Impossible! The man had been dead for
twenty-four hours. His guts had been removed
and his blood drained; his flesh was already rotten--and
yet Khiva's limbs were stirring. He seemed
to be trying to rise up.
Three of the shrunken mummies reeled to their
feet and staggered across to him. Four or five more
began to crawl forward. As they reached the body,
they fell on it and fed, tearing at it like starving
dogs. Some were rolled away by its spasmodic
thrashing, but they scrambled back to try again. The
monkeys lifted the weaker ones and carried them
over to join the feast. Soon all twenty-six were
ripping and sucking at their prey, the corpse
buried beneath them. The monkeys stood back
to watch, some of them hooting in amusement.
A naked woman struggled to her feet,
clutching a lump of meat to her mouth with both hands.
As she stood there and gorged, her body grew
larger and straighter. Its color changed from the
sickly pallor of the very old to vibrant youth.
Her desiccated dugs filled in, rising to lush
young breasts. Her hair darkened and thickened. She
dropped the last fragments of her feed and screamed
with laughter, showing bloody teeth.
"Durendal!" Wolfbiter said in a barely
audible scream. "If we don't go now, we'll
never get away!"
True. Durendal rose to his knees, still
unable to tear his eyes from the bestial scene. Now
men were emerging from the melee--strong young men, where
moments before there had been only feeble
geriatrics. He recognized one who had stood
beside Herat in the alley the previous day, thick
muscled and hairy chested now, yet not much more than
a boy. He laughed and lunged with bloody hands
for the woman. She jumped clear and pretended
to run. He followed. They came up the path, and
she let him catch her when they reached the arch. They
embraced, bloody mouth to bloody mouth, hands
smearing reddish stains on each other's bodies in
urgent passion. They were blocking the fugitives'
escape. Wolfbiter whimpered.
Sounds of laughter came from the octogram. The
rest of the pack was opening out, youths and maidens
sitting up, strong and comely, some of them still chewing
on a bone here, an arm there. Gold glinted from
those bones; the scratches Durendal had seen on
the relics in the foundry had been made by teeth.
More women jogged off with men in pursuit.
Couples flopped to the grass to entwine and
wrestle in the exuberance of newly regained youth.
The two by the arch disappeared inside.
"Now!" said Wolfbiter.
"Yes."
They wriggled out from under the shrubbery until they
reached the path.
"Ready?"
"Yes!"
"Now!"
They jumped to their feet and dived for the arch.
Howls and roars from monkey throats told them
they had been seen. The passionate lovers had
progressed only to the hallway and lay writhing
on the tiled floor--Wolfbiter went around them,
Durendal jumped over. Together they went plunging
down the stairs.
They stumbled across the junk-infested guardroom,
the light from their rings barely visible in the brightness
of daylight. Wolfbiter opened the door, stood
aside for Durendal to pass, then closed it behind
them as Durendal ran the length of the jail and
threw open the next. Its hinges squeaked
shrilly. He raced off along the gold-walled
corridor, hearing his Blade shut that door also.
He thought they could probably outrun the
monkeys, although not necessarily outfight them.
Thirteen young swordsmen were loose, too, and would
know shortcuts. Swordplay, if it came, would
not be a matter of honorable, man-to-man
duels this time.
Then something roared or screamed ahead of him, the
distorted sound echoing bizarrely along the
corridor. Apparently he was going to have to fight
his way to the trapdoor. He drew Harvest without
breaking stride. Wolfbiter's feet were slapping
on the stone at his back. Then the jail door
squealed and light blazed up behind them. Monkeys
hooted.
He passed the turnoff to the foundry. He had
almost reached the other branch when he saw a body
in his path. No, it was a monkey playing
tricks, scrabbling on the ground. It uttered the
same discordant howl he had heard a moment
earlier, apparently writhing in pain. There was
blood on it, blood on the rock floor, even
on the gold walls. That could hardly be a
trick. Surely only Kromman could be
responsible for that, so the inquisitor had not gone
at first light.
"Look out for this!" he shouted, and hurdled over
it. Just beyond it was a puddle of blood and
some bloody footprints leading toward the
trapdoor.
"With you!" Wolfbiter responded.
Then they were out of the gold-filled cellar,
running along the tunnel.
"Kromman! We're coming!" Durendal almost
blundered into the wall at the end.
The trapdoor was closed.
He spun around, but Wolfbiter had turned
already and was waiting for the attack with Fang at the
ready. Wild hoots and bellows indicated that the
pursuit had found the casualty.
