Pearl Of Patmos

CHAPTER 3

Flame. Smoke, pungent and stinging in his eyes and nostrils, making him cough and retch. Blade, stupefied, his head a mass of pain, opened his eyes and saw fire devouring wooden beams high above him. He lay on hot stone, the floor of a vast, arching, groined structure that could only be a temple of some sort. A temple now dedicated to fire and smoke and the cries of men and women being put to the sword.

Blade, naked and unarmed, stunned by the trip through the computer, managed to raise himself on an elbow. Never before had he been so weakened physically, so nearly paralyzed, by the electronic restructuring of his brain cells. He was in Dimension X again, but nearly as weak as a babe and in, imminent danger of being either burnt alive or crushed.

He saw a rafter sag and begin to peel away from the dome directly over him. Blade rolled, scrabbled on. his hands and knees, clawing frantically through debris. He pawed over a dead man, then another, and a man and woman locked in a final embrace. The rafter tore away and came crashing down with a thunderous explosion of smoke and fiery splinters. Blade huddled behind another corpse as the flaming shards rained about him. He felt his strength returning. None too soon. He had to get the hell out of this mess, and fast.

Somewhere near him a woman screamed. Blade got unsteadily to his feet and peered around through the dense curtain of smoke. He saw a sword near the hand of the corpse that had sheltered him just now, and he picked it up in a reflex action. Somewhere in the smoke the woman screamed again, a high keen of agony and terror. Blade, the sword out-thrust before him, stumbled in the direction of the sound. He was conscious now of another sound, one that came from outside the temple; a mob roar, an all-pervading tumult composed of many lesser chords, all of. them unpleasant and threatening: the clash of metal on mtal, men gurgling in death and laughing in triumph, women weeping and children crying, victors' shouts and losers' moans-and always the sinister, obbligato of consuming fire.

The woman screamed a third time. This time the cry ended in words. «Juna help me-Juna save me-JunaJuna-Ahhhhhhheeeeeee»

Blade had the sound pinpointed now. He reeled through a veil of smoke and saw them on the great stone altar. It was rape. Rape in progress. Still the woman struggled and fought, trying to elude her tormentor. Blade ran, the sword poised.

The soldier was prolonging his pleasure as long as possible. He had cast off his plumed helmet and dropped his sword belt, kicked away his pantaloons. He was squat and powerful and easily held the woman down on the altar, cuffing her and laughing as she sought to disengage herself from his rapacious flesh. To no avail. He was far in her and driving with brutal lunges toward his conquest.

Blade did not stop to think. He put the sword through the man's back. The soldier screamed and, still deep in the woman, clutched at the bloody steel pushing through his chest. He screamed again, rolled off the woman, looked at Blade with staring wild eyes, and crumpled at the foot of the altar. Blade put his foot on the body and tugged out the sword. He turned back to the woman.

Too late. From somewhere in her torn robes she took a dagger and, before Blade could prevent her, plunged it into her heart. He caught her as she fell forward, blood streaming from her mouth. Her glazing eyes met his and she muttered, «Dishonored-dishonored. Juna has turned her face from me. I die. There is only death in Thyme.»

Blade held her in his arms, kneeling, cursing his luck. She could have been of enormous help, have told him much that he must know to survive. A rafter crashed savagely close by and he flinched instinctively. Time to be going. Always before, in his six previous trips into Dimension X, he had been fortunate enough to be given a period of grace, time to adjust and adapt. This time he had landed squarely in the midst of a raging battle. Survival this time depended on his superb body and brain-and on his luck.

He put the dead woman gently aside and began to strip the body of the rapist soldier. He donned the plumed helmet, with a nose piece and metal strips to protect his cheeks and jaw. The shirt was of leather and a vest of chain mail fitted over it. The pantaloons, of coarse wool, were loose fitting and wide legged. The thick sandals were of rawhide and caught with thongs around the ankle.

Blade examined the plume of the helmet. Red feathers, clipped to a smooth nub. There was nothing else that could be insignia. The color red, then, must be his identification and, by the lack of any indication of rank, he must be a common soldier. It did not matter. He bad taken the first essential step. He had clothing and a weapon and, he supposed, an identity of sorts.

A great stone fell from the dome and crashed six feet from Blade. It bounced toward him and he dived wildly to one side, barely missing being pulped. Another beam came down and framed him in spattering fire. Blade did the only thing he could do, follow his nose and his eyes through the smoke, plunging through the thinner spots where the visibility was only semiopaque and trying not to breathe.

He felt a rush of fresh air from his left and moved toward it. The floor was burning through his sandals now. He dashed through a last wall of flame and smoke and came into a narrow passage which led to a door. The door was half open and beyond it Blade could hear the dreadful sound he had heard before. Louder now as he approached the open air. An ever-rising tumult of clashing arms, clangor of steel on steel and shield on shield, the screams of dying horses and the shouts of sweating and bleeding men.

