Empire of the East Trilogy Page 11

  Ekuman nodded. “You do well to await my word before taking such a step.”

  Zarf had come up just in time to hear the last exchange of speech. “Lord,” he volunteered, “it will be best if I am first into this cave.” Then he bowed slightly as the older wizard came puffing unimpressively up the stairs. “Or Master Elslood, of course. If he is not required to be busy elsewhere.”

  Ekuman turned away from his wizards. Elslood and Zarf were well and firmly under his thumb, and through them, all the others here. Yet he had heard of other Satraps who doubtless had been as firmly seated and still had been overthrown by intrigues in their own households—Som the Dead never seemed to care, if the usurpers served him with equal or greater dedication.

  So Ekuman did not mean to trust a power as great as the Elephant’s under the personal control of anyone except himself. At least, he meant to reserve that option until he had learned much more about the Elephant than his wizards had yet been able to tell him.

  Ekuman said to Garl, “Signal at once to those across the pass. No human is to enter that cave until I personally have given permission.”

  This signaling was promptly attended to. Then noticing the Master of the Harem hovering in the background, Ekuman was reminded of another matter to be taken care of. He beckoned to the eunuch and said, “That girl I had last night acted like one half-sick. Dispose of her.”

  “At once, Lord.” Then the eunuch reached behind him and with a conjurer’s motion pulled forward a short slender figure, garbed in a harem gown—until now the girl had been hidden behind his bulk. “This girl I think will be very lively, Lord. She was brought in two days ago, and at my direction has been examined carefully and reserved for you.”

  “Hm.” Engrossed as he was with other matters, Ekuman took time to look at this girl. Dark-haired and very young and certainly attractive. Her face colored when the eunuch opened her gown. Silent, yet brave enough to scowl openly at him in hate—yes, she was interesting. “Very well. But now is not the time for harem matters.” He dismissed the eunuch with a wave.

  The Master of the Reptiles stood now at Ekuman’s side, and put what seemed to be a new sense of his own importance into a tiny sound of throat-clearing. “Lord? Is it your wish that I should make ready a courier to send East? With word of our discovery?”

  The man was already grown presumptuous. But Ekuman would let him puff a little yet, that correction when it came might be the more precise and salutary. “No, I will send no word of this discovery yet. Not until I am more certain of just what has been discovered yonder.” If Elephant’s power was all that had been hinted, it was just possible that with it under his control he might even be able to face east one day without cringing in utter subservience—but no, he would not let even his inner thoughts follow that line. Not yet.

  From the direction,of the ascending stair, a loud masculine voice said, “Well! The prettiest little piece I’ve seen in about a month!”

  Ekuman turned once again, to greet his neighbor and son-in-law to be. The Satrap Chup was just mounting to the roof-terrace, golden Charmian on his arm. Ekuman knew quite well the signals of his daughter’s face; and glancing at her now he felt immediately certain that Chup’s thoughtless exclamation of praise for the new young dark-haired slave would cost Chup some future moment’s peace if nothing more.

  Ekuman’s chief sensation as he thought about his daughter’s impending marriage was one of relief; her dedication to petty malice was so strong that he felt sure her departure would rid his household of a whole vortex of minor intrigues. In fact he thought with some approval that Charmian’s presence might ultimately weaken Chup, and that would bode well for Ekuman’s own ambition. There were recurring whispers on the wind saying that some one of the coastal Satraps might soon be promoted to a position of suzerainty over all the others. These were whispers only, perhaps meant merely to keep them all vying with one another to serve the East, but still...

  Chup came pacing to Ekuman’s side. He leaned his tall warrior’s frame, dressed in rich cloth of red and black, upon the parapet, and looked out at the activity of men and reptiles on the north side of the pass.

  Ekuman said conversationally, “I thought, brother, that I might ride forth this afternoon, to oversee this treasure-hunt my men are on. No doubt you’ve heard the tales? If you would care to ride with me, of course, you will be welcome.”

