Pearl Of Patmos

CHAPTER 4

Blade could not touch bottom. He kept his head above the cesspool and paddled slowly, trying not to breathe any more than necessary. The darkness was total. Slimy things brushed him, clung to him, and now and again a corpse bobbed against him. Blade retched and vomited and was not ashamed. This sewer, this cloaca for a dying city, was as near hell as he wished to come. He pushed the bloated body of an enormous rat away from his face and once more sounded for bottom. His toes touched stone.

He could walk now, keeping his chin above the slime. The current, so sluggish at first, began to quicken and bear him along. He was now only shoulder deep. He brushed ahead of him with his sword as he half walked, half floated, through his quagmire of putridity. He rounded a bend and saw a shaft of light just ahead. Light only in a relative sense; a faint shaft of dawn seeping down an open sewer cover. Some few details of his fetid, tube-like dungeon were revealed. Blade paused well back from the gray bar of light and looked about him.

There was no way out. No ladder, no steps cut into the arching stone, no ropes. Nothing. From where he stood shoulder deep in a horrible porridge of feces and urine and rotted flesh to the tiny circle of light was a good thirty feet. He heard the thunder of cavalry up there, felt the reverberations, listened to the screams of men and women being cut down. Blade did not have to see to understand. It was all over. Thyrne had fallen and all organized resistance had ceased. The massacre of civilians had started. Blade moved on.

His sense of time was keen. He judged that an hour had passed before he came to the junction of two great sewers, larger than the one in which he suffered, and through which salt-smelling water rushed at a great pace. The moving water, deep and comparatively clean, caught at Blade and the suldge in which he moved and swept them both along. He had to swim now and just ahead he saw a torch guttering in a wall sconce. He made for it.

Beneath the torch was a platform of cobbles, and a narrow walkway led into a shadowy tunnel. Blade, somewhat cleansed by the moving water, hauled himself out of the stream and, with drawn sword, headed into the tunnel. Anything was better than that sewer. Anything.

The tunnel was narrow, so long that Blade must continually stoop, and convoluted as the bowels of some giant. At each bend or sharp turn there was a single torch, and for this Blade was grateful. He kept moving down passage after passage, the only sound that of his buskins on stone and, once, the accidental ring of his sword as it brushed a wall.

He rounded yet another bend and saw a narrow window, hardly more than a barred slot in the stone, high on the righthand wall. Faint light seeped slantwise through the bars. Blade judged the distance, poised, tensed and leaped. He seized a bar with one hand and pulled himself up until both elbows rested on the ledge. At first he hardly believed it. A toe? A big toe belonging to a mammoth foot?

So it was. He was within a colossus of some sort, a gigantic statue. His vantage was from the ankle, looking forward along the foot toward the toes. Gold. Solid goldl Blade whistled silently and made a few rapid calculations. Given the length of the foot-he estimated some twenty five feet-the image must be about two hundred feet tall. Solid gold. Here was loot enough to repay the cost of invasion a thousand times over, at least by HD standards. He put that thought away. It was far too early to think mission-he must only think survival.

Blade was sure enough, but to verify it he twisted and craned his neck to stare upward. He could see nothing but one enormous golden breast towering high over him, the nipple worked in silver. Juna again. The goddess of Thyme was, for the moment anyway, sheltering him.

Through the window he studied the cobbled square spread out beyond the foot of the goddess. He could make out only a pie-slice segment of it, but by extrapolation knew that the fighting here must have been deadly. Costly to both sides. It was probably here that the Samostans had struck first and had gained enough momentum to carry them to victory. Corpses of men and horses were stacked waist high in places, and pools of black blood still glittered on the cobbles. Dawn, seeping in fast, disclosed the mute and terrible evidence of charge and counter-charge, of heroic last stands and no quarter, of gutted horses and lanced men and banners fallen to make shrouds for their — bearers. Blade made a rapid and inaccurate count and took a vague pleasure in his findings-the Thyrnians had extracted a high price. The figures were very nearly two of Samosta to every dead man of Thyme. Blade smiled and wondered again at his involvement, as slight as it was. He had no business taking sides. He was a stranger, and certainly not in any paradise, and his job was to observe, evaluate, remember and stake out any claims that might be of potential value to England.

But first to survive.

