The Face of Apollo Page 18

  When they had dismounted again, at Ferrante's invitation Je­remy picked up and examined one of the lances, a slender, strong, well-balanced shaft about ten feet long. The sharp fire-hardened point and resilient shaft were all one piece of spring-wood. A curved shield, to protect the user's hand and forearm, surrounded the body of the lance near the butt.

  "Looks like it might take some skill to use," he commented, to say something.

  "It does. But not as much as the bow."

  The lancers were also mounted archers. Other weapons carried by your average lancer included a large knife. Some had shields fashioned from the hides of mutant hornbeasts.

  The military cameloids used by Lord Victor's cavalry were big, sturdy animals, their humped backs standing taller than a man's head, and powerful enough to carry even a big man at high speed without straining. They could run, pacing, much faster than a man and under an ordinary load maintain a speed of eight to ten miles an hour for hours on end.

  Some of the dromedaries wore their own armor, cut from sheets of the inner bark of a special tree, a material that hard­ened and toughened as it dried.

  A mounted party determined to make speed at all costs could cover eighty miles a day on a good road, at least for two or three days, until their mounts became exhausted. Under ordinary con­ditions they could do forty miles a day.

  In one corner of the stables were housed a pair of animals of a species that Jeremy Redthorn's eyes had never seen before—but his grafted memory immediately provided a wealth of informa­tion. Horses were rare in this part of the world, as they were generally considered sickly and unreliable. Leaders who wanted to appear especially dashing sometimes rode them, but in gen­eral, mules were more widely used.

  Some of the more observant onlookers, including a sergeant who had been assigned to keep an eye on how the civilians were doing, marveled to see the odd way in which the young servant held the reins, and before he could contrive to imitate those who were doing it properly, some of them had begun to imitate him. The same with putting the saddle on and taking it off.

  Experiments carried out very cautiously confirmed that Jeremy could, if he wished, control with purely mental commands the mounts of others as well as his own.

  Each night a site was chosen by Lord John and camp was swiftly set up. Jeremy worked with other servants at putting up the few tents shared by the Academics, building the one small fire shared by the civilians and cooking their food. The latter job was made easier for him by the Scholar's usual indifference to what he found on his plate.

  The military escort routinely posted sentries and sent out scouts. John was taking no chances, though everyone believed that the force was too strong to be in any real danger of attack.

  Then the commander frequently dropped in on his brother and stayed for food and conversation.

  On the first night out, the two brothers discussed their respective intentions, alone beside a small campfire, except for Jeremy, who tended the fire and stood by to run errands as required.

  The advanced students who had taken over Carlotta's profes­sional duties carried on somehow, as did Arnobius himself.

  The last section of the chosen route to the Mountain led over a series of swaying suspension bridges, crossing rivers that roared green and white a dizzying distance below. Each time scouts and skirmishers rode ahead, to make sure that no ambush was being planned in this ideal spot.

  And now the same Mountain that Jeremy had marked on his long journey downriver, whose distant mystic glow his left eye had sometimes marked against the clouds, was back in view. Often it hung on the horizon directly ahead of the Expedition; sometimes it swung to right or left with the turning of the trail. Always it glowed in Jeremy's left eye like some exotic jewel.

  The cameloids' tough feet were well adapted for maintaining a good grip on rock.

  When the Mountain was no more than a few miles away, they reached the last suspension bridge that they were required to cross, spanning a steep-sided gorge nearly a thousand feet deep.

  The structure of the bridge was slender, not meant for massive loads, and no more than about ten riders could safely occupy it at a time.

  Arnobius, who habitually rode in the van, and his immediate escort were first to cross. Besides Jeremy, this party included two junior academics and half a dozen mounted troopers, one of them Ferrante, under command of a sergeant. As soon as they had put the bridge behind them, a trap that had remained con­cealed until that moment was somehow sprung.

  Another handful of riders were on the bridge when the two cord-vine cables supporting it abruptly broke at its forward end or were severed as if by some act of magic. Hoarse screams drifted up as men and animals went plunging into the abyss.

