Wisar was bitter. "If we're lucky. If we find a zerd. If it's big enough so that our share will pay for Crin's operation. If we can have money over for three Low passages. That's a lot of 'ifs,' Arn."

  "It's half of what Crin would have had to worry about if you'd sold yourselves and he had to buy you free of the collar." Arn looked back at the village, at Lowtown beyond. "How about that? Are they willing to operate without you selling out?"

  "Sure," said Haran. "Why not? They set the price and we have to pay it. If we had the cash there would be no problem."

  Dumarest could appreciate the unconscious irony. If they had cash none of them would have any problems. He called out as one of the men forged ahead.

  "Bernie! Slow down!"

  The man halted, waited for the others to come abreast. He was a tall, thin man with a peaked face and anxious eyes. A new arrival impatient to get a stake and be on his way. "Why slow down?" he demanded. "It's cold. Keep moving fast and you get warm."

  "You also start to sweat," said Dumarest. "In this weather that can be fatal. You slow down." He explained: "The sweat freezes and you get coated with a film of ice. Hypothermia can kill as surely as a bullet. So just remember not to move so fast that you start to sweat."

  "But we want to get there," protested the man. "Get on with the job."

  "We'll get there," promised Dumarest. "And when we do you'll have reason to sweat. In the meantime just do as I say. Understand?"

  Bernie swallowed. "Sure, Earl," he said. "I understand."

  * * *

  The path veered further to the right, heading to where the giant power piles poured a flood of energy into the mining complex. In the lower regions of the mountains machines gouged holes in the frozen dirt, laid man-thick cables, ripped ducts and vents from the buried ore. Power, created by the tremendous wash of eddy-currents, fused the buried minerals, freed the metal, sent it gushing through the vents into waiting molds.

  From the release-ducts columns of lambent gases rose shrieking toward the sky—billowing in a corrosive cloud of searing chemicals. The rising columns caused winds to blow into the area, filling the gap left by the rising mass of heated air. Convection currents sent the great masses of atmosphere swirling, shedding their water content in a clammy mist which clung to the ground like a reeking gas.

  In the heat and hell of poisoned fog collared men sweated and coughed and screamed as vagrant gusts drove living steam against wincing flesh.

  Others crouched behind protective shields as white-hot metal gushed into molds, splashing searing droplets, or worse, seething in baffled fury behind temporary blockages. When that happened men had to run with long rods to poke and clear away the obstructing mass before the trapped devil behind could erupt into unwanted paths.

  Heat and smoke and dazzling fire. Corrosive gases and blistering steam. The ever-present risk of dying beneath a gush of molten metal, of having flesh seared from the bone, of being cooked alive. The place was a living hell. At times the eddy-currents veered—blasting the area with invisible but all-consuming death.

  The mines of Chron were not noted for their gentleness.

  "Look at it," commanded Dumarest. He stood on the slope of a mountain, facing the swirling mass of gas and vapor, the flaming discharge and incessant lightning of the manmade storm. "Take a good look. That's what we're all trying to avoid."

  A man shuffled his feet on the frozen dust. "You don't have to convince us, Earl. We all know what it's all about."

  "Out here you do," admitted Dumarest. "But back in Lowtown? I've heard the whispering. Wear a collar and live easy. When you're cold and freezing and half-starved such talk is tempting. Soft beds, good food, medical attention. The easy life." He lifted an arm and pointed toward the mine. "Well, there it is. All of it. Remember it when we're facing a zardle. When you might feel tempted to let go the net, run maybe, decide there are easier ways of getting something to eat." He dropped his arm. "All right," he said. "You've seen it. Now let's get moving."

  They marched all through the long, freezing day, plunging deeper into the heart of the mountains, following narrow, almost invisible trails made an unguessable time ago. More often than not there were no trails and Arn led the way cautiously, watching for hidden traps and dangerous sections. Apparently solid rock yielded to the impact of a boot. As they marched, they snatched up clumps of the thorny scrub for later use as fuel. As the sun vanished beneath the horizon Dumarest called a halt.

