by Джеффри Лорд
Blade turned slowly away from the railing. His eyes met Pterin's. The other man smiled again, and there was a tinge of amusement in his voice as he spoke.
«You see, warrior, how thoroughly we release a man who is unwilling to serve mighty Ayocan. Such thoroughness is pleasing to Ayocan. And Ayocan shall be pleased.»
Blade's fists clenched and his jaw tightened. If that damned priest says that once more, he thought, I am going to pick him up and throw him after the slave, and be damned to any chances of escape. That sadistic little-!
The priest saw the fury in Blade's eyes and stepped back quickly. All four of the Holy Warriors on deck drew their swords and formed a circle around Blade. For a moment Blade and Pterin glared at each other. Then the priest's eyes dropped, and he jerked a hand toward the cabin door.
The door slammed shut behind Blade and he heard the lock on the bar snap into place. He sat down on the bed, realizing suddenly that he was shaking all over with rage. He sat quietly, taking slow, deep breaths until the shaking stopped, then unclenched his fists. Now his mind began working again.
He was not going to escape from the barge with the river swarming with those little monsters. He would have to wait until they landed at wherever they were going. The place of the High Sacrifice to Ayocan, Tzakalan? Probably.
But he was not going peacefully if he could not escape before the moment of sacrifice. He would take as many of «mighty» Ayocan's servants with him as he could-starting with Pterin.
Chapter 8
It took seven days and seven nights of travel down the Low River to reach Tzakalan, capital of the Kingdom of Chiribu. They passed isolated huts perched on poles along the banks, an occasional village, and once a large town with a temple mound outside it and half a dozen boats tied up at its pier. There was remarkably little traffic on the river, but what there was went in stout-sided barges like the one carrying Blade. On this river an upset or leaky boat would be an instant death sentence for anybody in it.
Most of the way, though, Blade saw nothing but the muddy brownish-green of the river and the various shades of green in the forest along its banks. Once more, his worst enemy was sheer boredom-that, and indigestion from eating too much hot heavy food when he didn't really want to.
By evening on the sixth day the scene on the bank was beginning to change. More boats were passing on the river or tied up at solid stone jetties, and there were more and larger houses, many of them with wide areas of cultivated land around them. At intervals there were sizable towns, of perhaps five or ten thousand people, with bustling markets piled high with colorful produce and baskets of squawking fowl. Blade could see no domestic animals larger than goats and dogs-no cattle, no draught animals.
And there was always a temple mound of Ayocan somewhere just outside each town, always visible from the river, always with its priests in their yellow-orange robes scurrying up and down it like ants on an anthill. Blade began to realize just how powerful and widespread the cult of Ayocan was in the whole of Chiribu, if not in this whole dimension. This might well make escaping difficult. Who would want to shelter a fugitive from the powerful-and ruthless-priests of mighty Ayocan? That would certainly be displeasing to Ayocan. And Ayocan shall not be displeased.
All during the seventh day the country grew more and more thickly populated. The towns were closer together and larger, and what space on the banks they did not occupy was taken up by sprawling estates and peasants' fields. Once two large towns on opposite sides of the river were linked by a bridge of old boats, lashed together with a plank walkway laid across them. All the traffic across the bridge was foot traffic, Blade noticed, and all the burdens seemed to go on the backs of men and women, some in chained gangs of slaves, others walking alone and apparently free. Still no domestic animals larger than household pets and fowl. Chiribu seemed to be like one of the civilizations of the American Indians before the arrival of the Europeans.
Two boats in the center of the bridge were untied to create a gap. The cult vessel slipped through the gap and on down the river. By nightfall on the seventh day there were so many boats around them on the river that it was almost like being in a city. Lights, voices, occasionally the sound of drums or flutes came across the water. Blade went to sleep with those in his ears, along with the perpetual creak of the sail and the slunk-slunk of the endlessly moving sweeps.
The next morning they reached Tzakalan.
