The Temples Of Ayocan rb-14

by Джеффри Лорд

  That was as far as his thoughts got before the flutes and drums of the priests started up again. To Blade, they seemed to be making a tremendous amount of noise and almost no music at all. Four of the strongest Holy Warriors suddenly darted into the cluster of sacrificial victims and pulled out a young man. He did not struggle or even drag his feet as they hauled him swiftly to the great white stone block and lifted him onto its top. As the Holy Warriors laid the victim down, nine priests stepped forward. Two seized each limb, while the ninth-Pterin-bent down and took a gleaming bronze knife from a niche in the stone. He raised the knife high, making a series of passes over the prone victim's chest. Blade realized that Pterin was sketching out a bat's wings in the air.

  Suddenly the knife darted downward, entering the victim's body just below the rib cage. He jerked, but made no cry, although Blade saw his eyes roll up in his head. He was still silent as the priest swiftly disemboweled him, carving his stomach and groin open in the form of a bat's wings. Then Pterin shouted a single harsh syllable. The flutes shrilled, the drums held a long roll, and the whole top of the stone with the body on it suddenly dropped out of sight.

  Blade swallowed. The eerie silence as the knife did its work was almost as unnerving as the sacrifice itself. Well, there would be plenty of noise from him when the time came.

  The Holy Warriors were dragging another victim forward now, a young woman. She too died in silence, but Blade noticed expressions beginning to appear on the faces of the priests and warriors around him. Blood-lust was beginning to work on them. Let it go on working a little longer, until they were properly distracted, priests and Holy Warriors alike, and then. .

  A third victim, and a fourth. The top of the white rock was now slick with blood. Even the priests were licking their lips now as each new victim came forward. The warriors around Blade were ignoring him now, their eyes fixed entirely on the block.

  Then the flutes and drums sounded again in a new rhythm, and the door to the temple tunnels rumbled open. Out from the darkness below came a nightmare figure. It had a man's body, painted from head to foot a glossy white. But on its neck rode a huge bat's head with foot-long ears and glaring red eyes. From its shoulders blue leathery six-foot wings swept backward, bobbing gently as the-thing-walked. At its waist was a broad blue belt, and from the belt hung a long jeweled knife.

  Nightmarish as the effect was, it did not bother Blade for very long. Instead, the apparition acted as a signal for him. This must be the Supreme Brother, the chief of the whole cult of Ayocan, and his appearance the signal for the High Sacrifice. Blade's eyes swept in a circle around him. All eyes were on the Supreme Brother. Now!

  He took one step backward, then lunged forward. His solid mass of muscle and bone crashed into the two warriors just ahead of him. They lurched forward. They could not go sprawling, because the crowd was too thickly packed. But they smashed hard into the warriors ahead of them, who in turn did the same to those ahead of them, and so on. The shock of Blade's attack ran clear through the crowd, like ripples in water. And as the first two warriors staggered, they opened a gap in the circle around Blade.

  He plunged through that gap. As he did, both arms lunged down toward the warriors' belts. His hands snatched their axes free, then swung them hard to either side. Ribs caved in, blood spurted, and this time both warriors did go down. Blade leaped ahead, red with the warriors' blood, eyes blazing, both axes flashing in his hands.

  A foolhardy warrior charged him with a sword or perhaps the man had been pushed. In any case it made no difference. Blade blocked the sword-stroke with one axe, and smashed the man's throat with the other. Choking, clawing at his smashed windpipe, blood spurting between his fingers, the Holy Warrior reeled backward as far as he could. He tripped over someone's foot and toppled over. Two warriors and three priests went down with him in a tangle of thrashing arms and legs. They were not hurt, and Blade could not for the moment get to them, but they screamed shrilly in panic.

  The screams infected everybody with the same panic. In an instant the whole top of the mound was a mass of priests and warriors, shouting, clawing, cursing, kicking, and shoving at each other. In every mind was the same thought-get away from this-monster-in the shape of a man! If Blade had suddenly changed into the true god Ayocan and started feeding on the blood and bodies of the priests and warriors, the panic could not have been greater.

