M'k'n'zy mentally patted himself on the back.  He could not have picked a better spot for an ambush.  In the week he'd spent in his futile (and yet curiously, productive) Search for Allways, he'd familiarized himself with much of the Pit.  When he'd taken refuge there now, he had done so knowing that he was capable of outthinking and outmaneuvering anyone who might be so foolish as to try and chase him down.  A simple, small explosive charge which he'd detonated from hiding was more than enough to do the job of bringing the rocks down.

    As for the hidden cavern, M'k'n'zy himself had almost fallen victim to it several years previously.  Fortunately he had, of course, been alone, so his far lesser weight resulted in only one leg going through the insubstantial covering above the caves.  It had scared the hell out of him when it happened, but a scare was all it had been.

    For the warriors who had been pursuing him, however, it had been a good deal more lethal.

    Still, caution was called for.  He had no intention of making the same sort of foolish mistake that his opponents had made.

    M'k'n'zy left the hiding place that he'd staked out in the upper reaches of the passageway and slowly made his way to where he could see the devastation.  He peered down; thirty feet below, there didn't seem to be anyone moving.  There were limbs protruding from beneath rocks, and farther beyond, there was the massive hole through which the remaining soldiers had fallen.

    He nodded approvingly, but decided that it would probably be wiser to maintain altitude where he could.  The high ground was always preferable, after all.

    So M'k'n'zy began to make his way back to his home, back to Calhoun.  He wondered what sort of reception would be there for him.  He further wondered-hoped, prayed-that the Danteri had finally had enough.  That this latest and greatest defeat had finally convinced them that the Xenexians would never give up, never surrender, never stop believing in the rightness of their cause.  Sooner or later, the Danteri would have to get the message.  If it took repeated pounding of that message, then so be it.

    He sniffed a change in the air around him, and he definitely didn't like it.  He had the hideous feeling that a storm was beginning to brew, and he knew from firsthand experience just how quickly such things could come up.  There were outcroppings of rocks around him, plenty of places where he could anchor himself and not risk being carried away by the fierce winds that a typical Pit storm generated.  As a matter of fact, he had passed what seemed to be a particularly likely sheltered area only minutes before.  Smarter to retrace his steps and secure himself there until the storm had passed. 

    He turned around and, sensing danger, came within a millimeter of losing his life.

    The blade was right at his face.  It had been sweeping around, aiming toward his neck.  If he hadn't unexpectedly turned at that very moment, the blade would have severed the jugular vein.  As it was, he reacted just barely quick enough to survive as the gleaming blade sliced across his face, from right temple down across cheek, down to the bone.  Blood fountained out across the right half of his face as M'k'n'zy backpedaled frantically.  But with him blinded by his own blood, with pain exploding in his mind, the ground went out from under the normally surefooted M'k'n'zy.  He fell, landing badly and aggravating further the already existing injuries to his arms.

    And during all that, not a sound escaped from his lips.

    "No cry of pain," Falkar said, pausing to survey his handiwork.  As an afterthought he wiped the blade of his short sword on his garment.  "I am impressed, young man.  As impressed, I should hope, as you are by my ability to have crept up on you  without you hearing.  What with your being a savage and all, I'd think you'd pride yourself on your instincts and ability not to be surprised.  So...were you surprised by being surprised?"  he added, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.

    M'k'n'zy didn't say anything.  He was too busy denying his deep urge to scream.  He fought for control, breathing steadily, pushing away the agony that was eating away at him, dulling his senses, making it impossible for him to concentrate on the simple business of staying alive.  His right hand was slick with blood; he was literally holding his face together.

    "Did I take the eye out?" asked Falkar, in no hurry to finish the job.  He had suffered far too many losses at the hands of this young twerp.  Ina way, he was glad that he had missed the initial killing stroke.  That had been generated as a result of rage and-he hated to admit it-a tinge of fear in facing this crafty killer man-to-man.  This way was better though.  Worthier.  It was the best of both worlds, really: hw could face his victim, and at the same time, not worry about him.  "Perhaps I'll take the other as well.  I could give you that intriguing choice.  Kill you...or leave you, but alive and blind."

    Truthfully, there was so much blood, so much pain, that M'k'n'zy couldn't even tell if he'd lost the eye altogether.  His red-coated hand was clasped over the right side of his face.  He felt himself dangerously close to succumbing to the ungodly torment that threatened to paralyze him.  And he also knew that there was no way, despite what Falkar had just said, that Falkar was going to leave him alive.  Oh, he might blind him first.  Watch his progress with sadistic amusement and then kill him.  Desperate for time, M'k'n'zy said, "I have...no love for my eyes."

