The Mer- Lion (84 page)

"As for today's competition. You will be participating in an adult to-the-death version of an ancient game that children play known as 'Follow the first.' We call ours, for lack of a better name, simply 'Horse.' The rules are fairly simple, but listen closely. You horsemen are the attackers, you will be given targets. Men on foot. From these targets, each man will select one. The first man to ride forth
names
a feat which he will then perform
on his target. In turn
, every other rider must follow the first and do the same with his living target. Those who fail to do so to the satisfaction of the judges, within the very brief time of this sandglass, will forfeit one of these three rings
that will be given to each of you before the game officially begins. Lose all three rings and you lose your horse, becoming no more than a living target such as these." The judge pointed. As one, the men turned to see nineteen men enter the arena from the Gate of Death through which all had exited the arena before.

The six
slaves would have looked for Cameron but the judge was continuing. "A target may become a horseman by simply avoiding attackers three times, thus winning three rings. For the first five rounds, the feat selected by the leader to perform on his target may be anything at all short of death. Any rider who kills a target during these first five rounds forfeits his horse and takes the dead man's place. After the fifth round, there will be no restrictions on the feat that you as leader or first rider may select.

"The first leader will be selected by the Amira. He will remain the leader until he fails to properly execute the feat he has named. He then loses his horse, and becomes a target but one with two rings.

"The other riders will perform in order according to a drawing of names by the judges, moving up one place in the order each time a leader is replaced.

"The leaders must select feats that
do bodily harm to the targets.
All riders will be given a short sword and a dagger. Any use of these weapons other than against the human targets will result in the forfeiting of the horses of those riders involved, and the riders will become targets,

"As your turn comes up, each rider must call out the number of his intended target. Each man on foot wears, as you may have noticed, a disc around his neck, bearing a number. When a target's number is called, he must, on penalty of immediate death, move into the huge circle drawn in salt in the middle of the arena. The target must remain somewhere, anywhere, within that circle during the draining of the sandglass.

"The games will begin upon the arrival of his excellency, the Moulay. The last man on horse wins. Use this thinking time wisely, and the blessings of Allah be on him who competes."

Then, they settled back to wait. Aisha was furious with the Moulay. How could he, on this day of all days, make all wait. "He's

being spiteful toward your grandfather, my dear. Ignore him," her mother advised.

"I can't. We can't start the games without him."

"Then, Ali ben Zaid, I suggest you take a message to him. Come close while I tell you exactly what to say," Ramlah said, then whispered something in Ali's ear. Meanwhile the six slaves gathered together away from the rest of the contestants. "Did you see him? Is he there? Did anyone see him?" Gilliver asked.

Fio
nn nodded. "He's there all right."

"Well, that's a relief," de Wynter admitted. "Now, let's see what strategy we can come up with to save Cameron's life as well as our own. First,' we need ways as horsemen to do bodily harm without killing anyone for the first five rounds. Any suggestions?"

None had ever participated in a more grisly or distasteful discussion, but necessity forced a list of cruelties from their rebelling minds. Among
the feats agreed upon were such
as marking an
X
on an arm with a sword, cutting off an ear, slashing a cheek with a dagger,, cutting off a finger, marking the target's back with a sword, etc. All agreed that the loss of an ear was worse than losing part or all of a finger. And, if they had the choice, they would avoid any act of amputation, trying to confine the first five rounds to marking each arm, each cheek, the target's chest or back or thigh.

Carlby, in the meantime, thinking on the game from Cameron's— that is, the target's—point of view announced he had found a loophole in the rules—nothing had been said about the target's unseating the rider from his mount and thus evening up the match a bit. How, as a target, to stay away from the sword or dagger for three minutes? They agreed that staying on the left side of a right-handed swordsman would help, as would using the horse's head as a kind of moving shield. No rule had been made against grabbing the horse's bridle and hanging on or using that advantage to unseat the rider.

