of furry animal

skins. His air-conditioned sense of smell was immediately overwhelmed

by the strange odours.

He tried to close his nostrils to filter out the foulness that hung on

the air but could not prevent it entering his lungs.

He gagged silently; felt nauseated.

A small, lean-bodied Mute with long, braided white hair knelt over him,

tending the wound in his scalp. Still woozy, Steve raised his head far

enough to glance down at his body.

His chest, both shoulders and his upper arms were bandaged; his left

leg was held, from thigh to heel, in a rudimentary splint. Beyond it,

sitting crosslegged on a buffalo skin, was the straight-limbed Mute who

had pulled the bolt out through his arm. He met Steve's eyes with the

same impassive expression he had worn when rescuing him from the

burning cropfield.

Steve laid his head back on the furs. He let out a long sigh and

coughed, trying to clear the rising bile from his throat.

The environmental stink hung so thick on the air it seemed to have

coated his tongue; filled every pore.

'Welcome back,' said the old Mute.

The shock of hearing the Mute speak the same language in a clear,

comprehensible voice brought Steve's senses back in a rush. Stung by

the sudden realisation of what was happening to him, he jerked his head

away from the old Mute's ministering hands. It was an automatic

reflex. All Trackers knew that Mutes had diseased skin which, if

touched even briefly, caused your own body to rot.

The old Mute sat back on his heels with a patient sigh.

'Don't you want me to fix your head?"

'There's no point,' muttered Steve. 'If you touch me, I'll die

anyway."

The old Mute's weathered face creased into a smile. He chuckled into

his beard then jerked his head at the straight-limbed Mute. 'Hold this

nit-wit down, will you?"

Cadillac uncrossed his legs and knelt on the opposite side of Mr Snow's

patient. He placed one hand firmly on the cloud warrior's chin, and

the other on the crown of his head.

The warrior's lack of self-control had been a great surprise.

He seemed terrified, his eyes rolled wildly, but he was unable to put

up much of a struggle because of his injuries.

Were all sand-burrowers like this? Maybe, thought Cadillac, their

courage has been swallowed up by their powerful sharp iron. If so, the

Plainfolk had nothing to fear.

'I'll give him five threads of Dream Cap,' muttered Mr Snow. 'That

should quieten him down a bit." He addressed the cloud warrior.

'You're a very mixed-up young man."

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw the white-haired Mute rummage

amongst various bags and baskets, finally producing a small skin pouch

from which he extracted a few short strands of a greyish-brown

substance between thumb and forefinger. He held them out to Steve.

'Chew this."

Cadillac forced the cloud warrior's mouth wide open. Mr Snow inserted

the shredded dose of Dream Cap, then Cadillac clamped the warrior's jaw

shut.

'Okay, don't chew it,' grumped Mr Snow. 'It makes no difference.

You'll have to swallow it eventually."

Steve held out for about a minute then relented. He chewed the strands

briefly then steeled himself to swallow them. The taste was strange,

but not unpleasant. Ahhgh, what does it matter? he thought

bitterly.

He was going to die anyway. The idea that he might somehow escape

death, his confused appeal for help in the cornfield, had been part of

a pain-filled fantasy. Someone, probably the old Mute, had tended his

injuries with unsuspected medical skills but it didn't make sense.

unless they were saving him for the big event. The Annual Torture

Stakes - which he was no doubt destined to win by a head.

Terrific...