Champions Of The Gods

Chapter Ten

Blade awoke and soon realized that he was tied hand and foot to some sort of framework. He could feel the ropes around his wrists and ankles, and hard rods digging into his back and thighs. He was quite effectively immobilized.

It took him a while to realize that he hadn't broken any bones or smashed up anything inside in falling nearly forty feet. He had certainly picked up a lovely collection of bruises on every bit of skin he could see, and aches and pains in every joint he could feel. However, he had felt much worse on other occasions and still been able to move, run, and fight.

Blade raised his head as far as he could and looked around. Twenty feet away Arllona lay spread-eagled, naked on a wooden frame. On her forehead someone had painted or tattooed the flame emblem of the Consecrated. Her eyes were closed, but Blade could see the slow, regular rise and fall of her breasts. He hoped she would stay unconscious. After all the poor woman had been through, the least she deserved was to die without any more terror or pain.

Beyond Arllona rose a stand of tall trees. Through the trees Blade saw the orange glow of the Mouth of the Gods, blanking out about a third of the stars overhead.

Listening carefully. Blade could hear the roar as the great jet of ignited gas leaped into the sky.

He could also hear, not so faintly, another sound. Not far away heavy cannon were going off in irregular salvos. In the intervals of silence Blade could hear the faint sound of musketry. The firing seemed to be coming from the outer walls. The Raufi must have settled down within range. At least they were not over the outer wall-yet.

Twenty-odd men were standing on the fringes of the trees. About half of them were soldiers. In the glow from the Mouth Blade saw that their faces were chalk colored with fear and slick with sweat. The others wore the robes of the Consecrated. Standing among them was Jormin. From the way he was waving his arms, he appeared to Blade to be making some sort of impassioned speech. His sleeves flapped like the wings of a drunken bird as he spoke. Blade couldn't hear a single word, but he doubted that he was missing very much.

Blade made another test of his bonds. They were not only well tied, they felt like wire or something similar that would not burn, chafe or cut. That made his chances of escaping before they thrust him into the Mouth of the Gods even smaller than before.

Blade calmly faced the vision of himself dissolving in the flames until there was nothing left but charred bone and grease, then put it firmly out of his mind He slowed his breathing and settled down to gather as much strength as he could. His chances of escaping looked very slim. His chances of taking a few Kanoans with him and dying a quicker and cleaner death than the one awaiting him in the Mouth of the Gods-that was something else. He wanted to be ready.

After a while Jormin's speech came to an end. Either he'd run out of things to say or his audience had run out of patience. Jormin led the rest of the Consecrated over toward Arllona. Blade got a good look at their faces as they stood around her, looking down. The ugliness of frustrated lust was on every one of those faces. The Consecrated were sworn to celibacy and asceticism, but those faces told a very different story. One or two of the robed men were bold enough to bend down and stroke Arllona's unresisting flesh with red-gloved hands.

Jormin finally called his group to order and led them toward Blade. Blade started thinking of particularly ripe insults to throw at Jormin. The priest stalked closer, his face drained of all emotion except triumph.

Then three deep-toned trumpets sounded from behind Blade, loud enough to drown out the Mouth of the Gods and the distant gunfire. Jormin's head jerked up as if it had been pulled by a noose. A moment later the trumpets sounded again, and after that came the thud of several sets of hooves and many pairs of fast-moving feet. Jormin's head swung to the right and the look of triumph vanished from his face like a puff of smoke.

Three men in the uniforms of the lay servants of the Consecrated rode into view, mounted on three barrel-chested black horses. Each man carried a silver trumpet. They reined to a stop with practiced ease, put the trumpets to their lips, and blew again. Jormin's face twisted. He looked as though he wanted to burst into tears, or into a fit of temper, or into both at once. Then, slowly, with obvious reluctance, he went down on both knees. The other Consecrated did the same, and so did the soldiers under the trees. All faced in the direction from which the riders had come.

The sound of running feet grew louder. Then a dozen armed lay servants came into view. Behind them ran twelve powerfully built slaves, naked except for black loincloths. They carried a large closed sedan chair of heavily carved and gilded wood, with black jade panels and silver flame ornaments set into the doors. They stopped between Blade and the three horsemen, who dismounted and blew their trumpets once more. All eyes shifted to the sedan chair. The door facing Blade opened on noiseless silver hinges, and a man stepped out.

Not just a man, Blade realized. A man of power. He wore the robes of one of the Consecrated, with a deep border of purple, red, and silver embroidery, snugly belted in by a broad green belt with a flame-shaped gold buckle set with rubies. From the belt hung a silver-sheathed dagger and a gilded leather purse.