Too late he heard them coming. Two or three of them, judging by the scuff of sandals on stone. They were coming from the same direction Blade had come-he had passed numerous side passages-and they would be around the bend of the corridor before he could drop from the window and scurry out of sight. There was nothing to do but cling to his perch ten feet above the floor and hope they would not glance up. Blade pushed his left arm through the narrow window, locked his elbow around a bar and waited with drawn sword. At least he would have surprise on his side.

There were only two of them and he need not have fretted. They were priests, ghoulish figures clad in black robes and wearing masks of beaten gold. They walked slowly, dragging their feet, and the golden masks must have been heavy to pull their heads down so. As they neared him Blade saw that the masks were actually helmets, fitting entirely over the head with thin slits for eye holes and a circular orifice for breathing and speaking.

Blade relaxed. Their vision would be very poor in those clumsy things.

The taller of the two black robes was questioning with both voice and gesture as they approached the dangling Blade.

«I understand, Ptol, why the living Juna must be given to the Samostans, to Hectoris himself, as tribute and propitiation. But why must we torture and disfigure the girl? This I do not understand. I am not opposed to cruelty, as you know, but in this case it is senseless. I-«

The priest thus addressed, a short and rotund figure who had obviously dined well all his life, stopped in his tracks. He put a hand on the taller man's arm and began to harangue him in a soft, lisping voice. Blade cursed Ptol's mushy guts and the growing pain in his own arm. They would pick this particular place to stop and natter. If they spotted him he was going to enjoy killing them, especially Ptol.

Not was talking-and talking-and talking. That slow lisp, running on and on, reminded Blade of syrup leaking out of a cask. If good syrup could be defiled by calling it obscene and hypocritical.

«. we have gained a day of truce, of mercy, for all priests. Is this not so?»

The tall man nodded. «Of course, Ptol. You went to Hectoris in person and wheedled this boon of him. For priests only. That will not set well with the people when all this is over. Oh, I know your motives were pure-the mysteries must be preserved and we priests are the only guardians of those mysteries. But the common folk will not understand. They will call it treason and, when Hectoris and his men depart, there will be trouble.»

Ptol laughed. It was a nasty sound. like noxious gas leaking from a bladder. But when the fat priest rapped the other on the shoulder and spoke again there was no mirth in his voice.

«You are twice a fool, Zox. Thrice, four times a fool. Now try again to comprehend. Listen, really listen, whilst I explain once more. For by Juna's golden pudendum I will not say it again.»

Blade's arm, locked around the window bar, began to cramp. He scowled and gritted his teeth. Why not simply drop down and dispatch both of them? Because he was hearing something of value and he wanted to go on listening.

The taller priest appeared to shrink away as Rol alluded to Juna's intimate parts. «There is no need for blasphemy, Ptol. Surely we are in enough trouble without that.»

Rol shook his golden mask from side to side in a gesture that spoke of despair, contempt and fondness for a not too bright proteg6.

«Zox! Zox, listen to me. Just listen. Do not speak again or I will forget that I am a priest and fetch you a blow that you will never forget-if you live.

«First-you are beginning to believe your own lies. Our liesl We, the priests, are the essence of Thyme's religion. It is we who manage things and reap the benefits. It is we who select the girl who is the living Juna, and we who train her, and we who oversee and supervise her, and we who dispose of her when the time has come. The priests, Zox! You. Me. All the rest of the brethren. We make the rules and we play the game according to them. And we are men, Zox. Mortal men. We can be killed and tortured and flung into filthy dungeons just as can any ordinary man. Hectoris knows all this. He is no fool, no mindless peasant. He intends to use us, Zox, to use us to help him rule Thyme. And we are going to let him use us. Gladly. Because we have no choice. Far from it-we have left just eight of the hours allotted to us. Eight hours to recover from this disaster and get our affairs in order and begin serving the new ruler of Thyme. And we must serve him well, efficiently, or Hectoris will serve us-a fate that you will not like, Zox. Think of it-you a priest, used to the good things of life, condemned to slavery or the axe or the gallows. Put to the sword on a whim. Or if not that, poor Zox, and you are simply turned into the streets, what would you do? Beg for your bread? What else could you do? You have been a priest all your life-what could you do to earn a living?»

The tall man nodded, but was still stubborn. Blade damned them both as the pain in his arm approached the unbearable.

«I understand all that,» Zox admitted. «You are right, Ptol. But as you know I have always studied the deeper cause of things. I do not, as I said before, object to the torture of this girl. I want to know why she must be tortured and her face burned away?»