During all of this talk, it was apparent to the others that Gilliver had little stomach for the day's events and would have difficulty keeping his mount. And all knew that after the fifth round, the targets would not live too long. It was imperative to keep the seven on their horses, and, if possible, to get a mount for Cameron, by dint of three wins within the first five rounds. Not an easy task, they agreed.

Then the Moulay arrived, his escort the commander of the Amira's bodyguard. Wave after wave of trumpeting filled the arena and filtered upward into the already searing sky. Clamorous cheers, too, except among the Berbers. As the
wazier
to the Moulay fulsomely welcomed his master and briefly reiterated the conditions of the contest, silent ones escorted the twenty riders-to-be through the gates at the far end of the arena. There they were instructed to pick a horse from those held in a huge fenced-off area. As they had suspected, there was little chance of getting the same horse one had caught and broken the day before, and with only three minutes to accomplish each designated feat, it was crucial to have a horse that handled well.

Rearing and kicking and biting, the mounts seemed as intractable as they had been the day before. But today they had real bridles, meager saddles strapped on their backs, and stirrups flapping against the
ir bellies; and they fought - as
much to rid themselves of the frightening, offending restraints as to escape the men.

Into the melee plunged de Wynter and the other six, each, except John the Rob, heading straight for his mount. Now the purpose of the wild card, the zebra, became clear. The man who had caught it would seek another steed; if he succeeded, then that horse's rider would search out another and so form until the last man must try to ride a striped, unmanageable mount. Grasping for reins draped over necks or dragging on the ground, while avoiding flying hooves and flashing teeth, was one thing; getting aboard was quite another. Time after time, would-be riders were thrown off, sometimes directly into the kicking, stomping legs or into the heavy timbers that ringed the enclosure. John the Rob was lucky. When he was thrown, be landed on the back of another horse. Scrambling into the proper position before the surprised stallion could figure out what to do, John the Rob got his feet solidly into the stirrups and hung on to neck and reins, outlasted several bucking and rearing attempts, before his gift mount settled down. Fionn's brown—tamer than most—was easily caught by someone else. Fionn simply tore the rider from the saddle and mounted himself. De Wynter, of them all, had the least competition for his horse. No one else wanted his life dependent on a potential killer.

Gilliver was among the last to come up with a mount, which meant it was one of those that fought strongest and longest against capture. Ogilvy managed to work his way alongside and help get the steed quieted down. Even as de Wynter was fighting the gray for control, he momentarily wondered if the others felt the same rush of excitement he did with all that power and spirit gathered between his legs and tugging fiercely at the reins.

Twenty riders were herded back into the arena and managed to line up in a fairly straight line. The nineteen targets were gathered at the center of the arena.

The trumpets sounded in a long and pretentious salute. The head judge made his way across the dusty surface, stopping in front of the royal box. The princess was being asked to select a leader. Only a formality. The princess had previously narrowed it down to two, and Ramlah had made the final choice.

With a bow,
the head judge trudged back toward the lined-up horsemen. There he extended his arm and pointed a finger at de Wynter "You have the honor of being the first of the firsts. See that you do nothing to discredit her wise choice."

As ibn Hudaij read off the order in which they would perform, as predetermined earlier, too, de Wynter thought it only fair. The Amira had caused the death of Drummond and Menzies. Now, whatever her reason,-she had made it possible for him to save two other of his boyhood friends.

Then a horrible thought struck him, one that he hadn't even considered. If he picked Cameron, and Cameron cooperated so that de Wynter could remain the leader and thus control the bloodshed, Cameron would be lessening his own chances to earn a horse by evading a rider three times. My God what a quandary.

Aisha was not unaware of the dilemma de Wynter faced. She, after all, had seen to it that Cameron was saved from the Moulay's torments and included in this group for just this purpose: to test de Wynter. She sat on the edge of her seat, watching his every move, wondering what he would decide. Her mother watched her intently and decided the child liked the white-haired one more than she would admit even to herself.