Thyme? That had been the word-Thyme. The raped woman had spoken it before she died.

Thyme. Blade, alone, a stranger in peril, friendless in Dimension X, knew nothing of Thyme. Except that it must be a city, or a town, or even a state or country. Whatever it was-it was dying. He was witnessing the death throes.

Behind him the ceiling of the temple fell in with a hellish roar. Flame licked down the corridor toward him. Blade tried to wedge his big shoulders through the half open door, but was balked. Something was holding it. He peered around the door and saw a corpse serving as a doorstop. Smoke, blinding and suffocating, swirled down the passage and choked him. Blade bent low, put all his muscle into it and shoved at the door with everything he had. He squeezed through just as the ceiling of the passage caved in and the tunnel became a holocaust.

He was in a cobbled lane. A narrow band of night sky, all that he could see, was tinted lurid red by a thousand fires. But there was a night wind blowing down the lane, a fresh strong wind that came somewhere off a salt marsh. Blade breathed deeply, reveled in the wind, filled his lungs and did not mind that the air was tainted with death.

The temple from which he had just escaped collapsed inward, a pyre of scorched stone and wood ash. The wind blowing around Blade caught at floating embers, balloons of flame, and bore them on to fire another edifice. Blade, on impulse, reached down and got a hand around an ankle of the corpse that blocked the door. He dragged it down the lane to where there was a small square and the light was better. He examined the corpse.

The man had been killed by a blow from a sword, or an axe, that had sheared through his helmet and cleft the skull as far as his jaw. The two halves of the helmet still clung to the greasy, bloody dark hair. Blade noted that the helmets were much alike-the one he wore and this shattered grisly thing-except that the latter had a crest of blue feathers. Blue. Red. The colors of opposing armies or only regimental or divisional insignia? The rapist he had killed in the temple, and this man, had they been enemies? Blade could not know and this was no time to worry about it. His own helmet plume was red. He had the uneasy feeling that he would know soon enough if there was a difference, and what it meant.

He tugged a shield off the arm of the corpse and adjusted. it on his own left arm. It was small and circular, with a metal boss embellished with the curious design of a snake with its tail in its own mouth. Trying to swallow itself?

Beneath the snake, in script that was half cursive, half glyphic, were two words-Ais Ister.

Blade shook his head-it was all Greek to him-and began to make his way cautiously down the lane. It narrowed again and twisted this way and that, lined by rows of dark houses with narrow stone fronts and overhanging roofs of shingle. Some of the roofs were beginning to smolder and catch fire from the rain of fiery debris, but no one appeared to fight the flames. The houses were deserted, their occupants slain or fleeing. -Blade realized that, for the moment at least, he was alone in a deserted section of the city. He was suddenly thirsty and even felt a pang of hunger. He was beginning to adjust, to adapt to this Dimension X. The Richard Blade of Home Dimension was fading away, to be replaced by a supremely well-equipped survival mechanism.

He entered another small square. It was ringed by deserted homes and shops, but in its center a fountain played and Blade made for it. His tongue was as dry as old leather. For a moment he regarded the fountain from which fell cool water in a delightful spray. It was in the form of a young woman holding a tilted vase from which the water poured. Blade stared and paid silent homage to the unknown sculptor. The girl was nubile and lovely and so cunningly delineated that he half expected her to stepoff her pedestal and offer him a drink.

He raised his sword in a salute to her frozen beauty and plunged his face and arms into a basin beneath the flowing vase. The water was icy and refreshing, with a brackish taint that he did not find unpleasant. As he emerged, dripping and snorting, he noted the legend at the foot of the statue: Juna.

Juna? That had been the name cried out by the raped woman just before she killed herself. Blade, as he drank again and scrubbed himself free of blood and grime and smoke, regarded the stone woman with a quizzical eye. Junal Obviously a goddess of some sort. Perhaps the patron goddess of this city, of Thyme. In which case, he thought with a grim smile, her work left much to be desired. That poor raped woman had said it all-Juna had turned her face awayl

Then there was no more time for speculation. Blade heard them first. Under him. Beneath the cobbles. A clang of arms and the sound of men marching. At first he did not believe it, thought his senses were tricking him, then he spotted a blank slab of stone in the cobbled area near the fountain. A sewer opening, or at least a way in or out of some underground labyrinth of tunnels and passages. For a moment Blade had the delusive thought=friend or foe? Then he laughed atbimself even as he ran for cover. At this juncture, this early in the game, they were all his enemies.

Beyond the fountain he found a dark aisle between two houses. He eased into the gloom and crouched low, watching the slab of stone. Moonlight, stained scarlet by onrushing fires, and increasingly laden with ash and smoke, was sufficient for him to see plainly. The stone slab was flung aside and soldiers began to climb out of the revealed dark opening. Their helmet crests were red. Blade's teeth glinted in a sardonic grin. He was, in a matter of speaking, among friends. He would not depend too much on it.