The staff the man held out in front of him quickly drew Blade's eyes away from the robes. It was a simple design-a four-foot cylinder of black jade about three inches in diameter. But every square inch of its surface was carved with gilded flame shapes or covered by silver rings set with rubies and emeralds. Around one end was a circle of sapphires, on the other an enormous diamond of at least a thousand carats.

Eye-dazzling fire in a dozen colors glinted from the staff as the priest raised it over his head. His thin arms easily held it there for a moment, then lowered it to waist level. Jormin hesitated briefly, then dashed forward so fast that he nearly stumbled and sprawled on his face in front of the man. He recovered, went to his knees, and held out his hands for the staff. The new man stared down at Jormin with a totally blank face that somehow conveyed a more searing contempt than any glare. Then, slowly, he lowered the staff into Jormin's hands and crossed his arms on his chest. Jormin backed away without speaking or even rising to his feet.

The new man would not have needed his staff or robes to convey the impression of power and authority. Blade realized that the man could have done just as well if he'd been wearing no more than a slave's loincloth. He stood well over six feet tall, with much the same lean build and long bony face as Mirdon. He was entirely bald, and his deep-set eyes roamed about continuously. In another man that might have suggested nervousness. In this man it suggested that nothing escaped his attention or his judgment. It reduced the rest of the Consecrated, even Jormin, to a collection of guilty schoolboys waiting for the teacher to hand out punishments.

The silence went on and on, until finally the tall man spoke.

«Jormin, you considered that my Meditation gave you the right to act as you have?»

«It cannot be that you would wish no one to enter the Mouth of the Gods, even at a time like this, when the-«

«I know what the time is, Jormin. It cannot be that you know my mind. It also cannot be that this which you have done is pleasing to me.»

Jormin turned even paler at those words. Whatever he had been about to say died in his throat with a gurgle. He now looked less like a schoolboy than like a prisoner waiting for sentence to be pronounced by a notoriously severe judge. Blade had a momentary and delightful vision-Jormin, spread-eagled on another rack and being thrust into the Mouth of the Gods along with himself and Arllona.

Again the tall man let the silence drag on, apparently just to make Jormin nervous. Blade sighed. He was more or less resigned to dying. He was not resigned to enduring several hours of ceremonies, speeches, and religious politics beforehand. Besides, the longer the Consecrated went on blathering, the more likely Arllona would be to wake up. Then she would not only have to die, but to die in panic and agony.

Finally the tall man spoke. «It is not pleasing. You, Jormin, are not First among the Consecrated. I, Tyan, am First. I am First even during Meditation. I will be First until I choose to be so no longer, or the gods themselves call me to judgment. It is understandable, Jormin, that you forgot that. You always found it difficult to remember your place among the Consecrated. That was true when you were only Ninth among the Scholars; it is true today. It is not pleasing.» Jormin, Blade noticed, looked about ready to fall over in a dead faint. Blade hoped he would.

«But you have done nothing against the laws of Kano or of the gods. You sought to make a proper sacrifice, although you also sought glory for yourself. Indeed, a proper sacrifice is needed at this time. So you have shown zeal proper to one of the Consecrated.

«There are questions to be asked, as to how this man and this woman came to escape from the prison. I shall not ask them of you, Jormin, nor of anyone here and now.»

Tyan strode forward until he stood between Blade and Arllona. He raised both hands high, then pointed one at Blade and the other at the woman. «I, Tyan, declare that these sacrifices have been prepared fitly, according to all that governs these preparations. I, Tyan, declare that neither bears a blemish that makes them unfit for the Mouth of the Gods. I, Tyan, First Consecrated of the Gods of Kano, bid the sacrifice proceed as it has begun!»

The last sentence rang out across the clearing like another trumpet call. Jormin straightened up, looking like a man reprieved from death. The other Consecrated and the soldiers started off in various directions.

«Hold!» Tyan's voice thundered out again. «One more order I shall give. Let Commander Mirdon be summoned from wherever he is, with such soldiers of Kano as he chooses to accompany him.»

Jormin turned to stare at his superior. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was working with anger that seemed about ready to explode into total defiance. With an obvious effort he kept his voice level.

«Commander Mirdon is doubtless at his post upon the walls. Do you wish him summoned even from there?»

«Yes,» said Tyan coolly. «It will educate you, Jormin, to have Mirdon be the Guard for this sacrifice at the Mouth of the Gods.»

Jormin's eyes blazed, then once more he controlled himself and turned away, shoulders slumping. Obviously it enraged Jormin to have his enemy Mirdon given what was presumably a high honor.

It was hard to see that it mattered very much, though. Mirdon would be honored, Jormin humiliated. He, Richard Blade, would almost certainly be dead within two hours.

The slaves, the soldiers, and the Consecrated-obviously had carried out dozens of sacrifices. They knew what to do and did it rapidly, efficiently, and without giving Blade any chance for a single move of his own.

