by Jeffrey Lord
One of the ceboid-soldiers was atop Zulekia. It finished and another took its place. There was a long line of ceboids waiting outside the door, snarling and jostling and peering to see what was going on. The line stretched down a corridor and out of sight.
Totha watched from a corner of the room. She was smiling and laughing and applauding as each ceboid took a turn with the shrieking Zulekia. Blade hated her. His big fingers itched for her throat.
Totha went to kneel beside the Maiduke girl. Totha was wearing only a brief girdle of animal skin and her breasts hung firm and shapely as she bent over Zulekia.
Her lips writhed over sharp little teeth as she thrust a little flaying knife into tender flesh. Zulekia screamed with the new pain and began to thresh about in her agony. She arched her back, screaming and screaming.
Sweat was pouring from Blade. Isma stirred sleepily beside him but he paid her no heed. “Enough,” he grated at Honcho. “Enough! I swear, by all the Gods of Tharn, that I will do the same to you…”
Honcho mocked him. “But watch - there is more.”
The scene faded, then came back. This time Blade saw the Tower, the terrace on which he had first seen Zulekia, overhanging the Gorge. Four ceboids were holding the girl by the wrists and ankles, swinging her back and forth, on the point of hurling her into the Gorge. Totha stood a little way back, watching with her same cruel smile.
“I have been able to invent a little refinement,” said Honcho. “The hooks. Watch carefully.”
It was only simlu, yet Blade winced, sweated and cursed under his breath. Great jagged hooks of teksin had been set into the cliff wall. The falling body of Zulekia hurtled down and struck a pair of the hooks. They pierced her thighs and torso and she hung there like meat in the butcher shop, her once lovely face dissolved in agony, a contorted screaming mask.
“It will be,” said Honcho, “many minikronos before she dies. Would you have this happen, Blade?”
Blade wiped sweat from his face and stared at the creature. He was tense with rage and desperate, sick, with impotence. There was, at the moment, nothing he could do.
The picture faded away.
“That was only simlu,” said Honcho. “Fore-simlu. An extrapolation of what will be, Blade, if you do not obey my orders. I have shown you. So it will be. I cannot, at the moment, force you to obey. The girl is my only weapon. Perhaps you do not care what happens to her and in that case I will have to find another way. Only you know that. But I must also know. What of it, Blade?”
Blade closed his eyes for a moment. He did not, actually, trust himself not to leap and grapple with the simlu. And make a fool of himself as he had before.
Sweat beaded his brow and formed saltily in the crevices of his body. He found himself praying to a Deity that was not Tharnian. To someone he had nearly forgotten. He prayed not for courage. He had that in plenty. He prayed for wisdom, patience, for cunning to match that of Honcho.
Blade looked at the neuter. He nodded. “It must not happen to Zulekia. What do you want me to do?”
Honcho told him. Told him briefly and faded away. Blade lay brooding and staring at the now empty chamber. Beside him Isma stirred and began to awaken. Presently she looked over at Blade and reached to stroke his bearded cheek.
“What is it, Lord? You look troubled.”
“It is nothing,” he told her. “I had a bad dream. Something you would not understand, since Tharnians do not dream.”
She moved over to nuzzle and kiss him. “You are happy in Tharn, my Lord. With me?”
“I am happy,” Blade said miserably.
Isma began to stroke her breasts, a habit she had preparatory to coi. She leaned to kiss Blade again. “I would have you, Lord, before we attend the feast later. Then we confer with old Sutha?”
For a moment she left off her warming-up exercises. “We confer and confer, Lord, and nothing happens. What do you and Sutha plan to do about the Pethcines?”
Blade rolled away from her and off the bed. At the moment the thought of coi revolted him. He stalked out of the room, taking the big sword with him.
Over his shoulder he said, “I go to see Sutha now. You are right. The Pethcine question must be settled at once. At once!”
But how? What? The dilemma lay within himself. Honcho was a monster. A cunning monster that struck directly at Blade’s weakness, that had unerringly found the flaw in Blade. Had somehow known it from the first. Blade was human, not just homid, and Honcho knew that. He should not have known it, but he did.