The first man out of the hole was obviously an officer. His helmet plumes had not been shaven to a nubbed crest but stood tall, a red panache moving in the night wind. He carried a sword and a shield embossed with a figure of the goddess. Juna again. Blade nodded. He was beginning to sort them out now, a bit. These must be soldiers of Thyme. He gazed past them at their city, three-quarters engulfed in flame. They would seem to have lost a battle, but were still fighting.

Man after man climbed out of the trapdoor in. the cobbles. Blade watched and listened, trying to piece it together, to make what he could of it.

The officer strode nervously back and forth, shouting and prodding his men, using the flat of his sword to form them into some kind of line. These were weary men, begrimed and bloody from hard fighting, many of them heavily bandaged. Some were swordsmen, some carried lances, and still others had bows and slings. All wore short leather kilts and high-laced buskins. And all grumbled and complained as they stumbled into a rough formation. Judging from their looks, Blade could not much blame them. They must have fought well, to be so beat up, and now they were to be sacrificed in a last desperate rear guard action.

The officer raised his sword for quiet, then began to speak.

«Soldiers of Thyme, I salute you. You have fought well against surprise and treachery and overwhelming odds. You have earned rest.»

A man spoke up in the front rank. «Aye, Captain Mijax. We have that. Then give us our rest. Grant us more than that-our lives. Let us leave this lost and dead city and make our way through the marshes to the coast. There is a chance that some of us will make it to Patmos. Then we can fight the Samostans again. But let us not fight here. Tbyrne is lost.»

The soldier had spoken boldly. For a moment there was silence in the square but for the wind sighing past the statue of Juna and dropping red and black ash in the fountain. The spying Blade felt his stomach tighten. He had a premonition that he was about to see something nasty.

The officer pointed his sword at the speaker. «Lancemen-drag that man here to me.»

There was some hesitation in the ranks. The captain called Mijax slashed his sword through the air and began to bellow. «Immediately, you stupid dolts. Bring him to me-or you will suffer his fate. Bring him forward this instantl»

Two sturdy lancemen dragged the soldier forward. He fought them, struggling and writhing, and did not lose his courage, He continued to shout defiance at the officer.

«You are a fool, Captain Mijax. A fool and a dupe. Thyme is lost and well you know it. Juna has forsaken us and you know that, too. Even now she is with her priests and preparing to flee to the coast. Why should we remain, why should we have to die? Our deaths can mean nothing now. It is senseless, without reason, to-«

The officer slashed him across the face with his sword: «Be quietl You are guilty of treason. Worse-you are a spy for Samosta. An agitator, a troublemaker. You are in the pay of Hectoris. It was you, or men like you, all traitors, who opened the sewer gates and let the Samostans creep into the city while we slept. I say this-and I say death for traitorsl»

The soldier, blood gushing from a great slash in his cheek, sought to struggle up from his knees. «A lie. All lies. Ask my comrades. I have been with them all the while, I have fought as bravely as any man here. You are not only a fool, Captain, you are an insane fool into the bargain.»

Blade winced. He had served his time as a lieutenantcolonel in the British army and he knew something of military «justice.» The man had been a fool to speak up so-now Blade did not give him much chance.

He was right. The man was gagged and forced to his knees again. Captain Mijax, his face grim, struck off the man's head with one stroke of his sword. He kicked the head aside and brandished his stained sword at the troops.

«Let this be a warning. I speak in Juna's name. All traitors will meet the same fate.» He kicked the headless body. «This coward lied. Thyme is not dead. Thyme is wounded, on her knees, but Thyme will rise again.»

Phony histrionics, thought the watching Blade. The captain did not believe his own words. Not did the men believe them-there was a low mutter from the ranks but none spoke up. Blade moved a bit closer to the troops, having all but made up his mind to tag along with them. His uniform was right-he was wearing the red plumeand he judged that his chances would be greater with the soldiers than prowling alone in this stricken city. For the.°-. time being. He had no intention of dying for Thyme.

A solitary horseman, his steed covered with blood and= sweaty froth, debouched from a lane and clattered across the cobbles of the square to the assembled troops. Captain Mijax called his battered men to attention and doffed his helmet and bowed to the rider. Blade watched with new interest. The man must be someone of importance and authority.

Captain Mijax raised his sword. «Hail, Gongorl How,

goes the battle, Excellency?» `

«Against us, Captain. Against us in every sector. Hectoris sits in the palace and doles out our maidens for the raping. Our treasure is taken and even now is being shared by the barbarians. How many men do you have here, Captain?»

