“Erlayok,” called Mark, loud enough for a good portion of the stands to hear. “After I kill this lion, will you meet me down here in a man-to-man combat? My dagger against whatever weapons you wish?”
Erlayok’s face worked as he listened to the yells of the spectators. The majority, it seemed, were delighted with the proposal. Mark tried to maintain a noncommittal appearance, but some of them had gleams in their eyes which might have meant that they also approved.
Jon openly clapped his hands. Erlayok’s eyes darted from side to side, as if trying to memorize the faces of as many as possible of those who would like to see him in the pit.
“Loose the lion!” he roared suddenly.
MARK laughed and turned back toward the other men. The lion came and as Mark had earlier suspected, it came from one of the doors quite close to the one from which he and the other had emerged. The odor had been too strong for the lion cages to be at any great distance.
The arrangement had apparently been made so that the slaughter would take place very close to the nobles’ seats. The commoners were way out by left field, so to speak, with the sun in their eyes.
Three of the victims ran with all their might directly away from the big cat, and their flight took them right toward the boxes of the nobles. But the fourth didn’t.
Casually Mark strode toward the door from which the lion emerged. For a moment the beast seemed to be bewildered, not sure what to do with his newfound freedom. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air, turning his head to take in the whole arena. Then he froze, sighting Mark. Mark was by far the biggest and most appetizing of the four, and that lion knew good flesh from skin and bones when he saw it.
Mark tensed. In spite of his peculiar endowment, he was a man, and man instinctively feels a surge of fear when facing the king of beasts. And this one was a peculiarly savage and unpleasant specimen. He was obviously hungry, and his hide quivered over quite visible ribs.
Leo crouched, his tail twitching. He opened his fanged mouth to give the roar which would strike terror to the heart of this brash human. At that moment Mark snapped out of it. This, he figured, was the moment when his opponent should spring, and it was during this moment when he must make the move which would win the battle.
And his guess was right.
As the soul-chilling roar rent the air, the bunched muscles of the crouching beast extended themselves in the leap which should have brought the puny man beneath the outstretched claws. In that split second Mark leaped forward also and swerved just out of the path of those slashing talons. Like the broken-field runner he once was, he wheeled suddenly as the lion passed him.
A prodigious leap carried him astride the lion’s back, the fingers of one hand buried in his mane. His knees dug into the beast’s sides and he clung like a leech.
Startled, the lion reared. He received a series of annoying stabs through the shoulder muscles for his pains. Then he tried rolling on his back. This move almost broke Mark’s ribs, but he hung on.
“Whoa, Bessie!” Mark howled. He was stabbing repeatedly in a number of places within the reach of his hand, trying to find the beast’s heart. But either he was missing the spot, or the dagger was too short, for the animal continued his frantic efforts to throw him off.
Then suddenly the lion succeeded! After rolling over for the third time, he came to his feet and gave a convulsive leap. It was a move Mark had failed to anticipate. The beast’s back bowed and then abruptly arched, tearing the clinging man’s knee-hold loose.
Mark landed sitting, the dagger torn from his hand. He was on his feet instantly, facing the lion.
He could see the hilt of the knife, almost invisible in the folds of flesh beneath the animal’s shoulder. If he could duplicate his former acrobatic feat when the beast leaped again, he would be able to retrieve it and continue stabbing.
Then suddenly he realized it wasn’t necessary. The lion didn’t crouch for another leap. It weaved unsteadily for a moment, then collapsed, dead! The little knife had found its mark!
Mark reached over and drew it out of the carcass, wiping it on the animal’s mane.
A TUMULT arose from the stands. People were standing on their seat and cheering wildly. Mark bowed and then started for Erlayok’s box. The stadium quieted as he approached.
“Are you going to accept that challenge?” Mark called. “Your sword is surely equal to my dagger. Lower your fat behind down off that perch, and let your people see how brave you are.”