"Put your boots on!" Durendal hurled
Wolfbiter's footwear to him, and put on his
own. They were going to need those. He scrambled up
the metal brackets. Balancing precariously,
he freed both hands for the slab and strained. He
could not budge it. Fire and death! He had
seen a monkey open and close it with one arm.
Holding the top bracket with both hands, he
turned around to put his back to the wall and then
took hold of the metal ring dangling from the flap
itself. The corridor was full of gibbering apes,
flashing swords, flaming torches.
Wolfbiter's left-hand ring blazed, and that would be
a small advantage, shining in his opponents'
eyes.
Meanwhile, Durendal had to get them both out
of there and do so soon, or they would find Herat and
his friends waiting for them above. He put his shoulders
against the slab and brought his feet up as high as he
could. If he slipped, he was going to fall
headfirst to the floor. He heaved with all the power
he could summon from legs and back. He heard
joints creak. The slab quivered
reluctantly.
Metal rang as the leading monkey swung at
Wolfbiter. Then rang again. Fencing in a narrow
corridor would be a skill all its own. A
triumphant shout from the Blade and a
simultaneous animal howl proclaimed first
blood.
The flap tilted and blinding daylight poured in
around the edges. Durendal straightened with a
convulsive heave. Clang, clang, clang
... another yell of triumph, more animal
howls. Now the angle was worse but the weight was
less. The slab tilted past the vertical and
settled there, erect, leaving him stretched at
full length over the shaft. He
scrambled out and spread himself prone on the
flagstones, reaching down.
Wolfbiter came backing along the corridor
into the light, clanging sword against sword.
Only one monkey could get at him at a time,
but a single careless stroke into a wall would ruin a
parry and leave him open.
"Can you keep fighting while I lift you?"
"I'll have to!" He raised his left arm.
Durendal grabbed his Blade's wrist and
levered himself up with his other hand. Fire! This was
impossible. It had bloody well better be
possible. Gritting teeth, he hauled, taking
Wolfbiter's weight to let him climb
backward up the staples while still parrying thrusts
from the gibbering monkey below. Gasping, Durendal
forced himself up to one knee, then both knees. Below
him, swords rang, the monkey shrieking
furiously as her prey worked his way up the
wall, step by step, defending his legs from her
strokes. Durendal got one foot on the ground
and prepared to snatch Wolfbiter out bodily in
one tremendous heave. Just as he tried it,
Herat kicked the trap shut.
Wolfbiter screamed once, although that was
probably only air being expelled from his
collapsing chest cavity. He must have died even
before the scream emerged, when his heart was crushed.
A few early-bird challengers were watching
over the wall, doubtless very puzzled by this break in
routine. Half a dozen monks stood before the
open door of the monastery, but they were making no
move to come closer. Why bother when Herat was there
already? He had a rag tied around his loins and a
golden sword in his hand. His smile displayed
lips and teeth still streaked with blood. Durendal
drew Harvest in his right hand and his dagger in the
left and leaped at him.
Herat fell back a couple of paces before the
fury of the Chivian's attack--but then he
continued to retreat. His smile vanished. The
swords rang like the Forge at Ironhall when
all eight smiths were hammering at once. He was
superb, incredible. Every parry was a hairsbreadth
escape from death, every riposte a mad gamble.
Durendal had never met a swordsman to match
him, but Durendal had a friend to avenge and
very little life to lose. First blood would decide the
match, for the slightest nick must throw off a
man's timing and concentration just enough to leave him open
to the next lunge. Lily, Eggbeater, Rainbow
... He stayed with Ironhall style, parrying
often with the dagger that was his only advantage. In
provoking this contest, Herat had forgotten it would not
be fought by the brethren's rules. He had
overlooked the possibility of the dagger. He
began by countering Ironhall with Ironhall, but
soon switched to other styles, trying everything he
knew to slow Durendal's murderous onslaught.
Wrist, fingers, arm, feet--his control was
perfection. He never repeated a stroke, and yet
nothing he tried could overcome the dagger handicap.
Parry, riposte, parry ... He was retreating
steadily. Perhaps his watching friends believed he was
playing the same game he had played with
Gartok, but this time he had no choice. Every move
he made was parried by the dagger, leaving him open
to Harvest's deadly tongue licking toward knees
or groin or eyes.
They were almost to the gate already. Butterfly,
Cockroach ... Ah!