Blade's first impression was a massive square solidness. The people who built Tzakalan could not build very high-Blade did not find a single building more than three floors tall. But they built solidly, as though they were trying to imitate natural features of the landscape and make their city last as long as the ground it was built on. Every building followed more or less the same square plan, although some had balconies and some had arcades. Every one seemed built of gigantic blocks of the same roughly dressed stone.
If the buildings of Tzakalan lacked grace, they more than made up for it in color. Blue, green, purple, orange, red, yellow (not the yellow-orange of the cult of Ayocan), black, and every possible and impossible shade and variation of them. In the bright sunlight pouring down on the city, the effect was dazzling and dizzying.
The boat was tied up at a small pier painted blue and white, where the men who ran to take the lines wore the dress of Holy Warriors. Even a private dock, thought Blade. The cult of Ayocan is certainly a state within a state. I wonder what the people think of that. If they don't like it. .
But that was definitely letting his mind run ahead of things. First he had to find a chance to escape, then succeed in escaping, then worry about helping these people shake off the cult of Ayocan-if they wanted to. He would have to be careful here. What seemed to him like brutality and cruelty in the cult of Ayocan might be something perfectly reasonable and normal in the eyes of the people here. If he started shooting off his mouth about their pet god, he might find himself slaughtered even faster than the priests could have done, and with less ceremony or chance of escape.
Except that right now his chances of escape from the priests didn't look particularly good, either. The Holy Warriors had him completely surrounded before the boat bumped against the pier-a dozen of them, all with swords and axes drawn. He might free himself, but he was almost certain to be wounded in the attempt. If he were blemished by a wound and recaptured, they would kill him on the spot, not wait anymore to sacrifice him to Ayocan. And if he were wounded, he most likely would be recaptured. Once again this was the wrong time and the wrong place for escape.
They did not bind Blade and carry him along on a litter this time. Instead they bound his arms behind his back and tied his ankles together with a short hobble of heavy bronze chain. He could walk briskly, but there wasn't any hope of his being able to run fast enough to get away from an old lady with a cane, let alone a dozen Holy Warriors and perhaps the whole population of Tzakalan.
So Pterin and the Holy Warriors escorted Blade through the streets of Tzakalan. The streets were wide and straight. The people flowing up and down them gave way before the little procession and left it a clear path. The civilian population of Tzakalan did not seem much different from the Holy Warriors when seen close up. They were all lean, wiry, with reddish brown skins, large flat noses, and straight black hair. The men wore cotton or linen kilts, the women long, loose sleeveless gowns of the same materials. Both sexes went barefoot, and Blade noticed that none of the men seemed to be armed.
The air in the city was close and heavy after the open river. Smells hung heavy in it-garbage, human and animal wastes, mud, wood smoke, a dozen others, most of them unpleasant. It wasn't quite as bad as the temple mound by the lake or the slave hold of the boat, but Blade found his nose wrinkling nonetheless as they marched him along.
Suddenly it struck him-one more smell, faint under all the others but unmistakable. He had smelled it too many times, in too many strange places after too many acts of violence. Decay-human decay. And the odor was growing stronger.
Ahead was a section of street where the people huddled close to the walls. In the middle of the street was a patch of white, and on the patch something black and sprawling. Blade knew what it was even before the procession took another step toward it.
How long the man had been dead, Blade couldn't be sure. In this damp climate only a little short of being tropical, decay would set in fast. Bloating and darkening were already well advanced. So was the smell. And there was something carved deep into the man's chest. While Pterin stopped the procession and chanted over the body, Blade had a good look at the blood-caked carving. Unmistakably, it was a stylized pair of bat wings.
A sacrifice to Ayocan? Lying here in the public streets, visible to everybody, rotting away in the middle of the capital city of Chiribu? Possibly. Quite possibly. Strange cults conducted strange sacrifices.