Another clamor arose. By this time the Earl had recovered his poise. He smiled as if amused at the offer.
“You wish to give the crowd some more entertainment, of course,” he said. “It would be another crime to add to your record if you are making this challenge only for the purpose of doing harm to a noble of the Land of the Brish. Therefore I assume that you really have a better motive in mind. You wish to entertain the populace gathered here. Am I right?”
Mark saw what was coming, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he answered any way but the affirmative, there would be another crime to add to him. And that would mean that instead of going free at the end of these games, he would have to stand trial once more. And that might seriously interfere with his plans.
“I wish only to entertain these good people,” he said. “But I am sure that can be best accomplished in the way I suggest. You have boasted of being able to handle me by yourself. Come down and prove it!”
“It has been proved,” claimed Erlayok. “I handled you once before. But there is another way you can do service to the citizens assembled here.” He paused and looked about him, benignly. A murmur arose, but Mark couldn’t tell what it meant. Erlayok continued: “You will be given the axe which was taken from you when you were imprisoned. With it you may demonstrate your skill against five of my best warriors!”
There was no doubt of the meaning of the shouts which followed. The spectators wanted more blood. It didn’t matter to them that Mark had entertained them well already. They were perfectly willing to see him slaughtered as long as the sport was worth watching. Mark thought back to the vagaries of the prizefight crowds he had seen in years when there had been prize-fights. Human nature hadn’t changed much. A mob was still a mob. The lowest form of disorganized humanity.
The shriek of a siren suddenly cut through the noise of the crowd’s cheering. Mark saw that the sound came from a hand-operated contrivance in the announcer’s box. He was pointing toward the loge of Jon, Duke of Scarbor. The Duke was standing, waiting for silence.
“People of Scarbor!” he began. “You are not living up to the principles of good sportsmanship for which our citizens are renowned. This man has earned the right to rest until tomorrow’s games. The rules of the contests are so written.”
The Duke sat down amidst a murmur of disappointment. But Erlayok rose and waved his hands. When the crowd again became silent he bowed in the direction of the Duke and smiled a sardonic smile.
“We must not forget that this man volunteered to entertain once more today,” he reminded, turning toward Mark. “Is that not your desire?”
Mark noticed a certain anxiety appear on the face of Jon. That made him feel a lot better. He bowed deeply toward the ornate loge. He saw an opportunity of turning the capricious favor of the crowd. A favor which appeared for the moment to be directed toward Erlayok.
“I shall fight,” he announced, “for I know that the good Duke wishes to see his subjects amused. Only his high sense of justice moves him to give me a chance to reconsider. Long live the Duke!”
THE tumult which followed made all former cheering sound feeble. Among those present in the arena were people from all parts of the duchy. And Mark wanted Jon’s popularity to be increased. For the popularity of the Duke in no way interfered with the coming rebellion. The majority of the people already knew of the Duke’s efforts to alleviate oppression, and they had no antagonism for him.
Their hatred was centered on the nobles who nullified those effo
rts. It was important, however, that these contests not reflect any advantage to the nobles. And taking the credit for this coming battle away from Erlayok was a step in the right direction.
In a few minutes the carcass of the king of beasts had been dragged away, and fresh sand sprinkled over the spot where his blood had made the ground slippery. The three men whose lives had been spared by Mark’s victory were herded back into the prisoners’ quarters under the stands. They were afforded a reprieve until tomorrow’s games would again place their lives in jeopardy.
A door opened beneath the box where Erlayok and his women sat. Out marched five of the most formidable men Mark had seen since coming to the Land of the Brish. Or ever.
Two of them were about Mark’s size. The other three were bigger and much heavier. Their thickset bodies were protected by the steel breastplates which were standard equipment of the soldiers of this land. And each carried a dirk in the left hand, in addition to a broad battle-axe. Mark’s own axe and dagger looked puny and ineffectual by comparison.
