The Mer- Lion

by Lee Arthur

  Gilliver was among the last to come up with a mount, which meant it was one of those that fought strongest and longest against capture. Ogilvy managed to work his way alongside and help get the steed quieted down. Even as de Wynter was fighting the gray for control, he momentarily wondered if the others felt the same rush of excitement he did with all that power and spirit gathered between his legs and tugging fiercely at the reins.

  Twenty riders were herded back into the arena and managed to line up in a fairly straight line. The nineteen targets were gathered at the center of the arena.

  The trumpets sounded in a long and pretentious salute. The head judge made his way across the dusty surface, stopping in front of the royal box. The princess was being asked to select a leader. Only a formality. The princess had previously narrowed it down to two, and Ramlah had made the final choice.

  With a bow, the head judge trudged back toward the lined-up horsemen. There he extended his arm and pointed a finger at de Wynter "You have the honor of being the first of the firsts. See that you do nothing to discredit her wise choice."

  As ibn Hudaij read off the order in which they would perform, as predetermined earlier, too, de Wynter thought it only fair. The Amira had caused the death of Drummond and Menzies. Now, whatever her reason,-she had made it possible for him to save two other of his boyhood friends.

  Then a horrible thought struck him, one that he hadn't even considered. If he picked Cameron, and Cameron cooperated so that de Wynter could remain the leader and thus control the bloodshed, Cameron would be lessening his own chances to earn a horse by evading a rider three times. My God what a quandary.

  Aisha was not unaware of the dilemma de Wynter faced. She, after all, had seen to it that Cameron was saved from the Moulay's torments and included in this group for just this purpose: to test de Wynter. She sat on the edge of her seat, watching his every move, wondering what he would decide. Her mother watched her intently and decided the child liked the white-haired one more than she would admit even to herself.

  "Leader, select your target!" came the shout from the head judge, and de Wynter's horse fairly leaped forward, rider wrestling to keep the excited stallion under control, the gray eager to run and escape the strange weight on its back and the harsh restrictions of bit and cinch.

  Straight at the targets came the prancing, sidestepping gray white Arabian with the handsome white-haired rider. As the others scattered, one stood his ground, Cameron, proving his faith and offering his help to de Wynter in remaining the leader of this fear-crazed and power-maddened collection of contestants.

  Close enough he rode to read a number on a disc before the Arabian shied and pranced away, raising a small cloud of dust. As he rode back, a silent one waited to give him sword and dagger and three gold rings. The rider ignored him, instead, urging his horse forward.

  "What number did you choose?" the head judge asked. De Wynter rode past him without saying a word, and the judge went on, desperately, "Then what act do you choose to perform?"

  "I choose none!" de Wynter shouted in defiance, and rode at full gallop straight for the royal box. Yanking his mount to a skidding halt, he addressed the princess as her bodyguards gathered around the royal family, judges and whip-bearers running toward the errant horse and rider.

  "By all that is holy, Amira, I call upon you to end this farce," he shouted above the turmoil. "Select your marriage partner from those who have already proved themselves worthy. Do not, I beg of you, force us to maim and kill helpless individuals."

  "You will return to the ring immediately and proceed with the games, or I will have your target's head cut off where he stands," the angered princess replied, her dark, flashing eyes looking over her veil straight into his.

  With a sinking feeling, he realized she meant it and that there was no further reason to plead. She was too cruel and hardened. Again he wheeled the horse, just as the mounted judges caught up to him, and he dashed through them back to the silent one, grabbing the weapons and rings and proceeding on to the circle, signifying his compliance with her order.

  Again came the request to name the target and act he would perform. This time he replied: "Number seventeen, an X on his right arm."

  At the signal, he rode the Arabian into the ring at half speed, circling the wary but determined figure of Cameron. "Sorry, my friend, but I must remain the leader as long as possible in order to control the game."

  "I know," was all Cameron said.

  "Then make it look good, but at the right moment hold that arm as still as you can." With that he kicked the horse into a feigned chase, while Cameron leaped and ran and feinted. For more than half of his allotted time, de Wynter practiced getting the horse close enough to Cameron and in the right position so he could mark him without cutting his arm too deeply or, God forbid, amputating it completely.

  "Now, George," he called, adding under his breath, "Pray let's make it quick and easy." Cameron feigned a slip, and as he rose, the Arabian sidestepped and backtracked close enough for the Scotsman to flick his sword. It was over in an instant. Blood barely trickled from the clear X which covered more than five centimeters on his bicep. Cameron stared at his arm in disbelief. Then he flashed a smile at de Wynter and said, "God bless you, Jamie, I owe you one."

  The next rider was promptly called forward and instructed to select his target. The horseman finally accomplished a crude X on his target's arm, though the blood poured freely through the fingers that sought to stem the flow.

  One after another, rider matched wits and skill with target.

