Nightmare journey

over an ottoman, he fell, taking the floor square against his chin. He almost passed out as a hard twist of pain ground through him, and he tasted blood as his lower lip split open.
    He stood, holding to the bedpost, tried to regain his usual calm. This charging off like a damaged power sledge was no good at all. He was a Pure, one of the Chosen, and he must always remember to act with dignity that his heritage demanded, even if he had been rejected by his own kind.
    He opened the door of his room and looked both ways down the musty hall of the inn's sleeping quarters. When the search party had arrived, Belmondo had been downstairs preparing the dough for breakfast pastries. If he had accomplished no more than that in readying to feed his boarders, the average guest would not yet have arisen-unless stirred by the General outside. The corridor was empty.
    He stepped out of the room, closed the door quietly. Reaching out with his esp power, he touched the minds of the Pures and of the General, found that they had not yet entered the inn but that they would do so in a few moments. He walked swiftly to the stairs. Holding to the rail, prepared to retreat if necessary, he went down each squeaking riser as if there were a poisonous snake coiled upon it: cautiously.
    The steps ended in the public room. No lanterns had been lighted here, and the candles were cold as well. Most of the large, brick- floored chamber was in a soft, purple darkness. The grimy, stained- glass windows filtered the poor morning light even further; amber light spilled through one pane, crimson through another, green through a third. But it was all cathedral decoration, not genuine illumination. The heavy wooden tables, gleaming now and then with a reflection of foggy, early light in their waxed surfaces, the chairs racked atop them, seemed like a strange array of alien sentinels waiting to be entertained by the chase and the kill.
    Abruptly, as Jask was trying to decide which of the doors behind the bar might lead to the kitchen and the rear entrance to the inn, his mind was innundated with a fury of emotions, images of blood and death. Belmondo had told them: The flush of emotion he registered with his psionic brain was evidence that the General and the soldiers knew he was trapped. He had killed three men already, had given them special reason to be careful-since those first three had died without a mark on them. No Pure could say what ethereal weapon Jask had brought to bear, though all were aware that it was part of his telepathic talents.
    He walked toward the counterman's gate in the long mahogany bar, wondering if he could sneak out the kitchen door.
    Outside, someone barked short, harsh commands; others ran to obey, the sound of their footsteps hollow and cold.
    Without time to round the bar now, Jask placed his hands flat on top of it, muscled up and crashed over it ungracefully. His thin, weakly bred Pure body ached with the effort and gave him an ugly premonition of just how long he could expect to survive if the chase grew hot. He lay with the smell of sawdust and the taste of blood, quite aware of how lucky he had been not to break any bones. Then he pushed up and staggered weakly through the nearest door behind the bar.
    The kitchen lay immediately behind the public room, a blazing fire chattering in its stone hearth. Sheets filled with pastries were lined on heavy, crude tables, cooking instruments scattered about. The odor of flour, sugar and cooked apples permeated the air. Jask did not pause to enjoy it, but crossed to the rear door and looked onto the dirt alleyway behind the inn. To either side Pures ran to cut off this avenue of escape.
    His deadly esp ability, with which he had killed three men in the fortress during the night, could not help him here. It worked slowly, very slowly. At least two of these soldiers would bear him down before he could take care of all of them. Besides, he was weary of murder, sickened by the transgression of molesting Pure lives.
    Turning away from the door, he looked around the kitchen, willing to make do with whatever he could find. If there were knives here, he might be able to fight his way free without wreaking any permanent damage. He hefted a weighty, wickedly curved butcher knife, then dropped it, angry with himself for his slow-wittedness. He could no more fight Pures and their guns with a knife than he could fight the Wildland beasts with bare fists. And, unlike himself, the soldiers