As they came toward him it was apparent that they had hastily formulated a plan of action before entering the arena. They spread out crescent-like, obviously intent upon circling him. Confidence was mirrored on their faces. One of them even looked embarrassed.
Mark had never seen these men before, but no doubt they had been told of his ability. He foresaw their clumsy attempt to surround him, and leaped instantly into action. The warrior on the far left was one of the larger three. As Mark sprang toward him he snarled and aimed his ponderous weapon in a sweeping slash at Mark’s neck. Mark checked his rush just enough to let it whistle past.
For the instant the warrior was completely helpless as the momentum of his swing turned him halfway around. That instant was his last. Mark’s flashing axe caught him in exactly the spot he had intended to strike Mark. His severed jugular pumped a crimson, gushing stream.
The speed with which it was done made the spectators gasp. Sudden cheers went up. All sorts of advice was shouted, most of it inexpert and all of it quite useless. They might as well have been shouting: “Moider dat bum!”
But it was not as simple as all that. These warriors were not tyros. When the first man had gone down, they knew immediately that there was a serious business ahead of them. And they took no foolish chances.
Their adversary had shown a speed that no single one of them could match. They gave up their tactics of spreading out and trying to encircle him. That system gave his superior speed a chance to pick them off one by one. Instead they closed up and attacked him in a body. The two center men engaged him in a furious attack while the two outer ones kept pecking at him and trying to get far enough to the sides to deliver blows he could not ward off.
Back across the arena the battle waged, Mark giving ground to prevent the maneuver from being completed. He made sudden leaps to the side from time to time in an effort to get a second or two in which he would be facing only one man.
But each time he tried this, the man he had singled out for individual attack moved back to join the others. Mark was continually facing the massed front of the four.
The fierce tempo of the battle kept the audience in an uproar. But even above the shouts of the crowd, the ringing impact of axe on axe could be heard with the regularity of a triphammer.
An occasional rasping, spine chilling shriek rent the air as a parried axe slid across the blade of a dagger. This was always followed by a clanging thud, for the sound only came when one of the warriors expertly used his dirk to deflect Mark’s axe so that it struck futilely against his breastplate.
Mark’s dagger was almost useless, being several inches shorter than those of Erlayok’s men, and too light to use for such a purpose.
Once a roar arose which drowned out all other sound as Mark countered an axe-swing which he had managed to duck, and used his dirk in a backhand stab. The soldier who received it suddenly sprang back from the melee, clutching a thigh. But he was back again in a minute.
Mark had felt his dirk sheath itself in the man’s leg. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen the man retire. But the remaining three, also seeing the odds go down, pressed him with renewed vigor. For a few minutes he was so busy dodging and countering that he was forced to keep every sense alert to avoid the three. When the injured men returned to the battle he came from the rear, and Mark had no warning of his coming.
Fortunately for him the snarling soldier on his right aimed a terrific axe-blow at his head at that precise moment. And the man in front lunged forward, aiming for his middle. Mark smacked aside the head-blow with his own axe, and was forced to leap to the left and backward to avoid being disemboweled by the other man. At that instant a battle-axe flashed downward through the spot he had just vacated. The blow would have split him from crown to groin.
From that instant the tide of battle changed. The descending axe buried itself in the ground at Mark’s side. Mark’s left hand was brushed by the hair of the man who had wielded it. The man had been carried forward and down by the force of the blow. Mark was only half aware that the sable wings of death had almost enfolded him.
He was too busy with the men facing him to permit his attention to waver for an instant. But nevertheless the contact of that hair with his hand caused a reflex in Mark’s perfectly trained body. His hand twisted and the dirk drove a slanting course from a point beneath the right ear, burying itself to the hilt. The man slumped, lifeless.
Mark left the dagger where it was. He had no further use for it.
