by Dave Duncan
Thorian snarled. "And what of this fake Balor that you have been promised?"
She looked up, surprised. "What of him? I believe in the god, milord! It is the true Balor I await, with heartfelt faith in both him and his love for his city. If he comes, then of course a priestess must yield to a god. But if I am unworthy in his eyes, then I shall do my duty by the city. I told you how it will be. Before dawn, the Holy Nagiak and my father will bring forth a man who will play the part for the multitude. You say his name is Fotius, but I did not inquire. They tell me that he is a suitable candidate, a noble warrior, and I accept their judgment. What else can I do, for the people's sake? I shall stand by his side at the top of the steps when they acclaim him. What has this to do with marriage, milord?"
What indeed?
Flash !Crash! The echoes rolled away into the distance.
Thorian opened his mouth and then closed it. He glanced very briefly at me and then gazed down at his knees.
We had bungled! We had been deluded by the legend of the priestess and the god. We had been misled by what Thorian knew of the Fotius man and his murderous lusts. But those were irrelevant, and that was what the wily Nagiak had seen and we had not. There would be no sacred coupling and no rape. There was no romance here, only straight politics. Shalial was high priestess. Fotius, the malleable, unknown warrior, would masquerade as Balor at the head of the army. Sex did not come into it at all.
We had misjudged Bedian Tharpit. If his milksop son knew of Gramian's reputation, then he must. If he had trusted his only daughter to this hoax, then he had certainly gained assurances that she would not be harmed. Whatever Fotius himself might have been led to expect—and gods alone knew what he might have been promised—he would be used as a puppet, deprived of red meat, and supplied with lowborn concubines. Shalial would reign as high priestess. They would stand together in public and be kept safely apart in private. It was all hard politics, and romance did not enter into it.
We had blundered horribly.
Shalial seemed puzzled by her suitor's sudden silence. "They will come before dawn, milord. If you are not the man they are to bring, then I suggest that you depart in haste. After all, I am waiting here for a god, and gods are notoriously shy. Your presence may be keeping him away. I thank you for your words. Go, with the Holy Mother's blessing."
Her spirit was inspiring. How capricious of the gods, to have given such courage to the daughter and so little to the son!
"I cannot depart!" Thorian growled. "We have blocked the passage by which we entered. The priests will surely have discovered that fact by now, so the way cannot be reopened. I am Balor at your side, milady, or I am a dead man."
I glanced thoughtfully at the torrents of rain blowing in through the archway. The storm raged undiminished, and the torch flames leaped. Several more had blown out. No one down in the Courtyard would notice two men slip out from the House of the Goddess during this downpour. The tempest might not rage much longer, but we could leave by that door while it did. With the gods' help we could descend to the next level, slip down through the skylight into the secret room behind the chapel, and scamper away down the long staircase to the crypt. When Nagiak was attending to his dawn duties, we might escape through his bedchamber. But we should have to go soon, while the weather lasted.
Shalial had paled. "You refuse to leave?"
"I cannot leave!" Thorian barked. "Moreover, the fake Balor you await cannot arrive, for the same reason. When morning comes, you will have me at your side or you will have no one. And in that case, the priests must complete the ritual, and you will follow Squicalm and Belhjes."
He was right! Our bungling might have doomed her to a worse fate than we had anticipated.
She flushed furiously. "You are a meddlesome, muscle-bound moron! I sit here expecting a god, and instead I get a two-man comedy team escaped from some rural fairground. Take your skinny, fuzz-faced friend there and crawl back down into your burrow and leave me be!"
Flash!
"Milady! First you spurn my suit—"
Shalial was bright with fury now. "I am a priestess! Your words were blasphemous!"
"But you must not deny me the chance to avenge my family, milady! Acknowledge me as Balor and I swear—"
"You swear too much! The man who should stand by me has been handpicked by the leaders of the city. If they wanted a flogged slave such as you, they could have found a thousand in the sweepings of the plain starving beyond our gates. You expect me to deliver Zanadon into the hands of a vagrant adventurer at his own behest? Begone, I say! And shut the door after you!"
