Finally the priest arrived. Several inches taller than Mike, he wore sweeping robes of drab green, flecked with red. Heavy, elaborately worked gold earrings hung from his distended ear lobes, and more gold gleamed from his neck, wrists and hands. On his shaven head there was a single lock of curled black hair, clipped with three bold black-and-white feathers. He conversed with their captors from the village as he circled the cart, examining them cursorily from a safe distance before yelling something at the city guards.
Dropping their spears, two men jumped into the cart, causing it to lurch perilously. Cursing as men grabbed her arms, Shalira sought what little protection Mike could give from this new assault.
“Take your damn hands off her,” he shouted. Reflexively, they stepped back, obeying the note of command in his voice. “Saium, tell the priest who she is, quickly.”
Saium began talking in the lilting language of the hill people, which the priest gave evidence of understanding. Three Feathers, as Mike had labeled the man, inclined his head and answered Saium with a brief sentence. Then he shouted another command to the guards. They backed off and jumped from the cart. One extended his hands beckoningly to Shalira, looking beyond her to Mike, his meaning plain. Tell her to cooperate or else.
“They want you to get out of the cart,” Mike told her. “I think you’d better do it.”
She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. “I have to stay with you.”
He ached to be able to hold her. “Better do as they ask. Don't make them angry. The strategy here is to stay alive as long as possible, remember? Hope for Johnny to come through for us.”
She was silent for a minute. Then her breath caught on a sob. She lifted her face for a kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said without hesitation or embarrassment, kissing her as long as he dared.
Turning carefully, Shalira walked over the rough wicker surface to the tail of the cart. The city guards lifted her to the ground. One of them kept his grip loosely on her wrist, drawing her aside.
Walking to her, Three Feathers put his hand under her chin and tilted her head left and right. He snapped his long fingers directly in front of her eyes. Evidently satisfied Shalira was indeed blind, he nodded and gestured impatiently for her to be taken farther out of his way. Then he gave his full attention to the matter of the cart and the remaining prisoners. The other guard moved smartly to assist the priest in climbing into the small space.
Muttering an incantation to himself, Three Feathers rolled the long fingers of his left hand in a black leather pouch at his belt as he stopped in front of Saium. When the priest withdrew his hand from the pouch his fingers were covered with a clinging reddish dust, glinting in the waning sunlight. As if admiring the effect for a moment, he spread his fingers wide. Then, with a serpentine suddenness, the official leaned forward and drew a strange symbol on the old man's forehead. Apparently seeking to battle one magic with another, Saium shouted a defiant chant. Frowning, the priest cuffed the bound prisoner across the face with a beringed hand. The red powder clung to Saium's skin, continuing to glow. Reaching out with one obscenely long fingernail, the Nathlemeru forced Saium to meet his eyes. Satisfied, Three Feathers laughed derisively and moved away.
Now he stopped in front of Mike, who met the merciless stare measure for measure, straightening up as much as he was able against his bonds. This close, the stench from the priest was overpowering, a mixture of strange spices, blood and an underlying note of rotted flesh. Deliberately, slowly, like a caress, he drew the same intricate symbol on Mike's forehead, dipping back into the pouch for more powder while Mike swore at him. The priest only shook his head, unperturbed.
Everett too was quickly painted, and then Three Feathers stepped from the cart.
Coming out of the gate was an empty litter, carried by two more of the guards in maroon uniforms. The chair was an elegant affair of gaily painted wood, tiny enameled wind chimes suspended from the gilded handles. The cheerful music of the little chimes was an incongruous counterpoint to the deadly seriousness of the overall situation. The guards set the conveyance in front of Shalira. Striding to her, the Nathlemeru priest whispered something in her ear. She shifted away from him but the guard's grip on her arm forestalled any real attempt at escape. A moment later she’d been efficiently handed into the litter, which the waiting bearers lifted in a smooth motion, setting off through the city’s entrance.
The cart lurched forward as the yoked beasts were driven through the city gate. Craning to look back, Mike took note of the priest chanting over the heads of the kneeling villagers while a guard paid them with small gold bars. One of the city men led two of the pack horses after the cart. Mike felt the first faint hope he'd had all day at the sight of their gear, lashed to the horses.