There were more bodies as they moved farther up through the streets of Tzakalan, farther away from the river. Some of the other bodies were comparatively fresh, and one must have been lying out only a few hours. It was the body of a young woman. A girl, actually, for she could hardly have been more than fifteen. She was naked, and the bat-wings had been carved into her bare stomach.
The girl's body was the worst sight for Blade, worse even than some of the other bodies that had been lying out for so long that the putrefying flesh had turned black and begun to fall off the bones. There were no insects around any of the bodies, Blade noticed. No doubt the white powder sprinkled about the bodies was to drive them away.
The procession continued on down the street, past markets, through areas where the paint was flaked and peeling from the buildings. Blade's bare feet were beginning to feel sore from walking on the hot pavement.
Eventually they came out on the far side of the city: It was not much of a surprise to Blade that the first thing he saw there was yet another temple mound of Ayocan. It was by far the largest that he had seen, nearly a quarter of a mile wide at the base and more than three hundred feet high. It was completely faced with blue and white stones, and two broad flights of stairs led up to the building at the top. The building itself gleamed a dazzling white in the sun. From its roof a column of familiar yellow-orange smoke rose into the windless air. Beside it stood an enormous square stone block with a tall, carved blue pole at each corner. The block was not only white, it had been polished until it was almost painful to look at.
«Ah, warrior,» said Pterin. «Raise your eyes to the Supreme House of Ayocan and consider your spirit rising from it, free to nourish mighty Ayocan. Tomorrow is the High Sacrifice. Tomorrow your spirit shall fly from your body and rise to Ayocan, who will be greatly pleased. And Ayocan shall be pleased.»
With a shrug, Blade did Pterin's bidding, looking carefully at the temple mound. But his reasons for doing that were entirely his own. He was fixing in his mind a mental picture of the temple mound and of the area around it. The better the picture, the better his chances of escape. And if there was no escape? Perhaps this huge obscenely swelling mound would be the place of his death. But in that case it would be the same for a good many of the priests and Holy Warriors of Ayocan.
Chapter 9
As Pterin had promised, the next morning they led Blade out to be sacrificed.
They had kept him for the night deep within the temple mound, in a richly furnished cell. And the condemned man certainly ate a hearty meal. In fact Blade could hardly do anything else, with the doctors watching him closely for any signs that his spirit was weakening. They also sent a girl in to him after the dinner, one of the drug-ridden puppets. Once more it was all Blade could manage to do what was very obviously his duty.
More than that. His life depended on his continuing to be a strong spirit as the doctor-priests of Ayocan defined it. Otherwise they would not lead him up on the top of the mound the next morning, where he might have room to run and surely would have room to fight. They would put him to death at once in this cell, dark and smelly for all its luxury. And he would not choose to die that way. He would not choose to die at all if possible, but certainly not that way. So he showed the strength of his spirit with the girl, and after that managed a full night of untroubled sleep.
He was fully awake and alert the next morning when they came for him, ready for whatever might promise a chance of escape. The priests offered him the usual massive breakfast, but he refused it. Too full a belly might slow him down. And there might easily be drugs in the food. He could not detect the distinctive smell of the narcotic, but there might be others.
Pterin must have been told of Blade's refusal at once. Within minutes he came storming down the corridor to the cell, four Holy Warriors behind him and fire in his eye. He faced Blade and glared at him.
«Warrior, do you wish your spirit to become weak, so that Ayocan will reject it when it comes before him? To merge with mighty Ayocan gives great joy for all time. But to be rejected by him gives eternal torment. Know you that?»
Blade shrugged. The casualness was assumed, for he knew that this clash of wills with Pterin could be as important as the clash of swords to come. His chances of escape might depend on his winning it. He fixed the priest with a steady stare of his own, and said coldly, «My spirit is so strong that your little bits of food can do nothing for it. And to eat now would in fact weaken that spirit. A warrior of my people must fast before entering a battle, and this moment I call a battle.» He wondered if he had let too much slip out. Pterin might find a hidden meaning in the mention of battles.