  Gilliver, in fourth place, got one mark on his victim's arm, but could not complete the X within the time limit. He was first to give up one of the precious rings that kept him a rider. Angus had a fairly easy time since, as he'd made sure, he rode the same horse he'd broken the day before. John the Rob's luck continued to hold, or perhaps it was his skill at sizing up an opponent. At any rate, he got one mark on early and cross-hatched it just before his time ran out. Fionn again used his great size to advantage; that, plus the docility of his mount. He simply reached down and grabbed his smallish target by the back of the neck, threw him over the saddle, zigged and zagged with the dagger, and dropped the man down to the ground properly

  marked. The audience roared, even the Berber sheikh shouting his approval.

  The next five targets successfully protected their arms and took rings away from disappointed and frustrated riders. One of these was Cameron, who—on the basis of de Wynter's ride—had been taken for an easy mark; he soon proved the rider wrong. Ogilvy, in the next to last spot, also selected a previously used target, a slow-moving giant of a man, one whose arm had been badly slashed early on and who had lost considerable blood. The way Ogilvy figured it, the man had undoubtedly lost some of his stamina and probably much of his stomach for swordplay. Ogilvy was right. His sword soon added a second X to the man's bloodied right arm.

  As was expected, the man on the zebra, who went last, could not even stay on his mount the prescribed time.

  With no letup, the officials called for the second round to begin, asking de Wynter to choose his target and his act. This time the Scot picked a heavyset man whom he thought moved not too swiftly the first time round. He was right. De Wynter easily drew blood in the manner he said he would: slicing a furrow across the top of his target's left knee.

  Gilliver survived this round and retained his two rings, but he shuddered as his sword slashed too deeply across the target's knee. Two riders lost their second rings. A few lost their first, including John the Rob. But most carved up their targets' legs to the satisfaction of the judges and the delight of the bloodthirsty crowd. Cameron took a slight cut on his left knee.

  For his third target, de Wynter took a lesson from Ogilvy and picked the target whose right arm was badly sliced with two Xs, and whose left kneecap was badly damaged by an errant blade. It tore at his guts to do it, but he knew he must try to remain the leader to save his fellow slaves. There were grumbles fro
m some of the contestants as he announced his intent to draw blood on his target's left cheek with the dagger. Most wanted to cause more damage to the targets to ensure their own success.

  In less than a minute a neat nick with but the point of his dagger drew just enough blood to satisfy the unhappy judges. He could only hope that the rest of the riders would be as compassionate. And he hoped that if it were inevitable, Cameron would let the blade do its work neatly, rather than risk losing an eye or ending up with a big scar by attempting to avoid the injury.

  He need not have worried. George scrambled and ducked and grabbed the bridle and pulled every trick he could think of to outlast the clock. Eventually, he took a cut on the shoulder, but won a ring. As de Wynter had surmised, the short-bladed dagger would be easier for the targets to avoid, especially against a man on horseback.

  Gilliver lost another ring. Carlby his first. Angus and Ogilvy, veterans of mountain fighting that they were, had no real trouble in getting to their respective targets. The zebra-man lost his third ring, and joined the targets, the zebra being held aside to reward the first target to get three rings.

  Sadly, the giant, weakened by loss of blood and hobbled by the bad kneecap, was selected by several of the riders as an easy target, while the stronger and more agile did not get picked. For while they did not have to face slashed cheeks, they also lost their opportunity to win three rings and thus gain horses.

  The fourth round was marked by shouts of derision from the Arabs in the crowd and a growing disfavor among most of the other contestants of de Wynter as the leader. The judges, too, were not pleased, the pleasure of the crowd being their measure. But they had to live with their own rules, short of Aisha herself making a change.

  His target selected, de Wynter called for the riders to duplicate his feat of cutting his target's skin from shoulder blade to shoulder blade with the dagger. There was open opposition now. Most of the riders were tired of what they considered child's play with grown-up toys. They hooted and shouted at their leader, who paid no attention, moving quickly on his target and chasing him madly around the large circle. When he grabbed the reins and used the gray's head to stay just out of reach, de Wynter took a calculated risk rather than let time run out on him. Vaulting from the saddle while still holding the reins, he slit the back of his surprised opponent and was back on the horse's back almost before either horse or target realized what had happened. This feat drew applause from the Berbers for his horsemanship. But the Moulay booed.

  Gilliver's long arm made the difference as he fought gamely to keep his final ring. Aided by a now-tamer horse that responded well to his urgings, he carved a bloody streak across a tired and aching giant's back.

  Angus lost his first ring. John the Rob his second. Ogilvy and Fionn kept their perfect records intact. Cameron was bloody but still very much alive, with two triumphs.

  For one more round de Wynter could delay the inevitable, but he had not time even to consider what he would do when the rules changed to allow—nay, demand—more than just bodily harm. He knew the pressure he would be under from fellow riders, judges, and the crowd to speed up the elimination process. And who knew when the Moulay would intervene and decide things were not moving fast enough? That mad ruler was perfectly capable of dictating the very acts of violence himself.

