“Man.” Jud found his voice at last. “Man, I know not why you rehearse these things to me. Tell me—I know nothing of you but your name—is it for no reason at all that you are called Giles the Treacherous?”
“That is a long story, and not too easy of belief. I will begin it if you like.”
“No, I care not. A true scoundrel would probably call himself Giles the Honest. All right!” Jud came visibly to a decision. “All right! If you want plain speaking. A child should know there are no gods on top of this mountain, or anywhere else. That being so, who really does rule the Temple, Godsmountain, the world? The simple answer is, that they are ruled by men.”
He nodded, smiling with satisfaction at his own logic, and then plunged on. “Very well. Since we’re not going to be welcomed into some imaginary hall, the question arises, why are we here? There must be a real reason. T’would be senseless to have us kill one another off to the last man for the amusement of a few outworlders who happened by. No. Mark my words. Before this day’s duelling starts—or at worst before it’s over—the six or eight of us who’re left will be let in on the secret, and the Tournament will be secretly stopped.”
“You really think that.”
“Man, what else? We’re going into some elite, secret force. They’ve already stopped sending down supplies for us right? The Tournament will be halted, and some story put out telling who the final winner was and how he’s happily guzzling and wenching with the gods.”
“The good Leros must be an excellent actor.”
“Maybe he hasn’t been told. A good man and all that, but not the brightest. It’s plain enough if you only look at it, consider all the facts. We’re going into some kind of palace guard, for the High Priest and whoever else is really running things atop this mountain.”
When Jud fell silent, Giles also had no more to say for a little while, though he was thinking rapidly. At last he replied: “You may be right. I only know that I would give much to be able to turn my own steps quietly downhill at this moment and retrace them to my home.”
“You speak madness, Giles. Once you have come this far they would never let you go. Where is your home?”
“Endross Swamp.” It was a remote province, far to the south. “The writ of Godsmountain does not run there with much effect.”
“So I have heard. In fact I would have thought that place was full of Thorun’s enemies.” Jud was staring at him. “Why are you here?”
“I am no enemy of Thorun,” Giles said at once, and firmly. “It may be that some of his priests are not as worthy and honest as they should be. As to why I am here, well, I am now asking that question of myself.”
Up ahead the priests had stopped, still deep in their discussion. Leros was gesturing angrily, while the other two appeared unhappy but resigned. They had reached the next ring prepared for fighting. Giles saw that it had been made with a portion of its rim overlooking an almost precipitous slope. As he stared, he felt a chill sensation near his heart. In the south they thought that meant a man had laid eyes on the place where he would die.
“What did I tell you?” Jud was murmuring, nudging Giles with an elbow. Leros had turned around as they came up, and was about to speak to the warriors. But something in Leros’s attitude had changed, and they all recognized at once that he was not simply going to announce another round of fighting. Something else impended.
LEROS was angry, but not at the j warriors, not at the gloomy priests who stood beside him. When he spoke his voice was tense. “First I am instructed to ask, whether, when the outworlders were with us yesterday, any of them mentioned the name of the demigod Karlsen.”
The warriors all exchanged mildly puzzled looks. Most of them could not remember anything the outworlders had said: they all had more important things to think about. This was hardly the announcement Jud had expected, and he was frowning.
All were silent until Giles put up a hand and asked: “Good Leros, are these outworlders then accused of some blasphemy?”
“That is being decided up above,” said one of the other priests, gesturing toward the summit.
“Tell Andreas to decide it up there, then,” said Leros tartly. “And let me get on with more important business here.”
“Lord Leros, your pardon. I repeat again, I and many others are sympathetic to your views. I am only relaying orders—”
“Yes.” Again Leros addressed the waiting warriors. “Those above see fit to bother us with a second triviality. One of the outworlders, the one who behaved like a frightened woman when he saw blood, has wandered off. It is thought he must still be on the mountain, for soldiers patrolling in the flatlands have not found him. I must ask whether any of you have caught sight of such a person either last night or today.”
Giles signed that he had not. The other seven, by now were almost totally uninterested, also gave mutely negative responses.
Leros turned back to the other priests. “Do not these outworlders carry devices for talking one to the other, even when they are kilometers apart? How can one be lost if he can tell the others where he is?”
One of the other priests said: “Such a device was found near their ship. The coward must have dropped it. Anyway, in my opinion he does not want to be found. Other even stranger things were found there also, and there is more going on than we have been told.” The priest’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. Giles feigned a boredom as great as that of the other fighting men around him, and he kept his eyes on a little flying creature in a tree, but meanwhile his ears grasped for every word.
The priest continued his private—he thought—conversation with Leros: “The other outworlders are said to be guests in the Temple precincts but no one believes they remain there by choice. Very few people have seen them since they entered. One of their women seems to be confined aboard their ship. More, and stranger—one that I shall not name has told me of a most surprising rumor; the demigod Mjollnir went forth to challenge the outworlders, and one of them slew him.”