The priest shouted something at the cart, with a harsh laugh as punctuation.
“What did he say, Saium?”
“He says Her Highness will make a fitting bride for Tlazomiccuhtli, their chief deity. There’s no doubt the rest of us will be sacrificed, probably as soon as we reach the temple. Even in the lowlands we’d heard rumors of this insatiable god, who demands human flesh and beating hearts to feed upon.”
Mike glanced at Everett, breaking into Basic. “We can make a fight of it, Agreed? I'm not going under the knife without trying to take a few of them down too.”
The other murmured agreement.
He was given no chance to act on the brave resolve. For about ten minutes the cart lurched its way through nearly empty streets past houses firmly shut up, awaiting some future occupants. One cross street appeared to lead to a deserted open-air market place. Shortly thereafter, the cart came into a tremendous square where thousands of people could have stood. The five level pyramid and its crowning temple stood at the far end of this space.
“Why so few people here?” Mike stared at the vast courtyard in front of the pyramid.
“They have all the tribes gather for the great religious festivals, but only the priests, the soldiers and women dwell here. The priests do their work and studying free of less exalted influences.” Saium shook his head. Continuing his analysis, “Doubtless they keep slaves as well, but we’ve already been marked for sacrifice, not for service.”
The painted mark on Mike’s forehead itched and burned slightly. Flexing his hands against the ropes, he was ready for any chance at resistance. Much better to die a clean death in an honest, if hopeless, fight than to be sacrificed like an animal to some alien god. Maybe Johnny could find a way to rescue Shalira, at least, if he found his way undetected to the city.
The sun was beginning to set below the peaks lining the valley. The remaining light was an ugly red tone, casting ominous shadows across the base of the temple. Once the cart stopped at the bottom of a set of broad stairs, the beasts of burden shuffled their feet nervously and blew, and, for the first time all day, demonstrated an independent desire to keep moving. The men carrying Shalira’s litter hadn’t paused, but proceeded up the several hundred stairs until disappearing from view into the gloom at the top.
Mike concentrated all his attention on waiting for their captors to make a mistake, however slight, giving him a chance to grab a weapon and make a fight of it.
The priests and their soldiers apparently were used to dealing with fiercely determined warrior prisoners. Two soldiers jumped into the cart and efficiently shackled each man's ankles with heavy chain. Then, one at a time, Mike and the others were released from the ropes binding them to the cart and their wrists quickly chained behind their backs. Finally the guards dragged each man to the ground, yoking them all together with a long neck chain and leather collars.
“Too good at what they do,” snorted Saium. “Efficient killers. We've no chance at all, Major.”
“I've been in worse spots and gotten out.” Mike pointed with his chin. “There’s a disagreement going on.”
The three priests were arguing. Three Feathers pointed at the t
emple and made agitated gestures while the other two were plainly reluctant to do whatever it was he wanted. The senior official gained his way eventually through sheer force of will. Ascending the stairs, he didn’t deign to see if anyone followed.
The guards chivvied the prisoners to follow him. Mike discovered the leg shackles allowed him exactly enough motion to handle the narrow steps and not an inch more. By the time he reached a small platform at the top of the first flight, his head was swimming, his leg muscles a solid mass of pain. Between the high altitude, his possibly-broken ribs and the exertion of climbing the deliberately difficult steps, his heart was pounding so loud he could hear it. Every time he inhaled his lungs pressed on the broken ribs with excruciating pain.
He was given no chance to stop and rest, however. The guards prodded them to continue up the next flight of the torturous steps. At one point, Saium stumbled, threatening to drag them all off their feet, but the nearest guard grabbed him, lifting him bodily to the next stair.
As he finally topped the fifth and last flight of steps, Mike reached a terrace in front of the temple, to find five bloodstained altars standing waist high in front of him. Breathing hard, Mike stared into the temple, hoping for a glimpse of Shalira. There was no sign of the princess, but one swift glance revealed a mural composed of grisly scenes of some monster committing atrocities on men, women and children.
