by Джеффри Лорд
«Good luck, Nugun,» called Blade, as the women hauled the Senar away. Idrana glared at him; then the other women were picking him up and lugging him away too. He followed his own advice and did not struggle or swear. But it was a considerable temptation when the women banged him against doorposts and walls in their haste or carelessness.
Quite a few bruises later, they reached the bottom of a flight of stone stairs. Ahead stretched a long corridor, floored and walled with slimy stones. A few oil lamps on iron brackets gave off a sullen yellow light and greasy smoke, the air lay heavy on Blade's nostrils, damp and chill and reeking of mold and long-confined humanity.
Cells opened onto the corridor on either side. As the women carried him past, Blade could see huddled, wretched figures in most of them. Some were men, mostly Senar. Some were women, and some were so gaunt and ragged that it was impossible to tell what they were.
Finally an empty cell appeared on the left. The women tramped into it, dropped Blade with a thump into several inches of moldy straw, cut his bonds, and marched out. As they did, Blade saw the leader making complicated signs with her fingers to the other three. He realized then why the four women had said nothing, and why Idrana had commanded them with gestures. They were deaf-mutes!
It was two days before anybody even bothered to bring Blade food and water. When they did, the food was a loaf of sour, barely edible bread. The water was gray and scummy-looking, as if it might have been dipped out of the ditch around the city's walls. It tasted as bad. But Blade realized he had no alternative — he had to eat and drink what they gave him, or lose strength even more rapidly than he would otherwise. If he lost too much strength, escape would be impossible, even if he found an opportunity. He ate and drank.
He ate the sour bread and drank the murky water for ten days. Twice the guards brought in fresh straw and a bucket of almost-clean water for him to wash himself. But his hair and beard grew and became a tangled mess, and he could feel himself losing strength day by day. To keep his muscles in tone and his reflexes sharp, he did a series of exercises each day. The exercises made his blood race and his breath come faster and gave him at least a moment's illusion of continued health and vitality.
But it was only an illusion. It was obvious that nobody really cared about keeping him in shape to put on a good show in the arena. Or perhaps they were doing this deliberately, fearing that he would try to escape if he retained his strength.
But this hardly made sense. The bars of his cell were too strong and too solidly set to be broken or bent out. The guards who brought him his food and water were always on the alert, standing well back with drawn swords. At most, he could take one or two of them with him. Even if he was incredibly lucky in the cell, he would hardly be so lucky everywhere along the route to the open air. And it would be a miracle pure and simple if he were able both to fight off the guards and find Nugun.
Eleven days, twelve, thirteen. The morning of the fourteenth day came. Blade scratched the fourteenth mark on the wall and settled down to his «breakfast.»
The loaf of bread seemed even more battered and misshapen than usual. It looked as though someone had been using it for a punching bag before sending it down to him. He ripped the heel off the loaf and began to munch on it wearily. Apart from all its other faults, the bread was so hard that it was making Blade's gums raw and sore.
Suddenly his teeth came together on something so hard that it made him start and wince. Carefully he worked thumb and forefinger in between his teeth, grasped the object, and pulled it out.
It was a nut-a plain, ordinary black nut, of a kind that he had seen growing wild in the forests of Brega a dozen times. But it was an unexpected thing to find in a loaf of ration bread. Did it mean anything except that the bakers were careless?
It probably didn't, but he couldn't be sure. Blade waited until none of the guards were within earshot. Then he hurled the nut against the wall as hard as he could. There was a sharp crack. He went over to pick it up, found a hairline split in one half of the shell, and used his fingernails to pry it apart.
A small piece of paper fluttered out. Blade grabbed it out of the air before it could hit the straw, shielded it with his body, and read:
Blade. Wait for day of Great Games in arena. Plans to rescue you made. Fighters of Purple River and army of Rilgon both entering plains. Our sisters already leaving city.