Leros made a disgusted sound and turned his back. “And I had been on the verge of giving credence to these stories you bring.”
“Oh, I do not credit that about Mjollnir myself. Certainly not! Blasphemous. But something strange is going on, something to do with the outworlders, and we have not been told the truth about it.”
“That may well be. But it has nothing to do with me or with this Tournament.” Leros squinted up the road. “When may we expect better food and drink, and some new servants?”
The third priest looked unhappier than before. “Lord Leros, again I must give you an answer that you will not like.”
Leros swung around. “What now?” His tone was ominous.
“It is as if the Inner Circle has suddenly forgotten about the Tournament. Not simply that they are busy with other things, but that they no longer care about it. I could get no promise that the rations sent down would be improved. Andreas I saw only briefly, and he was preoccupied with other matters, I know not what. He said to me: ‘Bid Leros get on with his show, and finish up.’ How can I question the High Priest?”
Leros’s hand went unthinkingly to his side, where a warrior’s belted sword would hang, found only the smooth white priestly robe. “My show? Were those his words?”
“On my honor, they were.”
“Well, I can question what Andreas order.” Leros spoke in cold rage, his words quiet and calculated. “High Priest or not. What else will he take from us? Why not all our slaves and food, why not our clothes and weapons as well?” The other priests looked as if they were trying not to hear. Giles was holding his breath in concentration.
Leros went on: “Is this or is it not supposed to be a Tournament pleasing to Thorun and worthy of him, intended to select a man who is worthy of apotheosis? Are not these eight remaining champions, each and every one, the finest . . .” Words failed Leros for the moment. Indeed he seemed near strangulation. At last he managed to draw a deep breath and resume. “Very well. I must go up and q
uestion him myself on these matters. One of you two must stay here for a while, that these men be not left unattended by any of high rank.”
Turning then to the eight waiting warriors, Leros lost his scowl and faced them with a sad and loving smile. “Good lords—good men. I must leave you for a while. Do you wish to go on with this round of fighting or wait for my return? I am going up the hill to argue for better treatment. There is no telling when I will get back.”
The men looked at one another uncertainly. Giles almost spoke, and then bit back the words. His mind was racing, trying to balance probabilities. He wanted a delay, but not too much of one.
Leros, seeing their uncertainty, glanced at the high bronze shield that was Hunters’ sun trying to burn its way through layers of mist. “Wait until the hour of noon,” he told them. “If I am not back by then, with better honors and provisions for you—or have not sent word—then fight on as best you can.” Handing over his list of names to the priest who had been chosen to stay with the men, and beckoning the others to come along, he started at a brisk pace up the hill.
THE long morning dragged slowly by. Until the middle of the day the warriors stood or lounged around, gloomily silent or conversing two or three together in low voices. At last, when it was plain that noon had come and gone and there had been no word from Leros and no sign of his return, the substitute priest cleared his throat and called the eight together. In a somewhat awkward little speech he introduced himself as Yelgir, and announced that he was ready to call the roll if they were prepared to fight.
“Let us get on with it,” said Vann the Nomad. Others nodded their readiness. Waiting and uncertainty were harder to bear than blows. They took their places around the ring.
Yelgir took out the roll of names and cleared his throat once more. “Charles the Upright—Farley of Eikosk.”
From their opposite sides of the ring Charles and Farley advanced in almost leisurely fashion. In the center they touched weapons carefully, each man showing respect for the other’s abilities, and began a cautious sparring. Farley’s wounded left hand, that Leros himself had neatly splinted and bandaged, did not appear to be causing him any trouble except that he opened the fight with sword alone, leaving his dagger in his belt.
Gradually the fighters added speed and strength to their movements until the long swords rang musically. The contest seemed quite even between them. Then Farley’s jewel-bright steel dipped in a flashy feint he had not used in any earlier round of fighting. Charles tried to parry the stroke that did not come, and missed the deadly one that did; he fell to earth with one bright shriek of pain.
“Giles the Treacherous—Jud Isaksson.”
Jud, as before, charged out quickly. Giles did not seem nearly so eager, but still this fight began at a faster tempo than had the previous one. Both men were active, but neither would commit himself utterly to an attack. Now Giles became the more aggressive; his long sword lanced above and below the smaller man’s round shield, but did not manage to get around it. And now Isaksson’s blows fell thick and fast and Giles was forced to spend his energy in parrying, and then to give ground before the onslaught.
The end came suddenly when Giles was backed against the rim of the fighting circle that overhung the downhill slope. Jud’s blade flashed, a mere glint of light, and Giles clutched at his chest, gave a choked cry, fell. On the steep turfy incline his body slid and tumbled a score of meters before a bush caught and held it momentarily. Then it pulled loose and slid on again. The priest beckoned. The limping slave with the maul began the long climb down.