Raised voices brought his attention back to the priests who were arguing again, stating opposing views vehemently. Fidgeting, the guards stood, with the collective air of men wishing themselves elsewhere without delay.
A small flicker of hope kindled as Mike watched the priests debate. Whatever the dispute is, it might work to our advantage somehow. I wish I knew what the discussion was about. He glanced over at Saium, who was standing next to him, breathing in hoarse whoops. Mike raised a quizzical eyebrow. Saium shook his head.
“No idea, Major, can’t speak the priests’ dialect,” he gasped out. “Sorry.”
Fishing a carved ebony-and-maroon box out of his voluminous robes, one Nathlemeru went to his knees. Opening the container, he chanted fast, with anxious sideways glances at the deepening shadows. The man drew a set of small objects from the box and cast them onto the bloodstained surface of the terrace. Just as quickly, he scooped them up and tried the ritual once more. Leaning over his shoulder, the other two priests muttered, studying the patterns in the split second before their colleague destroyed them. This happened five times.
Three Feathers gave a curt order to the guards. Grabbing Mike, two men detached his section of the neck chain from the next, dragging him by the elbows to the nearest of the oddly humped red altar stones. Positioning him directly in front of the block, the men kicked at his ankles to spread his legs as far apart as the shackling chain would allow. Then they forced him back two more steps, until he bumped into the end of the altar.
Shaking his head vehemently, the priest who’d been casting the omens protested, pointing a trembling finger at the most recent pattern.
The high priest took his subordinate by the elbow and hauled him to his feet, barely allowing time for the man to retrieve his forecasting tools. The older Nathlemeru dragged the younger priest across the terrace to a spot right in front of Mike. He gestured at the nearest guard, who fumbled with the closures of Mike’s uniform shirt, leaving his chest exposed. Gritting his teeth, Mike readied himself for whatever torture was to follow. Three Feathers produced a small black stone knife from his belt and drew it across Mike's skin above the heart with calculated, excruciating slowness, bringing the scarlet-stained weapon above his head for everyone to see. He bowed in the direction of the temple before shaking the drops of Mike's blood onto the other priest's cupped hands.
Imperiously the high priest uttered one word, pointing at the ground by Mike's feet.
Taking a deep breath, the lower-ranking priest surveyed Mike from head to toe. He squatted to throw the objects one last time, rolling them out of his red-stained hands so they clattered and bounced across the terrace directly at Mike's booted feet. He watched as the tiny bones of all shapes and sizes came to rest in a pattern surrounding him. Three of the smallest bones, those most freshly crimsoned with the drops of his blood, shifted yet again, as if they had been blown away from him. The bones settled in a new configuration, off to the side from the rest, like an arrow, pointing away from the altar.
Exclaiming in dismay, one guard dropped Mike's arm and stepped back, hand going to the knife at his belt.
As if waiting for the tiny bones to rearrange themselves into a pattern more to his liking, Three Feathers stared at the omens for a long time. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet Mike's. Refusing to give the enemy any satisfaction, Mike kept his face as blank as possible.
The priest moved so fast Mike wasn't prepared for the backhanded blow across his face that knocked him down, half-reeling across the surface of the stone altar.
Saium translated the next sarcastic words as Mike tried to regain his feet without any help from the guards.
“Tlazomiccuhtli is not pleased to accept you into his embrace this night, but wishes you to spend the hours until dawn contemplating the honor you await. I’ll bring the living heart forth from you and feed it to the god still beating and raw for his breakfast. Perhaps we’ll invite his newest bride to share the delicacy as well, hmm?”
Sneering, the Nahlemeru stepped effortlessly back as Mike lunged for him with a snarled curse.
The priest reverted to his own language to give curt orders to the guards. Mike had to wait a minute while the younger priest retrieved all his tools from the ground, but then he was pulled and tugged by the soldiers toward the steps leading into the temple foyer. Looking back over his shoulder as the gloom inside enclosed him, Mike watched the lesser priests making a hasty retreat down the pyramid's stairs. The one who’d been throwing the forecasting bones glanced back, and as their eyes met for a fraction of a second Mike read fear in the expression on the man's face. Clearly the little ceremony with the bones didn’t go the way the priesthood expected, or wanted. I’ll take any good luck I can get tonight, if it bought a little more time for Johnny to attempt a rescue op.