— Truja
The handwriting and signature were unmistakable. Blade read the note over several times until he was sure he had memorized it. Then he tore it up and swallowed the fragments.
So Truja was in the city and working to get him out. Hopefully Nugun was there too, although the Senar was not mentioned in the note. Well and good-or at least well and better than anything he might be able to manage on his own. He would follow Truja's request for that reason-and that reason only.
Chapter 15
Truja's plan was the best prospect Blade had, but not at all foolproof. With both Rilgon's army and the Purple River force on the march, someone might warn the city any day. Not likely, but not impossible either. If that happened, the Great Games would be canceled. And then the best opportunity for rescuing Blade would vanish.
Possibly Truja was bold enough to risk snatching Blade from the prison below the barracks. But unless Truja's raiders were strong or the guards distracted, the operation would be suicidal.
Blade sighed. For the week remaining until the games, his safety depended more on the undetected advance of Rilgon's army than on anything Truja or any other friends of his could do. Blade believed in luck-but as a professional, he hated like the plague to depend on it this much.
For the remaining week of his captivity, Blade's biggest problem was not to seem too eager for the day of the games to arrive. Even the least observant guard would start wondering why a man was so enthusiastic about the day of his death.
For the evening meal on the last day, they brought Blade an immense platter of meat that was raw on the inside and charred black on the outside. As much as he wanted to gorge himself, he ate only a few slices. He did not want to be slow and sluggish from too much food tomorrow morning when he entered the arena.
The guards came for him early the next morning, binding his hands but leaving his feet free. Then they marched him briskly, down the corridor and up the stairs to the courtyard of the barracks.
It was a bright day outside. After so many weeks of darkness the sun dazzled Blade. For his first few steps he had to grope his way forward, feeling for solid ground underfoot. Raucous laughter from all around the courtyard accompanied his fumblings.
Now Blade thought he understood why he had been ill-fed and ill-treated, left unwashed and unshaven and generally degraded. The ruling women of the city had to degrade a civilized man if they captured him. Otherwise those who saw him might begin to wonder if men might be worth more than the Laws of Mother Kina said. And if they began to wonder about that…
But understanding the reason for his treatment didn't make Blade appreciate it any more. His mood was savage as the women tied a rope around his neck and led him out of the courtyard like a prize steer. Once out in the street, they broke into a jog. They were obviously trying to wear Blade down and make him fall pitifully to the street. But his exercises in his cell had kept his muscles in better shape than the women had expected. His legs were aching and his breath burning in his chest and throat, but he was still on his feet when he reached the arena.
It loomed monstrous and black above him. The roar of the crowd from inside suggested that half the population of the city must be there already. And more were coming in each minute, most on foot, some in wagons, a few brought in on curtained litters. Several of the litters were festooned with brightly colored banners, blue and green. Even more of the banners flew from poles on the rim of the arena, so that it looked as though it had blossomed out in flowers.
That was all Blade had a chance to see before his guards hustled him through a small door near the base of the arena.
Inside, a dark, dank corridor led steeply down, ending in a heavy polished metal door. One of the guards banged on it with the hilt of her sword, and it rumbled open.
Inside, the crowd roar came even louder from above, broken by occasional bursts of cheers and groans. Apparently the preliminaries to the games were already well underway. Working up the crowd's blood lust, Blade thought. He looked around the vaulted chamber, searching for a familiar face, searching above all for Nugun. But the Senar was nowhere in sight.
In the corner of the chamber stood a large, wheeled cage holding four Senar. They were even filthier than usual for the breed and were growling savagely and clawing at the bars of their cage. Chained to the wall just out of their reach was a nude girl, sitting slumped in total dejection and despair. Some lawbreaker, no doubt, tried and condemned to be thrown to the Senar in the arena. And the Senar would doubtless have been drugged or beaten to make them savage enough to put on a proper show for the bloodthirsty crowd in the stands. Blade wondered if he would get the same treatment or if they thought he would be nasty enough in his normal state. If they thought the latter, they were right. In his present mood, he would have torn any of the warriors of the city limb from limb, barehanded and without a qualm. Chivalry be damned!
