Kur of Gor (37 page)

After a few moments the challenger began again, warily, to move, again circling, his clawed feet scarcely disturbing the sand, perhaps not wanting the cement shelf behind him, against which he might stumble, perhaps wanting to have both the pet and Grendel in view.

"I fear he has a clean blow,” said Peisistratus. “It is only a question of the moment in which he will strike."

"It seems,” said Cabot, “the rubies are yours."

"I do not think I want them,” said Peisistratus.

It is, of course, next to impossible, without an object to interpose, to escape the vicious, lateral sweep of such a weapon.

"Look,” said Peisistratus. “Grendel has backed near the platform. He chooses to die in the vicinity of the ungrateful, worthless thing for which he has fought, and for which he will now die."

The stands were now quiet.

And so Grendel stood, not moving, before the platform.

"He accepts his fate, and awaits it uncomplainingly,” said Peisistratus.

"I fear so,” said Cabot.

"He is Kur,” said Peisistratus.

"And human,” said Cabot.

The sixth challenger, with a grimace of pleasure, lifted his weapon and saluted Grendel.

There were in the stands noises of approval, and the smiting of thighs.

"He accepts him as a worthy foe,” said Peisistratus.

"Grendel, it seems,” said Cabot, “is at last redeemed."

The sixth challenger drew back his great bar and then suddenly it hurtled about in a smooth, sweeping arc within the compass of which stood Grendel.

"Ai!” cried Cabot.

The blow might have shattered walls, felled small trees.

The two beasts struggled for control of the weapon.

Grendel had grasped it in its flight. His two massive forepaws were clasped about the bar, as were those of its startled wielder.

A cry of astonishment roared through the stands.

Then Grendel drew the weapon closer and closer to himself, inch by inch.

"The Kur should loose his grip!” said Cabot. “He is being drawn too close to Grendel!"

But the Kur was unwise, and was reluctant to surrender the weapon. Did it truly think the struggle was for the weapon? Did it not understand that the struggle was for who should live and who should die?

Suddenly Grendel released the weapon and thrust out his massive clawed paw and the fingers of his right paw thrust through the left eye of the Kur and the rest of the grip, the thumb, was on its jaws, back, behind the fangs, and then Grendel turned his paw, thus lifting and exposing the Kur's throat, and then brought it forward, to his own jaws, and tore it away, and then stood crouched over the shuddering, dying body, blood smeared on his chest and about his jaws.

The blonde screamed in horror.

Grendel turned to regard her, his long dark tongue moving about, licking the blood about his fangs.

She lay down on the cement platform, covering her head with her hands, trembling.

Grendel then went to one of the fallen weapons, picked it up, returned to his kill, and there lifted the weapon, saluting his foe.

"He has accepted him as a worthy enemy,” said Peisistratus.

There was much silence in the stands, and then several of the Kurii smote their thighs, acknowledging this gesture of respect to one of their species, albeit from one hitherto deemed not Kur, but no more than a malformed thing, a misbred brute, an abomination, a monster.

There was then a roll of drums, and all eyes turned to the seventh challenger, who now rose from his crouching position, to a height of some ten feet.

"He is massive,” said Cabot.

"He is the champion, Magnus, Rufus Magnus,” said Peisistratus.

"He is concerned with the blood of the pet?” inquired Cabot.

"No,” said Peisistratus. “He has been hired."

"He has no personal interest in the matter?"

"None,” said Peisistratus, “unlike the other challengers. His only interest here is to kill Grendel and collect his fee, after which the pet may be dealt with as others please."

"He is a champion?"

"A high champion,” said Peisistratus. “See the two rings on his left wrist?"

"Yes."

"They are of gold,” said Peisistratus.

"Look,” said Cabot. “He puts aside the great bar."

"Yes,” said Peisistratus.

"He will face Grendel unarmed?"

"No,” said Peisistratus.

A praetor now approached the seventh challenger, and placed in his huge paws a gigantic ax, some ten feet in length, and double-bladed at each end, an ax which, in the grip of one such as he, one of such strength, might have decapitated a larl, and perhaps even, with three or four blows, Gor's mightiest constrictor, the giant hith.

"Is this honorable?” asked Cabot.

"Some higher authority has ruled on this, apparently,” said Peisistratus, grimly.

