"But my brother-"

"Is dead. His neck is broken." Dumarest looked back towards the ruin of the raft. "He must have been thrown out before we crashed. We'd better look around and see what we can find."

"But, Jalch? You're not leaving him like that?"

"Why not? I told you, he's dead. What does it matter to him where he lies?" Dumarest stepped before her as she tore herself away from Chaque's hand. "You want to rip yourself to shreds trying to get him down? And then what? Can we bring him back to life? Have some sense, woman! We have more to worry about than Jalch."

She said, unsteadily, "I suppose you're right, Earl. It's just that, well, we were so close."

And now she was alone. Dumarest watched her as they moved down the slope. There were no tears, but her face was hard, a firmly held mask. Inside she could be weeping, but if she was, nothing showed.

"Here!" Chaque had found a metal box.

"Leave it. We need food and the medical cabinet. Some fabric too, if you can find any. And the rifles." Dumarest looked back at the dead man, at the laser he carried beneath his arm, but the risk was too great. "Look for the rifles. Spread out and carry what you find back to the raft."

It wasn't much; a bolt of fabric, some compressed fruits, a crate of broken instruments, a canteen. Dumarest lifted it and found it to be half-full.

"We could look again," suggested Chaque. "Spend the rest of the day searching."

"No." The area was too wide, the vegetation too thick. The bales and other things had been scattered when the raft had almost overturned.

Iduna said, "Can't we repair the raft?"

"Impossible." Dumarest had examined it. The engine was ruined, the conductors ripped and useless. "And we can't hope for rescue. Chaque, have you any idea of how to get out of these mountains?"

"Without flying, no," admitted the guide. "But I can tell you what to expect; crevasses we won't be able to cross, walls we won't be able to climb. Predators and thorns and blind canyons. Earl, we need those rifles!"

"Look for them if you like, I'm moving on."

"Moving on?" The woman was incredulous. "But we need rest and-"

"We're bruised," he said shortly. "Later, we'll be stiff. The longer we wait around here the harder it will become." Dumarest unrolled the bolt of fabric and cut off a length with his knife. "Wrap this around your leg-it will protect your thigh. You too, Chaque, cover those rents."

As they worked, Dumarest went to the raft. With his knife he levered off a distorted panel, reached inside and ripped loose a handful of wires. The control chair was covered in thick plastic. He cut it free, trimmed a small oblong piece and punched holes in either end. Using some of the wire for thongs, he made a sling shot.

He tested it with a stone, sending the missile to land high on a slope.

"Here." He handed the woman his knife and the rest of the plastic. "Make a pouch and some gloves. Nothing fancy, just to protect our hands from thorns."

She looked blankly at the articles. "How-"

"Cut thin strips from the plastic to use as thread. Use the point to make holes. The fabric will make a pouch and strap to support it. Chaque, help me get some metal off the raft."

They managed to get three strips, each about a yard long, an inch wide, a quarter thick. Crude swords without point or edge, but having mass which could be used as a club. The thorn trees were too spined, the branches too twisted, the wood too hard to be of use.

Dumarest tore a panel from the wreck, stabbed holes in it, cut it to shape. The guards were crude, but they would protect the hand from anything running along the rough blades.

"Cutlasses," said Chaque. "Or machetes-but they haven't an edge."

"Find me a grindstone and I'll give you one. That, or an anvil and hammer."

"Why not ask for a radio while you're about it. And a raft all set and ready to go?" Chaque lifted one of the weapons, swung it, grunted as the end dug into the soil. "The hunters use high-powered rifles and lasguns," he commented. "We haven't even got a decent sword. Earl, we've got to face it. We haven't a hope in hell of getting back alive."

"Why not?" Dumarest looked at the guide, his eyes cold. "We can walk. We can navigate by the sun and stars. As long as we keep going, we'll get somewhere."

"Not in the mountains. You don't know what they're like and-" his voice lowered, "that thing could come back. You remember? The one in the dell."

"We'll worry about that when it happens," said Dumarest. "Ready, Iduna? Let's go."

* * * * *

He led the way, picking a trail up the southern end of the ravine, reaching the top to look down at an expanse of thorn which fell gently to a sharp rim. An almost solid barrier of wood and spine which nothing living could easily penetrate. He turned to the left and followed the edge of thorn to where it met a jutting outcrop; a sharp wedge of stone which rose almost sheer, until it sloped up and back towards the flank of the mountain.

"A dead end." Chaque's voice betrayed his fatigue. "The mountains are full of them. We'll have to go back, Earl, and try the other direction."

Miles of distance and hours of time wasted to no purpose. Energy squandered and fatigue enhanced. Dumarest looked at the wall before them, noting its cracks, small fissures, clumps of vegetation.

"We'll climb," he said. "Move up and around."

"And, if beyond, there is more thorn?" Chaque slashed at the ruby leaves with his metal bar. "A slip and we could fall into it. Once trapped, we could never escape."

A chance which had to be taken. Dumarest looped a wire around the handle of his sword and slung it from his neck. The pouch, now filled with selected stones, followed. The gloves he tucked under his tunic and, without hesitation, began to climb. Twenty feet up he halted and looked down.

"Use my hand and footholds. Iduna, you come next Chaque, you take the rear."

"I'm no climber, Earl."

"You'll manage. Just look up and ahead, never down."

Dumarest climbed higher as they followed, fingers digging into cracks, boots resting on tiny ledges, the clumps of vegetation. One yielded beneath his weight. He heard Iduna gasp as dirt showered about her, Chaque's muffled curse as a stone hit his injured temple.

"Earl?"

"It's nothing. Just keep moving."

Up another fifty feet, and then he met an overhang under which he sidled like a crab. A gust of wind swept over the thorn, stirring the leaves so they flashed with changing ruby and silver, spines lifting as if eager for prey.

The curve of the outcrop was smooth, worn with wind and weather. Dumarest edged around it as far as he could go, then looked up and down. Ten feet below on the far side of the curve erosion had caused a mass of stone to fall, leaving a scooped hollow above a ledge almost four feet wide. A safe place to rest if they could reach it, and there was only one way to do that.

To swing, to jump, to land and, somehow, to maintain balance. To slip was to fall and land among the thorn.

"Earl? Is something wrong?" The woman sounded anxious.

"No. Just hold on."

Again, Dumarest examined the curve. It was bare, unmarred aside from a narrow fissure which ran in an almost horizontal line. Reaching behind him Dumarest lifted the crude sword from his neck, probing ahead with the tip of the blunt blade. It penetrated an inch then, as he turned it, slid within the fissure for half its length. He hammered it home with the heel of his hand and then, gripping it, swung from his holds, dropping, landing with a thud on the ledge to teeter on the very brink.

A moment of strain as muscles and reflexes fought the pull of gravity. Then he was safe, dropping on all fours, his lungs pumping air.

"Earl?" Iduna was above, her face pale, strained as she looked at where he stood. He saw her lips tighten as he told her what to do.