Wealthy, beefy young men fifteenth in line to thrones rarely gain experience in handling rejection. Thorian was completely at a loss, helpless between fury and dismay, like a dog between two cats. "Then you will be thrown to your death, woman!"
"So be it!" Shalial was picking up a high priestess's haughty manner very quickly.
"Ahem?" I cleared my throat. She turned to look at me warily, and then Thorian did so, also.
"It would seem," I said, "that the god will not come, and the man cannot come. Is it not possible that someone else may, someone who stands between a man and a god?"
Thorian made an angry-lion noise. "If this is the beginning of another of your accursed stories—"
"Of course it is."
"Is it brief?" Shalial inquired.
"Very brief, milady."
"Then you may tell it. And then you will both leave." As if regretting her momentary loss of temper, she composed herself to listen, ignoring the furious man at her feet.
"Long, long ago," I said, "before history had learned to crawl, while gods still sometimes walked the earth, when Zanadon was only a crude village of wattle huts upon a hill—then there was no great temple, only a grove of tamarisk sacred to Maiana. In those days a band of enemies drew nigh the village. They wielded axes of stone, and they had no ponies, but they were dangerous, and the people were afraid."
"So?" Shalial said grudgingly.
"There was great dispute among the warriors of the village over who would lead the young men against the enemy. And while they disputed, the threat drew nearer, and yet nothing could be done until a leader had been chosen and accepted by all. It is the way of warriors that they are proud and do not willingly serve under one another. They choose their own leaders and will follow none but them. It had always been thus."
"So?" she muttered again, with a sidelong glance at Thorian.
"So the high priest of the village devised a scheme. He announced that he would summon a god to lead the young men, and all agreed that they would follow a god. The priest, having obtained their consent to this plan, announced that the high priestess would lie by night in the sacred grove to summon the god, who would be drawn to her beauty and would come to couple with her. When he had lain with her, then she would beseech him to take command and smite the foe, and he would agree, for who can refuse a reasonable request at such a moment of content? No man, surely, nor yet a god. Thus the high priestess, greatly flattered, went to the grove at sunset and waited for the god. The people of the village were simple folk, but they were not stupid. They saw the opportunity for deceit. To prevent cheating, the priest set guards to stand watch all night around the grove and let no mortal man enter upon pain of death."
Thorian's eyes were shining.
"Alas," I continued, "when morning came, there was no god to be seen. So the priest announced that the priestess had proved unworthy, and she was put to death at once. The village selected another high priestess, and the next night she also lay in the grove and waited for the god."
"How long is this going to continue?" Shalial inquired coldly.
"That was what the people began to wonder. And at last the maiden chosen was one who had a lover, a wily, nimble warrior. He was strongly opposed to seeing his beloved beheaded in the cold light of dawn—or at any other time of day, I assume. To save her, he was prepared to risk even his own life, as true lovers always will. An
d in the darkness, he evaded the guards and entered into the sacred grove, and there lay with his beloved."
Crash!
"And in the dark she did not know him?" Shalial asked pensively.
"Who knows? Who cares? In the morning he was hailed as the god, and he led forth the other young men to do battle."
"They won?"
"Of course they won!" Thorian bellowed. He took her hand and began to chafe it, as if it was cold. "They were led by a man with courage and craftiness, who had proved himself worthy by risking death for his love. What else does an army need?"
She did not pull her hand away. She frowned at me. "Explain your riddle, milord. Who stands between a man and a god?"
l had no chance to reply.
"A hero," said Thorian. "A man who has proved his wit and his bravery … and his love. As I have proved myself tonight by coming here for you. This is why you are here, lady—to call forth a hero from Zanadon. Not a real god. Not a fake chosen by the priests. A true hero, chosen by himself, as true heroes always are."