  Ekuman had phrased the invitation in a style that left it quite open to acceptance or polite refusal, and Chup elected to return the latter. “Naturally, elder brother, your company is always a delight. And riding, even to poke around among some rocks, would be a form of exercise. But—well, unless you—”

  Ekuman let himself suddenly remember something. “In truth it was a rather poor suggestion for amusement. I have another, much more suited to a true warrior’s taste. You might divert yourself and at the same time render me a true service in preparing for the wedding celebration. As you know, I plan some gladiatorial entertainment on that day—nothing professional, just some of these sturdy farm lads—”

  “I like to watch amateurs go at it, if they’ve any spirit.”

  “Just so, Brother Chup. Would you deign to visit the dungeons with my Master of the Games? I’m sure no one in my employ could pick out fighting men as well as you can. You may even find one or two with real training—if not, I know you’ll spot the raw ability...”

  Chup was nodding agreement, though with little enthusiasm, as Ekuman maneuvered him away toward the stair. The Master of the Harem trailed in the rear, the arm of the dark-haired slave-girl firmly in his massive grip. Charmian, her ethereal face disfigured by one of her petty rages, was staring after them. The princess was now alone upon the roof-terrace, except for her personal maid—and one other.

  Elslood the wizard stood before Charmian and bowed his massive gray head slightly. He was marking the hatred with which her eyes followed the lovely slave-girl. “My Princess?”

  Her eyes turned on him, losing their look of hate but remaining as hopelessly distant as ever. “Well?” she demanded. Soon she would be gone, and he unable to follow. While she was yet here, he would take great risks, hoping nothing more than to please her. Such was his doom, and he could do nothing about it but try to conceal it from others; he could not even do that, he knew with a sinking feeling, the very maidservant was now smiling at him openly.

  Elslood said, “That new harem-slave, my Princess; there is a circumstance I know of, that I might be able to turn to your amusement—”

  Listening, Charmian began to smile.

  Following the jovial Master of the Games and the sallow chief warden through the low-roofed dungeons, Chup wrinkled his nose and tried to hold his breath against the stench. So far he had had nothing to say about the prospective gladiators but a few terse expressions of scorn. Sturdy farm lads they might once have been, but now they had rotted in their cages overlong. He suspected that all the hale ones were up above, unloading barges or building walls. Faugh! What did it serve, to pen men up like this? It served no aim that Chup could see, but only created a foulness. If the men were objectionable and useless, let them be killed. If good work was to be gotten from them, then at least house them in fresh air and feed them, like draft animals of some value.

  Chup had as yet made no pilgrimage to the East, had pledged no allegiance to Som or the other mysterious lords. He supposed he would go, some day soon. All men must serve some master, or so the way of the world seemed to be. Charmian was already egging him on, to get his wizards to arrange the matter. Charmian... why did he want to marry her? He had women enough—ah, but none so fair. And the greatest warrior must have the fairest princess, that was one of the things a man fought for. So, once again, was the way of the world.

  The warden stopped before yet another dim and noisome cage, and delicately reminded Chup of the fact that no gladiators had as yet been chosen: “We’d best pick out today whatever your Lordship decides should be reserved for the games, I think the forem
en of the work-gangs will be down here soon enough, taking all the bodies that can be made to lift and haul.” And then the warden fell abruptly silent, having just got a dirty look from the Master of the Games. Probably new work-gangs were going to be sent across the pass to dig, and that business was not something to be discussed before a visitor.

  Chup had a fairly good idea of what the Elephant-search was all about, and of course he was keen on learning more. He knew that if he had ridden out with Ekuman, he would not have been taken where there was anything worth the seeing. But he meant to learn in good time about whatever they found. Charmian, who would certainly have her uses, wanted very much to be the queen of an overlord. Chup’s wizards had heard hints that one of the Satraps here along the coast might soon be raised to such an eminence...

  “This lot here is a bit fresher than the last,” said the warden hopefully, looking into the cell.

  Chup sniffed. “If no sweeter.” The cell was pretty well filled up with ten or a dozen men who at first glance looked like nothing much; but with only a quick look you could never be sure. Chup was inescapably interested in fighting and in fighters, even only in potential. The Master of the Games began to harangue this lot of wretches: brave lads raise your hands, who will step out and have a chance for glory, and so forth. If Chup had been in a cell he would not have believed a word of it for a moment. Neither did those who were in fact inside; though it stood to reason that any who were real men in there would seize even the faintest chance to take revenge for their evil fate.