  A fifth time de Wynter selected his target and braved the wrath of the other riders by calling for a relatively harmless piece of swordmanship. He signaled that he was going to drive his sword through the fleshy part of his victim's right thigh, making it clear that the blade must both enter and exit the flesh.

  Cameron's thin long legs, he hoped, would make a difficult target, while his running ability should help him escape. If he could hold out again for three minutes, he would gain a horse. But first, de Wynter wished with all his heart, let some other target get a third ring and, along with it, the zebra. Most of all he worried about Gilliver losing his third ring and becoming a target instead of a rider.

  He skewered his target in short order, his stomach convulsing as he felt the sword enter and slide through flesh and muscle. No bone, no tendon, he felt sure from the feel. And in a show of friendship, he reached down from the saddle and helped his victim back on his feet to hobble out of the ring holding his punctured thigh with both hands.

  Gilliver couldn't do it; he lost his third ring, and tears welled in de Wynter's eyes. For six days now they had fought, schemed and prayed that this, their physically weakest member, could somehow be spared a wretched death in this burning desert country so far away from his beloved homeland. Cameron had even begged Gilliver to select him as his target, but Gilliver had shaken his head and named a healthy one, one who had an excellent chance of avoiding the sword. Gilliver's kind heart would not let him pick on the weakest, and he had drawn a formidable opponent.

  Handing over his third ring to an official, he dismounted and walked slowly into the gathering of wounded targets, not really surprised or disappointed... more resigned to the inevitable.

  Whether or not the other riders felt pity for this quiet man with the frail frame who had just moments ago been one of them, who could tell? But somehow he did not get picked as a target for the rest of the fifth round.

  Some of the crowd had long since grown bored with the competition; they were tired of sitting on uncushioned seats and feeling the sun's heat beat upon their heads. Ramlah was prepared for this. She sent Pietro, the fat and the funny and the former contestant, with a message to Ali. Soon, servants passed among the crowd with trays of food and pitchers of drink. As the crowd munched and gulped the free viands, they consoled themselves with the thought that, with the start of the sixth round, things would get exciting.

  They couldn't have been more right. Aisha herself intervened. Irritated that the white-haired one, given a golden opportunity to impress the Amira and the Berbers, had thought more of the targets than himself, she decided to teach the jamad ja'da a lesson he'd not soon forget. Again it was Pietro the Funny who was sent with the message, this time to the head judge.

  De Wynter was lined up at the edge of the circle to start the sixth round when tubas stopped him. Ibn Hudaij had the muezzin next to him call for silence, then announced a new rule. After every five rounds, the leadership was to change, the first becoming the last, the second becoming first.

  With a surge of his powerful stallion, the new leader, a redhead, charged forward to the edge of the circle. Aisha bit her lip. In her anger at de Wynter she had not paid attention to who would take his place. Now, she could only pray Eulj Ali would go quickly down to defeat. He didn't need to look the targets over, he already knew the number of the man he wanted.

  Why he selected George Cameron was difficult to imagine. The Scot had been barely touched by the sword and dagger, and his athletic ability had stood out for all to see throughout the day. The two rings he wore on his left hand were proof of that. Perhaps the rider's past successes made him overconfident, wanting to face only what he considered the best. "Number seventeen, I'll slit his throat." A roar of approval went up from the now revitalized crowd.

  Carlby moved his horse next to de Wynter's gray and the two conversed in guarded tones. "This doesn't look good," Carlby said, trying not to move his lips and not looking directly at de Wynter.

  "If she would have let me be the leader for just a few more rounds, we could have stalled this thing until Cameron won, maybe even Gilliver, if three of us sacrificed a ring."

  "Not your fault," Carlby said, "and there's nothing we can do but sit here and watch. Pray God, George can stay away long enough."

  The butchery took no more than two minutes. Only Carlby's restraining hand kept de Wynter from riding into the ring and slaying the man who had, in one terrible flashing moment, drawn his blade across Cameron's jugular vein, then roared in triumph as the blood spurted out in great pulsing streams. Cameron looked stunned, disbelieving, then blank as he sank to his knees, and slowly rolled over onto his side, his legs drawn up tight to
his belly, full circle from the womb to the dusty floor of al Djem.

  Slaves hauled his body roughly, like butchered meat, from the arena, even while the next in line moved up to the circle, looked over the targets, and called out a number. The intended victim and his fellow targets were still in shock, so monstrous was the memory of that first young, athletic body slumping to the ground in the last throes of death. Woodenly, the selected target moved into the circle. Briefly, he went down on one knee and bowed his head in a silent prayer to whatever God he believed could hear him.

  Gilliver added his own fervent prayer... not for himself, but for the man now facing death. As an afterthought, he asked that John the Rob, who now had only one ring remaining, be granted success if the Creator could see it that way.

  Another rider won. A second body was dragged away. The crowd loved it. This was what they had come to see. Soon there would be an end to the long day, and they would know who was going to marry the princess.