Джеффри Лорд - The Temples Of Ayocan

«You blaspheme, comparing yourself to Ayocan!» Pterin's voice was shrill.

«Perhaps. But what will happen if you are wrong about the oranki, and they take this strong spirit on his way down to the Lower River? Ayocan shall not be displeased.» From the expression on his face, Pterin did not at all like having the ritual phrase of the cult used against him. But he kept silent as the Holy Warrior turned hard about and shouted to the men at the windlass:

«Ready to lower away.»

Several of the warriors ran forward, picked up the frame with the two baskets, and carried it to the edge of the cliff. Blade managed for the moment to avoid looking down. Then they took the double ends of the main rope and securely tied them to large hooks on the frame. They lowered the main rope into a padded trough. Then, even more carefully, they picked up the basket frame and lowered it over the edge of the cliff. The frame creaked and swung sickeningly for a moment, the rope creaked and tightened. Still Blake managed to avoid looking down.

Then Pterin nodded. And the warrior turned back to the windlass crew and shouted.

«Lower away!»

Again the basket frame swung sickeningly as the windlass crew began paying out the rope. Down the side of the cliff it went, down through the damp air. The seamed and scarred blue-gray stone of the cliff face flowed upward past Blade's eyes. Gradually he got used to the swaying, and looked over and down.

He almost wished he hadn't. Blade was no more afraid of heights than he was of anything else. And he had done an impressive amount of mountain climbing, both on missions and for his own amusement. But then he had always been holding on to the solid mountain, using his equipment and his skills against it. He had not been swaying in a basket in the middle of space, held up only by a rope that might break, payed out by men who might not keep their mind on their job. No, he didn't need to worry about lapses on the part of the crew of the windlass. He and Pterin together made too valuable a package for the men on the windlass to become careless. All he had to do was sit tight and wait-and perhaps worry about the oranki, whatever they were.

There was a good mile of empty air between the top of the cliff and the trees below. At the bottom the forest stretched away until it was lost in the fading light, endless miles of green broken only by the faraway glimmer of the river. Lights by the river shone a familiar yellow-orange, and smoke rose from the trees near those lights. Blade narrowed his eyes, trying to make out details. As he did so, a shrill whistling sounded from below, and he heard Pterin gasp and curse under his breath. Blade looked down.

Rising up out of the shadows on broad black wings was something-vast and hideous. It looked like nothing Blade had ever seen in nightmares, and in fact for a moment he could not even get a clear image of it. But then it swept up past the baskets, to swing outward in a great circle, wings stiff, gliding as it stared at its prey.

From wingtip to wingtip it spanned twenty feet, from beak to tail at least ten. Its skin was pebbled and grained like leather, and every inch of it shone as glossy black as if it had been oiled. It showed neither fur nor feathers nor scales. But as its long bony beak opened and shut, it did show a mass of jagged white teeth.

Blade now knew entirely too well why the warrior had predicted death for anyone who saw an orank. They were a thousand feet below the top of the cliff already. The men on top could neither drive away the creature nor haul them up in time for them to avoid its attack. And the only weapon he and Pterin had between them was the priest's ceremonial bronze knife, with a blade perhaps six inches long.

Pterin had that knife out now, and was holding it at arm's length while his lips moved in silent prayer. But Blade noticed that his eyes never left the orank as it swung about them in great circles. There was nothing wrong with Pterin's courage, at least.

The orank's circles were getting wider now. On each one the creature swept a little closer to the men in the baskets. Now Blade was watching it as intently as the priest was. Would it strike blindly, directly at the men? They had the remotest sort of fighting chance if it did that. Or would it have the wit to slash the rope apart, dropping the men helplessly to their death in the jungle below? They were doomed if it did that. They would plummet helplessly down to smash themselves to pulp on the ground, and the orank could feed at leisure on the remains.

At the outermost point of its widest circle, the creature suddenly turned. It turned so sharply that for a moment the great black wings were almost vertical. Above the toothed beak Blade saw two gigantic red eyes glaring at him. Then the orank leveled out and lunged in toward the men in the baskets.

As it turned, Blade braced himself as best he could and raised both hands. It was coming straight at him; beak open, eyes glaring. Now he could hear the beat of the wings and the creature's breathing, smell its breath, rank with filth and decay. It screamed again, and then it was on him.

As the beak drove forward, seeking to snatch his head from his shoulders in a single snap, Blade ducked. The beak swept past him, the savage teeth clicking shut on empty air. As the creature's neck came within range, Blade chopped down hard with the edges of his hands, right hand first, then left. He did not expect to break the foot-thick neck, but he knew the blow would startle a creature that must be expecting a sitting and helpless prey.

It did. The orank let out a scream of surprise and pain, and did a complete somersault in midair. It did not pull out of its dive until it was a hundred feet below the two men. By the time it had circled back for another attack, Blade was ready again. He noticed Pterin looking at him with interest.

The orank made its second lunge. Again Blade ducked, again his hands lashed out in a deadly double stroke with all his enormous strength behind it. The creature's tough hide bruised and scraped Blade's skin, but this time along with the scream Blade heard bone crack. Once more the creature flipped over in midair and dove away, and this time it fell almost five hundred feet before it could recover.

Perhaps he should try to grab the creature's neck the next time, strangle it or break the neck? No, it was too strong for that. It might pull him out of the basket in its final struggles even if he killed it. And then the orank was coming in for the third pass, and Blade crouched ready to meet it.

The orank was in a rage now, and also in pain. It shook its head from side to side as it came in. As the orank lunged, it misjudged the height of the still descending basket. Its darting head shot under the basket, striking it a tremendous blow that nearly jolted Blade over the side. But the shock also brought the orank to a dead stop in midair. For seconds it hung there, pressed hard against the basket.

Those seconds were all Blade needed. His left hand chopped down even harder than before against the vulnerable neck. His right lashed out sideways, against the wing thrust hard against the frame. The wing-bone was large, but like that of any flying creature, it was fragile. In both neck and wing Blade felt bone shatter under his blows.

The orank gave its most terrible scream yet, and dropped away, head twisting feebly on its crippled neck, the broken wing trailing as it frantically struggled to stay in the air with the good wing. It kept on dropping, with Blade watching to see if by some miracle it would recover again and return to the attack. It did not. It kept dropping, until it vanished in the mist that was beginning to gather below.

Blade was sitting back in the basket, gasping for breath, when he heard a sudden, unmistakable, crack of breaking wood. Moving very gently and cautiously, he turned to look at the frame.