Now the odds were really three to one. And for Mark that meant virtually an even battle. If anything, slightly in his favor. It was almost certain that he could prevent them from inflicting any telling damage. With the four he had been in constant danger that one of them would maneuver far enough to the side to deliver a blow he couldn’t block. Several such blows, in fact, had already landed. And though they had all been flesh wounds, instantly healed, there had been the ever present possibility that one of them would cleave his brain and do damage that couldn’t be repaired.
But now that risk was gone. No three men lived who could move fast enough to get around him. And the battle was speedily going in his favor for an entirely different reason.
These warriors were powerful men and well trained, but they were, after all, only men, and subject to natural exhaustion.
And the longer they wielded their heavy axes, the more they tired. Gone was their strategy and coordination. They no longer seemed to have any plan of battle. Each man was concentrating on his own survival and vainly hoping one of the others would manage to bring down this dancing demon.
Mark, by contrast, was as fresh and flashy as yellow daisies in a meadow. For he was tapping the energy waves given off from the slowly disintegrating radioactive element in his blood. It was a source of power which provided more energy than he could possibly use by physical exercise. He was eternally fresh and untiring, while his opponents showed their fatigue in their twisted faces and in their gulping gasps for air.
ABRUPTLY Mark leaped backward several steps. Dazed, the panting three plodded after. Their eyes were fixed dully, hopelessly upon him. They knew they were doomed but kept coming, determined to fight as long as they could move. Mark kept backing away, keeping them at a safe distance.
“Erlayok’s got you into this,” he told them, talking rapidly. “He knew what would happen. Why not get back at him while there is still a chance?” Their dazed eyes told him nothing. He continued, speaking only loud enough for them to hear. “I’m taking you toward his box. When you get close enough, throw your axes at him. You’re going to die anyway. Do something useful while you’re about it. He had no mercy on you, knowing that you were certain to be defeated.”
But the idea backfired. If Mark had hypnotized them, they would have obeyed his suggestion. But they were fighting men, following the orders of their master, and he wouldn’t take that advantage. Otherwise he could have ended the contest long ago.
As it wa
s his suggestion about throwing their axes gave one of them an idea. Mark suddenly found himself dodging the flying weapon of the largest of the three remaining warriors. It had been accurately thrown, but lightning reflexes came to his rescue.
It passed safely over his head.
Still retreating, Mark scooped it up and heaved it back. He aimed it low and it landed where he intended. The blade cut deep into the man’s leg, below the knee, and down he went — permanently out of the battle.
Neither of the remaining two was willing to chance the loss of his weapon. They continued to press forward. Mark, with a burst of speed, dashed toward them and to the left. They turned to face him, sluggishly. The maneuver placed one behind the other. The man in front raised his axe to deliver a blow. But the blow never landed.
With a movement so fast that it appeared that his arm blurred for an instant, he brought the flat of his axe down on the man’s biceps. The cumbersome battle-axe thudded to the ground, the arm which had wielded it, broken.
The last man stared stupidly, too far gone to offer any resistance. His axe dangled loosely in his hand. Mark, suddenly pitying him, stepped forward and let him have his left fist on the point of the jaw. The man dropped like an ox.
The crowd cheered wildly.
Mark sensed that it approved his actions in sparing the lives of the last three men. The spectators were bloodthirsty, but these three had put up a fine battle, and deserved better than death. The thought that man retained some mercy in his makeup pleased Mark immensely. His actions, however, wouldn’t have been changed even if the mob had been crying for the blood of these three.
Chapter 17: Night Promenade
MARK watched the rest of the day’s bloody program from the prisoners’ quarters beneath the stands. After a while he became inured to the barbarities he saw. They ceased to make his blood boil as they had at first. It was like the pity one might feel when witnessing for the first time a scene in an abattoir. After a certain number of repetitions, the thing seems to be devoid of any reality in the way of pain or suffering. There is also the realization that such things must be and that there was nothing could be done about it.
The Best of Argosy #6 - Minions of Mars Page 13