Blade turned as the door rumbled open again and saw Idrana stalk in, followed by a file of armed women. By the time the door closed behind them, there were more than fifty packed into the chamber. Blade noticed that all carried bows and very well-filled quivers.
The women arranged themselves around the chamber, keeping close to the walls and leaving an open space in the middle for Blade and his guards. They seemed reluctant to approach him, as though he were a wild animal. Or perhaps they sensed the fury that was bubbling in him and feared it might suddenly boil over onto them.
Idrana had no such fear. She stepped up to Blade until she was close enough to reach out and touch him. Her nostrils flared at his odor. Otherwise she seemed poised and ready, like an arrow about to fly from the bow. Blade decided against taunting her. She looked able to kill him on the spot, even if it spoiled part of her show.
«You look worried, Blade. Is it that you do not know what will be done with you?» Blade made no reply, and after a moment Idrana realized that he would make none. She grinned.
«You-you and your, friend the Senar-will be taken to the center of the arena. My women and I will stand around the edge of the arena with our bows. And we will shoot arrows at you. We will try not to hit you-at first. We want good sport, and the good sight of men-men-running about like bugs from a fire, while our arrows whistle past their ears. And then, when we have put so many arrows into you that you look like spine-fruit, we-«She broke off abruptly, as though she had suddenly realized she might be about to say too much.
Blade carefully kept his face expressionless, but inside he was a churning mass of thoughts. Nugun was alive-for the moment. And they were both going to be shoved out to die as-archery targets-to put on a show for the city.
A final roar of cheers and shouts came from up above. It died away, and in the silence that followed Blade heard drums roll and a single trumpet call out, high and brassy. Idrana spoke to Blade's guards. «Lead him out,» she said briskly.
As she spoke, the gate to the arena itself rumbled open. Blade stared out across two hundred yards of hard-packed sand. It was bare and featureless with only a few patches of blood here and there. On it nothing moved, except a two-wheeled cart drawn by an ambling ox. The cart was piled high with the bodies of Senar. Blade saw arms and legs trailing down.
Then the trumpet sounded again, and Blade's guards pulled him out into the sunlight. He blinked-and then stiffened as he saw another door open in the wall of the arena. Eight guards emerged, pulling a wheeled cage. In that cage was a single Senar.
Nugun.
Blade did not realize that he had shouted the name aloud. Idrana bared even white teeth in a savage grin as she heard him. «So he is-something unnatural-to you after all? Well, well. It is said that such pairs have a great desire to die together. At least you cannot deny that we have granted you that wish.»
If Idrana had spoken three more words, Blade would have strangled her on the spot. But she said nothing, and the rope tightened around his neck as the guards stepped up their pace.
Five minutes later he stood in the very center of the arena. Twenty feet away stood Nugun, staring at Blade as though he were someone returned from the dead. Perhaps to the Senar he was.
Blade raised a hand in greeting. «It seems we cannot kill Blenar or bad Senar or women of the city today, Nugun. They are going to kill us.»
Nugun shrugged. His massive body was thinner and reeked of filth and neglect. But he held himself as erect as ever, and his eyes were not dimmed. «Nugun know. But Nugun not die easy. Nugun fight.»
«I will fight too,» said Blade. «Perhaps we can kill some women.» He was not optimistic, though. If he and Nugun tried to rush the archers across a hundred yards of open sand, they would indeed be sprouting arrows all over before they had gone very far. Their only hope was Truja's making her move, and he had no idea when that would be-or whether she would even be able to make it at all. To snatch Blade and Nugun from the middle of fifty archers would be a neat trick.
