Champions Of The Gods

Chapter Four

Blade sprang to his feet and dashed for the side of the valley. The oncoming horsemen could not reach him up there without dismounting. They would also find it hard to shoot at him accurately, or in fact do much of anything else against him. That was quite all right with Blade.

Shouts rose from the horsemen as they spotted Blade. A few raised pistols and let off wild shots that couldn't have hit a sleeping elephant in broad daylight, let alone a running man in darkness. Only one of the bullets came close enough to Blade for him to even hear the whistle.

But the shadows that threw off the horsemen's aim also concealed the steepness of the valley's side. Too late Blade realized that the stretch he was aiming for was too steep to climb fast enough. He swerved to the right, looked back over his shoulder. The leading horseman at least would be up with him before he could get off the valley floor.

Blade spun around, raising the pistol and sighting on the chest of the lead rider's horse. The man charged in fine romantic style, waving a long sword and shouting shrill, wordless war cries. Blade waited until the man closed within fifty yards, then pulled the trigger.

Instead of a bang there was a futile click, and then a sharp spronnnnnggg as the spring activating the wheel broke. Blade swore at the pistol, the man who had made it, all the man's ancestors and the man who was charging down on him.

When the rider was ten yards away Blade caught the pistol by the barrel and sent it whirling end over end at the rider's head. The rider dipped his head, making his lance point also dip. The point dipped too far and struck the ground. The lance whipped forward and up, and the rider catapulted out of the saddle with a very unromantic yell of fear. He landed with an even more unromantic thud almost at Blade's feet. The horse dashed on past, and Blade never did see what happened to it. He was too busy making his own dash for the valley wall.

He reached it before the next lancers came by. Blade saw one of them frantically trying to claw a pistol out of his sash, but his horse carried him on past before he could fire. Blade scrambled upward as fast as he could move in a half crouch. He wanted to stay low, but he wanted even more to get at least well hidden and hopefully clean away. Somewhere among those riders must be someone who wasn't hotheaded, clumsy, or stupid. Blade wanted to be a long way off before that man took charge of things.

Bullets spanged and fizzed off the rock around Blade as he climbed, but none came anywhere near him. He was halfway to the ridgeline before the people below realized that they could shoot more accurately if they stopped or at least slowed down. After that bullets started getting closer. Two or three hit close enough to spray hot bits of stone against Blade's hands and face. He crouched lower still and began an erratic zigzag course up the slope. It was frustrating to have to slow down now, when he must be just about out of effective range of those clumsy wheel locks. But he couldn't afford to give one of those clowns down below a chance to get lucky in his aim.

Now the ridgeline was only a few yards away. Blade had to fight the temptation to jump to his feet and make rude gestures at the men below. Another few feet-he rose from his crouch and took a long step forward.

It felt as though someone had slammed a bar of red-hot iron across the back of his left leg, halfway between buttock and knee. Blade swore again in a blazing rage at his luck's running out now. He dropped to his hands and knees for a moment; then rose to crouch again, biting back a gasp of pain.

Below in the valley someone was finally shouting orders. Blade heard the sound of feet scrambling up the slope behind him, and, incredibly, the sound of a horse's hooves. He swore again. He knew he would never get clear now. He turned, drew his sword, and prepared to make a good last stand.

Half a dozen men were scrambling up the slope on foot after him, waving swords. Well out in front of them rode an enormously tall, incredibly lean figure on a thick-legged horse that he was somehow managing to get up the slope. The man had a sword and a pistol stuck in his belt, but in his free hand there was nothing except a heavy riding whip.

Blade stood up as the thin rider approached, raising his sword with both hands. He wanted to see how the thin man's grand gesture would look after his dead horse fell on him. This was one opponent at least whom Blade was determined to take with him.

As Blade took a painful step forward, the man's whip lashed out and down. Blade's wound slowed him just a little too much. The weighted tip of the whip caught him below the right elbow, stinging like a thousand wasps. Two feet of thin supple leather coiled itself around Blade's forearm like a hungry snake around a mouse. The thin man let go of the handle of his whip and vaulted lightly out of the saddle, drawing his sword as he did so. The light sword whirled down and then rose again in a lightning-fast arc, coming up under Blade's scimitar. There was a sharp clang, and the scimitar flew ten feet into the air and landed with another clang.

Blade stood there, staring grimly into the thin man's face. He was fairly sure he was going to die, but he was damned if he was going to give this man any other satisfaction. The other had won just about fairly. So be it. Blade raised his head and waited for the other's sword to whistle in another arc, one that would end in his skull or throat.

It never did. Instead a shout came from below. «Ho, Mirdon! Wait! What of the Mouth of the Gods! It has not been fed since-«

Mirdon and Blade both turned and looked down toward the valley. Three more men were scrambling up the slope behind the line of swordsmen. The center figure wore a heavy cloak with embroidered edges and a heavy metal medallion on a chain around his neck. The medallion was in the shape of a leaping flame. He was the one calling out.

