity of
the night. Berild had ridden all day, but he had walked, and there was
an end even to his strength. He was approaching it now, and was too
weary even to be afraid.
He became aware at some indeterminate time that Berild had fallen and
was dragging her weight against the straps. He turned blindly to help
her up. She was saying something, crying his name, striking at him so
that he should hear her words and understand.
At last he did. He pulled the wrappings from his face and breathed
clean air. The wind had fallen. The sky was growing clear.
He dropped in his tracks and slept, with the exhausted woman half dead
beside him.
* * * * *
Thirst brought them both awake in the early dawn. They drank from the
skin, and then sat for a time looking at the desert, and at each other,
thinking of what lay ahead.
"Do you know where we are?" Stark asked.
"Not exactly." Berild's face was shadowed with weariness. It had
changed, and somehow, to Stark, it had grown more beautiful, because
there was no weakness in it.
She thought a minute, looking at the sun. "The wind blew from the
north," she said. "Therefore we have come south from the track.
Sinharat lies that way, across the waste they call the Belly of
Stones." She pointed to the north and east.
"How far?"
"Seven, eight days, afoot."
Stark measured their supply of water and shook his head. "It'll be dry
walking."
He rose and took up the skin, and Berild came beside him without a
word. Her red hair hung loose over her shoulders. The rags of her
silken robe had been torn away by the wind, leaving her only the loose
skirt of the desert women, and her belt and collar of jewels.
She walked erect with a steady, swinging stride, and it was almost
impossible for Stark to remember her as she had been, riding like a
lazy queen in her scarlet litter.
There was no way to shelter themselves from the midday sun. The sun of
Mars at its worst, however, was only a pale candle beside the sun of
Mercury, and it did not bother Stark. He made Berild lie in the shadow
of his own body, and he watched her face, relaxed and unfamiliar in
sleep.
For the first time, then, he was conscious of a strangeness in her.
He had seen so little of her before, in Valkis, and almost nothing on
the trail. Now, there was little of her mind or heart that she could
conceal from him.
Or was there? There were moments, while she slept, when the shadows of
strange dreams crossed her face. Sometimes, in the unguarded moment of
waking, he would see in her eyes a look he could not read, and his
primitive senses quivered with a vague ripple of warning.
Yet all through those blazing days and frosty nights, tortured with
thirst and weary to exhaustion, Berild was magnificent. Her white skin
was darkened by the sun and her hair became a wild red mane, but she
smiled and set her feet resolutely by his, and Stark thought she was
the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
On the fourth day they climbed a scarp of limestone worn in ages past
by the sea, and looked out over the place called the Belly of Stones.
The sea bottom curved downward below them into a sort of gigantic
basin, the farther rim of which was lost in shimmering waves of heat.
Stark thought that never, even on Mercury, had he seen a place more
cruel and utterly forsaken of gods or men.
It seemed as though some primal glacier must have met its death here
in the dim dawn of Mars, hollowing out its own grave. The body of the
glacier had melted away, but its bones were left.
Bones of basalt, of granite and marble and porphyry, of every
conceivable color and shape and size, picked up by the ice as it
marched southward from the pole and dropped here as a cairn to mark its
passing.
The Belly of Stones. Stark thought that its other name was Death....
For the first time, Berild faltered. She sat down and bent her head
over her hands.
"I am tired," she said. "Also, I am afraid."