And yet, as Blade made his way through a maze of tunnels and corridors to the computer room, where he would meet Sutha, he told himself that the problem was easily enough resolved. All he had to do was forget Zulekia. What was the girl to him, after all? A few minutes of pleasure…What else?
All he had to do was leave her to the torture and he was again ahead of Honcho in the deadly game they played.
Could he?
Chapter Twelve
By the time Blade met Sutha in the computer area he had made his decision. His motives were complex, even murky, but he understood enough about himself to know what he must do. And to acknowledge that he was not doing it for the girl’s sake alone. Just how to achieve his ends he did not yet know, except that it was going to require a combination of guile and guts and there would be no margin for error.
He met Sutha and they went into the Sacred of Sacreds where they could have privacy. Blade sat on the brink of the Pool and stared down at the casket far below the unruffled surface.
“You must abort the Power at once,” he told Sutha. “Honcho is ready to invade Tharn. I want him to do so. Immediately. I will prepare everything.”
The old neuter studied Blade for a moment. Sutha seemed preoccupied, full of his own thoughts.
He nodded. “Yes. I think the time has come. You have seen Honcho? He sent his simlu?”
“He did. He threatened me, showed me what will happen to Zulekia if I do not obey.” Blade told Sutha what he had seen.
When he had finished Sutha said: “And you? You agreed to his plan?”
Blade made a ball of his mighty right fist and slammed it down on the teksin ledge. The structure quivered. “I did! I pretended to agree. I am to persuade you, as I am now doing, that the time has come to abort the Power and let Honcho in. Then, before we can return the Power and drop the magveils behind him and the Pethcines, trapping them, and send the Red Storms, I am to kill you, Sutha, and make Isma prisoner and turn the Power over to Honcho. He will then stand where you now stand, Sutha. He will be King of Neuters! It is a very good plan, from Honcho’s viewpoint.”
Sutha stroked his pointed chin and nodded. “It is. It is indeed. And Honcho promises that you will still rule as Mazda?”
“He does. I believe him in that. He will need a figurehead.”
“Just so.” The green eyes blinked. “You will be exactly that. A puppet. Honcho will rule Tharn, and Honcho alone.”
“A disaster not to be thought of,” growled Blade.
The old neuter smiled. He cast a glance at the great sword hanging at Blade’s side. “I am glad to hear you say that, Blade. But let us suppose a bit, suppose that you did carry out Honcho’s scheme. Who then would rule with you, or pretend to rule? You and Isma still? Or you and Zulekia? Is she the real temptation he offers, Blade?”
Blade scowled. The truth was that he did not know the truth. He slammed his fist on the ledge again. And again. “I cannot answer that. But this I know: Zulekia shall not die as Honcho plans! She shall not! I, Blade, say it I do not know if I love her - a thing you would not understand, Sutha - but I will not see her tortured and killed in such a fashion.”
Sutha built a temple with his fingers, as was his way. He nodded. “All right, Blade. I see that you are not going to listen to reason about Zulekia. Perhaps it does not matter much now. Just see that Isma does not hear of it before you make a final choice. Isma knows as much about the manipulation of the Power as I do, though she leaves it mos
tly to me. Her hatred, and her jealousy, is a terrible thing, Blade. She would destroy all of Tharn to take her revenge.”
“Leave Isma to me,” Blade said curtly. “It is you who are the all important one, Sutha. You I must depend on. Listen carefully now.
“You will abort the Power as we have planned. Honcho and Org and the Pethcines will come into the trap. Again as planned. But I do not want the Power reactivated until I give the word! I alone! You will not understand, you will be puzzled, but you must wait, Sutha. Wait! I and I alone will decide when the Power is turned on again. You must promise me this.”
“And if I do not promise?”
Blade’s hand had been resting on the jeweled hilt of the Pethdne sword. He half-drew it from the scabbard. “Then I will kill you, Sutha. I will kill you now and take my chances. I swear it!”
Sutha did not show fear. He never did. Blade thought that his smile was a little sad.