    "Indeed?" said Falkar.  The steadiness of M'k'n'zy's voice was slightly disconcerting to him.  "And why is that?"

    And M'k'n'zy started to talk.  Every word out of his mouth felt thick and forced, but he spoke and kept speaking to focus himself, to stave off the pain, to buy time...maybe even to remind himself that he was still alive.

    "These eyes," he said, "in their youth...saw rebel leaders punished by having their unborn children...ripped from the wombs of their mothers.  They've seen villages burned to the ground.  They've...they've seen 'criminals' convicted of minor crimes...punished by having limbs lasered off...one at a time, screaming for mercy...receiving none...They've seen my...my father tortured in the public square, punished for crimes against the state...a punishment ordered by you, you bastard...my father, beaten and whipped until a once proud man...was reduced to screaming even in anticipation of the blows...They...they saw the look of pure shock on his face...just before his mighty heart gave out in the midst of the beating...The last thing my father ever heard...was my begging him not to leave me...begging for a promise he couldn't keep..."  His voice choked as he said, "These eyes...have seen the hand of tyranny...and before I grew to manhood, I wanted to lop that hand off at the wrist..."

    M'k'n'zy's words made Falkar exceedingly nervous.  Despite M'k'n'zy's continued ability to outthink and out scheme Falkar's own war chieftains, he had always harbored the image of M'k'n'zy as a grunting savage, operating mostly out of luck and a native wit beyond anything his fellow tribesmen might possess.

    But what he had just heard was hardly the speech of a barely articulate savage.  What the hell kind of person was capable of sounding erudite while losing blood out of his face by the pint?  Suddenly all thoughts of toying with his victim, all intentions of dragging things out, evaporated.  He just wanted this...this freak of nature dead, that was all.  Dead and gone, and his head as a trophy.

    What Falkar had not realized, however, was that M'k'n'zy's little speech served one additional purpose: a stall for time that allowed the coming storm to arrive.  The storm that M'k'n'zy had sensed, which Falkar was oblivious of.  But he was not oblivious any longer when the full blast of the storm abruptly swept down upon them.

    It roared across the near plain, up through the canyons, and hammered down around M'k'n'zy and Falkar just as Falkar was advancing on M'k'n'zy to carve him to pieces.  The wind was howling around Falkar, and he had no idea which way to look.  Without having any time to prepare for it at all, Falkar was suddenly at the heart of the whirlwind.  He staggered, buffeted by the powerful forces around him, and insanely he actually tried hacking at it with his sword.  The wind, in turn, knocked the sword away from him.  He heard it clatter away, turned in the direction he thought it had fallen, but wasn't able to track it. Instead he found himself helplessly staggering around, unable to seek it out.  He snarled "I hate this planet!" under his breath, and at that moment came to the conclusion that the Xenexians were welcome to the damned place.  If he never saw it again after this day, he would count himself fortunate.

    He couldn't see anything.  He went to one knee, squinted fiercely, and bowed his head against the blasting of the wind.  He felt around, hoping against hope that he would be able to locate his weapon.  He'd probably have to track down M'k'n'zy all over again, because certainly the little barbarian would use this convient cover to escape.  That was the problem with Xenex: Nothing on the planet was ever simple.

    And then wonderfully, miraculously, his questing hands discovered his fallen weapon.  As the wind shrieked around him, his fingers crushed against the unmistakable metal of the blade as it lay on the ground.  He let out an exclamation of joy and tried to reach over for the hilt so he could pick it up.  

   Suddenly the blade was lifted off the ground and for a moment he thought that the wind had tauntingly snatched it away once again.  He lunged after it...

    ...and suddenly found that it was buried in his chest, up to the hilt.

    And there was a mouth speaking softly in his ear, a nearness that almost seemed to imply a degree of intimacy.  A voice that whispered, "Looking for this?"

    Falkar tried to reply, but all he managed to get out was a sort of truncated gurgle.  The sound of the storm diminished, replaced by a pounding in his head that blotted out al other noise.  And then he rolled over onto his back, and the last thought on his mind was-unsurprisingly-the same thought he'd had only moments earlier...

    I hate this planet...