The drum-voice asked: “How many outworlders came with the ship?”
“I have seen six, and there is no evidence that others are aboard. Wonderful is your wisdom, oh Death, who could predict that such men would be lured across the sky to watch our Tournament. Wonderful and—”
“Was there any mention of the man, the badlife, named Johann Karlsen?”
“No, Death.” Andreas was a little puzzled. Surely the man Karlsen must be long since dead. But the god Death was wise beyond mere human understanding; Andreas had long since been convinced of that. He waited worshipfully for another question.
After a brief silence it came. “And they are private hunters? Poachers by their own laws?”
“Yes, Lord Death, their spokesman said they had been hunting. No one in their outworld government will know that they are here.”
Prompted by occasional further questions Andreas spoke on, telling in some detail all that he had so far managed to learn about the visitors and their spacecraft.
He was certain it would not be too big to fit into the pit beside the Temple.
VI
ON THE day after Orion’s landing, Leros led the sixteen Tournament contenders who were still alive up the mountain to a new and higher camp. There, when routine matters had been gotten out of the way, he read the pairings for the third round of the Tournament:
Bram the Beardless of Consiglor
Charles the Upright
Col Renba Farley of Eikosk
Giles the Treacherous
Hal Coppersmith
Jud Isaksson
LeNos of the Highlands
Mesthles of the Windy Vale
Omir Kelsumba
Polydorus the Foul
Rahim Sosias
Rudolph Thadbury
Thomas the Grabber
Vann the Nomad
Wull Narvaez
The priest of the Inner Circle who had come down from the city yesterday had informed Leros and the warriors that they could expect a group of outworlders to appear today. The Tournament was to go on almost as usual, and the utmost courtesy was to be shown the outworlders. If they behave strangely, ignore it. There will probably even be women among them; pay no attention to that, either. Leros was also instructed to call frequent recesses in the fighting for prayer and ceremony.
The warriors had little thought to spare for anything that did not directly concern their own survival in the Tournament, and the arrival of the visitors and their guide when Leros was halfway through reading the lists caused no interruption. Four visitors came, and two of them were women but, Leros noted with some relief, modestly dressed. He had heard some tall tales of outworld ways. He was not pleased to have such onlookers—but perhaps Thorun was, for some obscure and godly reason. In any event, orders were orders, and Leros had endured harder ones than this.
This day’s fighting ring had been stamped out at the head of a gentle slope in an area where the trees were thin. From the ring the outworlders’ ship was readily visible a few hundred meters away on its truncated pinnacle of rock. The massive ball of bright metal that carried folk out among the stars showed a single open doorway in its otherwise featureless surface. Two more outworlders were sometimes visible, tiny figures sitting or standing on the little lip of rock before the ship.
ATHENA, standing at ringside beside Schoenberg and waiting somewhat nervously for the action to begin, whispered to him: “Are you sure this is going to be fighting for keeps?”
“That’s what our guide tells us. I expect he knows what’s going on.” Schoenberg was watching the preparations with keen interest, not looking at her when he answered, low-voiced.
“But if what he told us is true, each of these men has already been through two duels in this tournament. And look—there’s hardly a mark on any of them.”
“I can see a few bandages,” Schoenberg whispered back. “But you may have a point.” He considered the matter. “It could well be this: fighting from an animal’s back apparently isn’t done here. Therefore men have to move around strictly on their own muscle power, and can’t wear a lot of heavy body armor. So a clean hit from any type of weapon is going to leave a serious wound, not just a minor gash or bruise. Most wounds are serious, and the first man to be disabled by a serious wound is almost certainly the loser. Ergo, winners don’t show up for the next round with serious wounds.”
They fell silent then, since Leros was looking in their direction and perhaps was ready to get the action started. Two men with weapons ready were facing each other from opposite sides of the ring. De La Torre and Celeste also became utterly attentive.
Leros cleared his throat. “Bram the Beardless—Charles the Upright.”