  The Scholar and his immediate entourage were neatly cut off from the bulk of the escorting force. At a distance of more than a hundred feet, Lord John, surrounded by a mass of lancers, could be seen and heard waving at his brother and shouting something unintelligible.

  For a few more moments it was still possible to believe that the failure of the cables had been accidental. Then some instinct drew Jeremy's attention away from the gorge, to the road ahead.

  The sergeant asked sharply: "What's that up ahead there? I thought I saw movement."

  "One man riding . .. who in hell's that?" Ferrante shaded his eyes and stared some more.

  The road heading away from the bridge led into a small wooded canyon, and now there was a stirring in the brush on both sides of the road.

  Now a single rider, dressed in what appeared to be an officer's uniform from Lord Victor's army, now appeared upon that road, waving with his arm as if to beckon them forward into the canyon.

  The sergeant looked to Arnobius for orders, but the Scholar, still pale from the shock of the bridge's collapse, was paying him no attention.

  Meanwhile the unknown rider, when no one immediately com­plied with his gesture, urged his mount swiftly nearer, then reined it out of its swaying, pacing run, so that the cameloid stopped in place with a manlike groan and a thud of padded feet. The unknown man in officer's garb leaned from his high saddle. "The Lord Victor himself is nearby. He wants you Academic people to come with me—no need for a large escort, Sergeant. Your squad will do."

  Arnobius squinted at him. "My father's here? How could he possibly—? What's this all about?"

  The unrecognized officer shook his head. "I've just told you all I know. Better hurry." And he turned his cameloid and spurred back the way he'd come.

  The Scholar murmured his acknowledgment of the message. And grumbled about his father's interference.

  Arnobius and his small escort had followed the messenger for no more than forty yards or so before reaching a place well out of sight and sound of John and the bulk of his force. Now they were in a narrowly constricted passage among trees and bush— then the supposed messenger suddenly spurred ahead and dis­appeared as if by magic among the vegetation.

  "I don't like this." said Arnobius unnecessarily. Reining in his restive mount, he appeared for once to have abandoned woolgathering and to be taking a keen interest in his surroundings. As if to himself he muttered, "We should have armed our­selves—"

  The bushy treetops that almost overhung the road stirred suddenly and powerfully. From places in them and behind them, concealed hands hurled out a cord-vine net, which fell as swiftly as the rocks that weighted it, engulfing the Scholar's head and arms. The snare also engulfed Ferrante, who happened to be the closest soldier to the man they had been ordered to protect.

  In the next moment the ambush was fully sprung. Men in a motley assortment of civilian clothes, bandits by the look of them, some mounted and others on foot, came bursting out of concealment.

  Jeremy had a moment in which to note that the face of one of them—he who was shouting orders at all the others—was com­pletely covered by a mask.

  The two junior Academics who had been with the Scholar in the vanguard tried to flee and were cut down by flying weapon
s.

  One or two of the small military escort were trying to fight, while the others ran. Jeremy, terrified at the thought of being caught in another slaughter, kicked both heels into his cameloid's sides and added a mental command, urging the animal to full speed. Once more he was fleeing for his life. But this time there was no deep, welcoming river to hide him and carry him away.

  Eighteen

  Jeremy's mount went down with a crash, killed instantly by the simultaneous impact of two missiles striking its head and neck. Sheer good luck kept the rider from breaking any bones as he was flung out of the saddle.

  All around him, noise and confusion reigned.

  Dominating the ragged front rank of the enemy was a masked male figure, sword in hand, the very one who'd just killed Je­remy's cameloid. Now he was dancing in a frenzy of excitement, agonizing in the manner of an excited leader over whether the operation was going properly.

  The irregular weapons and clothing of the enemy declared them bandits rather than soldiers. The sturdy figure in the com­manding position at their center definitely looked masculine, de­spite the fact that its face was the only one concealed by a mask.