  On impulse, Chup took charge. “Open the door,” he ordered. He got a startled glance from the warden, whose speech he interrupted, but such was the Satrap’s voice and bearing that he did not have to repeat himself.

  As the warden was swinging a segment of the grillwork back, Chup drew out his sword and set it on the dirty floor. This was not his prized battle-winning weapon, of course, he would not treat that in such a style. This was a fancier-looking blade that he wore on dress-up days like this—it was serviceable enough, of course.

  All were gaping at him. “Now let me borrow this,” he said. And he took the cudgel from the startled warden’s belt, tried the grip of it in his hand, whipped it once or twice through the air. Then he held it down at his side.

  He addressed the sullen, unbelieving faces inside the cell. “You men in there! Or whatever you are. If there be a man among you, let him come out and take this up.” He shoved with his elegant toe at the bare sword, moving it a hand’s breadth nearer them. “We’re at the end of a passage here, and you can set your back against a wall and hack away at me—these two with me will give us room, I doubt not. Well?”

  No answer.

  “Come, come, you fear to soil my fine garments? Let me tell you, I raped a dozen of your sisters this morning, ere I had my breakfast. Look, the sword is real. D’you think I’d stoop to playing pranks on such as you—well, here’s a bantam with some life in him, if we can’t get a man full grown.”

  Putting one foot slowly in front of the other, Rolf was coming out of the cell. As soon as he was out, the warden sprang forward and clanged shut the door.

  Whether it was the power of Ardneh that possessed Rolf now, or only the power of hate, it left no room in him for fear. Without taking his eyes from Chup’s, he squatted and rose up again, the sword’s hilt now gripped tight in his right hand. The weapon felt wonderfully deadly, longer and heavier than the only other sword that he had ever held.

  The warden and the Master of the Games retreated; with cautious outrage they peered around the Satrap at this strange creature, an armed prisoner. At another time Rolf might have laughed at their expressions. The Master of the Games had one hand half-raised, almost but not quite daring to pluck at the Lord Chup’s sleeve; and the warden kept muttering, something about calling for a couple of men with pikes.

  Chup’s eyes were locked with Rolf’s, a resonance between them. In the tall Satrap’s face there was a life that had not been there before. Without looking around he answered the blithering behind him: “Oh, go away if you like, and stand behind your pikemen. Only let me have a few moments’ life at least out of this deadly boring day.”

  And Chup was thinking: Mountains of the East! Look how ready this one is to carve me! See in his face how little he values his own skin at this moment. If he but knew how to hold that sword, I’d be looking for pikemen myself. Ah, to lead into battle an army of men who all had something like this one’s will to fight!

  The youth was coming forward now, moving slowly at first, convincing himself that there was no hidden trap laid for him here. In a moment he would lunge, or hack. Chup waited, poised, holding the cudgel loosely, waist-high, pointing it horizontally like a dagger. He had grown happy, moved into the true intense life of physical danger, so much more real than any other part of life. He was going to have to exert all his powers, to win with the short stick of wood against the long keen blade and the earnest clumsy hate behind it.

  Rolf’s intent to attack showed itself in his face an instant before he lunged, and Chup was very glad to have the warning; he knew the young could move very fast, and utter ignorance could wield a sword with deadly unorthodoxy. Dodging back, Chup made the awkward downcurve of the blade’s path miss him by something less than he in his bravest moments would have planned. Chup counterattacked, stepping in with his best speed, whacking down with the cudgel against the blade to keep a backstroke from coming up into his legs or groin, then dagger-thrusting with the blunt club. He aimed just below the youth’s breastbone; he did not want to do this brave one any permanent damage.

  Rolf never saw the counterthrust coming. He only felt the murderous impact of it, paralyzing him, knocking out his wind. His hand let go the sword. His knees betrayed him also, so that he fell slumping down onto the dirty stones, seeing through a reddish haze, fighting now for nothing greater than to draw a breath.