  But he still needed to clear a path to the edge of the mound before he could get away. He swung his axe hard at a warrior who blundered within reach, smashing the man's skull like an eggshell. He stamped down on a leg barring his path, feeling bone crack under his foot. As the man screamed and rolled aside, Blade leaped high, came down on somebody's hand, heard another scream, and nearly went sprawling. For a moment he was off balance and vulnerable, but only one warrior noticed it. The man rushed Blade, trying to knock him down by sheer impact. But Blade had one of his axes up to guard, and the man ploughed straight into it. The impact brought him to a halt. Blade swung the other axe, and the man gasped and doubled up as blood gushed from both his mouth and his gaping stomach.

  The man fell backward, and suddenly there was a path over his body for another few feet ahead. Blade leaped over the body, crashing into a priest at the end of the path. He did not even bother to kill this man, merely kicked him aside. A warrior who couldn't get out of the way fast enough was a different matter. Blade kicked him, too, then cracked his skull with an axe as the man crumpled. Then he snatched the dying man's sword from his belt, throwing one of the axes into the middle of the crowd. He needed something with a longer reach for the fighting now.

  With sword in one hand and axe in the other, he carved his way through the struggling mass of people. Looking over the heads of the ones nearest him, he could see some of the Holy Warriors beginning to turn, stand, and draw their weapons. The panic was beginning to ebb. If the Holy Warriors could get at him. . But they were going to have to fight their way through their own people to get to where he was. And he wasn't going to be there when they arrived.

  Now only a single pair of Holy Warriors stood between Blade and the edge of the mound. These two did not run, but neither were they very good fighters. They came at him, and as they did, a stumbling priest blundered across their path. For a moment there was a terrible four-man tangle-warriors, priest, and Blade.

  Blade recovered first. He slammed the flat of the axe into the priest's kidneys, sending him staggering out of the way. As a line opened up, Blade's sword followed it, straight to the neck of one of the warriors. The reddish-brown skin gaped and blood poured out and sluiced downward, dyeing the blue leather armor. The man faltered and fell against his comrade, immobilizing the other's axe arm. Blade beat down the second man's sword with his own axe, smashing the sword so hard it flew out of the man's hand and down the side of the mound. Then Blade slashed low at the man's legs. A red line opened along his thigh, and he reeled backward. He went over the edge of the mound, lost his balance, fell, and began rolling with a clatter of weapons. Seconds later Blade followed him, leaping out onto the open slope of the mound.

  For a moment Blade found it hard to believe that he was out of the deadly press on top of the mound. He kept looking around for men lurching at him or falling under his feet to trip him. But he quickly recovered. Now to get down the slope, through the thin line of Holy Warriors at the bottom, and into the crowd.

  But now the Holy Warriors at the base of the mound were climbing up toward him, turning their backs on the crowd. Blade could hear a restless rumble of voices from below and see little eddies of movement in the crowd, but they were all unarmed. There was nothing they could do to help him against the Holy Warriors, even if they wanted to. At a single glance Blade counted nearly thirty Holy Warriors climbing toward him, swords and axes drawn. They showed no signs of panic, whatever might be the case behind him.

  The last warrior Blade had killed was still holding his axe. Blade sprinted across the slope to the body, snatched up the axe, and thrust
it into his belt. Then he ran straight down the slope at the climbing warriors. The advancing line grew irregular and stopped. Obviously the warriors couldn't make up their minds whether to spread out or bunch up. They might not be panic-stricken, but neither did any of them want to wind up facing Blade alone. Before they could decide, Blade was on them.

  Thirty feet away he snatched the extra axe from his belt and threw it at the nearest warrior. The man ducked, but not fast enough or low enough. The hatchet smashed into his right shoulder, and his right hand opened and spilled his sword to the stone with a clatter. But the warrior did not give way as Blade had expected. Whether it was courage or paralyzing fear, he stood his ground, his own axe raised. Blade could not charge in at full speed, and did not. He came down on the man at a trot, his sword and axe raised.

