Jeffrey Lord Blade 21 Champion of the Gods

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into view. Behind them ran twelve powerfully built slaves, naked except for
black loincloths. They carried a large closed sedan chair of heavily carved
and gilded wood, with black jade panels and silver flame ornaments set into
the doors. They stopped between Blade and the three horsemen, who
dismounted and blew their trumpets once more. All eyes shifted to the sedan
chair. The door facing Blade opened on noiseless silver hinges, and a man
stepped out.
Not just a man, Blade realized. A man of power. He wore the robes of one of
the Consecrated, with a deep border of purple, red, and silver embroidery,
snugly belted in by a broad green belt with a flame-shaped gold buckle set
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with rubies. From the belt hung a silver-sheathed dagger and a gilded leather
purse.
The staff the man held out in front of him quickly drew Blade's eyes away from
the robes. It was a simple design a four-foot cylinder of black jade about
three inches in diameter. But every square inch of its surface was carved with
gilded flame shapes or covered by silver rings set with rubies and
emeralds. Around one end was a circle of sapphires, on the other an enormous
diamond of at least a thousand carats.
Eye-dazzling fire in a dozen colors glinted from the staff as the priest
raised it over his head. His thin arms easily held it there for a moment, then
lowered it to waist level. Jormin hesitated briefly, then dashed forward so
fast that he nearly stumbled and sprawled on his face in front of the man. He
recovered, went to his knees, and held out his hands for the staff. The new
man stared down at Jormin with a totally blank face that somehow conveyed a
more searing contempt than any glare. Then, slowly, he lowered the staff into
Jormin's hands and crossed his arms on his chest. Jormin backed away without
speaking or even rising to his feet.
The new man would not have needed his staff or robes to convey the impression
of power and authority. Blade realized that the man could have done just as
well if he'd been wearing no more than a slave's loincloth. He stood well over
six feet tall, with much the same lean build and long bony face as
Mirdon. He was entirely bald, and his deep-set eyes roamed about continuously.
In another man that might have suggested nervousness. In this man it suggested
that nothing escaped his attention or his judgment. It reduced the rest of the
Consecrated, even Jormin, to a collection of guilty schoolboys waiting for the
teacher to hand out punishments.
The silence went on and on, until finally the tall man spoke.
"Jormin, you considered that my Meditation gave you the right to act as you
have?"
"It cannot be that you would wish no one to enter the Mouth of the Gods, even
at a time like this, when the "
"I know what the time is, Jormin. It cannot be that you know my mind. It also
cannot be that this which you have done is pleasing to me."
Jormin turned even paler at those words. Whatever he had been about to say
died in his throat with a gurgle. He now looked less like a schoolboy than
like a prisoner waiting for sentence to be pronounced by a notoriously severe
judge. Blade had a momentary and delightful vision Jormin, spread-eagled on
another rack and being thrust into the Mouth of the Gods along with himself
and Arllona.
Again the tall man let the silence drag on, apparently just to make Jormin
nervous. Blade sighed. He was more or less resigned to dying. He was not
resigned to enduring several hours of ceremonies, speeches, and religious
politics beforehand. Besides, the longer the Consecrated went on blathering,
the more likely Arllona would be to wake up. Then she would not only have to
die, but to die in panic and agony.
Finally the tall man spoke. "It is not pleasing. You, Jormin, are not First
among the Consecrated. I, Tyan, am First. I am First even during Meditation. I
will be First until I choose to be so no longer, or the gods themselves call
me to judgment. It is understandable, Jormin, that you forgot that. You always
found it difficult to remember your place among the Consecrated. That was true
when you were only Ninth among the Scholars; it is true today. It is not
pleasing." Jormin, Blade noticed, looked about ready to fall over in a dead
faint. Blade hoped he would.
"But you have done nothing against the laws of Kano or of the gods. You sought
to make a proper sacrifice, although you also sought glory for yourself.
Indeed, a proper sacrifice is needed at this time. So you have shown zeal
proper to one of the Consecrated.
"There are questions to be asked, as to how this man and this woman came to
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escape from the prison. I shall not ask them of you, Jormin, nor of anyone
here and now."
Tyan strode forward until he stood between Blade and Arllona. He raised both
hands high, then pointed one at Blade and the other at the woman. "I, Tyan,
declare that these sacrifices have been prepared fitly, according to all that
governs these preparations. I, Tyan, declare that neither bears a blemish that
makes them unfit for the Mouth of the Gods. I, Tyan, First Consecrated of the
Gods of
Kano, bid the sacrifice proceed as it has begun!"
The last sentence rang out across the clearing like another trumpet call.
Jormin straightened up, looking like a man reprieved from death. The other
Consecrated and the soldiers started off in various directions.
"Hold!" Tyan's voice thundered out again. "One more order I shall give. Let
Commander Mirdon be summoned from wherever he is, with such soldiers of Kano
as he chooses to accompany him."
Jormin turned to stare at his superior. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was
working with anger that seemed about ready to explode into total defiance.
With an obvious effort he kept his voice level.
"Commander Mirdon is doubtless at his post upon the walls. Do you wish him
summoned even from there?"
"Yes," said Tyan coolly. "It will educate you, Jormin, to have Mirdon be the
Guard for this sacrifice at the Mouth of the Gods."
Jormin's eyes blazed, then once more he controlled himself and turned away,
shoulders slumping.
Obviously it enraged Jormin to have his enemy Mirdon given what was presumably
a high honor.
It was hard to see that it mattered very much, though. Mirdon would be
honored, Jormin humiliated.
He, Richard Blade, would almost certainly be dead within two hours.
The slaves, the soldiers, and the Consecrated obviously had carried out dozens
of sacrifices. They knew what to do and did it rapidly, efficiently, and
without giving Blade any chance for a single move of
his own.
Unfortunately Arllona had time to wake up. She screamed when she did, writhing
and twisting against her bonds. She went on screaming and writhing until two
of the Consecrated jammed a gag into her mouth and wrapped her wrists and
ankles so they wouldn't chafe or scrape. Then she could only lie, panting,
quivering, her eyes staring wildly like a trapped animal's.
More than the soldiers and the Consecrated, it was Arllona who kept Blade from
making a move on his own. Several times he could have struck out or even made
a run for it. He would undoubtedly have died a quicker death than he was going
to in the Mouth of the Gods. But he would have left Arllona to face the Mouth
by herself. Blade was willing to endure the slower death of the Mouth so that
Arllona did not have to die alone.
They were carried swiftly on their grates to the huge metal cart and raised to
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