Ptol sighed long and deep. He slapped a fat hand against his golden mask. «Listen, then. I will try to adjust the matter for your wits. It is really very simple-if we give Juna, the living Juna, to Hectoris as she now is he will be captivated with her. As any man would be. This is so, Zox. You have enjoyed her favors?»

The-golden mask moved in what Blade interpreted as a reluctant negative. «No. I am one of the few who has not, uh, availed himself of priestly privilege.»

«The more fool you,» said Ptol curtly. «But never mind that-you know her beauty and her skill in giving pleasure. Hectoris is a brutal barbarian but he is a man. He will take Juna to bed. More likely he will rape her, not, because it is required but because he is Hectoris and prefers rape. And, mind this closely, Zox, if he rapes and dishonors Juna he also rapes and dishonors us, the priests of Thyrne. Do you begin to see now?»

The tall man nodded. «To a point. You have thought it out well, Ptol. If you give him a disfigured and tortured goddess he will only turn her out or have her slain. Yes. I think I begin to grasp-«

The fat priest held up a hand. «Do not strain, Zox. There is more. See if you can grasp it as well.» Ptol began to tick off points on his pudgy fingers.

Blade thought: 1 cannot last another minute. 1 may as well drop now. 1 will kill Ptol first by putting my sword into his skull as 1 fall. «tuna hates us,» said Ptol. «She hates all priests. All living Junas hate all priests because of the life they must undergo through us. Nothing new about that-but if this Juna is fancied by Hectoris, and gains his bed and his ear, she will waste no time in plotting against us. My fat trembles to think about it.

«Another point when this Juna is disposed of I intend to flatter Hectoris by giving him the honor of selecting the next Juna. He is shrewd and he is cunning, but like any man he can be flattered if it is done by an expert.»

Zox wrung his emaciated hands. «Clever, Rol. Most clever. Most subtle.»

«Not so much,» said Ptol. «But it might do. Hectoris is not a fool and will not be fooled for a moment, but that is the insidious thing about flattery. A wise man can recognize it and still be pleasured by it-so long as it is not grossly overdone. In this case it will not be. We will punish the present Juna for false counsel, a crime of which she is clearly guilty. This gives us a legal basis for destroying her and I do not think Hectoris will quibble when confronted with the fact. Then all he need do is to select a tender virgin, break her in and allow us to — bestow goddess-hood upon her. You begin to see now, Zox? If Hectoris selects the next Juna himself, and sacrifices her in person, he can scarcely disown her priests. So long as we mind our manners and do nothing to anger him.»

Zox clasped his golden mask in both hands and nodded vehemently and said, «You are a genius, Ptol. A master. I always knew it. But had not we better get on with it? Time grows short.»

Ptol's golden mask nodded in approval. «For once you are right, my thick-headed friend. Let us be on our way. They have Juna and we are awaited-the matter cannot begin until I arrive.»

The two black robes went scuffing on down the passage.

Blade, his arm devoid of all feeling; thought they resem bled two carrion crows. He waited until they rounded a turn then dropped to the corridor floor with a sigh of re lief. His left arm dangled uselessly at his side as he ran softly after the priests. A plan of sorts began to grow in his mind he did not intend to stand idly by and let these creatures torture a helpless girl. He would rescue her if he could-and if she had friends, powerful friends and resources, so much the better. He needed entry into high circles if he were to survive, and he did not much fancy his chances with Hectoris and his barbarian hordes. Even if this Juna, this living goddess who was about to be de posed in so cruel a way, even if she had no actual power,

was a lone and friendless woman, she was still a woman. And she had a brain for Blade to pick. Who better than a goddess should know the inner workings, the labyrinthine politics, of Dimension X?

He went cautiously now. He could hear the two black priests talking as they rounded a bend and went down a ramp into a central chamber. Dozens of torches flared from walls and ceiling, casting a smoky scarlet light over the scene. Blade hung back, sheltering behind a row of stone ladies now consigned to shadowy oblivion. Former Junas, goddesses no longer regnant.

In the center of the chamber was a throne. Bound to it with golden chains was a girl. The current Juna. As lovely a girl as Blade had ever seen. She sat naked on her throne and was chained hand and foot, with a thicker chain around her slender waist. There was defiance in her, and pride, and a terror that she could not entirely conceal. Around her, in a circle, like vultures waiting' for a meal, were a dozen of the black robed priests. Each wore a mask of gold. There was a whispering buzz of anticipation among them as Ptol and Zox made their way into the circle.