Idrana herself was striding out now to take her position in the circle of archers. Blade used the extra time to look carefully around him. The arena was no more than one-third full, yet that one-third must have held better than twenty thousand people. Blade noticed that most of the women wore sober browns, grays, and blacks, except for those who were showing off their loyalty to their faction. One whole section was filled with a solid mass of women in bright blue. Fifty yards farther on, he saw an equally large mass of equally bright green. Blade saw banners floating above the rear ranks of each faction and the glint of weapons on either side.
Idrana was in position now. Her voice rose high and clear, carrying across the arena and rising above the continued murmur of the crowd. «Oh, Sisters of the City of Brega, look upon us. This day, to Kina, Mother of All, we offer as sacrifice-these men.» The trumpet sounded a third time, and the drums rolled to be promptly drowned out by cheers and shouts.
Idrana stepped forward a pace, pulling an arrow from her quiver and nocking it to her bow. This was a signal for all the other archers around the arena to do the same.
Blade stared at the archers drawing a bead on him. Then he took a deep breath, grinned at Nugun, and made himself ready for what would literally be a dance of death.
Chapter 16
Blade realized that the length of time he could dance before death came depended largely on the skill of Idrana and her archers. If they were good, he would not be hit as long as they were not aiming to hit him. But if they were inept, they would almost certainly not be able to avoid accidents. And the longer he stayed alive and on his feet, the longer Truja and her party would have to act.
Far away across the arena, he saw Idrana's arm draw back, then straighten. A faint black blur high against the blue sky told him of an arrow on its way. For a split second more, he stood still. Would Idrana be aiming directly at him, assuming he would dodge? Or would it appeal to her game-playing instincts to try to guess where he would jump and put her arrow there?
With a sudden snap of leg muscles, Blade swung to the left, going down and rolling. As he did so, the Wheeeesh of a descending arrow sounded loud in his ears. A split second later came a solid whunk as it plunged into the sand just behind where Blade had been standing. If he had not moved, it would have plunged down into his chest. That settled two things about Idrana. She could shoot well, and she would aim to hit-at least for now. Blade brushed the sand off his arms and looked at the distant circle again. Now the woman to the right of Idrana was drawing and shooting. Blade jumped back, not rolling this time. In the same moment he shouted «Move!» to Nugun. The Senar responded with a tremendous leap that must have carried him a good eight feet. He nearly lost his balance on landing-but the arrow aimed at him w
histled down and struck harmlessly ten feet away.
One by one, each woman around the circle took her shot. Before half the women had shot, it was obvious that they were alternating between Blade and Nugun. But still both of them went on moving each time they saw an arrow headed their way. Blade wasn't going to take chances on Idrana's playing tricks.
It was also obvious that Idrana had hand-picked her archers. Blade suspected that this was for reasons other than putting on a good show in the games. But they were certainly doing that. Each woman in the circle could obviously pick off a man-sized target at far more than a hundred yards' range. And equally obviously, they could also miss such a target with the same ease-as long as they wanted to. How long would they want to? And how long could Blade and Nugun keep up the leaps and bounds and rolls that had so far kept the arrows out of their flesh?
The second round was more than two-thirds done before any of the archers got an arrow anywhere close to the two men. Nugun was a fraction of a second slow in stepping off, and an arrow sliced down through his shoulder. It kept right on going into the ground, but left a bloody furrow in the hairy flesh. Nugun did not blink or wince at the pain. But he was a little quicker off the mark after that.
The second round was finished. A hundred arrows were now sticking in the sand in the center of the arena. The third round began. Soon the arrows sprouted still thicker.
The clusters of arrows were beginning to be a menace in themselves, as Blade realized when his foot caught in a bunch of three arrows when he leaped backward. He went sprawling. Only by a frantic twist and roll was he able to keep the next arrow from skewering his left leg. He rose, aware that he could no longer spring to his feet as fast. Sweat was pouring off him, stinging his eyes and beginning to interfere with his vision. He wiped his forehead as best he could with the back of his hand.