Shalial wiped her cheek, not looking at him. "I am moved by your friend's tale, milord. It explains much."
"Oh, let me be your hero, Shalial!"
Flash!
"He left out the bit about fighting the dragon," said Gramian Fotius, emerging from the trapdoor.
Crash!
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26: Four Up
As he straightened to his full height, we saw that he carried Balor's great sword. He wore boots, and Balor's helmet, and nothing more. He was very big.
Shalial screamed. I jumped up, but Thorian was faster. I did not even see him rise to his feet. He seemed to fly over the couch of tamarisk, and a moment later he skidded into the wall beyond, grabbing for a torch.
I should perhaps describe those torches for the benefit of those who have not visited the Spice Lands, or other places where there are seeps of bitumen. When Thorian whirled to meet his opponent's charge, he was wielding a bronze club longer than a sword, and heavier. The upper end of such a torch is hollow and contains a wick of hemp, implaced with molten pitch. The wick burns with a bright light, and such lights are used extensively outdoors. One of their advantages is that winds strong enough to blow out ordinary lanterns merely cause the pitch to burn hotter. Their heavy fumes limit their indoor use, of course.
Often they have wooden grips on their lower ends, because the metal can become unpleasantly hot throughout their length. The torch that Thorian grabbed was not designed to be carried. It was cast of solid bronze, inlaid with silver and gold, and probably painfully hot in his hands.
That night the violence of the storm had been so great, even within the House of the Goddess, that half the flames had been blown out, while the rest had roared with special brilliance. Thus the upper end of Thorian's club was red hot, and whatever pitch remained within it would be close to boiling. Against a man stupid enough not to protect himself with armor when he had armor available the torch was a considerable threat.
But it was not a sword. It had no edge, no guard to protect the fingers. The two men were of comparable age and size and strength, but the odds were with Fotius. His blade cracked into the wall where Thorian had been standing and then flashed aside to parry the first blow of the torch. They backed off a moment, taking each other's measure.
I had two options: I could attempt to obtain a torch of my own and enter the fray, or I could comfort Shalial. I chose to comfort Shalial. You may consider this cowardice. It did not seem so to me at the time, because I was risking the results of a Fotius victory. Self-interest should have impelled me into the fight. But I was present as an observer, remember, and observers must remain neutral. Furthermore, I clearly recalled Thorian yearning to settle his score with the brutal slaver, and I knew he would resent my assistance more than welcome it. I was not at all worried, for I have faith in the gods. Here was the confrontation I had sensed as preordained. Let the odds be only close to even, Thorian had said, and he would welcome the match. His prayer had been granted.
Fotius laughed and slashed down with his sword, seeking to slice his opponent's hands. Thorian deflected the blow with the torch, which he was holding vertical. The flame swirled and smoked above their heads. Fotius thrust at his belly. Thorian sidestepped and parried again.
During this opening round, I had hauled Shalial to her feet, wrapped a protective arm around her, and withdrawn to the wall to observe. She shivered and clung to me, and I was content in my observer's role.
I have possibly given a false impression of Gramian Fotius, for my thoughts of him were heavily colored by Thorian's views. The man was undoubtedly stupid, and brutal. Yet he was also possessed of a certain animal cunning, and he quickly revealed that he was no mean fighter. I am sorry—redeeming qualifies in a villain are distressing, I admit.
How he had evaded us in the secret chamber I do not know, and I never discovered. Always I narrate only strict truth, you understand, and I cannot testify to what I have not witnessed. For the benefit of dramatic completeness, though, we may speculate. You will understand that this is only speculation?
The day had been intensely hot and muggy. He had perhaps been harangued by priests, or working on the armor, and he had probably tired himself with his lovemaking, if that is a comprehensible term in the circumstances. I suspect, therefore, that he had gone to sleep on the couch. He may well have been wakened by the singing as Shalial was conducted up to the House of the Goddess. Finding the room dark, he would have lit a candle, and it is notable that only one had been lit when Thorian and I arrived.