The man who spoke was elderly. He was helmetless and his scant white hair was in disarray and smeared with blood. His face, grimed with smoke and ash, was narrow and beak-nosed; his eyes were pouched and weary, yet glittering with a dark anger. He wore a metal corselet and the familiar leather kilt and high buskins. A short sword was belted to his waist.

«Some three hundred odd,» said the Captain. He gestured at his troops. «As you can see, sire, they have fought hard and are not at their best.»

The white-haired man held up a hand for silence, then pointed to the body of the beheaded man. «What was his crime?»

The Captain explained. When he had finished Gongor-a general or a senior statesman, Blade thoughtshook his head in weariness and, Blade surmised, a trace of pity.

«You were probably wrong, Captain. I doubt the man was a spy or agitator. Thyme has been betrayed, but the betrayal was in high places, not low. Not that it matters now-the man was right. We must abandon the city. We few are all who are left. The main body of our troops has been slain or taken prisoner. This sector of the city is all that remains to us, and that only because it is the poorest and not fit for looting. So hear my orders, Captain. We e will fight a rear guard action, if we must, and attempt escape by.the north gate. I say attempt, because our chances are not good. The Samostan cavalry, by the orders of Hectoris himself, remains outside to ring the city and prevent just such escape. It is our good fortune that Hectoris has not yet ordered them into the streets to hunt down stragglers. So we had best be quick about it. Form your men into columns and make for the north gate with all speed-such of us as can get into the marshes may escape and come to the shore, and so to Patmos to fight again.»

Captain Mijax did not like his orders. His tone was near to insubordination as he demanded, «What of Juna and the priests, Sire? Are we to leave them to the mercy of Hectoris? We must notl Look you, Excellency-I can fortify this square with cobbles, with corpses if need be, and we can stop the Samostans. At least I can hold until Juna and her priests have a chance to escape. I beg you, Sire, let me-«

Blade, little by little, had been creeping out of his hiding place in the shadows. From where he crouched now it was a scant dozen feet to the rear rank. Through the acrid, drifting smoky haze he could see the expression on the older man's face. Gongor's features expressed, all at the same time, impatience and tolerance, pity and anger, admiration and irritation. When he spoke his tone was that used by a father to a rather stupid son.

«You are a fool, Captain. A brave fool, but a fool just the same. It is Juna and the priests who have betrayed us, in their own way and for their own motives. Take my word for it-they are not now worrying about you or your menl If any escape the fire and death it will be Juna and her priests. Now cease to question me and follow your orders. Follow mel We march at once to the north gate. This is a command, Captain.» The white-haired man drew his sword and pointed it at the headless body. «Obey or suffer the fate of that one.»

Captain Mijax scowled, then wheeled about and began to shout orders. The men, sensing some hope of escape, were quick to form into a marching column four abreast. Blade, skulking in the shadows, waited until the last contingent was tramping past, then stepped carelessly into tine. He fumbled with his kilt as though he had been off relieving himself. It proved a needless precaution, for no one paid him the slightest attention. Most of the men around him bore wounds of varying degrees, and all marched in slovenly fashion, morose, heads bowed and feet dragging. Blade, fearing to make himself conspicious in such a company, began to feign a limp.

Far down toward the head of the column a song began. Faint at first, barely heard, an anthem as tattered and uncertain, as ragged, as the men who sang it. Blade, limping along in the rear, made out some of the words.

Juna, goddess of all men, with breasts and thighs didivine. . Juna, who dies and then is born again. . Juna our mother, our sister, our love. . Juna who makes love in Hell, and also in Heaven above.

The soldiers around Blade did not sing. They dragged themselves along and grumbled.

«Old Gongor has the right of it,» said one man. «The Captain is a fool. And he did wrong to kill poor old Copelus. We were mates, Copelus and me. He was no traitor. He fought well. As bravely as any of us, as bravely as the Captain himself. It was wicked to slay him so.»

«Aye,» said another man. «That was wrongly done. But the captain is a brave man and a fine warrior, even though he be short tempered at times.»

Aye-he is brave enough. Brave enough to get us all killed if he had his way.»

A man laughed harshly. «The captain longs for Juna's legs around him-he seeks the reward our goddess bestows on heroes.»

More laughter. «Then he is twice a fool. I never saw a dead man who could make love»

Blade limped along, listening and watching and learning. The goddess Juna, he guessed, must be both real and image. A stone figure and a woman of flesh. Such duality was not uncommon in the religions he had studied back in Home Dimension-the Dalai Lama, for instance, was thought by certain Tibetan sects to be a living incarnation of Buddha.

This Juna, if the statue he had seen was any indication, must be a beautiful young girl. She would, in the nature of such things, be chosen and schooled for goddess-hood by the priests. Ah, the priests. Always the priests. They would hold the real power and call the shots-with Juna as a figurehead.