  "We'll camp here," he decided. "There are rock walls to reflect the heat of a fire, nothing hanging above to fall on us, a narrow ledge leading up to and beyond this point. You and you." He pointed to two men. "Go a hundred yards down the trail to each side. Set up a trip wire and an alarm. Bernie, gather rocks to build a fire. Lough, you start breaking the scrub into small pieces."

  An hour later they sat around the glowing embers of a fire, internally warmed by hot food and scalding coffee. A wind droned and gusted past the sheltered spot, lifting little flurries of glowing ash from the fire.

  Arn threw more scrub on the fire, the seared tissue of his cheek glistening in the leaping brightness. Bernie called from where he sat with his back against a rock, feet thrust toward the blaze. His boots were shabby, torn, rags filling the gaps. "When are we going to get down to work?"

  Arn shrugged, looked at Dumarest. "Ask Earl," he said. "He's the man in charge."

  "That's right," said Dumarest. Firelight shone on a circle of faces, reflected from watching eyes. "We're after zerds," he said. "To get them I figure we have to go where they're to be found. Now the normal method of hunting seems to be to go out, find a zardle, hit it and hope. With luck you get the head, skin and tail and some meat besides without losing a man in the process. More often than not, someone gets injured. Now and again you find a zerd. Not often, just enough to keep others using the same system. I think it's wrong."

  "It's wrong because the hunters are trusting too much to luck. Luck that they find a zardle at all. Luck that they don't get hurt. Luck that they find a zerd. Usually it's bad luck. There's a reason for it, of course. The nets are on hire. The men are hungry and eager for food. They go out mostly in the summer when there is more plentiful game. Wrong again. The time to hunt is now when the weather is against the beasts. The cold will slow them down and they'll have to stick close to where they can feed. That means they'll be close together."

  "Easier for us," said Lough thoughtfully. "I haven't hunted before but you make sense. That right, Arn?"

  The scarred man nodded. "That's right. I've figured this all out for myself, but I couldn't get enough cash together to buy supplies to try it. Now we've got supplies, nets, all we need. If we don't get a zerd this trip I'll sell myself to the mines!"

  "We'll find them," said Dumarest. "It's a matter of picking the right beasts. Mostly the hunters run into young ones, those driven off the territory of the older males. A zerd takes time to grow. Sometimes the young ones have them, but mostly they don't. I'm betting that the situation is reversed among the older zardles." He put out a hand, stopped Lough from adding more fuel to the fire. "Save it for the morning. We've a heavy day ahead." He raised his voice. "Get some sleep now. I'll stand the first watch. I'll awaken one of you in an hour."

  He picked up one of the spears they had brought with them. A scrap length of pipe, six feet long, the end hammered so as to grip a point of glass pressure-flaked to razor point and edge. It was crude but effective: a thrust in a soft region would penetrate and rip as if it had been tempered steel.

  Leaning on it, Dumarest stood guard, listening to the gust and sigh of the wind, the faint rattles coming from stones shaking in cans attached to the trip-wires, the heavy breathing and snores of fatigued men.

  Chapter Eleven

  HE WOKE, RISING through layers of ebon chill, mentally counting seconds as he had done so often when traveling Low. Counting as the drugs took effect, the pulmotor forced his lungs and heart into rhythm, the eddy currents warmed the frozen solidity of his flesh and blood. He almost felt the heady euphoria of resurrection. Then Dumarest opened his eyes.

  The fire was a dull ember casting a dim glow over the rocks, the shapes of sleeping men. To one side the guard leaned against a wall, his spear propped close at hand. Dumarest frowned and raised himself on one elbow.

  Something rattled in the darkness: the jangle of pebble-loaded cans strung on the trip wire down the trail.

  Dumarest sprang to his feet, shouting, "Up! Up, all of you! On guard!"

  It came as he stopped to snatch his spear and throw dried twigs on the fire. A head, gaping, fangs gleaming in the rising flicker of firelight, eyes deeply set and redly wicked. Spines crested the sloping skull and scales made a metallic shimmer on the rippling hide.

  "A zardle!" said Arn. "A young one—but hungry!"

  Eight feet long, two high, it rushed forward on taloned legs, mouth gaping, barbed tail lashing with the bone-snapping fury of a whip. The guard screamed as it smashed him against the rock, screamed again as it whipped across his throat, then fell.

