And the Devil Will Drag You Under

by Jack L. Chalker

  Malk's primary enemy, he realized, was age or crippling injury. There were no old men or obvious cripples among any there except for a few slaves of the chief who were, like the unfortunate Bakh, kept around as object lessons.

  One day Malk would be too old or too slow, or would have an accident and break a limb and wind up on the losing end of a challenge. So would the lesser-ranking males. The older females seemed to keep their position, but not the men. They had a very limited time of power, then fell into disgrace, disfigurement, and probably quick suicide. It was a terribly uncertain life; even a bad cold could do Malk in.

  Mac wondered idly what the average life span of a chief really was.

  By midafternoon, he no longer wondered how hun­gry he'd have to be to eat raw birds-or raw anything else for that matter. He forced himself to do it and to trap and strip a couple of lizards as well. He felt better, although he still preferred his food cooked and would have preferred something more substantial.

  He knew one thing-he couldn't keep up this rou­tine very long. Better to go down and get it over with, trusting to his football training and his college wrestling experience to see him through. He left the cave and walked, boldly this time, toward the tribe. He was still a way off when he saw a young woman slip into the river to wash off. She turned, saw him, and her mouth dropped open in surprise. He approached her curiously.

  "Dend be crazy! Bad spirit in Dend!" she uttered in complete wonder. He was obviously expected to know her.

  "Dend win fight that comes," he responded, hoping he sounded confident. The exchange was a little un­settling. He could internally verbalize anything he wanted, but apparently he could vocalize only what this language allowed-and that really wasn't much.

  He walked on. This late in the day most people were back in their areas. He hit the young men's area first, and they looked up at him with surprise and shock on their faces. He guessed that Dend must have gotten beaten pretty badly the last time and been run out of town on a rail or some equivalent.

  He wasn't going much farther. The first, outer area was composed of groups of no more than four wives and one or two slaves. He had seen the pro leagues; he would be satisfied with a spot on the lowest of the amateur clubs.

  They gave him wide berth, knowing what he must be there to do. The males in particular seemed frozen, waiting to see who he would pick. He, in turn, looked them over, trying to select his victim. Two he dis­missed immediately. They hardly had a mark or scar on them and so were obviously damned good fighters on their way up. He wanted one of younger years who was fairly well marked up and had the look of com­placency rather. than ambition.

  He found no such man, and he understood why almost immediately. In the lowest rank you always had all those young, unattached men looking for a way into society. Only in the middle ranks would such a complacent one be found, and he'd probably be pretty damned good.

  Mac noticed that one of the men stood a little un­comfortably, as if he had some sort of physical prob­lem. He was young but well scarred-a better bet than most, Mac decided. Since it was his move and he was already committed, he walked over to the gimpy-legged man. Standing up straight, trying the best look of arrogance he could muster, he pointed at the man and said, "Dend challenge!"

  It was a good thing the girl had called him by name; the language had no personal pronouns.

  The other males visibly relaxed, and one or two went back to eating or being preened or whatever it was they had been doing when he arrived.

  The gimpy-legged man grinned evilly, exposing broken and crooked teeth. "Fight now?" he came back, looking not the least bit worried. Then he added, "Run now-like fight-that-was?"

  Walters understood suddenly why there was so much amazement and contempt at his return. This Dend had turned coward and run the last time.

  "Fight now," he emphasized. The other man nodded and turned to walk down to the river. Mac was confused. "Weapons?" he asked.

  The little man grinned that evil grin again, stopped, and held up his powerful-looking arms. "Guml no need weapons for Dend," he responded, pronouncing the last word as if it were a dead skunk that needed quick burial before it stank up the place.

  The rules were slightly different in the lower ranks, Mac discovered. First, the unattached young men were permitted to watch-an open invitation to challenge the winner after spotting his weak points, Mac noted.

  Gumi's slight limp didn't seem to bother or limit him in the least, much to Mac's disappointment.