Mirdon turned back to Blade. The sword remained point-down on the ground, but the warrior grasped the handle of the whip.

«Ha, Rauf,» he said, glaring at Blade. «You were not wise to come, back to your kill, like a hungry jackal. Now we will have a little vengeance for those poor wretches down there. Where did your comrades go?» Blade was silent.

Mirdon dropped his sword, drew a small riding crop from his belt, and slashed Blade hard across the face. Like the whip, the riding crop had sharp metal tied into it. Blade managed not to flinch or make a sound, but he felt blood trickling where his cheek had been torn open. A pleasant customer, this Mirdon, at least to anyone he thought was one of the Raufi. No doubt that was the name the people of Kano used for their enemies, the white-robed worshippers of Jannah.

«I asked you a question, dirty Rauf. When Mirdon of Kano asks questions, Raufi give answers, sooner or later, whether they want to or not.» He gestured with the riding crop toward Blade's groin.

«I am not dirty, nor am I a Rauf,» said Blade in a chill voice. «So do not be so sure that I will answer any of your questions.»

Instead of another slash of the riding crop, Mirdon's answer to this was a great roaring burst of laughter. It was loud enough and long enough to echo up and down the valley. Blade looked at Mirdon, wondering if he faced a madman.

Eventually Mirdon stopped laughing and looked at Blade again. His eyes were not mad, but they were as chill, lifeless, and unfriendly as the desert night. So was his voice as he spoke.

«It would be better for you to be thought a Rauf than a liar or a coward. The Raufi are warriors, though it is their false god Jannah that makes them so. Liars and cowards are shunned by gods and men alike. They have no place among any people worthy of the name.»

By this time the man with the cloak and the flame medallion was close enough to overhear Mirdon's words. «I told you to stay your sword. Mirdon. Did you not hear me?» The warrior's face set in an immobile mask. «It were better I thought you did not hear me. Otherwise it might be said you have disobeyed me. I am Second among the Consecrated of Kano, and in time I shall be First.»

«In the gods' good time, this may be so.»

«It shall be so,» said the cloaked man. «It has been spoken to me, Jormin, in the flames of the Mouth of the Gods. Let no one doubt it.»

«I do not doubt it.»

«That is wise. Did you also hear me when I asked that this one be saved for the Mouth of the Gods?» His voice was laden with menace and tension. Blade looked at Jormin and found himself suddenly feeling much friendlier toward Mirdon. The warrior was harsh but not mad. This Jormin was at least a fanatic, if not a madman. The look in his eyes was unmistakable and frightening.

«No, Jormin, I did not hear you when you spoke the first time,» said Mirdon. He spoke slowly, one reluctant word at a time, as though each one was pulled painfully out of him by his fear of the fanatical priest. «It was not my wish to disobey you, Jormin, for you are Second among the Consecrated.» He said the last words in the same tones he would have used to say, «Your mother weaned you on cameldung.» Jormin did not notice.

Mirdon took a deep breath and went on. «But I ask you, Jormin. Is it wise to take him for the Mouth? I must ask him a few questions about where his comrades have gone. He is not likely to answer them without persuasion. If I must persuade him he is not likely to be healed in time to enter the Mouth as whole as he must be.»

«No, that is true. Therefore he shall be mine, and mine only. You shall ask him nothing.»

«But-«Mirdon's mouth opened, but only the one outraged word came out.

«Yes, Mirdon?» said the priest, his voice silky. «You seem to care more for your own victory than for the favor of the gods. I hope that is not so.»

Mirdon's mouth clamped tightly shut. He looked like a man who dared not say a single word or move a single muscle, for fear of cursing or even of Jormin, striking him down. He stood, hard eyes fixed on the priest, for what seemed like many minutes. Then he let out his breath with a hiss and turned away. His arms rose, urging his swordsmen back and away.

«Enough, enough. The Second among the Consecrated has spoken. This man will go into the Mouth of the Gods. I doubt if he would have told us anything anyway, at least not until his comrades were all safely beyond our reach.» Blade's ears caught in Mirdon's voice the tones of a man saying what has to be said, but not believing a word of it.

As Mirdon's swordsmen stepped back, Jormin's two bodyguards stepped forward carrying cords. They unwound the whip from Blade's arm and casually tossed it down into the dirt. They made him lie down while they cleaned, salved, and bandaged his wounds. They made him drink a strong fruit-flavored cordial from a silver flask. Finally they helped him to his feet and down the slope to the valley floor.

A camel was waiting there with a canvas litter slung on one side. Jormin and his bodyguards helped Blade into the litter, then mounted their own horses. The priest himself took the leading reins of Blade's beast.

There must have been a strong sleeping drug in the cordial. By the time Mirdon and his warriors were mounted, Blade found himself drifting off to sleep. As the column moved out, one question remained flickering on the fringes of his mind. It went on flickering until he fell asleep.

What was the Mouth of the Gods?