Джеффри Лорд: Champions Of The Gods

It never did. Instead a shout came from below. «Ho, Mirdon! Wait! What of the Mouth of the Gods! It has not been fed since-«

Mirdon and Blade both turned and looked down toward the valley. Three more men were scrambling up the slope behind the line of swordsmen. The center figure wore a heavy cloak with embroidered edges and a heavy metal medallion on a chain around his neck. The medallion was in the shape of a leaping flame. He was the one calling out.

Mirdon turned back to Blade. The sword remained point-down on the ground, but the warrior grasped the handle of the whip.

«Ha, Rauf,» he said, glaring at Blade. «You were not wise to come, back to your kill, like a hungry jackal. Now we will have a little vengeance for those poor wretches down there. Where did your comrades go?» Blade was silent.

Mirdon dropped his sword, drew a small riding crop from his belt, and slashed Blade hard across the face. Like the whip, the riding crop had sharp metal tied into it. Blade managed not to flinch or make a sound, but he felt blood trickling where his cheek had been torn open. A pleasant customer, this Mirdon, at least to anyone he thought was one of the Raufi. No doubt that was the name the people of Kano used for their enemies, the white-robed worshippers of Jannah.

«I asked you a question, dirty Rauf. When Mirdon of Kano asks questions, Raufi give answers, sooner or later, whether they want to or not.» He gestured with the riding crop toward Blade's groin.

«I am not dirty, nor am I a Rauf,» said Blade in a chill voice. «So do not be so sure that I will answer any of your questions.»

Instead of another slash of the riding crop, Mirdon's answer to this was a great roaring burst of laughter. It was loud enough and long enough to echo up and down the valley. Blade looked at Mirdon, wondering if he faced a madman.

Eventually Mirdon stopped laughing and looked at Blade again. His eyes were not mad, but they were as chill, lifeless, and unfriendly as the desert night. So was his voice as he spoke.

«It would be better for you to be thought a Rauf than a liar or a coward. The Raufi are warriors, though it is their false god Jannah that makes them so. Liars and cowards are shunned by gods and men alike. They have no place among any people worthy of the name.»

By this time the man with the cloak and the flame medallion was close enough to overhear Mirdon's words. «I told you to stay your sword. Mirdon. Did you not hear me?» The warrior's face set in an immobile mask. «It were better I thought you did not hear me. Otherwise it might be said you have disobeyed me. I am Second among the Consecrated of Kano, and in time I shall be First.»

«In the gods' good time, this may be so.»

«It shall be so,» said the cloaked man. «It has been spoken to me, Jormin, in the flames of the Mouth of the Gods. Let no one doubt it.»

«I do not doubt it.»

«That is wise. Did you also hear me when I asked that this one be saved for the Mouth of the Gods?» His voice was laden with menace and tension. Blade looked at Jormin and found himself suddenly feeling much friendlier toward Mirdon. The warrior was harsh but not mad. This Jormin was at least a fanatic, if not a madman. The look in his eyes was unmistakable and frightening.

«No, Jormin, I did not hear you when you spoke the first time,» said Mirdon. He spoke slowly, one reluctant word at a time, as though each one was pulled painfully out of him by his fear of the fanatical priest. «It was not my wish to disobey you, Jormin, for you are Second among the Consecrated.» He said the last words in the same tones he would have used to say, «Your mother weaned you on cameldung.» Jormin did not notice.

Mirdon took a deep breath and went on. «But I ask you, Jormin. Is it wise to take him for the Mouth? I must ask him a few questions about where his comrades have gone. He is not likely to answer them without persuasion. If I must persuade him he is not likely to be healed in time to enter the Mouth as whole as he must be.»

«No, that is true. Therefore he shall be mine, and mine only. You shall ask him nothing.»

«But-«Mirdon's mouth opened, but only the one outraged word came out.

«Yes, Mirdon?» said the priest, his voice silky. «You seem to care more for your own victory than for the favor of the gods. I hope that is not so.»

Mirdon's mouth clamped tightly shut. He looked like a man who dared not say a single word or move a single muscle, for fear of cursing or even of Jormin, striking him down. He stood, hard eyes fixed on the priest, for what seemed like many minutes. Then he let out his breath with a hiss and turned away. His arms rose, urging his swordsmen back and away.

«Enough, enough. The Second among the Consecrated has spoken. This man will go into the Mouth of the Gods. I doubt if he would have told us anything anyway, at least not until his comrades were all safely beyond our reach.» Blade's ears caught in Mirdon's voice the tones of a man saying what has to be said, but not believing a word of it.

As Mirdon's swordsmen stepped back, Jormin's two bodyguards stepped forward carrying cords. They unwound the whip from Blade's arm and casually tossed it down into the dirt. They made him lie down while they cleaned, salved, and bandaged his wounds. They made him drink a strong fruit-flavored cordial from a silver flask. Finally they helped him to his feet and down the slope to the valley floor.

A camel was waiting there with a canvas litter slung on one side. Jormin and his bodyguards helped Blade into the litter, then mounted their own horses. The priest himself took the leading reins of Blade's beast.

There must have been a strong sleeping drug in the cordial. By the time Mirdon and his warriors were mounted, Blade found himself drifting off to sleep. As the column moved out, one question remained flickering on the fringes of his mind. It went on flickering until he fell asleep.

What was the Mouth of the Gods?

Blade awoke with sun glaring in his eyes and the sounds and smells of a camp all around him. He was bound hand and foot, and the heavily bandaged wound on his left leg hurt. He managed to twist himself around on his litter and get some sort of view of his surroundings.

The patrol from Kano was camped on top of a small hill with a view for miles in all directions. Flickers of movement far out on the red-brown sand indicated mounted sentries in position.

Several of the camels from the ambushed caravan were tethered near the foot of the hill. Their packs bulged grotesquely. As Blade watched, four horsemen rode up, leading two more loaded camels and carrying loaded sacks over their own saddles. Apparently Mirdon was salvaging as much gear as he could, but burying the bodies where they fell.

At this point someone noticed that Blade was awake. There was a shout, and the priest Jormin and one of his bodyguards came running over. Both went busily and silently to work examining Blade's wounds. They worked with so much pulling and tugging and probing that the wounds on both Blade's leg and his face started hurting him even more.

Eventually they stood up. «Good,» said Jormin. «I thought the bullet was not in the wound, but last night I could not be sure. It has gone, and the wound will heal fast and clean.»

«With your great arts helping it, that is certain,» said the guard. Blade noticed Jormin did not look disgusted at the obsequious flattery. He merely nodded graciously, as if the guard had stated a self-evident truth.

Mirdon was passing close enough to hear the exchange. He did look disgusted, but only when his face was turned away from Jormin. The warrior's large dark eyes met Blade's briefly. Blade thought he saw sympathy, or at least curiosity, in those eyes. He also saw that Mirdon was indeed as tall as he had looked in the middle of last night's battle. The man stood at least six-and-a-half feet tall. He was also rail-thin, and Blade was quite sure he could break Mirdon in half without much trouble. He wasn't sure he'd want to, even if he had the chance. Mirdon was a soldier, a professional-or, at least, not a public menace like Jormin.