  The young men formed a wide circle around the two fighters; he and Guml stood facing each other, sizing each other up. The other man had good balance despite his injury, and there was no mistaking the power in his bulging arm and leg muscles. Mac felt as if he were back on the line, in a sort of nudist pro football game, one-on-one.

  "Fight!" Guml snarled, and without any of the cere­mony or ritual Mac had earlier witnessed, the fight was on. He was thankful they hadn't traded challenges, anyway. Nonetheless, he had the same problem Bakh had had, in one respect-Guml didn't have to expose himself to attack, but could afford to wait for the challenger.

  Mac put his arms in the blocker's position and charged with a bloodcurdling scream. The combination of sudden charge and scream caught the other man off guard. Mac was on him before he could twist away, and in another second they were on the ground, grappling for position, rolling over and over. The circle of young men, curiously quiet for spectators, made room for them.

  Mac felt incredibly strong viselike fingers on his throat and pushed out hard against the other's strong neck, trying to break the grip. Almost reflexively, he brought his knee up toward the other man's groin. Guml was too good for that, though; he released his grip and twisted, catching Mac's knee, and using his whole body as a lever, threw the challenger to the ground hard.

  What followed was almost classical wrestling, Guml on top, hands and knees keeping Walters' body pressed against the ground. Mac couldn't break the grip in this position; but, unlike wrestling where pinning would do it, Guml would have to move off one of the pressure points for the coup de grace. Mac waited, knowing he would have only a split second before it would be all over. He guessed the shot would be the man's right arm-his legs weren't his strongest suit, and he was right-handed.

  Mac was right. He felt the pressure suddenly let up and twisted and rolled, spilling the other man to the ground. Mac wasn't about to let the man get up. He pounced on him, grabbing him arm under throat, and squeezed hard. He could hear Guml groan and try to breathe as all his air was cut off; he had the tribesman at the Adam's apple from a position atop his back-almost perfect.

  But Guml wasn't through. Somehow, by sheer force of will, he got an arm up and got hold of some of Mac's long black hair and pulled with all his ebbing strength.

  The move was unexpected, and Walters dropped his grip as he moved to free himself from the sudden pain. Guml wasn't in good condition, though, and could barely twist out from under while still gasping for breath. Yet, for a moment the tribesman was free, and he rolled as Mac came back to pounce on him once more.

  The man from another world was confident now and jumped on the still-gasping tribesman with enthusiasm, grabbing him again by the throat. But this time he had his two powerful hands around the vulnerable area and kept the victim face up.

  The victim was ready, though; a huge hand came up with a large rock in it and struck Mac on the side of the head with a powerful blow that drew blood. He let go and rolled over, stunned-from the force of the unexpected attack. All he could think of was, That's cheating! Then a second blow hit him, then a third, and he was plunged into a terrible darkness.

  4

  It was well past dark when Mac Walters awoke. His head hurt like hell, and there was dried and caked blood in his hair. He groaned.

  Guml heard him and sauntered over, looking down. Even by moonlight the man had an evil grin. "Dend fight good," the man with the limp acknowledged. "Lose good fight. Slave now-next year try Guml."
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br />   Mac couldn't think clearly. Too many workmen were using hammers to knock holes in his head. He could not remember ever having such pain. Still, he managed, "Guml break law to win." In this limited language "law" and "rule" were the same.

  Guml chuckled. "No break law. No law for Guml break." He walked away, still chuckling.

  Mac tried to get up, found it too much of an effort, and sank back down, breathing deeply to try to alle­viate the pain. Sleep would be the only healer, he knew. He didn't want to try that sadistic witch doctor from a position of weakness, and so he was helpless for the moment. He could only consider the fact that he'd been the victim of a cultural loophole he hadn't foreseen. Clearly, in this society, you could get away with anything if there was no rule expressly forbidding it.