  The warden and the Master of the Games, in voices loud with relief, clamored their praise for his Lordship’s bravery and skill. His Lordship spat. His toe prodded Rolf, gently. “You there—you’ll have another chance in a few days to draw some blood.” He handed the cudgel back to the warden, and accepted the sword the man had picked up for him.

  “Feed and exercise him,” Chup ordered, nodding at Rolf. Then he surveyed for the last time the other prisoners, who were now moving restlessly inside their fetid cage, awake now when it was too late and the door was once more shut upon them. So Chup had expected, knowing men. “Faugh! Pick out what other ones you will!” He stalked away.

  Rolf was not put back into the cell, but instead, when he could walk, led to a stair and so up into full daylight. Then through one small courtyard after another, amid a warren of walls and sheds and gates. By turning his head to look up at the keep and its tower, he tried to get his bearings; he was now on the eastern side of the keep, still of course within the mighty outer walls. And just as his breath was coming back strong enough to let him walk easily, Rolf saw that which made him feel that Chup’s club had struck again—a small face, framed in dark hair, in a narrow window high up in the keep.

  He tried to delay to look a moment longer, but the guards dragged him on. Still out-of-doors, they brought him at last to a cell that stood alone against the wall of a shed, a stone-walled cell just about big enough for a man to stand up in and long enough for him to lie down. It was quite windowless, but the door was an open grillwork of hardwood and iron bars.

  Small as this cell was, it gave him more room than had the crowded one below. And this one was free of filth, and open to the air. Looking out through the grillwork of the door into the sunlight, Rolf could not see much more than the wall and corner of the adjacent shed, and more blank walls a few meters distant. The keep and its windows were not within his range of vision.

  He had not been sitting long on the straw-littered floor when a warden came, bringing him a jug of water, and a plate of food surprisingly substantial and clean. Rolf drank and ate, and tried to keep himsel
f from thinking of anything beyond the moment’s satisfaction.

  He was startled awake from a nervous, twitching doze by the grating of the cell’s lock. One man stood at the opened door, a tough-looking soldier with a tanned, lined face, not one of the dungeon wardens. This man wore the bronze helmet of the troops, and under his arm he carried a pair of mock swords, having true handles but blunt wooden shafts instead of blades.

  “All right, kid, fall out.”

  Saying nothing, Rolf got up and went with him. The man led him around a corner into a small closed yard. Along one wall stout butts of timber had been set firmly in the ground; they were much hacked and splintered.

  The man held out one of the practice swords to Rolf, hilt first. “Take this and come at me. Let’s see what you can do.” When Rolf did not instantly obey him his voice shifted effortlessly into a heavy, threatening tone. “Come on! Or maybe you’d rather go up on the roof instead, and fight the leather-wings? Up there you won’t get no sword to use—you’ll be strung up by your fingers.”

  Slowly Rolf took the proffered weapon. Evidently seeing by Rolf’s manner that he was genuinely ignorant and puzzled, the soldier ceased threatening him and explained: “Kid, you’re lucky. You’re gonna be put into the arena to fight. Do a good job and you’ll see no more dungeons. How’d you like a chance to join the army? Have a real man’s life?”

  “If I get into the arena with Chup,” said Rolf, his voice low, “I’ll carve his guts out if I can. He’ll have to kill me. So either way I won’t be in your army after that.”

  The soldier rubbed his jaw. “The Lord Chup,” he said.

  “He picked me out. He said I’d have another chance at him, in a few days.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, well, he’s like that. A real man, a real fighter, admires anybody who’ll put up a scrap.”

  As much as he hated the invaders, Rolf had to believe in the honesty of the man who had just beaten him, wooden stick against sword. He had been granted clean air and water and good food, and now, it seemed, one to teach him swording. He was being given a real chance, if a small one, to strike back before he was destroyed. “All right, kid, make up your mind.” Rolf smiled, looking down at the wooden sword in his hand. Maybe he could strike back more than once. He lunged forward suddenly and struck, aiming with his best intent to hit the other’s face.