  "Haran! Wisar! Get to its side! Lough! Bernie! Get on its back and smash its spine!" Arn swore as the tail lashed at the injured guard. Cloth and padding flew beneath the impact. "The damn fool! He must have been asleep!"

  Dumarest snatched a bunch of flaming twigs from the fire and ran toward the hissing beast. It turned as he lashed at the eyes, mouth gaping to show gleaming fangs, ejecting a gust of noisome gas from its stomach. From above, the tip of its tail came whining down toward its tormentor. Dumarest jumped back as the barbs ripped his cloak.

  "Watch it!" yelled Arn. "That damn tail can hit from any direction. Lough!" he called again. "Bernie! What the hell are you waiting for!"

  Shadows danced as they rushed in. Men scampered: darting toward the beast, dodging the whiplash of the tail, stabbing with their spears and smashing down with axes. The scaled hide was tough and the beast quick on its clawed feet. It turned, hissing; turned again as two men managed to grab the tail while others smashed at the base of its spine.

  "Quick!" Arn was sweating, his scarred face that of a demon. "Kill it before it can recover! Before it can get free!"

  More men grabbed the tail. Others beat at the skull as it rose, bending backward so as to rip at the men with its fangs, the amazingly flexible spine permitting the creature to twist itself in any direction.

  Dumarest plunged his spear into the exposed throat. He ripped it free; struck again as the head came down, blood gushing from the lacerated tissue. Fangs snapped at his leg, tore padding, snapped again as Arn came rushing forward with a great stone-bladed ax in his hands. He swung it, using the full force of back and shoulder muscles. The chipped edge of the stone bit into hide and bone. He tore it loose and swung again, lips thinned with desperation. His aim was good. The blade hit where it had before and buried itself in mass of blood and brain.

  The zardle gave one convulsive twitch, then lay still.

  "The skull!" someone babbled. "Damn it, Arn, you smashed the skull!"

  Dumarest walked over to the guard as Arn dug his fingers into the ruin of the skull. The man was dead, his face lying in a pool of blood. He continued down the trail and reset the trip wire. Arn looked at him as he rejoined the hunter by the dead beast.

  "Anything?"

  "The guard's dead. I've reset the wire. Nothing else."

  "Nothing here either," said Arn. He wiped his hands on the rags binding his legs. "The damn guard fell down on the job," he said. "Well, he deserved what he got. If it hadn't been for you the thing might have killed us all." He stood, brooding. "We'll strip him," he decided. "Share out what he's got. No sense in letting it go to waste."

  "Nor this," said Dumarest. He kicked at the dead beast. "We can start a meal and have some left over. I'll get on with it while you attend to the dead man."

  The heavy stone ax opened the carcass and hacked through the major joints. Knives finished the skinning, cut out the bones and internal organs. Men gathered snow and ice from the upper rocks, piled it into the skin together with chopped-up sections of tail, the soft brain, tongue and other organs. They lifted the primitive caldron to a support made of lashed spears hanging over a fire fed with fresh bone.

  The flames rose, charred the skin, caused it to smoke and fuse on the outside, but could not burn through it—not while the water within kept the temperature below its flash point.

  "By hell!" said a man later as he finished his stew. "Ain't nature wonderful? It provides meat, a cooking pot and fuel all in one piece." He reached out his bowl. "Say, Bernie, any more of that tail left in there?"

  "Sure," said Bernie.

  "And tongue? I favor the tongue," said Lough.

  "There's plenty for all," said Bernie. He smacked his lips. "Man," he said with feeling. "This is what I call real, honest-to-God eating!"

  He grinned as he fished out a tender fragment of brain.

  * * *

  Two days later they came to a broken expanse of shattered rock and splintered stone ringing a scrub-covered declivity high in the mountains. A bowl scooped out among the soaring peaks and crags, sheltered from the winds and storm. A crust of snow clung to the dirt and scrub. Ice hung from the rocks above, looking like a cluster of threatening swords.

  Dumarest crawled cautiously to the edge of the bowl and stared down. The sun was low on the horizon, the place full of shadows, and his breath plumed as he watched.