Unfortunately Arllona had time to wake up. She screamed when she did, writhing and twisting against her bonds. She went on screaming and writhing until two of the Consecrated jammed a gag into her mouth and wrapped her wrists and ankles so they wouldn't chafe or scrape. Then she could only lie, panting, quivering, her eyes staring wildly like a trapped animal's.

More than the soldiers and the Consecrated, it was Arllona who kept Blade from making a move on his own. Several times he could have struck out or even made a run for it. He would undoubtedly have died a quicker death than he was going to in the Mouth of the Gods. But he would have left Arllona to face the Mouth by herself. Blade was willing to endure the slower death of the Mouth so that Arllona did not have to die alone.

They were carried swiftly on their grates to the huge metal cart and raised to the broad grill on top. They were placed side by side there, held in place by heavy metal bands around their waists and ankles. It did not make any difference that their hands were free-it would have taken a blowtorch to cut through any of the bands.

Blade wondered if they would be drugged beforehand, but they were given nothing, not even water. He licked his dry lips and listened to the remarks of the soldiers and the Consecrated. Apparently the writhings and the screams of the victims were part of the sacrifice. He hoped Arllona didn't realize that.

The cart was more than a hundred feet from the flames of the Mouth, but Blade could already feel its heat against his skin. The cart stood there, while Consecrated and soldiers dashed about like busy ants, doing a hundred and one last-minute things.

Mirdon rode up, sprang down from his horse, strode across the gleaming jade blocks of the pit to where Tyan stood waiting. They greeted each other with elaborately ceremonial courtesy, then, side by side, mounted the steps to the stand nearest the Mouth. Tyan was carrying his great staff; the reflections from the gold and the jewels made it look like a bar of solid fire. As Tyan and Mirdon took their places, all movement in the pit ceased.

A score of soldiers ran forward, carrying a T-shaped metal bar twenty feet long. They pushed the foot of the T into a socket in the rear of the cart, took positions along the crossbar, and began to shove. Blade noted with an almost detached interest this solution to the problem of pushing the cart into the Mouth without the pushers being burned up along with the sacrifice.

The cart moved forward slowly, jerkily, with many rattles and clanks. One wheel had a distinctive sound, a sort of brrraaaank! Blade counted carefully. Each time the wheel sounded meant ten feet closer to the Mouth.

Eighty feet to go. The heat was stronger now. It would be uncomfortable at seventy, painful at fifty, unendurable at forty. They would both probably be unconscious before any real flame touched them. That was a hopeful thought, now.

Seventy feet. It was getting uncomfortable. The bands and the bars of the grill were beginning to warm up as the heat came in waves from the Mouth. Blade looked at Arllona. She lay totally rigid, her lips showing drops of blood where she'd bitten them. Her eyes rolled toward him and met his.

Sixty feet. The light and the heat from the soaring column of flame that was the Mouth of the Gods poured over him, shutting out the world. He could no longer hear the wheels to measure their advance toward the Mouth. He could no longer hear anything except the steadily growing roar of the flames.

Fifty feet. There was pain now, pain over every inch of skin, more pain where the hot metal touched him. He could hear Arllona screaming now. He forced himself to go on taking shallow, regular breaths. In another moment the air would be hot enough to burn out his lungs. Then his own self-control might snap as thoroughly as Arllona's, and he would be screaming too, and-

Blade gasped, coughed as he inhaled scorching air, and sat up. There was a new pain now, an agonizing, stabbing pain in his head-a new pain, but also a familiar one. Somehow the computer had reached out for him, somehow it was gripping his brain now, to snatch him away from here, snatch him back to Home Dimension-

— and snatch Arllona too! It was worth a try, even if-! Blade didn't take time to complete the thought. Instead he twisted around as far as he could, laying one hand on Arllona's forehead and another over her wildly beating heart. She was alternately screaming and gibbering hysterically. He didn't try to speak to her. Instead he pressed both hands tightly on her skin, willing her to be calm, willing her to blank out her mind, willing her to somehow receive if she could the computer's pulses. In this moment Blade wasn't thinking of science or of new knowledge. All that was in his mind as the pain exploded again was sharing with Arllona this last, miraculous chance for safety-if he could.

The pain mounted higher. Blade held his breath again, knowing that if he breathed now he would scorch his lungs. In another second his eyeballs would melt and run like jelly down his blistering, blackening cheeks. In another second-

The pain in his head leaped upward like the flames of the Mouth itself. Blackness swallowed him up, blackness and a deadly cold wind that howled around him from nowhere. In one moment he knew only searing heat, in the next he knew only freezing cold. He did not know what had happened to Arllona; he could feel nothing under his hands where she had been.

Then he could feel nothing at all.