"Leader, select your target!" came the shout from the head judge, and de Wynter's horse fairly leaped forward, rider wrestling to keep
the excited stallion under control, the gray eager to run and escape the strange weight on its back and the harsh restrictions of bit and cinch.

Straight at the targets came the prancing, sidestepping gray white Arabian with the handsome white-haired rider. As the others scattered, one stood his ground, Cameron, proving his faith and offering his help to de Wynter in remaining the leader of this fear-crazed and power-maddened collection of contestants.

Close enough he rode to read a number on a disc before the Arabian shied and pranced away, raising a small cloud of dust. As he rode back, a silent one waited to give him sword and dagger and three gold rings. The rider ignored him, instead, urging his horse forward.

"What number did you choose?" the head judge asked. De Wynter rode past him without saying a word, and the judge went on, desperately, "Then what act do you choose to perform?"

"I choose none!" de Wynter shouted
in defiance, and rode at full
gallop straight for the royal box. Yanking his mount to a skidding halt, he addressed the princess as her bodyguards gathered around the royal family, judges and whip-bearers running toward the errant horse and rider.

"By all that is holy, Amira, I call upon you to end this farce," he shouted above the turmoil. "Select your marriage partner from those who have already proved themselves worthy. Do not, I beg of you, force us to maim and kill helpless individuals."

"You will return to the ring immediately and proceed with the games, or I will have your target's head cut off where he stands," the angered princess replied, her dark, flashing eyes looking over her veil straight into his.

With a sinking feeling, he realized she meant it and that there was no further reason to plead. She was too cruel and hardened. Again he wheeled the horse, just as the mounted judges caught up to him, and he dashed through them back to the silent one, grabbing the weapons and rings and proceeding on to the circle, signifying his compliance with her order.

Again came the request to name the target and act he would perform. This time he replied: "Number seventeen, an
X
on his right arm."

At the signal, he rode the Arabian into the ring at half speed, circling the wary but determined figure of Cameron. "Sorry, my friend, but I must remain the leader as long as possible in order to control the game."

"I know," was all Cameron said.

"Then make it look good, but at the right moment hold that arm as still as you can." With that he kicked the horse into a feigned chase, while Cameron leaped and ran and feinted. For more than half of his allotted time, de Wynter practiced getting the horse close enough to Cameron and in the right position so he could mark him without cutting his arm too deeply or, God forbid, amputating it completely.

"Now, George," he called, adding under his breath, "Pray let's make it quick and easy." Cameron feigned a slip, and as he rose, the Arabian sidestepped and backtracked close enough for the Scot
sman to flick his sword. It was
over in an instant. Blood barely trickled from the clear
X
which covered more than five centimeters on his bicep. Cameron stared at his arm in disbelief. Then he flashed a smile at de Wynter and said, "God bless you, Jamie, I owe you one."

The next rider was promptly called forward and instructed to select his target. The horseman finally accomplished a crude
X
on his target's arm, though the blood poured freely through the fingers that sought to stem the flow.

One after another, rider matched wits and skill with target.
Gilliver, in fourth place, got one mark
on his victim's arm, but could
not complete the
X
within the time lim
it. He was first to give up one
of the precious rings that kept him a
rider. Angus had a fairly easy
time since, as he'd made sure, he
rode the same horse he'd broken
the day before. John the Rob's luck c
ontinued to hold, or perhaps it
was his skill at sizing up an opponen
t. At any rate, he got one mark
on early and cross-hatched it just
before his time ran out. Fionn
again used his great size to advantage;
that, plus the docility of his
mount. He simply reached down and
grabbed his smallish target by
the back of the neck, threw him ove
r the saddle, zigged and zagged
with the dagger, and dropped the man down to the ground properly
marked. The audience roared, even
the Berber sheikh shouting his
approval.