The spying Blade reckoned his chances. None of the black priests were visibly bearing arms, though he could not know what was concealed by the robes. He eased his position, flattening on his belly between two of the statues, and bided his time. The girl did not appear in-immediate danger. There was going to be a trial of sorts. To put a legal face on matters, no doubt. He prepeared to listen and learn-every crumb of knowledge was treasure to a man in his position-and meantime he studied the vast chamber and everything in it.

That it had been used for torture in the past was evident. Here, at least, DX ran in parallel with Home Dimension, though Blade did not recognize all the devices. Some were familiar: the rack, wheel, Iron Maiden, pulleys and hoist, and a huge flat pan on which glowed a charcoal fire. In the midst of the charcoal was a helmet very like those in the priests wore, but it was larger and of steel. It could not have been on the fire long, for only now it was beginning to turn a dull red. Near it, on the edge of the fire pan, was a pair of long-handled tongs.

Richard Blade was not a man given to excessive pity. His had been a rough life in a dangerous profession, and his ventures into various X Dimensions had served to harden him further. Now, however, he felt pity, and a slow anger, as he studied the fair-haired girl chained to the throne and noted the fearful glances she cast at the glowing helmet on its bed of charcoal. She could not seem to avoid looking at it. Blade could fully understand her feelings. When the farcical trial was over they were going to clamp that white hot helmet over her lovely head and burn it all away-hair and features and flesh down to the bone, If she lived, and far better that she did not, she would be a horror that no man could bear to look on.

Blade, in that instant, did not care for consequences. He was not going to allow this thing to happen.

The priest called Ptol was reading from a scroll. He stood near the throne, hardly glancing at the documentas though he had memorized it-and through the slits in his mask his eyes roamed over her lush naked body. The other priests stood in a hushed silence, heads bowed, birds of evil omen, the golden masks glinting in the torchlight.

Ptol's evil lisp came clearly to the lurking Blade: «You, Juna deposed, no longer. Juna incarnate, no longer the living goddess, being now mere common and mortal woman, have been brought here to hear charges against you and to suffer such penalties as may be decreed.»

Drumhead court, thought Blade. Kangaroo. The girl hasn't got a chance.

Ptol continued, «You are accused of having given false counsel to the priests and military of Thyme. Said false counsel being determined by the following-that when the barbarian Hectoris made offer of an alliance with Thyme, when he agreed to spare the city if Thyme would march with him against Patmos, you did use your influence, your then goddess-hood to ignore and refuse this offer of mercy from the great Hectoris. You did counsel, instead, that Thyme resist the Samostans. In this, because your influence with the common folk and soldiery, you did prevail. Thyme resisted. With what terrible consequences we all know. Thyrne is now a dead city. Our armies are destroyed and our people slaughtered. How say you to this, woman?»

Her voice was firm and high pitched, with scarcely a quaver in it. Blade nodded in admiration at the look of contempt she gave Ptol. And at her words.

«I have seen no dead priests.»

Ptol slapped the scroll on his palm and Blade was sure he scowled beneath the golden mask. «Mind your tongue, woman! Else we might rip it out before we sear your face away. And speak not of priests-you are no longer a goddess and have not the right to mention your betters.»

The chained girl stared levelly at Ptol. «You give yourself away, Ptol. No. I revoke that. You merely confirm what everyone knows. That you are a fat coward and a hypocrite»

One of the black priests tittered, a furtive sound concealed by a golden mask and instantly hushed. Yet Ptol heard it and wheeled to glare about the circle of his minions. None spoke.

When Ptol spoke there was a deadly timbre about his lips. Blade no longer found it amusing. «I would remind you all,» said Ptol, «that in the absence of a living goddess, I, Ptol, am in supreme authority. A sound, any sound, is indicative of the mind and the man behind it. I have a long memory and let me also point out that it-«Ptol pointed to the steel helmet on the coals, now white hot «will fit a man as well as a woman.»