"Agamemnon?"

"Doubtless,” said Peisistratus.

The champion, Rufus Magnus, shifted the great ax about, easily, from paw to paw, testing its balance, and then, satisfied, he looked across the sand, to where Grendel stood, waiting.

The blonde now lay collapsed upon the platform, a tiny, pathetic, trembling figure, white against the gray of the cement. Cabot was not sure she could move, even had she wished to do so. He grasped the bars.

"You can do nothing,” said Peisistratus.

"It is getting dark,” said Cabot, suddenly.

"The mirrors!” said Peisistratus. “They are turning!"

The light which before had streamed into the arena was now lessening, as though night were falling, gradually, but at an unnatural pace.

"He must attack, he must run, there is little time!” exclaimed Peisistratus.

"I think there is no time,” said Cabot.

"The shutters are closing!” said Peisistratus.

"I cannot see!” said Cabot.

"Nor I!” said Peisistratus.

"The shutters have closed?” asked Cabot.

"I do not know,” said Peisistratus.

"If there is light I cannot detect it,” said Cabot.

"Nor I,” said Peisistratus.

There were anticipatory noises from the crowd.

"They can see!” cried Cabot.

"The champion is advancing upon him!” said Peisistratus. “I am sure of it!"

"Dishonor!” cried Cabot.

"True,” said Peisistratus, angrily. “There is no honor in this."

There was a roaring, as though of a frightened animal below in the arena.

"Turn up your translator!” cried Cabot.

Peisistratus fumbled in the darkness.

"More! Higher!” said Cabot. “Direct it toward the sand!"

"Light! Light!” came from the translator. “I cannot see! Light! I cannot see!"

"It is Grendel,” said Peisistratus. “He is terrified! He is lost! He cannot see!"

"Excellent!” cried Cabot.

"What?” cried Peisistratus.

"We see him as Kur,” cried Cabot, “but they see him as human, as human!"

"They think he is blinded, helpless, forlorn in darkness?"

"Precisely,” said Cabot, speaking in what for him was utter darkness.

"But he cries out in terror!” said Peisistratus.

"Does he?” said Cabot.

"Ah!” breathed Peisistratus, softly.

"And, too, it seemed,” said Cabot, “he was slowed, muchly injured."

"Ai!” cried Peisistratus.

"Our large, fierce friends, I fear, have miscalculated,” said Cabot.

Shutters must then have been reopened, and mirrors turned again, to gradually illuminate the sand.

"I owe you a dozen strings of coins,” said Peisistratus.

Below, howling, his left arm lifted, two golden rings now on his left wrist, stood Grendel.

One of his clawed feet was on the chest of his antagonist, and the great, blunt bar he had had as weapon was thrust some four feet into the sand, first having pierced the massive neck of the antagonist, then pinning him to the sand by the ruptured throat, the body of the antagonist jerking, splashing sand about, hands and feet, and then scratching futilely at the thick metal bar.

"He could see!” said Peisistratus.

"Yes,” said Cabot.

Grendel put back his head and howled in victory, a Kur's cry of triumph.

In the stands, after a silence, first one, and then another, and then thousands, smote their thighs in approbation.

"He has taken the two golden rings from the wrist of Rufus Magnus,” said Peisistratus.

"They are his now,” said Cabot.

"In the falling of darkness I see the hand of Agamemnon,” said Peisistratus.

"The authority would have been his, indeed,” said Cabot. “Surely it could not have taken place without his permission, or command, but what could be his interest in the matter, the pet, vengeance for a hunt gone wrong?"

"It is my speculation,” said Peisistratus, “it has more to do with Grendel."

"How could that be?” inquired Cabot.

"The experiment, the outcome of which was Grendel,” said Peisistratus, “turned out badly, Grendel failing to be such as to be accepted by humans as a leader. Such failures do not reflect well on the astuteness or stratagems of a Face of the Nameless One, and their lingering, failed residues are best discarded."

"I see,” said Cabot.

"And there is unrest within the world,” said Peisistratus.

"I have gathered that,” said Cabot.

"In the cylinders treason lurks,” said Peisistratus. “In the palace, accordingly, dark imperatives obtain."

"The winds of power sometimes blow waywardly,” said Cabot.