SUOMI, standing atop the mesa beside Barbara Hurtado and looking toward the ring from there, was too far away to hear Leros call the names, but through his binoculars he saw two men with raised weapons start toward each other across the fighting ring. He put the binoculars down then and turned away, wondering how in the universe he had managed to get himself involved in this sickening business. For hunting animals one could find or fabricate some reason or excuse, but not for this—and there was Athena, over at ringside, an avid observer.
“Someone should do an anthropological study,” she had explained to him just a little while ago, while getting ready to leave the ship. “If they’re really fighting each other to the death over there.” Their guide-to-be, a tall, white-robed youth, had just been explaining the Tournament to them in some detail. “You’re not an anthropologist.”
“There isn’t a professional one here. Still, it’s a job that should be done.” She went on getting ready, clipping a small audiovideo recorder to her belt, next to the hologram camera.
“Is Schoenberg here to do an anthropological study too?”
“Ask him. Carl, if you hate Oscar so much and can’t stand to look at life in the raw—why did you come along on this trip? Why did you get me to ask Oscar to invite you?”
He drew a deep breath. “We’ve been through that.”
“Tell me again. I would really like to know.”
“All right. I came because of you. You are the most desirable woman I have ever known. I mean more than sex. Sex included, of course—but I want the part of you that Schoenberg has.”
“He doesn’t have me, as you put it. I’ve worked for Oscar five years now, and he has my admiration—”
“Why your admiration?”
“Because he’s strong. There’s a kind of strength in you too, Carl, a different kind, that I’ve admired also. Oscar has my admiration and often my companionship—because I enjoy his company. He and I have had sex together a few times, and that, too, has been enjoyable. But he doesn’t have me. No one does. No one will.”
“When you come of yourself as a free gift, then someone will.”
“No one.”
BRAM and Charles were sparring cautiously in the day’s first duel, neither of them having yet decided on an all-out rush. Though they were of a height Charles the Upright was much leaner, his back so straight that the reason for his name was obvious. He wore a loose jacket of fine leather and had a darkly handsome face.
Athena thought he showed incredible poise, waiting with his long, sharp-looking sword lifted in one hand, aimed at his opponent. Surely, she thought, this was not life-and-death after all. No matter how seriously they took it, it must be some play, some game, with a symbolic loser stepping aside . . . and yet all the time she was telling herself this she knew better.
“Come,” Charles was murmuring, sounding like a man urging on some animal. “Come. Now. Now.”
And beardless Bram, all youth and freakish strength, came on, first one step, then two, then in an awesome rush, his sword first raised then slashing down. The sharp blades rang together, the two men grunted. Incoherent cries of excitement went up around the watching circle. Charles, fending off blow after blow, was giving way now. He seemed to lose his footing momentarily in a slip, then lashed out with a cou
nterstroke that brought a hoarse noise of appreciation from the warriors who stood watching with knowledgeable eyes. Bram avoided the blow and was unhurt but his rushing attack had been brought to a standstill. Athena for the first time began to realize that fine skill must reign here on the same throne with brutality.
Bram stood quietly for a moment, frowning as if at the unexpected resistance of some inanimate object. Then suddenly he charged again, more violently if possible than before. The long swords blurred and sang together, sprang apart, blurred and sang again. Athena began now to see and understand the timing and strategy of the strokes. She was forgetting herself, her eyes and mind opening more fully for perception. Then all at once, somehow—for all her concentration she had not seen how—Charles’s sword was no longer in his hand. Instead it sprouted between Bram’s ribs, the hilt firmly affixed before Bram’s breastbone, half a meter of blade protruding gory and grotesque from his broad back.
Bram shook his head, one, two, three times, in what seemed utter disbelief. Athena saw it all with great clarity and it all seemed very slow. Bram was still waving his own sword, but now he seemed unable to locate his newly disarmed opponent, standing in plain sight in front of him. Suddenly, awkwardly, Bram sat, dropped his weapon and raised a hand to his face, brushing at it as if struck by the thought that now his beard would never grow. The hand fell limp and Bram slumped farther, his head tilting forward on his chest. The pose-looked incredibly uncomfortable, but he bore it without complaint. Only when a gray-clad slave limped forward to drag the body to one side did Athena fully understand that the man—the boy—had died before her eyes.