Juna must reward certain heroes by sleeping with them. Blade had to smile at that and admit that it was better than a medal. A medal could be cold comfort at times. In any case none of it was important at the momentThyme had fallen and, presumably, Juna and her priests were on the run just as the remanent of the army was. As he, Blade, was himself.

A painful blow on his bare legs snapped Blade out of his thoughts. A burly sergeant, sent to tighten up the rear, was laying about with the flat of his sword and shouting: «Keep up, you slow marchers. Step lively now! Tighten up that file. Dress on the man in front and beside you. Look lively now. Lively, I say!»

Blade made a mistake. An inexcusable mistake and one that could well have been fatal. He lost his temper. For only an instant was his guard down, but it was enough. The sergeant did not help matters by striking at Blade a second time. He smacked his sword across the big man's thighs and shouted, «Get on, I said. Step it up.» He looked closer at Blade and added, «I see no wound on you. Why do you lag back here?»

By then it was too late. Blade brought his right fist over in a straight from the shoulder punch that caught the sergeant squarely between the eyes. The man's eyes crossed n surprise and shock, then he slumped to the rough cobbles. The little company of stragglers halted. Every eye was on Blade. Ahead of them the company began to draw away, unaware of mutiny behind it.

Men drew away from Blade as though he were diseased. One man said, «He's dead, like enough. That blow would have killed an ox.»

Blade stared down at the sergeant. He did look dead. But he was never to know. A burly man with a patch on one eye and his arm in a sling, his beard a wild profusion of wiry dark hair, came out of the huddle of Xpen. He gave Blade a broken-toothed grin.

«Did my heart good, that did. He whipped me once, the bastard. Take his head, friend. I'll take his heels, so-«

They were before a house with gaping empty windows. «Swing him,» said the bearded man. His one gray eye gleamed at Blade. «We'll just let him sleep it off in there. Might come on to rain and we wouldn't want the sergeant to get wet.»

They counted three and swung the 'heavy body in through the window. It landed with a crash. The man with the eye patch turned on the others. «Let's get on, then. None of you seen nothing, hearl The lean as talks answers to Nob.»

They straggled on, those that could hastening a bit in an effort to catch up. The man with the eye patch fell in beside Blade, who eyed him warily. He needed an ally, a friend, but this rough character was hardly the type he had had in mind. Blade had been thinking in terms of going directly to the top, as was his custom in DX-he had been casting about for ways and means of meeting Juna and her priests. Or possibly the present conqueror of Thyme, this Hectoris, whoever and wherever he was. But all that would have to wait. Insofar as Blade had made any plans at all-there had certainly been no time for proper thought they consisted of the elementary task of getting out of the ruined city with 'a whole skin. He had heard talk of salt marshes, and the coast, and of a place called Patmos. At the moment it was enough, more than enough, and he knew that he would be lucky to make it. Before he could raise his sights he must survive-this burly rascal who called himself Nob might be useful to that end.

The two of them caught up with the party of wounded and then, as by unspoken agreement, dropped behind a few paces so they could not be overheard.

For a few moments they marched in silence. Blade eyed his new companion warily and was aware that the other was doing the same. Blade waited, enduring that covert inspection. Nob grinned at — him, not exactly an invitation to confidence. The man's front teeth had been broken off at the gum line and the stumps were a dark brown. Blade would have wagered that the man was a rogue, a thief or worse. This did not bother him. Such men had their uses. There was something about the man that he liked even on such short acquaintance-an independent spirit, a blithe `°go to hell» attitude that appealed. And the man was shrewd. Blade found that out now.

The question came in a hoarse half-whisper. The black eye patch, it was over the left eye, glinted at Blade as Nob spoke without turning his head. Nor did his lips seem to move.

«Who might you be, sir? What do you do in Thyrne in a uniform three sizes too.small for your heft? I aided ye back yonder, but now I begin to have second thoughts. And I warn ye-if ye be Samostan I'll set about you and do your business the same as ye did the sergeant. So speak to old Nob. Who be ye?»

By his way of speaking he had served time in jail. This rather pleased Blade. The man might make a staunch subordinate if he could win him over. And remember not to trust him.

«I'll answer all your questions in time,» Blade said. «You answer me one now-why do you call me `sir'?»

«Because ye'll never be a common soldier. I've but one good eye and I saw that at first glance. It lies in your manner that you are no commoner, sir. And in your act when the sergeant struck you-aye, that was the real giveaway. A common soldier would have taken the blow and grumbled about it-might even have gotten his dagger into the sergeant some dark night. But you followed your nature, sir, and that nature was to strike back then and.there.»

The man was observant, Blade thought. And certainly shrewd. But sometimes shrewdness could be a mask for cunning. He must go carefully with this fellow. And above all he must establish their relationship, if there was to be one, from the outset.