"One who has grasped power is not easily persuaded to relinquish it,” said Peisistratus.

"It is so, too, with humans,” said Cabot.

"And there is another experiment, the outcome of which is not yet determined,” said Peisistratus.

"What is that?” asked Cabot.

"That of enlisting a human leader, one men will trust, a warrior, a seeming champion, a seeming hero, one whom men, properly motivated, will unquestioningly, eagerly follow, one who will lead armies against the Sardar."

"I see,” said Cabot.

"Agamemnon grows impatient for your answer,” said Peisistratus.

"He will have it soon,” said Cabot.

Grendel had now removed the great bar from the sand, and from his antagonist, and cast it aside, into the sand.

He then turned about and went to the cement platform, and freed the chain of the blonde pet from its ring. He then led her slowly from the platform, to the sand, and then across the sand, and then through one of the far gates, she on all fours.

Two attendants, with poles with hooks, came and removed the now inert body of the champion, dragging it through the sand, furrowing it, to another gate.

"The blonde pet is now safe,” said Cabot.

"Here, no human is safe,” said Peisistratus.

There was then a sudden roll of drums.

"What is it?” asked Cabot.

"The climax of the festivities,” said Peisistratus.

From a far gate, a Kur, laden with chains, goaded by hot irons, was herded, stumbling, toward the center of the sand.

"It is Lord Pyrrhus,” said Peisistratus.

"He is ill,” speculated Cabot.

"More likely, faint from hunger,” said Peisistratus.

The Kur's chains were removed, and it stood alone, in the center of the arena. Despite its size it seemed small there.

"Or, too,” said Peisistratus, “it may be weakened from loss of blood."

"I do not understand,” said Cabot.

"Drawn from his veins,” said Peisistratus. “Thus there is no visible wound."

"Still,” said Cabot, “he is a formidable foe. Agamemnon is not without courage to face such an enemy, Kur to Kur."

"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus.

"What will be the weapons?"

"None,” said Peisistratus.

"None?"

"Hand to hand, tooth to tooth,” said Peisistratus.

"He is courageous, indeed,” said Cabot.

"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus.

"Surely it were better to send a champion against Lord Pyrrhus,” said Cabot, “rather than risk himself, a Face of the Nameless One, in the arena."

"Agamemnon himself will do battle, Kur to Kur,” said Peisistratus.

"A worthy World Lord,” said Cabot. “I salute him."

There was then another thunder of drums, and the tiers turned to face a great part of the wall. It was below and well to the left of where Cabot and Peisistratus were held in their cage.

Two mighty doors there swung open.

The portal might have admitted tharlarion.

For some moments nothing emerged from the gate.

"Ai!” said Cabot, dismayed.

In the portal, now, some eight to ten feet in breadth, some twenty feet in height, there appeared what seemed to be a gigantic, metallic Kur, the limbs, the body, the head, all in proportion, and cunningly devised. The light flashed on the plating and fangs of the immense artificial beast. Suddenly, perhaps on released springs, sharp claws, like curved knives, a foot in length, sprang into view.

"It is a body of Agamemnon,” said Peisistratus, dryly.

The huge metallic head, with eyes like fire, turned from side to side, and then halted, and inclined a foot forward and downward, peering at the figure on the sand, Lord Pyrrhus.

It then, slowly, foot by foot, heavy in the sand, approached Lord Pyrrhus, who made no move to flee, or to defend himself.

One of the metallic paws swept out, and the chest and the side of the face of Lord Pyrrhus, symmetrically lacerated, streamed with lines of blood.

Twice more was Lord Pyrrhus struck, and he struggled to retain his feet.

"He is trying to goad him to fight,” said Peisistratus.

"Lord Arcesilaus, across the way,” said Peisistratus, “is leaving the tiers."

Others, too, were filing out.

Again and again the metallic beast struck Lord Pyrrhus, as though growing more and more frustrated, sometimes flinging him yards, rolling, fur bloody, across the sand. Still Lord Pyrrhus, again and again, staggered to his feet, and made no effort to either flee or defend himself.

"Why does he not fight?” asked Cabot.

"He is fighting,” said Peisistratus.

"He is not,” said Cabot.

"There is much here you do not understand,” said Peisistratus.

"To be sure,” said Cabot, angrily, “what could he do?"