The girl laughed. There was more terror in it than mirth, yet it was a brave effort. «Do you fear them, Ptol? Why? You have them well cowed. As for power, you have always had that. Why persist in this farce? You, and others like you, have always had the power. Juna never did. Any Juna, she you call the living goddess, has never been anything but a shield, a buffer, a front for you and your priests. A female body to use as you willed. A gift of flesh to be given at your pleasure. How many `heroes' have I slept with at your command, Ptol-and how many times have I suffered you in my bed while my flesh crawled at your touch and I fought to keep from vomiting!»

Blade laughed silently. Good girl. Paying him out in the only way she could.

For a moment Ptol lost his temper. He strode to the throne and struck the girl across the face. «Enough of this,» he screamed. «I say enough. Do you admit your guilt of false counsel? Will you sign a confession of it?»

Her beautiful face was splotched red from the blow. She had not shrunk away. She raised her head proudly and managed a smile of contempt. «Why must you have a confession, Ptol? Must I tell you-so you can take it to Hectoris and put a legal face on what you coo and ingratiate yourself with him?»

Ptol was nearly dancing in rage. He waved the scroll at her and began to shout again. «This is sacrilege, woman. Blasphemy and treason to speak to me so. Now once again-do you admit to false counsel? Did you, or did you not, counsel that Thyrne resist to the last man rather than accept the generous terms of Hectoris?»

The captive girl on the throne forgot and tried to rise. The chains restrained her, yet Blade somehow had the impression that she had risen and stood proud and imperious.

«I deny that it was false counsel,» she said. «I honestly believed that Thyrne could defeat Samosta. So I still believe-had we not been betrayed in the night. How was I to guess that some traitor would open the sewer gates, would reveal their location, and would guide the hosts of the barbarian to the center of our city while we slept? How could I guess at such treachery?»

For a moment there was silence. The little tableau was frozen in time and space, Ptol with one arm extended, pointing the scroll at the girl like a dagger. Then the steel helmet, white hot and giving off an acrid smell of scorched metal, toppled over its bed of coals. One of the priests picked up the tongs and clamped them about the helmet.

The girl looked straight at Ptol. Her words were just audible to Blade. «Where were you last night, Ptol?»

A sigh went up from the assembled priests. Ptol regained his composure. He made a sign and a priest hurried forward with a quill and an inkpot. Ptol stepped close to the bound girl. «You will sign now? Or shall I sign for you?»

Her lips curled. «You must stoop to forgery? Poor Ptol. How full of terror your fat carcass must be.»

He thrust the document at her, and the quill. «Sign! If you sign I will give you a drug-you will feel no pain.»

She spat at him. «Liar! I have seen your mercy before. You can hardly wait to see me suffer. I will not sign.»

Ptol reached quickly and touched her hand with the quill, then scrawled something at the bottom of the parchment. He looked about at the gold masks. «You are witnesses. She touched the quill and I write for her. She admits her guilt. She gave false counsel. She was in the pay of Hectoris. She opened the sewer gates in the night to admit his armies.»

The naked girl struggled against her chains. Her lovely features were twisted in fury. «Liar-liar-liarl You accuse me of your crimes.»

Ptol pointed a finger at the priest who held the blazing steel helmet in the tongs. «Let the punishment proceed. Let the white hot metal purify this one who has sinned. Let the flame scourge away her vileness as it burns away her hair and her flesh and her bone. The fire!»

The priest came forward, the long tongs extended before him. The helmet blazed white and red and threw off spark and coils of metal-smelling smoke. Two of the priests ran to the throne and, tossing a leather thong around the girl's slender throat, jerked her head back against the backrest. Her red mouth opened in a noiseless scream and her eyes begged. She arched and struggled in terror and hopelessness as the glowing hot mask of metal came closer and closer.

Richard Blade got quietly to his feet, sword in hand. Time to act. He calculated the odds-they were high but not hopeless. Fourteen of them. He had surprise on his side, and anger, and a mean determination that had been growing ever since he tumbled into the sewer. Blade knew himself as well as any man can know himself, and he was ready for a little blood letting.

Ptol raised a pudgy hand. «Burn her face away.»

Blade leaped from the shadows with a fearful cry, his face contorted and stained with blood and filth, a tall, oaken-thewed figure, a devil unleashed from the pit, brandishing a swift, shining and terrible sword.

He played the avenger role for all it was worth. Laughing madly, screaming invective, his white teeth glinting in the rough black stubble on his face, he slashed into them like a nightmare creature come to life.