Charles the Upright extracted his sword with a strong pull and held it out to another slave for cleaning—while yet another spilled sand over the place where Bram had spilled his life. In the background someone was digging. The world had changed in the space of a few moments, or rather Athena had been changed. Never again would she be the same.
“Col Renba—Farley of Eikosk.”
The man who started forward at the name of Col Renba was big, brown, and shaggy. He stood near the center of the arena whirling a mace, a spike-studded ball on the end of a short chain, and waited for Farley to come after him.
Oscar was saying something to her, but there was no time to listen or think, no time for anything but watching. No time for Oscar, even.
Farley of Eikosk, fair and freckled, tall and well made if not exactly handsome, came treading catlike in fine leather boots. His other garments were simple, but of rich sturdy cloth. He squinted in the sun that shone on the fine polished steel of his sword and knife. Holding a weapon in either hand, he feinted an advance to within striking range of the mace, and nodded as if with satisfaction when he saw how rapidly the spiked weight on its taut chain arched out at him and back again.
Now Farley began to circle, moving around Col Renba first one way and then the other. The mace came out after him, faster than before, faster than had seemed possible to Athena, and she cried out, unaware that she did so. Again she cried out, in relief this time, when she saw that the spikes had missed Farley’s fine, fair skin.
Momentarily both men were still, and then again there came a rapid passage of arms, too fast for Athena to judge. She thought the flurry was over, when suddenly the tip of one of the mace’s spikes touched Farley on the hand, and his dagger flew lightly but awkwardly away. In almost the same moment Farley’s long sword bit back, and now Col Renba backed away, keeping the mace twirling with his right hand, his left arm curled up as if trying to protect itself from further damage while its sleeve rapidly drenched red.
Each man’s left arm was bleeding now, and Farley’s at least appeared no longer usable. Along the back of his hand there showed the white of splintered bone. The bright blade of his long dagger lay buried in the dust.
When the mace-spinner saw the extent of the damage he had inflicted, and found that his own left arm could at least be held up out of the way, he stopped backing off and began to advance once again. He kept the ugly weight of death moving around him in a smooth ellipse. As Col stepped closer, Farley began to retreat, but only began. As the mace sighed past him his long speed-thrust to the throat caught Col stepping in. Col Renba died, the mace flying wide from his hand in a great arc, spinning over the shouting, dodging ring of watchers.
A long moment after the other watchers’ outcries had died away, Athena was still shouting. She realized this and shut up and let go of Schoenberg, whose arm and shoulder had somehow come into her spasmodic two-handed grip. Oscar was looking at her strangely, and so was De La Torre, who stood with his arm around a bored-looking Celeste a little distance off.
But Athena forgot about them. Already men were getting ready to fight again.
“GILES the Treacherous—Hal Coppersmith.”
Coppersmith was the leaner of this pair, and much the taller. He was content to begin on the defensive, holding his long sword like the sensing organ of some giant insect. Giles the Treacherous had sandy hair, an air of earnest perseverance, and (like the most successful traitors, thought Athena) an open trustworthiness in his face. He was not big, and did not appear to be exceptionally strong, but still maneuvered his own long blade with an assured economy of effort. Now it was high, now low, without Athena being aware that it had started to move. Hal Coppersmith had similar difficulties, it seemed. His elbow was gashed, and then his knee, and then the great muscle in his tattooed upper arm was cut nearly through. Then nothing remained but butchery. Giles stepped back with an expression of distaste.
A slave limped forward to swing a maul and end Hal’s silent, thrashing agony.
“Jud Isaksson—LeNos of the Highlands.”
LeNos sprang to the attack almost before the signal had been given, his fierce scarred face thrust forward like a shield. In either hand he held a wide blade, moving and flashing like the hub-knives on a chariot. And little Isaksson, whooping as if he were overjoyed to meet a fighter so aggressive, shot forward fast enough to clash with LeNos almost in the middle of the trodden circle. The round metal shield on Jud’s left arm rang like some maddened blacksmith’s anvil under the barrage of his enemy’s blows. LeNos seemed incapable of imagining a defensive move, let alone performing one. He only pushed his own two-handed attack so maniacally that it seemed impossible for his opponent to find a sliver of time and space in which to counterattack.