“Omir Kelsumba—Rahim Sosias.”
The black giant seemed to grow even larger upon entering the ring. Again he carried his great axe cradled in his two arms almost tenderly. Against him, fat Sosias with his curved sword looked terribly overmatched. But the scimitar drew first blood. It was a light wound, a mere touch with the point along the outside of Kelsumba’s thigh. Sosias’s timing had been perfect; the riposte with the axe only tore the edge of his loose outer garment.
The wound galvanized the black man, and now Sosias had to go jumping back, paunch jiggling as he danced with marvelous speed. Shift and flash went the axe, and shift and flash again, moving with the speed and control of a light sword, though the heaviest sword could not have held it in a parry. A light murmur of awe went around the watching circle.
Sosias tried the cut at the thighs again, or feinted doing so. This time the riposte came out a little farther after him, yet he miraculously managed to cut his own movement short at the critical instant and slide away untouched. His concealed knife had come out into his left hand, but he was unable now to get close enough to use it.
It would be suicidal to simply wait and try to keep dodging that axe. Sosias must try to attack again, and at last the great axe caught him coming in, and wiped away his face. Thomas the Grabber, leaning on his spear some ten meters distant, felt warm droplets of blood splash on his arm.
“THOMAS the Grabber—Vann the Nomad.”
Vann with his clumsy-looking grip on his long sword faced Thomas, who probingly sent his huge spear darting out and back. Vann wasted no energy in trying to behead the spear, the armored shaft of which had proved itself already in several fights. The fight developed quite slowly at first, both men moving cautiously, with many feints and no real effort at attack.
After a while it became apparent to expert eyes—no other kind were watching now—that Vann could not entirely rid himself of the affectation of holding his sword awkwardly between exchanges. Certainly he got it back into the proper position with amazing speed, but the fraction of a heartbeat wasted in this correction was more than could be spared in competition at this level. The awkward grip was not a natural attitude for Vann, like Kelsumba’s peculiar way of holding his axe, but a pose practiced to put an opponent off guard. As such it was utterly useless now, as Vann knew full well; he did not want to use it, but his nerves and muscles would forget and fall into the pattern.
Thomas timed this lapse and recovery several times, then caught the long sword drooping on the downbeat. With a sound like a club’s impact the spear rammed through Vann’s tattered shirt and torso, a little above his trophied belt. Vann’s face bore a look of witless grief when he saw the bright fountain of his own blood, then bore no expression at all.
FARLEY of Eikosk, departing from that deadly ring in the company of his three peers, to resume their slow trek up the mountain, was bothered by the eerie feeling that the gods had forgotten the surviving handful of them. Glancing back over his shoulder from the next bend in the road, he saw the stiffening bodies of the day’s four victims laid out beside the ring, and a single gray-garbed figure with a maul at its belt beginning to dig the modest pit that would be their grave. Isaksson, walking beside Farley, kept glancing back also, and Isaksson, too, seemed perturbed about something. Farley almost tried to speak of his troubled feelings, but then said nothing, being unsure of how to put them into words.
A FEW paces ahead, Omir Kelsumba, his huge axe clean and sheathed and innocent as some woodcutter’s implement, went up the endless-seeming hill with easy strides. His thoughts were far away, with his small unhealthy children and his wife. Someday, if he won the Tournament, he could perhaps return to see his family, drifting as a spirit on the night wind, or coming with changed appearance as a casual traveler. Everyone knew that gods could do such things, and when he had won the Tournament he would be almost a god.
Earlier there had been occasional doubts, but now the conviction had returned that he was going to win. He waxed stronger with every victory. He could feel the god-strength mounting in him. Since he had reached his full growth, no man had ever been able to stand against him, and none could now. When the Tournament was over he would be a god, and gods could heal as well as murder. When he took his seat at Thorun’s right hand the goddess of healing could not refuse to grant him healing for his children. No child of a god was ever done to death in a hovel by ill luck or mean diseases.
THE road came to the twin towers from which sentinels saluted gravely as the fighters passed.
“The gods’ private park,” Thomas muttered aloud, looking around him as they continued. The road was wider now, bordered with fine gravel walks, beyond which cultivated green ground-cover vines made one continuously inviting couch.
“Yes,” said Farley of Eikosk’s reverent voice behind him. “I suppose we might see Thorun himself among those trees.”
No one answered. Shortly Yelgir, their escorting priest, signalled for a halt, and led them a little distance off the road. The ground of softer than before, its area smaller. The night was quiet when it came, still as the grave, or nearly so.
IX
SCHOENBERG, De La Torre, Athena, and Celeste were returned to their comfortable private rooms after the feast, but they were kept under guard every step of the way and all pretense that they were free agents had been dropped. No one was manhandled, but all were searched and their communicators taken from them.
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