I suspect—and again I stress that this is only guess-work—that he slipped his feet into his boots and wandered off without bothering to take the light, and in that case his most probable destination was the chamber pot that Thorian had observed. When Fotius was returning, he saw the intruder.
He had, as I said, a certain animal cunning. He could not know who this was, or how many companions he might have, and yet even Fotius could not have mistaken Thorian for a priest. There were a thousand places to hide in that midden, even for so large a man. So he must have hidden himself and watched what we did. Very likely he later made his way to the exit, meaning to report the intruders to the priests. He found the way impossibly blocked. So he took up sword and helmet, and climbed the steps after us to listen. Or so I must presume.
Flash! Crash!
The fight continued with more footwork than armwork, both men being cautious. The storm was trying to surpass itself. Wind howled around us, lashing Shalial's gauzy garment, even starting to shift branches from the tamarisk heap and skid them across the floor. Maiana watched impassively as the two would-be champions battled below her. Sheets of flame fled from the torches, and more of them blew out. Lightning blazed almost continuously outside. It was a wild night.
Still Thorian contrived to keep his burning torch upright, using it as a quarterstaff. Fotius realized that he was up against more than a club and began to work at longer range, jabbing with the point of his sword. At last Thorian saw an opening, parried the blade, and swung at his opponent's eyes.
Fotius was wearing a helmet with nosepiece and cheek-pieces, and the rest of him was unprotected. He could not have been worrying much about a blow to the face, but in this case his beard went on fire, and burning pitch splashed over his chest, as well. The torch flame went out. A few moments later the fire in Fotius's beard went out also, but molten pitch is both very hot and very sticky. I do not know why he was not blinded. I do know he lost a lot of flesh. By all the rules of combat, the fight should have ended right there.
A prolonged crash of thunder drowned out the man's initial screams, or the crowd in the cloisters would have heard them clearly. They might have been audible in Polrain. Shalial and I shuddered in unison.
The fight should have been over. Had any one of Thorian's subsequent slashes connected, it would have been. But it wasn't. I hate to admit any admiration at all for a murderous pervert like Gr
amian Fotius, but I must pay tribute to his courage. With a feat of sheer will as impressive as anything I have ever witnessed, he kept control of his limbs in that awful torment. He parried Thorian's attack even while he was on fire. In moments he returned to the attack.
Maddened by pain, he went berserk. He screamed without pause, even over the continual crashing of thunder, and he whirled that huge, two-handed sword as if it were a rattan cane. He went after Thorian like a whirlwind.
The torch had gone out, there was no more pitch to spill, but the end was still hot. Thorian jabbed with it, branding great rings on his opponent. He smote ringing impacts on the helmet, and he repeatedly landed blows with enough force, I should have thought, to smash any normal man's bones. He might have done as well with a fly whisk, for nothing would stop the corporal. Despite his own fury and skill, Thorian was driven backward as fast as he could move by that glittering blur of bronze.
Shalial and I watched in awe. I realized that I should reconsider my scruples and start to play an active role, or I might find that I waited too long.
"Excuse me a moment," I muttered politely, disengaging my arm with reluctance "Look out behind!" I screamed, seeing Thorian being driven swiftly backward. A crash of thunder drowned out my words, and the fight was over. Thorian had vanished and Fotius held the field … alone.
Thorian had backed into the hole in the floor—not the stairs side, but the counterweight side, which was just as large and much more dangerous. He fell on the slope of the tilted slab, shot down it, and was gone into the dark, accompanied by a roll of thunder.
A long moment later we heard his torch strike the floor below. Thorian had very likely broken both legs or even his back. He was out of the fight.
Still capering, Fotius stared at the hole for a moment, as if puzzled. Then he screamed his triumph, waving the sword overhead. His chest was charred through to the bone in places, and I did not want to see what was under the helmet.