Flickering torches in the small entry chamber, cast light on more of the ghastly wall carvings. Mike was given no chance to study the surroundings, but was hurried into a wide hall, set with more torches and lined by heavy doors.
Then the prisoners were herded to a large, roofless chamber, open to the night air.
Dominating the room was a fifteen-foot-tall representation of the Nathlemeru’s loathsome deity Tlazomiccuhtli. Mike was stunned by the sheer hideousness of the alien idol. He’d seen things repulsive to Outworlder eyes on a number of different worlds and been able to stay detached about them, but there was something so wrong and evil about this thing, he literally couldn't breathe for a minute. Horrified, he took in the clawed feet, each clutching a pair of writhing victims, distorted faces taking on a lifelike cast in the gloom. The multiple arms held more victims gathered to its chest. A necklace of real skulls, both large and small, ringed the thick neck. The flickering torchlight animated the face, made it appear alive and keenly avaricious, hungry. A crown of interlaced bleached human bones had been set on its head and scalps of all colors of hair dangled from the diadem. Hissing, snakes slithered in a cage on a small altar to the side of the statue.
A pounding in Mike's ears sounded like drums at first and then again like the low-toned growl of a hungry animal. He thought he heard several heartbeats in the room. The statue’s exaggerated, empty eye sockets locked on his own in an hypnotic illusion.
Enjoying his prisoners' reaction, the priest laughed.
Mike tore his attention away from Tlazomiccuhtli. He shook his head, trying to clear the dizziness. Maybe the torches are burning some hallucinogen. Not like me to imagine things. As the guards poked him in the back with their spears he willingly kept walking. A shiver worked its way down his spine, and his nerve endings tingled. Wish I could
stop thinking those empty eyes are watching.
Four guards who were laden with the prisoners' belongings stopped at an ordinary door in the next hallway and waited while Three Feathers unlocked it with a complex, heavy key.
Despite the agony in his rib cage, Mike paid close attention. I need to remember the location of this storeroom, just in case.
After the drama of the main chamber, it was a relief to Mike to be herded into a room with plain stone walls, save for one small frieze beside the door depicting Tlazomiccuhtli's horrific image for contemplation by his future victims. The guards motioned for them to sit against the far wall. Then the city dwellers fastened each man's manacles to chains hanging there. The neck chain and collars were removed and carried away. Favoring the prisoners with one last satisfied smirk, the Nathlemeru leader departed, taking the rest of the guards with him.
A single torch burned in a wall sconce.
Through the one small, barred window across from him, Mike could see the first stars coming out.
“I suppose we can forget about dinner.” Everett’s tone was conversational.
Resting his aching head against the rough stone wall, Mike wondered if Everett’s attempt at a joke was a good sign of mental stability or an indicator of how far he’d come unmoored from reality during his captivity. “Probably a safe assumption.”
“We're lucky we weren't Tlazomiccuhtli’s evening meal,” Saium said wearily, once Mike translated the remark. “Although I'm not sure what the ultimate difference will be. You heard the priest—first thing in the morning, you for certain, Major, and possibly all of us—goes to an awful death.”
Mike's hands were beginning to regain some sensation since the manacles weren’t as tight on his wrists as the ropes had been. Flexing his fingers, he tried to ignore the pain of returning circulation. He pulled against the circles of metal, but his hands couldn't even begin to squeeze through, no matter how hard he tried. Scrunching against the wall a little more comfortably, staring out the tiny window at the few stars, he refused to think about what was coming in the morning. As the night wore on, he replayed in his mind’s eye all the moments he and Shalira had shared since crossing the Suaga. Sending a fervent prayer to the Lords of Space, he asked for her to be spared, rescued by Johnny perhaps and for them both to escape from this hellish place.
Mission To Mahjundar (A Sectors SF Romance) Page 21