  "Anything?" Arn crawled up beside him, scarred face red and angry from the cold. He lifted a rag to cover his mouth and nose and block the vapor from his eyes. "Could be anything down there," he mused. "In among those shadows. Ten, twenty, even more. We wouldn't see them until they rushed us."

  "No," said Dumarest.

  "One zardle's bad enough," said the hunter. "Two is one too many. More is straight suicide."

  He squinted down into the declivity. "Let's hope your plan works."

  The nets were of alloy mesh with a breaking strain of several tons, the mesh three inches square. Their normal use was to enmesh a beast while the hunters stabbed and hacked it to death. Sometimes the nets broke and more often the men let go, allowing a raging beast to wreak havoc among their numbers.

  Dumarest had a different plan.

  "We'll select a zardle," he said. "An old one. We'll snare it in the nets and then we'll leave it while we go after another. When we've caught as many as we've nets to hold, we'll go back to the first one. By then its struggles may have exhausted it. We'll open an artery and let it bleed to death."

  "Simple," said Haran. He looked at Arn. "Why didn't you ever think of that?"

  A scowl puckered the scar on the hunter's cheek. "How often have you seen a group of zardles?" he demanded. "And how often has anyone been able to supply more than a minimum number of nets? Of course I've thought of it," he stormed. "On Jec we used to hunt that way all the time. But the men knew how to take orders there. They weren't crazy to see blood, to search for a zerd." He looked at Dumarest. "How do we operate? In two parties?"

  "You take Bernie, Lough and Wisar," said Dumarest. "I'll take the rest. Now remember, only go after a big one. Don't waste time on anything that's obviously young. Don't be sparing with the nets—I'd rather keep one than lose two. And don't injure them," he added. "Don't spill any blood. I don't want the scent to frighten the others."

  "You've hunted before," said Haran as they moved from the other group. "I never thought I'd see anyone who could tell Arn his business."

  "I wasn't telling him," said Dumarest. "I was telling everyone. Reminding you all of what you may have forgotten. Now be quiet," he said to the group in general. "Don't talk and don't make any noise. Follow me and watch for my signals."

  The scrub was thick in the bowl, the spined bushes growing higher than a man's head, intertwining so as to present an almost solid barrier at times. But paths wended through it where the beasts had forced a passage. Dumarest followed them, warily, checking when they came to a junction or emerged into an area of sparse growth.

  He paused and listened. From the left came the soft rustle of the other party, sounding as if a wind rippled the tips of the bushes. From the right he could hear a regular medley of moving and tearing. He lifted his arm, pointed, stabbed twice with his finger, once to either side. Haran and one of the other men fanned out to cover the flanks. The fourth man stayed close behind Dumarest. He carried a spear while the rest held nets positioned, ready to throw.

  Dumarest waited until everyone was in position, then stepped toward the grumbling noises. They grew louder as he approached, then suddenly fell silent. Stepping past a clump of scrub, Dumarest stared directly at a zardle.

  The thing had been eating; the regular sound had been that of the mechanical champing of its jaws. It was big, fully thirty feet from nose to tip of vicious tail. The scaled hide had a peculiar dull sheen as of the patina on bronze.

  Immediately it saw Dumarest: it attacked.

  Dirt flew from beneath its clawed feet. The tail lashed up and over the spined head, slashing at the man before it. The mouth gaped, letting fall a fragment of thorned scrub, blasting a fetid odor.

  Dumarest sprang to one side, hurled the net, snatched another as it fell over the head and tip of tail. He shook it out, poised and threw the glittering mesh. It sailed in a seemingly slow circle before settling almost on the other. Two more fell over the beast as Haran and the other man came running. Hissing, straining at the mesh, threshing with savage fury, the zardle was hopelessly trapped. Only the clawed feet and tip of the tail could move and then only for a few inches.

  "All right," said Dumarest. "Let's get another."

  The second was almost a repetition of the first and if anything was easier. They caught the beast from behind as it walked along one of the paths. A net thrown before it enmeshed its feet. A second entangled the back legs. Two others took care of head and tail.