So he smiled at Nob and said, «You are right in some matters. I am a stranger in this land. I am no 7byrnian and certainly no Samostan. I came into the midst of this battle by accident and, since beggars do not have. choices, I go along with this raggle-taggle army until my mind is clearer about matters. In that, Nob, you may be able to help me. If so, and all goes well, you will not be the loser by it. That is all I can promise now, for you know the chanciness of events as well as I do.»

They tramped along in silence while Nob considered Blade's words. They were winding through a maze of poor streets flanked by deserted hovels. The smoke pall here was lighter and there was a stink of feces and garbage in the smudged air. Blade wrinkled his nose; and was again reminded of Nob's sharpness, for that worthy laughed and said, «Another sign that ye are gentleman, sir. Your nose is too good for the smell hereabout. Not that I blames you, mind. Faugh! I could never bide it myself. And I born not a street from here. Look ye when we pass this next turn. Sharply now, sir, for 'tis only an alley and easy to miss. But for the stink. There-you see?»

It was a dark hole, shoulder-wide and leading back between the shabby houses. It was cobble-floored and in the middle was a runnel of filth of every description; the stench it emitted was distinctive even in the surrounding fetid atmosphere. Blade had time for a glance and they were past it. It occurred to him that he was no longer in much danger from the army of Samosta-they would be in no hurry to occupy these slums.

Nob laughed, not a pleasant sound. «Me birthplace, that. No secret about where 1 come from, sir.»

Blade, ignoring the probe, said, «Your home was back there? Your family?»

This time there was a trace of genuine mirth in Nob's laugh. He roared and slapped his hand against his thigh. Men just ahead of them turned to stare.

«Home, ye say? Home was it? Aye, a home I had. In the shit ditch ye just saw. I was dropped like any foal in the field, only my mother did not stay to lick me dry and give me the tit. She bore me and tossed me in the ditch to perish. Aye, I had a home if ye call it that!»

Blade believed the man. He said, «Yet you lived. How was this?»

The eye patch swiveled toward him. Nob scowled. «I know what I was told when I came of age to understand. Nothing more. The story goes that I was picked up by a drab, some poor poxy whore, and taken into a brothel to live.» The scowl vanished. Nob grinned and spat. «'Tis like to be true, for certainly I was raised in a brothel. I have no memory of the poor lass who found me and was my second mother. I was told she died of pox nearly afore I was weaned. You can see, my master, that I have had a chancy life and so death, when it comes, will be no great surprise. Yet I am in no hurry to search it out. Look yonder across Beggar's Square-the north gate! May be that old Gonger will get us out of this yet.»

The detail of wounded stragglers, of which Blade was a part, came last into the great square. There was a little drifting smoke, no fire, and the last of the moon limned the cobbles and an inner square of booths and stalls that must be, in normal times, a sort of thieves' market. Gongor and the Captain were aligning their men to one side of these stalls. Beyond, on the distant side of the square, Blade saw a high stone wall into which was set a wooden gate. The gate was closed but not barrer. Blade was instantly uneasy. His keen eyes sought the bars that should have been in the slots and could not find them. As he stared he thought he saw the gate move.

Blade did not like it. He had nothing to go on but his instinct, yet his sense of vague disquiet grew with each passing second. That gate should have been barred. Where were the bars?

Another sergeant, a long-nosed, narrow-eyed man, came back to sort out those able to fight and integrate them into the front ranks. Gongor knew there might be Samostan cavalry lurking outside the city-he had said as much-and they might sortie straight into a trap. The salt marshes, and freedom, were not yet won. Blade long accustomed to command, could understand Gongor's problems.

Blade let his glance roam around the huge square. He counted six streets, mostly narrow lanes, leading into it. They dodged abruptly away from the square, these lanes, as though in terror of open space. There was no way of knowing what lay back in those crooked ways. Blade looked at the gate again and once more could have sworn it moved-as though from some steady pressure beyond it. He wiped away sweat before it could trickle into his eyes. Something in his brain was screaming-trap!

The sergeant, having sorted out the rest of the detail, confronted Blade and the man Nob. Arms akimbo, a sneer on his narrow features, he looked first at Blade and then concentrated on Nob. He pointed to the arm which Nob carried in a sling. «How came you by such an honorable wound, Nob? Sword stroke? Lance? Arrow, mayhap? How does it do, your wound? Maybe it fbsters, eh? We shall have to see to it, man.»

Nob, with a sideways glance at Blade, said, «'Tis not so much, sergeant. An arrow scratch only. But it pained for a time and so I bound it up. I-«

The sergeant reached quickly for the sling and ripped it away. Nob had no time to draw back. There was a jangle of coins and jewelry as they spilled from the torn sling onto the cobbles and glinted around Nob's feet.

