They were half-way along it when the predator attacked. It came from behind a boulder, long, low, limbs tipped with sickle-like claws, the tail knobbed with a spine, the head plated, the jaws filled with curving fangs.

Dumarest saw it, a drab-colored shape which sprang from the top of a boulder, its fur the bleak reddish gray of stone. A glimpse only, but it was enough to save his life, to send him lunging forward, to fall, his side numbed by the blow which had ripped away the pouch of stones. He rose as the beast landed.

"Iduna! Get behind a boulder! Chaque! On guard!"

The guide was slow, fumbling with his metal strip, his face pale, mouth gaping. If the beast had attacked him he would have fallen an easy prey, but the creature had mind only for its original target.

It crouched, a dry hissing coming from its open mouth, the knobbed tail lashing. The plates of bone armoring its head provided a defense against the thorn. The eyes shone behind transparent lids, deep-set, overhung with bony ridges. The shoulders were broad, the body tapering, thick fur matted over more natural armor. A wedge of savage destruction intent on the kill.

"Chaque, help him! Help Earl!"

Dumarest ignored the woman, concentrating on the beast. He held the crude sword in his right hand, feet poised, ready to leap in any direction. Had he the time he would have used the sling to try and blind the gleaming eyes, but there was no time.

Without warning it sprang. It lunged forward with an explosion of energy, dirt lifting beneath the claws of its rear legs, front paws extended, the claws gleaming like ivory. Dumarest darted to his right, the blade lifting, falling as the creature passed, the metal bar slamming against the sloping side. A true sword would have cut, dragged, severed tendon and bone, opened veins and arteries to release a fountain of blood. The bar hit, bruised, the jar stinging Dumarest's hand and arm.

The beast landed, hissing, turned to spring again. A thrown stone bounced from its shoulder as it left the ground, a missile too small and too weakly thrown to be of use. Dumarest dropped, ducking, feeling the touch of something on his head as he swung the bar at a rear leg with all his force.

A crippling-blow, the best he could do. If he hoped to kill the beast, first it must be slowed down. He rose, blood streaming from his lacerated scalp, the tip of a claw having sliced the skin as if it had been a razor. He threw the bar from his right hand to his left, lifting the knife from his boot, holding it sword-fashion, thumb to the blade, the point upwards.

A knife-fighter's hold, giving the opportunity to either slash or stab.

"Chaque! Move in! Hit when you can, but watch out for the tail!"

The guide said nothing, standing, the bar held limply in his hand.

"Chaque, damn you! Do as I say!"

There was no time to wait, to see if the man would help. Dumarest tensed, crouching a little, anticipating the spring. The damaged rear leg would throw the beast to his left, lessening the distance, the height. The target would be small and a mistake would cost him his life.

He rose as the beast sprang, his left arm extended, the bar held like a sword, firmly rigid. His aim was good. The blunt tip vanished between the gaping jaws, plunged into soft, internal tissues, driven deeper by the creature's weight. Fangs rasped as they bit, scraping as they ran along the metal to jar against the hilt. Dumarest released it, dropped, feeling the wind made by raking claws as stabbed upwards at the unprotected stomach.

Blood showered as he dragged the bar free, hot, smoking, sliming his face, his body, mixing with the dirt which plumed from beneath scrabbling claws.

The armored head turned, blood gushing past the bar, fangs denting the metal as they fought the cause of its pain. Pain which filled the beast's universe, which sent it twisting to one side, entrails hanging from the cut in its flesh. It was dying, as good as dead. Yet, life and the feral desire to kill still remained.

Dumarest yelled as Chaque suddenly ran forward.

"Don't! Keep clear, man! Keep clear!"

The guide ignored him, lifting his bar, aiming for the point before the rear legs. He hoped, perhaps, to break the back.

A dangerous point to hit, a position which placed him within reach of the lashing tail. It struck as the bar landed, the knobbed end, moving like a whip, smashing against Chaque's side and his spine, knocking him down to scream as a clawed foot ripped at his body.

To scream and writhe as Dumarest lunged forward, the knife lifted, falling like a glint of silver as it plunged into the creature's heart.

"Earl!" Iduna came running towards him. "I tried to help," she panted. "I threw stones. Earl-is it dead?"

"Yes."

"And Chaque?"

Chaque was dying. He looked up from a face smeared with dirt and blood, his eyes filled with agony. His back had been broken, the claws had bared the bone of his ribs, revealed the spongy mass of his lungs. Already they were filling, drowning him in his own blood.

"Earl!" He coughed, spat a mouthful of crimson. "Too slow," he whispered. "I was too slow."

"You killed it." A lie, but perhaps it would give comfort. "You saved my life, Agus."

"I'm glad, Earl." Incredibly, the man smiled. "Now, at least, you'll have something to eat. And Earl, the woman-" He coughed again, spraying blood. "The woman, Earl, she-"

"He's raving." Iduna stooped, her hands touching the tormented body. "It's all right, Chaque," she said gently. "It's all right."

"The pain!" His face twisted. "God, the pain!"

Agony which bathed him like a flame. Torn nerves and sinews relaying their message, now that the shock had passed. Agony which could last for minutes, each second an eternity of suffering.

"Earl! Please! The pain! For God's sake help me! I can't stand the pain!"

"All right, Agus," said Dumarest gently.

And drove his knife into the heart.

Chapter Eleven

Phal Vestaler, High Rememberancer and, by virtue of that office, Head of the Council, stood before the Alphanian Altar and communed with the past. A solemn moment which he stretched to the full before turning, hands upraised, to face the score of boys now undergoing initiation.

A portentous moment in their lives-after the full completion of the ceremony they would never be the same. The days of boyhood would be over. They would adopt the raiment of a man, undertake the duties of a man, accept the responsibilities. They would marry the women chosen to be their mates and take full part in the ceremonies. They would listen and they would learn and, in due time, they would teach. So it had been from the beginning.

Vestaler looked at them from where he stood on the low dais. Already they showed signs of the adults they would soon become. Faces young but solemn, old for their age, the eyes tense, the lips firm. If they knew fear, they hid it well.

And they must know fear-the terror of the unknown, rumors enhanced by whispers, imagination multiplying dire fancies. They knew it as he had known it, now so long ago. Then, as they did now, he had stood trembling on the brink of mysteries, half-tempted to run, only the shame of displaying his fear holding him fast.

Others had not been as strong. They had worn the yellow until they had been given a second chance. And even then-

Vestaler mentally shook himself, recognizing the trend his thoughts were taking. To brood was useless, to regret the same. None had accused him, yet he felt his guilt. He should have known. To him the responsibility-to him the blame.

"Master!"

A junior was at his side, the carved bowl filled with water in his hands. A discreet reminder that time was passing and there was still much to do. The instruction, the warning, the blessing. And, afterwards, the journey to the place of ordeal. His voice held the tones of an organ.