«Junal Junal» Blade was bellowing at the top of his lungs. «I am come to protect and avenge you, goddessl Juna lives. Juna foreverl»

Three of the priests fainted out of hands Ptol let out a screech, then shoved the lean Zox in front of him to suffer the brunt of Blade's charge, whilst at the same time plucking a dagger from beneath his robe. Blade, being of a mind to spare nobody, sabered Zox, withdrew his steel, and went in pursuit of the fat little priest who was dodging around the throne.

Two of the black priests, flashing knives, leaped at Blade. He took the guts out of one and slit the other's throat with a backhand slash. By this time he saw what Ptol had in mind and knew he could not prevent it. Blade conceded reluctant admiration-Ptol might be fat, and an obscenity, but there was nothing wrong with his brain.

Ptol had his dagger at the girl's throat. She arched against her chains, staring wide-eyed at Blade in wonder and disbelief, as shocked by his terrible figure as were the priests.

Ptol pushed his dagger point into her tender flesh and bleated at the big man who menaced him with the bloody sword.

«Stay,» Ptol howled. «Come no closer or Juna dies this moment. If I am to die so will she-I promise you that, no matter who you are. Back. Back awayl»

The girl twisted against the dagger point, screaming at Blade. «Kill him-kill this vermin. Never mind me. I am Juna, I order you to do this. Kill him-kill himl»

Blade halted and lowered his sword. For a moment it was a standoff. He wanted the girl alive, as a hostage and a source of information-the femaleness of her did not at the moment enter into it and he did not like the way Ptol was leering. Now that his first terror was evaporating the man seemed almost smug. Blade was certain that beneath the golden mast the creature was smiling in anticipation. Why?

Blade played for time, thinking hard. The chamber was empty except for themselves, the two priests he had slain and three who had fainted. The others had all fled.

That was it! The priests would bring help. Not more priests, but troops. Ptol must have had them standing by all the time. They would be Samostans, of course, the soldiers of Hectoris who wore the device of the ringed snake and the motto: A is Ister.

Blade feigned bafflement, defeat. He rested the point of his sword on the stones near the helmet, still red hot and smoking.

Blade grinned at the fat priest. In a placid tone, as though they were discussing the weather over a cup of wine, he said, «Tell me, priest, what means the legend on the shields of the Samostans? Ais Ister? The words are most strange to me.»

Ptol's mouth dropped open. The bound girl stared at Blade and her thoughts were clear-her savior had gone mad.

The point of Blade's sword moved an inch nearer the helmet.

Blade followed with a tremendous lie. «I know your friends have gone for help,» he told the priest. One of the men who had fainted stirred and moaned. Blade moved to kick him in the head, then returned to his place. His sword point was now only six inches from the helmet.

«I am right-hand man and first captain to Hectoris,» said Blade. «I know that you wheedled a troop from him, Ptol, and that they are standing by. That changes nothing-I want the girl for my own. She is promised to me by Hectoris. I intend to have her and no misbegotten priests are going to damage her beauty until I have had my fill of it. Do you understand that, Ptol?»

Ptol's eyes blinked behind the golden mask. He was baffled. Blade moved his sword point again. It was nearly touching the helmet.

Ptol said, «I think you lie, stranger. Your very question gives you the lie. How is it that the chief captain of Heo-

toris does not know the meaning of the legend, Ais Ister? I Act for God? How is this?»

«I am an unschooled man,» said Blade calmly. He had the point of his sword under the helmet now. The scorch of metal was in his — nostrils. Blade made a slight movement with his left hand, signaling the girl to duck, get out of the way. Her glance signaled understanding.

Ptol could not resist being the pedant, the scholar who knew all the mysteries. He kept the dagger at the girl's soft throat, but he deepened his voice and spoke, in a voice so reminiscent of the classroom and of lectures that at any other time Blade would have laughed.

«Mmmmmmmm,» lisped Ptol, «it is possible, I suppose. The words are from the ancient and forgotten language. Only the greatest scholars can decipher and understand it. Hectoris himself, as I happen to know, lifted the mseription from the tomb of a king dead for thousands of years. Yes, it is not likely that a common soldier would-«

Blade whirled the smoking helmet on the point of his sword and hurled it at the little priest. To the girl he shouted, «Down!»

Ptol was caught off guard just long enough. In an instinctive attempt to save himself he leaped back from the throne. The girl flung herself down and to one side as far as her chains would allow. The helmet struck the throne just over her head and bounded high in the air. Blade was after it, covering the ten feet in one great bound, howling for Ptol's blood.