  As Blade did this, his opponent took two steps forward. Blade's descending sword drove into the man's body, too deeply. He was dead in an instant, but Blade's sword was fixed solidly in his body. Blade barely held onto it as the man went down, tugging and jerking desperately to free it. As he did so, the man's comrades took courage from his sacrifice and rushed in on either side of Blade.

  Blade leaped back just in time to keep from being sliced apart by two swords coming in together. But in leaping to save himself, he had to leave his sword behind. Now he faced the warriors crowding around him with only an axe.

  Not for long, however. Seeing Blade half-disarmed made some of his enemies overconfident. They came at him in a solid mass, where no one had room to swing a sword or strike with an axe properly. Blade had all the room he needed, to dart forward and strike like a snake with his axe. A man's arm cracked under the blow, a sword fell-and Blade snatched it up as it clattered on the stone. Blade slashed swiftly with his new sword at the legs of one man who was crowding too close. The man screamed and hopped back on one foot, the other a blood-spouting stump, then fell over backward. Two of his comrades fell with him, one rolling away down the slope.

  Now Blade was fully armed once more, and both sword and axe flickered and struck out at his enemies. But while he was rearming himself, more of the Holy Warriors had found the chance to close in around him. Now he found himself completely surrounded by fresh opponents. He was more than a match for any one of them, or even any five of them, but there were many more than that. He chopped and slashed and parried, felt his strokes clang off sword blades or chop deep into flesh and bone. But he also felt the tightness in his chest, the sweat pouring in waterfalls down his body, his legs growing rubbery. His arms seemed to be weighted down with stones tied to them, and the sword and the axe seemed to weigh a hundred pounds apiece. The sword was losing its edge as well. Bronze could take only so much punishment, and he had given his sword that much and three times more besides. Now its edge was saw-toothed. More often than not it would only wound, not kill. As the Holy Warriors saw that, they regained still more of their courage, and more and more of them crowded, closer, even those with open, bleeding wounds.

  Blade didn't know at what moment he realized that he wasn't going to get out of this. All he knew was that in one moment he was still looking for a clear path through the warriors, one down the mound and into the crowd. The next moment he was no longer concerned with that, only with killing as many warriors as possible before they killed him. He had already done much to make this a memorable High Sacrifice for the cult of Ayocan. But he wanted to do a little more if he could.

  He no longer took so much care at guarding, preferring to strike even at the risk of being struck. He started taking wounds, small ones mostly, for the Holy Warriors' swords were getting almost as battered as his own. He grinned as he felt the blood trickle down thighs and torso, felt the pouring sweat sting his wounds. Now he was no longer whole and perfect. No matter how strong his spirit might be, his body made him unfit for sacrifice to Ayocan. The whole High Sacrifice would be spoiled. And whether or not Ayocan was displeased, Pterin and the Supreme Brother certainly would be. That was a large consolation.

  A shrill noise began to rise around Blade, filling his ears so that he could no longer hear the clang of bronze meeting bronze or his own panting breath. Then with a shock he realized that the shrill noise was the sound of flutes, loudly played and getting closer. With a still greater shock he realized that the Holy Warriors around him were no longer crowding in to strike. He no longer had to raise his sagging arms to guard against their blows or deliver his own. The Holy Warriors had drawn back, and he was standing by himself on the slope of the temple mound. In a wide circle around him the stone was red and slick with blood and littered with maimed or dead men.

  He looked to where the flute music was sounding. A solid column of King Hurakun's black-clad warriors was marching around the temple mound toward him, their swords drawn, their musicians marching in the lead. Blade suppressed a groan. So Hurakun's guard was intervening, to curry favor with the cult of Ayocan? Very well, they would find him just as hard to kill as the warriors of the cult had. No, that couldn't be. He was too exhausted, and the heat and the loss of blood were already making him lightheaded. They would have an almost easy kill. Almost.

  He dropped his battered sword and started searching the bodies around him for a better one.

  He was reaching down to pick one up when the flutes stopped suddenly. Shouts came from the top of the temple mound, and Blade looked toward it. As he did so, a tall figure in black robes and glossy black headdress stepped to the edge of the white slabs, black plumes waving above him. King Hurakun was about to speak.