The sergeant's sneer was nasty. «Looting,» he snarled. «I thought so. Armus warned me to keep an eye on you. Come to that, where is Armus? I know he came — back to you malingerers, to whip you up, but I have not seen him this half hour. Where is he, Nob? And do not lie to me. Your life is already forfeit for looting. I have only to tell the captain and you are for the high hoist.»

Nob winked at Blade with his good eye. He stooped and began to gather up his treasure. He bore no wound that Blade could see.

«If you seek Axmus,» said Nob, «you will have to go back a way, sergeant.» The rogue frowned and looked puzzled and winked at Blade again. «I do not recollect that house number exactly. Do you recall it, friend?»

Blade concealed a smile and shook his head. «No. Now that I think of it I do not think it had a number, or a name.»

The sergeant put a hand on his sword. «What flummery is this, Nob? I have no time nor mood for stupid games. Where is Armus?»

Blade did not see from whence came the little dagger. He barely saw it flash before it was in the sergeant's heart.

For a big man Nob was lightning fast. He plucked out the dagger, concealed it again and caught the falling man all in the same smooth movement. He frowned and made sympathetic sounds. «Poor fellow-he's come down with something, I vow. All this excitement, I've no doubt. Very bad for the heart, sir.»

Blade did not know whether to laugh or be stem. It had been murder, but he was in no position to sit in judgment. This was Dimension X. And had he not, only a few minutes before, slain a man with one blow? He contented himself with saying, «Yes, Nob. There is certainly something the matter with his heart.»

As Nob eased the dead man to the cobbles, the trap sprang shut.

From beyond the gates came a high wail of trumpets. Blade had never heard this exact sound before, but he knew what it was.

«Charge!»

The gates crashed inward, torn away from the wall by frantic horses as the Samostan cavalry surged in. Banners fluttered and there was a continual call of trumpets. As the mounted horde jammed through the gate, too compressed and disorganized to be an immediate threat, Captain Mijax and Gongor set about assembling their men into squares of defense. There was a great deal of running and shouting and orders and counter-orders. Blade, after the first glance, knew that it was over for the Thyrnians if they stood and fought. Once the cavalry disentangled itself and was organized it would cut the foot soldiers down like weeds before a mower.

Nob was calm. He bent to pick up a last bauble that had eluded him and, eschewing the sling, stuffed his loot into various pockets. He tapped Blade's arm. «This is not the place for us, master. Gongor and the captain will stand and fight because they must, and because they are fools. But no law says that we must be fools also. You come with old Nob and maybe I can save our skins. I know this district and I know something better-every sewer in it. That's our way out, master. The sewers.»

Blade was more than ready. Horsemen kept pressing into the square and forming up in a half moon, the horns of which were designed to outflank the pitiful force of Thyme. By this time Gongor had succeeded in getting his men into a series of small squares which in turn formed one large square. Blade, fascinated and for the moment unmindful of his own peril, knew this to be a mistake. One large solid square would have been better. As it was, the squares were fragmented and afforded lanes by which the cavalry could infiltrate.

There was worse. A sudden hail of arrow fire came from the wall. Men in the squares screamed and fell. Blade saw Captain Mijax drop his sword and, still on his feet, use both hands to pluck an arrow from his eye. Another shower of arrows hissed in and the captain went down. The old white-headed man. Gongor, came to stand over the fallen captain and take his place. His snowy locks waved like a banner in the fading moonlight and he brandished his sword and shouted over the din.

«Rally to me, men of Thyme. To me, to Gongor. For Juna and our sacred city. To me. To Gongor. I invite you to die with mel»

Blade, who did not miss much, saw lance throwers join the archers on the wall. He noted that the lance throwing technique was one he had studied in old books back in Home Dimension. The lances themselves were little more than javelins, short and with heavy blades, razor sharp. They were fitted loosely into long sockets and when thrown the lancer retained the socket in his hand. Behind each lancer was a soldier with a supply of the deadly javelins-as the socket came back empty he fitted a new javelin into it.

By now Blade and Nob had taken shelter in one of the market stalls. Nob must have guided him there, for Blade had no recollection of the journey across the square. They crouched behind a counter and watched the dreadful havoc wrought by the javelin and arrow fire. The pitiful little squares were shrinking, half the remaining Thyrnians were down, dead or dying, and still the Samostan cavalry bided its time. The trumpets howled without halt and the cavalrymen cheered and brandished their shiny sabers, but they waited. When they did charge, Blade knew, it would be all over. The cavalry would be in among the shattered squares like wolves in the fold. Once the Thyrnians broke and ran, the horsemen could slaughter them at will.

Nob was on his hands and knees under one of the stalls. «Look you for a sewer top, master. Bound to be one about-I remember the market hags using them when I were only a younker. Look lively, sire, or by Juna's tits we've no chance. They'll ride us down like cur dogs.»