  The next day was a learning experience. He discov­ered, first of all, that his fight had earned him a por­tion of respect from the other low-rank slaves and unattached young men, but that did him little good. The rules governing a loss were quite specific in this closed society and enforced by all the males regardless of rank. He was obligated to be a slave, to take Guml's orders and carry them out, and not to challenge anybody else to a fight for at least a year-the period of time when this nomadic tribe would again return to this canyon cleft.

  The duties weren't too difficult-to help the women with the heavy stuff, which was considered demeaning by the other men but was nothing much to him, and to help keep the place marked out as Guml's as clean and neat as possible. He was also to help in the daily hunting and gathering with the other men, but since slaves did most of the labor and there was no dearth of slaves, the work even there was light. The toughest thing was that he had to try as hard as possible to ignore the women, and they had to ignore him. The penalty for any sort of sexual fraternization between a slave and a woman was the loss of the ability to make use of those urges.

  His situation wouldn't have been tough even then, but time was pressing. He was stuck in a dead-end job and three days had already passed. An hour and a half of the eight his world had left to live. Time was running out on him rather quickly, and he was still far from his goal.

  The witch doctor was glimpsed only occasionally, despite the smallness of the tribe. He kept mostly to himself, didn't take part in the hunt, and was left pretty much alone. The tribe was convinced he had great magical powers-which he probably did, using the jewel-and was in personal daily contact with the Sun God. He was also greatly feared for his sadism and sadomasochism, the last of which nonetheless brought a measure of respect from even the top males of the tribe. Anyone who could take such self-inflicted punishment and seem to like it was obviously incredi­bly brave, even if more than a little bit nuts.

  By the evening of the third day on this world, Mac Walters knew he had to get out. This Dend hadn't escaped before, he'd run and dishonored himself. Now he would have to accomplish a true escape, although if caught the penalties would be anything but pleasant. Guml would be able to do anything to him he wanted, and the tribesman would be a dangerous man to be completely at the mercy of, with all the rules off.

  Throughout the first day a woman who looked middle-aged and ugly as sin had showed him great kindness; while cleaning and stoking her fire pit she'd given him some good-tasting cooked berries-some­thing a slave would never get to touch, ordinarily-and showed other kindnesses. She told him he reminded her of her dead son, and that was fine with him. It made life easier, and not even Guml would think there was any sexual hanky-panky with a woman this old and ugly. Her name was Oona, and by the middle of the third day she was so deep into her fussings that she often referred to Mac as "Oona-son" and was consistently more motherly.

  As Mac expected, Guml found the relationship more humorous than anything else and allowed it. He seemed grateful to get Oona off his own back; he was far too busy with some younger and more attractive women.

  The hunt on the third day in this strange, primitive world did not go well, though. They became a little ambitious and decided to tackle a herd of antelope watering downstream. Mac stayed well back, since he was new to all this, but that proved no safe refuge as he saw the graceful, long-horned, deerlike creatures leap ten meters or more in their panic. One leaped in his direction and cleared most of the men.

  Mac was tough, all right, and he knew how to take a fall from his football days. Otherwise, two hundred kilos of deer would have pounded him into the ground and broken most of his bones. As it was, the weight was mostly on the left shoulder, briefly. It hurt like hell, but he suffered only a bad bruise and sprain and not a break. They had to carry him back to camp, but he refused medical help. He could just imagine what that witch doctor would do with him. Two other men weren't so lucky. One would be cremated that evening; the other, one of the unattached young men, would soon join him.

  Oona fussed and fumed over him; even Guml was concerned, since he had a measure of respect for this brave man. Mac's "master" sent the woman for some broad, dry leaves that were kept in the chief's pouch, and, with Malk's permission, he was permitted to grind a portion of the leaves into a clay-fashioned crude pipe.

  It was not marijuana, with which Mac was familiar, but something infinitely stronger. It was potentially addictive, since it was closely rationed and used pri­marily for easing pain. The sinking young man was given all he wanted.