  The king's voice was high-pitched, almost feminine, but it carried-and it carried authority. «In sight of the people of Chiribu, we, Hurakun, King of Chiribu, invoke the Royal Right of Pardon. We invoke it for this man, warrior and formerly prisoner of the cult of Ayocan for the High Sacrifice. We order that he be taken at once to the House of the Pardoned, and there be given all due and proper treatment. Warriors of Hurakun, take the pardoned.»

  There may have been further explanations. There may have been reactions-anger, amazement, surprise, joy-from both the priests and warriors atop the mound or from the crowd below. Blade didn't hear any of it. As the black-clad warriors turned toward him, his knees gave under him. He was aware of the feel of baking-hot, blood-slick stone against his cheek as he fell. And then he stopped being aware of anything for quite a while.

  Chapter 10

  Blade was back on the cold blue river above the falls, but this time he was sitting up in the canoe, paddling. He was all alone, and suddenly he was at the falls. He paddled frantically, trying to put the canoe ashore. But he wasn't strong enough, and the cloud of mist at the end of the blue water swept closer-closer-closer. Then the mist rose up around him and the outside world disappeared. He should be over the edge now, and falling down a mile to the muddy Low River. But he couldn't see anything, and he had no sensation of falling.

  He had just reached the point of being surprised at that, when he realized that he wasn't in a canoe on the river or anywhere else. So there was no reason why he should feel that he was falling, because he wasn't falling at all! This seemed to be a great and momentous discovery, nearly on a level with the theory of relativity. It occupied all his attention as he tried to figure out why it should be that way.

  But not for long. He found his ability to concentrate on the problem slipping away. As it did, he became aware of a soft surface under him, cool breezes blowing over him, a familiar smell in his nostrils. The narcotic! That recognition woke him up in a hurry.

  He was lying naked on a wide mattress supported by a frame of glossy black wood. The bedposts, he noted, were carved in the form of serpents with three jutting horns on their heads. Black as a symbolic color, and three-horned serpents. That sounded almost as familiar as the narcotic. Of course. He was in the House of the Pardoned of the King of Chiribu. The symbolic color was black, and he recalled seeing three-horned serpents on the banners and the shields of the soldiers. In spite of the smell of the narcotic, he was not back in the
hands of the cult of Ayocan. He began to look around the room more calmly, no longer expecting things to jump at him from out of the walls.

  The room was large, with fresh air and sunlight pouring in through large arches that opened onto a balcony. The walls and ceiling were painted pale green, the floor tiled in black and dark red. Several flowering shrubs stood in bronze pots just outside on the balcony, the smell of their blossoms drifting pleasantly into the room on the breeze.

  Looking down at himself, Blade realized that he was swathed almost from neck to groin in bandages and pads soaked in the healing narcotic. At least he hoped it was the healing form of the narcotic and not the mind-destroying one! Since he was under the protection of King Hurakun, he suspected it was the former. There were also bandages wrapped around his legs and arms, even in places he couldn't recall being wounded. The details of the long fight on the mound were coming back to him, but only a little at a time.

  Then he heard light, brisk footsteps approaching along the balcony. A loud male voice issued a challenge, and a softer female one replied. Then suddenly a small graceful figure was silhouetted in one of the arches.

  Of all the things that he had seen since waking, the girl who came through the arch was the one Blade most wished was real. No-the woman. As she approached, Blade could see the lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth that suggested thirty years, perhaps more. But her figure was arrow-straight and arrow-slim, with pert, high breasts, and the hair drawn tightly back from her brown face was glossy black. She wore a robe of semitransparent silk, and much to Blade's regret she wore under that a pale green embroidered shift.

  She came over to the bed and stood by its head, looking down at him, a faint smile playing across her neat little mouth. «So, warrior, you are awake. Could you tell me what is your name among your own people, if you have one? Otherwise we shall have to go on calling you merely 'warrior,' as the priests of Ayocan did. We would not do as they do.» There was no mistaking the cold contempt and hostility in her voice as she said the last sentence. Blade suddenly realized that none of the colors he had seen in this palace were those of the cult of Ayocan-no white, no dark blue, no yellow-orange.