  Jeremy caught a brief glimpse of Arnobius, the net still en­tangling his head and arms, struggling madly in the grasp of two brawny bandits, who were pulling him from his saddle while a third held his cameloid's reins. Beside him struggled Ferrante, bellowing curses, sword half-drawn, also hopelessly entangled in the net.

  Noise and confusion raged on every side as Jeremy rolled over, looking without success for a place to hide as the dust puffs of more missiles spouted around him. Luckily for him, he'd been able to roll free from the animal's body when it went down.

  Whirling around on all fours, he spent two seconds taking in the scene around him. Obviously the attackers had already gained a winning advantage.

  Of the half-dozen members of the Scholar's bodyguard who had crossed the gorge with him, all but one had now run away, urging their mounts to dangerous speed along the rim of the gorge. The exception was Ferrante, and the net had made his de­cision for him.

  Luckily uninjured by his fall, Jeremy leaped to his feet and ran for his life. From one moment to the next he kept hoping and expecting that the Intruder might do something to save him, at least give him guidance. But so far he felt himself completely on his own.

  Instinctively he headed downhill, first close to the rim of the great gorge, then angling away from it, for the simple reason that running in that direction would be faster. He heard another slung rock whiz past his shoulder, quick as an arrow. Trying to climb down into the gorge, with enemies on the brink above, would be utter madness.

  After about fifty yards, he turned his head and without break­ing stride snapped a look back over his shoulder. It showed him exactly what he had hoped not to see: the masked man, a stocky but extremely energetic fellow, had leaped into the saddle and was urging his mount after Jeremy in hot pursuit. Jeremy with a quick mental command brought the cameloid to a stop, so sud­denly that the animal went down, rolling over. Unfortunately, the rider leaped catlike from the saddle and landed unhurt. In an­other moment the masked man had regained his feet and re­sumed the chase with his sword drawn.

  The idea crossed Jeremy's mind of getting his enemy's cameloid to run his enemy down. He flashed a command broad­cast, and the animal seemed to be trying to obey, but it had been injured in its fall and could not even regain its feet.

  All the cameloids in sight on the near side of the gorge, in­cluding those belonging to the bandits, were thrown into a mad panic. The usually dependable animals bolted to freedom or crip­pled themselves in falls, with one or two actually plunging over the brink and into the depths of the gorge. Jeremy was certainly not going to try to call the survivors back.

  Having used up his animal resources and noting that the effect upon the enemy had not been nearly what he hoped for, Jeremy turned his back on the ambushers and ran.

  "Stop! Stop, I command it!" The shouted order rang out im­periously, but Jeremy's feet did not even slow.

  When the man spoke, Jeremy had an impression that his voice was familiar.

  The masked pursuer, in his frantic energy, gave the impression of being possessed by some god or by a demon.

  After half a minute of desperate flight, Jeremy found himself on one side of a tree, engaged in a dodging contest with his pur­suer, who was on the other.

  For a few moments the pair played death tag with a tree trunk in between. Slash and the other's wicked scimitar buried half its blade width in the trunk, while Jeremy danced back untouched. Trouble was, he had no weapon to slash back with, so as his next best choice he turned and ran again. Presently he was brought to bay, standing on a rock, at his back a higher rock, impossible to climb.

  The bandit, standing just below him, was gasping, too, but found the breath to speak in connected words. "Who am I talk­ing to?" His voice was rich with what seemed a mockery of cour­tesy.

  "Guess." The boy had all he could do to get out the single word between gasping breaths.

  "If you won't say, we'll find out. . . ."A pause for heaving lungs. "So ... she gave you something to carry to Alexander? Too bad you didn't deliver. But I suppose you were holding out for a better price. Let's have a look at it, my friend."

  "I don't know ... what you're talking about."

  "Don't you? Maybe that's possible . . . but no. I suppose you haven't got it on you now?" The masked man shifted his weight abruptly to his right foot, then quickly back to his left.

  "No." Even as Jeremy reacted to each feint, he could feel a kind of relief at at last finding someone who seemed to under­stand his situation—even if the understanding one was going to kill him.