  For Mac, the effect was like an explosion in his head, followed by the rapid falling off of pain to an ecstatically pleasant numbness; all seemed right and wonderful, the surroundings and colors seemed beau­tiful. He felt an incredible sense of well-being such as he had never known.

  The next morning the shoulder still hurt like hell and there was only a slight rosy afterglow from the drug, but the sleep allowed by the drug had done won­ders for him. Not for the more seriously injured man, though. There would be another cremation at the new dusk.

  Hurt though he was, Mac was determined that he would not be around to witness the act if he could help it. The fourth day, he kept thinking. Two hours gone. A quarter of the time.

  As a man injured in the line of duty, so to speak, he was not now expected to work. Instead he spent most of the time trying to keep Oona from fussing over him and looking for a way out. By late afternoon he had the germ of a plan. It wasn't complete, but it would accomplish what he needed. In a way, the injury, although still aggravating, was the best thing that could have happened to him.

  He would have to make his move tonight, he de­cided. Time was running out all too quickly. Time! Already four days-two precious hours shot. If this plan didn't work, or if it did but he couldn't get the jewel, he was as good as dead. And so was his world.

  He believed he'd been inconspicuous, but as he waited for darkness to overtake the campsite Oona slid up to him and offered to massage his shoulder. It ached and he needed it, so he let her begin.

  After a little of the soothing rubdown, the woman said in a low whisper, "Dend be going leave clan." It wasn't a question but a statement.

  He sighed and his mind raced. She must have trailed him today and watched his movements, what he was studying, all of it, and put two and two together. Although she'd been useful, she was getting to be a real pain-and a danger. He considered his answer, know­ing that if he lied she'd just spy on him all night.

  "Dend leave when dark," he admitted. "Oona no stop leave?"

  "Oona leave, go where Dend go," she replied un­hesitatingly.

  He was surprised. Not only had he not counted on this, but she would most certainly get in the way. She had been nice to him; she wouldn't understand what he was doing with the witch doctor, and she would certainly be out on a limb if he managed to get the jewel and then left. The trouble with this language is that it allows you to communicate action but not to hold subtle arguments.

  "Oona no leave. Not good. Dend come back to fight in year," he attempted.

  "Oona leave, go where Dend go," she persisted.

  He gave up. A big argument would draw attention to him; if he left her behind,
she might raise an alarm just to have him returned. Okay, Oona, old mother hen, you dug your own hole, he thought.

  Through dusk and into darkness he feigned increas­ing pain but refused to smoke the magic leaves. There was enough sympathy and respect for him that nobody was suspicious; nobody questioned him.

  Oona meanwhile gathered up a few things in a skin pouch and waited. It was well into the night; even the moon was below the canyon walls by the time he was ready. Just about everybody was asleep, and furious snores echoed off the canyon walls. Even Oona was dropping off. Mac rose as quietly as possible and started away. Suddenly she looked up, saw him going, and began to follow. He cursed a little under his breath but could do nothing to stop her.

  It was remarkably easy to escape. The only reason more slaves hadn't done it was, first, this was an in­stinctually tribal people who were not suited to going it alone, and second, the life of a slave was neither that terribly bad nor a permanent condition. One had more to lose from escaping, particularly because there was just about nothing to escape to.

  Oona remained quiet. She didn't even utter a sound when she saw him make his way back toward the far left base of the canyon instead of away downriver, although her face showed extreme confusion.

  He had no weapons, but passing near a fire pit that had gone out, he grabbed a thick piece of wood that would serve as a club. He also steered clear of the dogs, which would challenge him if he came too close to their owners' territories. They were his worst fear, since if just one got set off they all would, and everybody would be awake. They were the tribal guard.

  The witch doctor's area was apart from the others, and he kept no dog. Dogs didn't like the witch doctor any more than the people did-less, it seemed. That was the other worry.