“I promise this,” said Sutha. “I think I see what you have in mind. But let me point out a few things. You are new here, Blade, and there is much you do not know.”
“I know what I must do.”
“Yet you must listen and be sure you understand. When the Power is aborted, completely aborted, everything in Tharn, and here in Urcit, comes to a halt. Everything, Blade! Without the Power Tharn is nothing. We are no better, much weaker in fact, than the Pethcines. They are only savages and barbarians, but without the Power we will be helpless before them.”
Blade touched the sword. “Not quite helpless.”
Sutha nodded. “I know. I said I understood. You want to fight the Pethcines, and Honcho, on their own terms?”
Blade grinned like a wolf. “Wrong. On my terms.”
It was the kernel, the nut, of his planning. To hell with the Power, with magveils and simlu and teleportation and all the other Tharnian miracles. He, as mere man, was helpless against those things. And helpless against Honcho, how the knowledge rankled, as long as Honcho had those things at his command. But take them away…
Sutha was speaking again, in a low tone, as if to himself. “Take away the Power and Tharn comes to a halt. There will be no light. The weather will slip beyond our control. The mani will die in the fields. The baby plants will not function and the neuter embryos will die in their decanters. All food processing will halt. There will be no waste disposal, no spiscreens, no way to police the ceboids. There is always the possibility that, under such conditions, they will revolt.”
“So be it,” said Blade. He slammed the sword back into the scabbard with a clang. “So I wish it. In depriving Tharn, ourselves, of all these things we also deprive Honcho of them. That is my whole point, Sutha. Without the Power Honcho is nothing. I will kill him. I will kill Org and Totha also, if I must. I do not think the Pethcines will fight well without a leader.”
Sutha appeared to give in, but only half convinced. “Just so you do not wait too long to give the word. I have told you my dream - to destroy the Pethcines forever, for all time, so they can never again threaten Tharn. I know that is impossible without the Power.”
Blade had other thoughts, but he kept them to himself. He needed Sutha for his plan. Needed him badly. And he had no desire to harm the old neuter.
“I will not wait too long. I promise it. I will send a runner when the time is right. On the other hand you promise that all Power, all of it, will stay aborted until I ask for it?”
Sutha laid a scrawny hand over his left chest. “I promise it.”
“Then do it now,” commanded Blade. “I would see it done with my own eyes.”
“Come, then.”
Blade followed him past the sarophagus of Astar I. The naked mummy still wore its smile of faint mockery.
They went back through the computer area and beyond it to a tiny cubicle of a room. It contained nothing but walls filled with buttons and switches. Sutha reached for a master switch, hesitated, then without looking at Blade he tugged the switch down.
There was silence. A new, strange silence the like of which Blade had not heard since his arrival in Tharn. The computers had stopped.
Blade touched Sutha’s arm. “I will speak with Isma. Tell her nothing of our plans if she asks. Say that I will not tell even you! That way she cannot hold you responsible. Goodbye, Sutha. I go now to make my preparations. What will you do?”
“I will remain here, in this place, until I hear from you. Do not be too long, Blade. In this microkrono Tharn has begun to die.”
Blade touched the sword hilt. “Don’t worry, Sutha. I - and this - will save Tharn. Perhaps a better Tharn than you know.”
Blade climbed endless stairs to the very top of the Palace. Here, from a large terrace, was a broad view of the surrounding country. Some of the women were lounging about, naked, being given teksin oil treatments by Maiduke girls, and Blade cleared them out brusquely. For the time being this would be his Command Post.
He sent a neuter to summon Isma and watched in cold amusement as the creature stepped on the gravity drop and found it would not work.
“Use the stairs,” Blade commanded brusquely. “You will be using them from now on. After you have found the High Priestess and delivered my message send the Second Neuter to me. At once!”
The neuter made a frightened slaveface and ran.
Blade sent for tables and chairs. There were no maps and he could not expect to find a pair of field glasses in Tharn. It did not really matter. He intended that Honcho and Org should come to him. Blade would choose the battle site and dictate the conditions. Only so did he stand a chance of winning. And win he must. There was no turning back now. Honcho and Org, Totha, the barbarian horde, would already be on the march. It would not take Honcho long to discover that the Power had been aborted and that he could advance through the magveils.