  "You lie!" Death snarled at him.

  And somehow as he spoke the marauder had moved a half-step closer, so that it seemed that the chase was truly over. The fierce-looking blade came up menacing. Its sharp point jabbed at Jeremy's ribs, hard enough that he felt a trickle of blood inside his shirt. "Maybe I'll have to peel a chunk out of your skull to take a look. But no, you can't be wearing it, so ... so save your­self a lot of pain and tell me where it is."

  But I am wearing it. . . yes, inside my skull. Even in the midst of fear and anger it was possible to see the masked man's diffi­culty. If he did open Jeremy's skull and failed to find there what he was looking for, there would be no hope of extracting any fur­ther information from the victim. No doubt it was his contem­plation of this problem that made the swordsman dance a step or two in sheer frustration.

  Taking advantage of a moment's inattention on the part of his foe and feeling himself urged on by his silent partner, Jeremy broke desperately out of the position in which he had been ap­parently cornered. He jumped squarely at his enemy, striking him in the chest with both booted feet and knocking him down. The impact jolted from the swordsman what sounded surpris­ingly like a cry of terror, but when the masked one bounced up again a moment later he still had a firm grip on his sword, and Jeremy, who had gone sprawling in the other direction, could do nothing but take to his heels again.

  Not only did Jeremy lack any skill or experience in fighting, but he had never carried weapons and had none with him now, except for Sal's practical knife. He'd carefully sharpened it and scoured away the rust, then put it on again when starting on the Expedition.

  So far, Jeremy had made no attempt to draw his small knife. Even in an expert's hand, Sal's little blade would have been no match for the masked one's sword.

  In the days of his childhood Jeremy had been considered fleet of foot. Already he had put considerable distance between him­self and the site of the ambush, but shaking off the man who wore the mask was proving quite impossible. The landscape of­fered little in the way of hiding places, consisting as it did of scattered patches of trees and undergrowth, growing amid a jum­ble of small hills and ravines. With the feeling that he himself was now moving at superhuman speed, the boy darted in and out among the trees and took
great risks bounding down a slope of rocks and gravel. But his pursuer stuck to him with more than human tenacity.

  Once the boy fell, tearing one leg of his trousers and scraping his left knee and hip bloody. But scarcely was he down when he had bounded up again, in his terror hardly aware of pain or damage.

  Every time Jeremy risked a glance back over his shoulder, the grinning mask, pounding feet, and waving blade all loomed closer by a stride or two. The gasping cries the bandit uttered were all the more terrifying for being incoherent.

  Behind the pair engaged in the desperate partnership of the chase, the sounds of murder and mayhem coming from the scene of the ambush faded with increasing distance. But in both of Je­remy's ears the heavy thud of his pursuer's bounding feet grew ominously ever louder and louder.

  The boy strained legs and lungs to increase his speed, but it did no good. Then, just as the bandit was about to catch up, he, too, stumbled and fell. Judging by the savagery of the oaths he ripped out, he must have skinned himself, too. But judging from the speed with which he bounded up again, he could not have been seriously hurt. Grimacing horribly and still cursing hoarsely, thereby demonstrating a disheartening surplus of lung capacity, he came on again.

  His quarry sprang away, avoiding another murderous sword slash by half a step.

  "Curse you! You couldn't possibly keep up such speed if you weren't wearing it after all." Something in that conclusion seemed to give the man pause. But after another breath he again sprang forward, almost foaming at the mouth. "I'll have to peel your head!" And he let out a cry half fear, half wordless longing.

  Ever since the moment when the bandits had come charging, leaping, vaulting, dropping out of ambush, Jeremy had word­lessly and almost continuously pleaded for help from the alien mystery that had come to dwell in his own head. But Jeremy's communication with the Intruder had never been open and di­rect, and he could achieve nothing of the kind now. At the mo­ment, his alien partner seemed incongruously asleep. Only too clearly the boy remembered that Sal had never been helped by this burden either—at least not enough to keep the furies from killing her.