One of the priests chose that exact moment to regain consciousness. He moved and flung out an arm with a groan. The arm struck Blade's leg and tripped him. Blade, cursing, went to his knees. He recovered almost instantly, but Ptol was running past him, squealing like an animal about to be sacrificed. Blade regained his balance and lunged fiercely with the sword, wanting with all his heart to kill Ptol. The priest screamed and thrust out both hands, twisting his porcine body away from the slashing steel.

Blade's sword severed Ptol's right hand. The priest screamed again, clutched at the gushing stump and kept running. Blade turned back to the throne. Too much time had been wasted already. Time to be gone.

The girl shrank away from him as he approached. She tried to cover her bare breasts with her hands. Blade shook his head, unspeaking, and set about freeing her. This was no time to set about fathoming feminine quirks-the fact was that she was as terrified of him, or nearly so, as she had been of Ptol and his black executioners. Figure thatl

The chains were padlocked behind the throne. Blade found the long-handled tongs and thrust them into the hasps and twisted. At first the locks were stubborn, then he began to lose his temper-it was very short at the mo ment-and his biceps writhed, huge snakes of muscles, as he grunted and sweated. The locks burst asunder and the chains fell away. The girl remained huddled on the throne, staring up at what to her could only have been a fearsome apparition bloody, sweaty and begrimed, dark visaged and bearded and in a terrible temper.

Blade put his hands on his hips and glared at her. He could hear armed men in one of the passages, coming toward them. Another of the slumbering priests moved and groaned. Blade kicked him, thus venting some of his feelings, and turned back to the girl. She was standing now, trying to conceal both her breasts and her pubic area, although she obviously lacked a hand to do so successfully.

He began to bellow at her. «Do not stand and stare at me like some stupid cowl I am a stranger and know nothing of this place. It is you who must lead us out-and quickly, too, or we are both dead. Come on, womanl You are supposed to be a goddess? We both know better than that, but you must know the way to safety. How do we get outside this city, beyond the walls, into the marshes? Think, woman, and speak. Hurryl»

Her nose was straight and pert, her mouth wide and sensuous, her huge eyes gray with a violet tinge. She stared at him in fear and doubt. He kicked the still smoldering helmet and hurt his big toe. She laughed and her expression changed.

«Yes. I know a way. My people are waiting for me. You-you promise not to harm me?»

Blade had been through much. He stank of a sewer, he had numerous small hurts, every sense warned him that new dangers were fast approaching. He strode toward her. She quailed and shrank away, forgetting to cover herself. Blade smacked her hard across her firm white buttocks with the flat of his sword. The steel left a scarlet blazon on the tender flesh.

It was what was needed. She forgot her terror and spat at him, tried to claw at his eyes. Blade caught her up like a child, her fragrant breasts touching his faqe as he tossed her over his shoulder. He smacked her again, lightly, with the sword.

«Show me the passage,» he rasped. «Show me it and then keep your tongue quiet or I will still it for you. Which one to your people and the marshes, woman?»

She pointed to where a torch guttered over a dark entrance. «Yonder. You must go carefully. There is a fake turning and a secret stair, and a pit for the unwary. Listen to me carefully-heed every word or we will die in there.»

Blade adjusted her weight on his big shoulder, one bare arm between her sleekly fleshed thighs. He shifted the sword to his left hand. As they reached the tunnel entrance there came a great outcry behind them. Blade swiveled for a moment to see armed men pouring into the chamber. They bore the circled snake on their shields and leading them, supported by two of his black-robed brethern, was Ptol. Blade cursed. Who would have thought the little fat priest so hard to kill.

Ptol saw them and waved his bloody bandaged stump. «After them-after them! A full basket of gold to the man who slays the big demon.»

Blade ran, the scented flesh of the girl jouncing on his shoulder. So now he was a demon-the reputation might stand him in good stead. And now, also, he had a goddess on his hands. Or, rather, on his shoulder.

She whispered in his ear. «Just ahead you will see where the passage appears to turn right-look you sharply and you will find a false wall. Behind it the tunnel turns to the left and down a steep stair-beware of the pit at the foot of the stairs.»

Blade grunted and ran on. Two small hands crept around his neck and locked there. Her cheek was soft against his shoulder.