At that moment came a deeper braying of horns and Samostan foot soldiers began to march out of the streets and lanes leading onto the square. They had been lurking all this while, plugging every exit like corks in so many bottles. Now that the trap was sprung, and the Tbyrnians forced to stand and fight, the footmen wished to be in on the kill. They spilled into the square, six columns of them, advancing slowly with hoots and cries of derision. There were lancers and crossbowmen, slingers and swordsmen, all wearing the snake device on their armor and tunics. And the legend: A is Ister.

Nob was getting nervous. «Blast my balls,» he snarled, «there has got to be a sewer entrance hereabout. There must be! I remember. Many the pocky corpse I've seen tossed down-ahhhhhhh.»

Nob jammed his fingers into a crack in the cobbles and began to pry and pull, cursing all the time. A slab of stone began to move. It was a solid square into which half cobbles had been cunningly mortared for disguise.

«This is it right enough,» Nob gasped. Rivulets of sweat eroded the grime on his face, leaving white streaks. «As heavy as Juna's conscience, I vow. Give us a hand, master.»

Blade was experiencing a weird, an irrational, ambivalence. He could not understand it and was both puzzled and worried. He could not deny it-half of him wanted to flee, to gain safety and get on with the mission. The other half wanted to stay and fight with the doomed Thyrnians. Madness! He looked a last time at old Gongor, his white head shining like a beacon in the battle haze, walking from group to group of his men, encouraging and soothing, laughing while he promised them nothing but death. Part of Blade wanted to stay and fight. Much of the veneer of civilized life as he knew it in Home Dimension had worn away. He was becoming a new man, the man he always became in X Dimension.

He went to give Nob a hand. The bearded man was cursing and sweating and one of his fingers was bleeding. «If we don't shake our arses we're going to be caught,» he rasped. «I'll be a ball-less priest else. I don't recall these cursed things being so heavy. Aha, now! Just so, master. Catch that edge and we'll heave together-ar, now. Now-«

Blade put his great sinews into it and the sewer cover came up and away, out of its framing, so quickly. and with such impetus that Nob toppled over backward with a curse. His breeches split, and his pockets as well, and coins and jewels split and rolled around the stall enclosure. Nob began to scrabble about, frantically picking up his loot, swearing all the time by Juna's tits that he did not deserve this fate.

Now it came. A great cry of trumpets from the cavalry was answered by the braying horns of the foot. The blood raced in Blade's huge body, pounded in his temples, and he felt the hairs prickle on his neck. He sweated mightily and yet felt cold. He stood wide legged, shield adjusted, sword in his hand, and for a moment the battle madness took him. He would not run. He would stand and fight with the Thrynians.

The cavalry came on savagely, a long curving crescent of flashing sabers. On Gongor's right flank-Blade and Nob were on the left-the horses were already in among the broken squares and the butchery had begun. Blade caught a last glimpse of Gongor. That venerable old man was wielding a scarlet sword astride a pile of dead, slashing at four mounted lancemen who surrounded him. One of the chargers, a massive black beast, reared and pawed at the lone man. For an instant Gongor appeared to be wearing a crimson helmet, then he disappeared and the tide of cavalry swept over him.

The crossbowmen sent a lethal hail of feathered bolts across the square, killing many of their own mounted soldiers. Blade laughed. There was a great outcry and imme-

diately officers were in among the footmen, laying about with clubs and swords.

Nob gave Blade a push toward the sewer opening. Even, at that moment, in all the excitement and blood and battle craze, Blade had never smelled anything as repellent, as fearsome, as the stench from that black hole.

Nob was swearing by other parts of Juna's anatomy. He gave Blade a great shove. «In, master. In! Down! Hasten. They've seen us now and they'll do our business for certain. Jump, for Juna's sake. Jump!»

They had indeed been seen. A squad of cavalry wheeled about and came charging at the stalls.. Blade, still poised on the brink of that mephitic pit, fearful but still defiant, felt the impingement of every detail: the sweat and foam of the horses, the pennon held aloft by the trumpeter, the beat and clang and spark of pounding iron on cobbles, the hard glare of the cavalrymen as they leaned toward him, their sabers extended straight ahead of them. Nearer they came. A surf of death crashing toward his fragile barrier. Closer. . closer….

He could make out individual faces. See the glint of bared teeth, twist of mouths, gaping of nostrils. On their shields and tunics the snake swallowed itself again and again, that hooplike serpent with the words limned under it-Ais Ister.

He heard Nob curse. The man gave him a shove. Blade tottered and fell and in falling glanced back and saw gold coins spilling a slow stream of gold, and Nob going after them as the first of the horses leaped the barrier and came crashing down in a shower of sparks as golden as the coins Nob died for.

Blade had only time, and thought, enough to close his mouth and eyes, and hold his nose, as he struck and disappeared into a slowly moving flow of filth.