Harvest bit into Herat's shoulder. He cried
out, and then a bloody gash opened on his ribs.
Durendal had the upper hand now. He persisted,
trying for a kill and still managing only flesh
wounds. Face, neck, chest--he was shredding
Herat as Herat had shredded Gartok; but it was not
play, for every stroke was attempted murder. How
could a man suffer so and still keep up that superb
defense?
Then Herat backed into the wall. He
recoiled with a desperate thrust, which was parried by the
dagger. Harvest opened his throat, his sword
clanged on the flagstones, he sprawled after it
in oceans of blood. But the brethren had ways of
healing, and his death must be certain. Durendal
chopped off his head, taking three blows to do it.
Gasping for air, he glanced around. The men at
the door had at last begun to run forward. He
sprinted for the gate, only a few yards away,
wondering vaguely why the swordsmen leaning on the
wall were cheering.
The gate was locked--more treachery.
"Here!" yelled a voice and muscular arms
stretched down to him.
He grabbed a wrist with his left hand and raised
his sword arm so another man could take
it. They hauled him up bodily, face to the
stones. Then more hands seized his shirt, his belt,
and he went flopping over the wall.
He said, "Thanks!" and was on his feet,
sheathing his sword as he ran.
One shout would do it: Ten gold bars for that
man!
into an alley and kept on running.
As he pounded along the alleyways of
Samarinda, dodging the first early-morning
pedestrians, he was convinced that he would find the
brethren already in possession of the city gate. They
would have sent men to close the exit; that must be why
they had not made more determined efforts to stop him.
To his astonishment, no one challenged. Puffing
hard in the already hot morning, he trotted out under
the arch to the cramped shanty market and smelly
paddocks beyond. Even when he rode away over the
bare hills, he would still not be safe, of course.
If the monks chose to follow on racing
camels, they would ride him down in no time. The
bare hills hid dangers of their own, but just to be
outside the accursed walls was a huge relief.
The traders and farmers had not yet spread their
awnings, and Durendal needed a few moments
to locate the paddock where he and Kromman and
Wolfbiter had boarded their five shaggy
ponies. He identified it eventually by its
owner, a bloated man with a villainous pockmarked
face. His name was Ushan, and Kromman had
vouched for his honesty--his relative honesty.
He had been there near dusk yesterday, and he was
there now. Dung stains on his clothes suggested that
he slept there, which would be the only way to keep his
charges from being removed by others who seemed less
villainous. The next question was whether the five
ponies wearing red cords around thei
r necks were still
the same healthy specimens they had been when they
arrived, or whether they had aged ten years in the
night. Their owners had scratched signs on each
front right hoof, also, but Durendal had no time
to waste arguing about such details.
He fumbled in his pocket and produced his
receipt for three of them. Ushan peered oddly
at this sweaty, blood-spattered, out-of-breath
stranger, but without a word he swayed off
into the herd and returned leading two ponies. They
certainly looked familiar. Others came
drifting along behind, as horses would.
"Two will do for now," Durendal said. "My
friends may be along later for theirs, and I do not
need my third one today. I will only require
one saddle. I expect to be back before evening and
will pay you then for another night." He must try not
to arouse any more suspicion.
Again Ushan looked at him oddly. He did
not say anything until Durendal was mounted, with the
second pony tethered behind.
Then he spat in the dust. "For three obits,
I will tell you which way your friend went."
Durendal reached in his pocket and found a
gold dizork. He held it up. "Tell me
everything."
The obese man shrugged. "He had been
running, like you. He bought another horse, although like
you he had no baggage. He went that way." He
pointed west. "Fast. But he cannot have gone far
yet."
Durendal threw him the coin, which he bit before
making it vanish in the dirty folds of his gown.
"You have just inherited two more horses, friend. And the
saddles. In return, have I your silence?"
Ushan's nod of agreement was worthless, of
course.
Durendal mounted and rode off to the west. He
felt suddenly very happy--not because he had escaped
from the city with his life, which he did not value
especially highly at the moment, but because he bore
an obligation for vengeance and now he knew where his
quarry was. He had expected to have to wait at
Koburtin until Kromman arrived. Now he
could hope to catch him before being himself caught by the
pursuing monks.
Three men had killed Wolfbiter and he was
one of them. He had pushed his luck too far, not
realizing that his luck might not shelter others.
Perhaps every man learned from experience the limits of
his own luck. Wolfbiter had known his and had
repeatedly begged his ward to leave the monastery.