At such a pace the fight could not and did not last long. LeNos’s driving sword arm was suddenly stilled, pinned in mid-air on the long, thick needle of Isaksson’s sword. The highlander’s dagger kept flashing on, but still Jud’s bright-scarred shield took the blows. Then Jud yanked his sword free, of the ruined arm as he did, and brought it back, hacking, faster and faster, with a violence wilder if anything than his opponent’s had been. LeNos was in several pieces before he died.
“WHAT’S the matter?” An insistent voice had repeated the question to her several times, Athena realized. Schoenberg was gripping her firmly by both arms, and giving her a slight shaking. He was looking closely into her face. When her eyes focused on his, the expression in his changed from concern to an odd mixture of amusement and contempt.
“Nothing’s the matter. What do you mean? I’m all right.” She kept looking for the next fight to start, and then realized that the priest in charge, Leros or whatever his name was, must have just ordered a recess. Slowly she realized that she had come near losing herself in the excitement of the fighting, temporarily losing control of her own behavior as if with drugs or sex. But no, it was all right. A near thing, but she still controlled herself.
Schoenberg, still looking at her with some concern, said now: “We had better give Carlos and Barbara a chance to see a thing or two.”
“Him?” she laughed abruptly, contemptuously. “This isn’t for him. Thank you for bringing me, Oscar.”
“Nevertheless I think you’ve had enough.”
De La Torre peered around Oscar at her. “I have, too, for the time being. Shall we walk back to
the ship, Athena?”
“I’m staying.”
Her tone was such that neither of the men made any further argument. Celeste meanwhile had moved next to Schoenberg; she was watching him more than what was going on in the ring. “I’m going, then,” said De La Torre, and he was off.
SUOMI, having handed over his sentry’s rifle to De La Torre, slid and clambered down the steep slope from the mesa’s top, holding on to the retractable rope that they had secured at the top to make the climb less dangerous. On this one face of the mesa the slope for the most part was not quite precipitous; there were some patches of gravelly soil and a bush or two. Already a visible path was being worn.
When he reached the level of the forest Suomi set off immediately in the direction of the tournament. Athena was there, not just for a quick look, but remaining there by choice to see it all. A purely scientific interest? Anthropology? She had never been enthusiastic on that subject before today, not around Suomi anyway. Maybe the tournament wasn’t, after all, as murderous a business as he had been led to believe. Neither Suomi nor Barbara had watched. De La Torre, coming back, had said nothing about it and Suomi had not asked him. But maybe it was just as bloody as the guide had warned them, and she was still there taking it in. If she was like that, he had better know about it.
Nothing horrible was going on in the ring as he emerged from the forest and drew near. People were simply standing about, waiting, while a white-robed man went through some kind of ceremony before a simple altar. As Suomi came up Schoenberg nodded a greeting to him. Athena gave Suomi a preoccupied look. She was upset about something, he thought, but she gave no indication of wanting to be elsewhere. His attention was soon pulled away from her.
“Omir Kelsumba—Mesthles of the Windy Vale.”
On springy legs massive as tree trunks Kelsumba moved forward, black skin gleaming, axe cradled almost like an infant in his awesome arms. Mesthles, spare and graying, thoughtful-looking, somewhat battered by time like the ancient scythe with which he meant to fight, kept at a respectful distance from Kelsumba for a little while, retreating with economical movements, studying the movements of his foe. Now the axe came after him, startling Suomi with its speed, and with such power and weight behind it that it seemed nothing human should be able to turn the blow aside. Mesthles made no mistakes, had his scythe-blade in the right place to turn the axe, but the jarring impact when the blades met came near to knocking Mesthles down. Another axe-blow fell on the scythe, and then another. Mesthles could not get into position to strike back. After the fourth or fifth parry, the scythe-blade broke. A groaning murmur, like the foretaste of blood, came up from the ring of watchers, and Suomi heard part of it coming from Athena. He saw the moistlipped rapture on her face as she watched the fight, oblivious to him and all else.
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