He went to the railing protecting the terrace and examined the sky. He thought he detected a tiny rift of blue, but could not be positive. It would take a little time. There was still the eternal twilight, the milky opaqueness. He sought for the scribble of blue again and found it. Wider now. Weather control was not functioning in Tharn.
Blade stared at the streamer of blue for a moment. He smiled and walked to a table where there was a pile of slates and a stylus. Still smiling he picked up a slate and wrote: Blade, days of…
A monstrous conceit. The Bladian calendar.
Isma arrived, magnificent in a flowing black robe and accompanied by the usual gaggle of Maiduke girls. Blade sent the girls away. Isma watched with a mingle of curiosity and resentment in her oval sloe eyes. She was as strikingly patrician, as breathtakingly lovely as ever. Her hair was piled high on her head and her skin was golden milk, her mouth a vivid slash of scarlet desire. When the Maidukes had gone she came close to Blade and kissed him and thrust her breasts against him. She pushed out her lips at him.
“I am angry with you, Lord. The way you left our bed so hurriedly. I was in the mood for coi.”
Blade put his big hands on her shoulders and held her away from him. Surprise glinted in the dark eyes. Blade chucked her beneath the chin and laughed. She was nothing but a beautiful pouting woman. The Power was gone and, somehow, so was the High Priestess. This lovely amoral murderous woman was just that, just another woman.
Isma stepped back from him, her puzzlement beginning to give way to anger. “You are acting very strangely, Lord. You forget that I am Isma! I do not tolerate arrogance.”
Blade scowled at her. “I forget nothing, Isma. You see - I call you so. But as for me, from this moment you will call me Blade. Or Lord Blade, if it pleases you. One or the other. Nothing else. You will forget Mazda.”
Her mouth was scornful. “Mazda never was. We know that.”
He nodded. “Yes. And when the time is right all shall know it. But now we speak of more important things.” He pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Isma, and listen!”
Isma obeyed docilely enough, surprise again replacing anger on her lovely face. Not in all the kronos of Tharn had an
yone ever spoken to a High Priestess like this.
Blade spoke for a long time. Isma listened and understood, as he, had known she would. After Sutha she had the best conditioned brain in Tharn. That was the weakness, the blindness. A conditioned brain.
Nonetheless, when Blade had explained what he meant to do, Isma went directly to his weakness.
“I agree that the Pethcines must be lured into a trap,” she said. “And to that the Power must be aborted. But why, once they are in the trap, do you want to wait? When we can drop the magveils behind them and send the Red Storms and the magrays, when we can destroy them utterly. Why wait?”
And destroy Zulekia with them! Blade was sure that Honcho would bring the girl along as hostage.
Isma watched him intently.
Blade, having his story ready, went glibly into it. “It has occurred to me,” he explained, “that it is not a good idea to destroy the Pethcines completely. I…”
Isma interrupted, her face scornful and disbelieving. “Not destroy them? The Pethcines? They are nothing but brutes, savages - filthy barbarians. You have not only aborted our Power, Blade. You have aborted your brain!”
Ignoring the gibe, Blade said, “Hear me out, Isma. You will admit that the Lordsmen are poor things? Weaklings? That none could ever satisfy you?”
The dark eyes hardened. Her features stiffened into lines of hauteur. “The Lordsmen? What have they to do with me? They are poor things, I admit, but what have they to do with me?” The last words were a near scream and she started to rise from the chair.
Blade stepped quickly and pushed her into the chair again. He was a trifle rough and again Isma could not believe that she had been so treated. Yet she remained in the chair.
Blade, arms akimbo, towered over her. “Do not lie to me, Isma. I know that you have been with the Lordsmen. It means nothing to me. I do not care. My point is that we do not kill all the Pethcines! That we take as many prisoners as possible and use them to replace the Lordsmen. They are barbarians, yes, but they are strong and virile. I would select the best, Isma, and then mate them with the People. With the women. And each would bear her own child.”