Apparently Pterin did not. But he had not fired his last shot. «Then if you will take no food, we shall at least give you the Waters of Strength. That you must take before the moment when-«
«I shall take nothing,» said Blade coldly. «All would be against the customs of my people. In fact I would prefer to die here and now, and abandon all hope of my spirit joining with Ayocan. I have no faith in your Ayocan so great that it shall make me abandon my own gods and what they ask of me.» Again Blade had a chill moment of wondering if he had pushed things too far. Pterin might throw up his hands in disgust and let Blade alone. Or he might throw up his hands in disgust and oblige Blade by killing him on the spot.
Some of the Holy Warriors and lesser priests cried out «Blasphemer!» at Blade. But Pterin said nothing. No doubt he had heard far worse blasphemies from other sacrificial victims. And then he shrugged and motioned to the Holy Warriors. Pterin might be afraid of the wrath of Ayocan if he denied the god such a strong spirit, however stubborn. And he would certainly be afraid of the wrath of the Supreme Brother of the cult, whose wrath could take tangible shape much faster than the wrath of the god.
With their usual vigor the Holy Warriors seized Blade, but this time they did not bind him. They led him out of the cell, through the corridors, and up the stairs to the surface. Sunlight after darkness for so long dazzled Blade's eyes for a moment. When his vision cleared, he saw the temple mound greatly changed from what it had been yesterday.
A crowd of nearly a hundred thousand people completely surrounded the base of the mound. They would have pushed halfway up its sides, except for a solid ring of armed Holy Warriors holding them back. It was a strangely silent crowd, too, more like a crowd of churchgoers than a crowd on a festival day. Well, this was a religious ceremony, after all-whatever Blade might think of the part he was going to play in it.
Atop the mound the huge stone block had been freshly painted and waxed, so that the sun blazed even more blindingly from the glossy whiteness. A tall canopy of dark blue silk now hung from the poles, and each pole also supported a blue and white banner with the bat-wing symbol of Ayocan on it. The banners sagged limply in the hot, still air.
The top of the mound was so packed with Holy Warriors and priests that if anybody had fainted in the heat and the crowding he could not have fallen. In two places, though, tight-knit circles of warriors kept spaces clear. Inside one circle a cluster of naked men and women stood placidly, their dull eyes showing signs of the narcotic Blade was trying to escape. L
esser sacrifices, no doubt, to whet the crowd's appetite for the main course-Blade.
There was no one inside the other circle. Blade looked at it, and Pterin promptly answered his unspoken question. As usual, the chief priest was glad to boast.
«That is the King's Circle. Yes, warrior, King Hurakun himself attends the High Sacrifice, as do the Princes Kenas and Piralu. Piralu is the most faithful in honoring and pleasing Ayocan, but none are ever lacking in reverence for mighty Ayocan.» The priest's tone suggested to Blade's trained ear that neither king nor princes had much choice in the matter, if they wished to keep their thrones, titles, and heads. «You have yet further cause for rejoicing. The departure of your spirit gives our King Hurakun the chance to greatly please Ayocan.» By a minor miracle the priest did not go on to add the usual ritual phrase, much to Blade's relief.
The wailing of flutes and the roll of drums floated up from the foot of the mound. Blade looked down and saw the crowd making a path for a column of warriors dressed in black from head to foot. In their midst marched a smaller cluster of figures, also dressed in black robes, with black feathers nodding from massive black-enameled headdresses.
«Behold,» said the priest. «The king and princes approach.»
The royal party swiftly climbed the mound. At the top their black-clad warriors stopped, and the three men in black robes and headdresses climbed onto the white slabs alone. The priests and Holy Warriors in turn made a path for them, then quickly made a circle around them.
The presence of the king and his warriors was going to be an extra complication in escaping. Blade was beginning to doubt his wisdom in waiting so long for an opportunity. Instead of winding up with the best opportunity, he now thought he might wind up with one of the worst. But now he could be sure there would be no future ones. He would have to make his move soon, or not at all.