The old neuter had finished now. He raised a hand to Isma. Astar was still taking no interest in the proceedings.
Isma in turn gestured to a neuter trumpeter who stood nearby. One blast of the trumpet.
All the women stood up.
Another blast of the trumpet.
The arena was filled with the slither and flutter of feminine clothing as it was discarded. The effect, the sound and the odor, was overpowering. The arena was one vast mass of woman flesh, naked and unshielded, muscles tensed, faces contorted. They waited. Breathing.
A final blast on the trumpet.
Blade could only compare it, a pale comparison at best, to a rush of women he had once seen in a great London store. There had been a sale going on and Blade and a friend had unwittingly gotten caught in the stampede. They had nearly been torn apart.
So it was now. At the third blast of the trumpet the women stormed into the arena like a tidal wave. Teeth glinted white and feral in contorted lovely faces; breasts of every size and type bobbled and jounced and jammed as female struggled against female.
The horde swept down and over the Lordsmen, inundating them, clawing and scratching and pushing at each other to get a man and claim him. Blood was already flowing from minor wounds. The Lordsman in the center of the arena, he first chosen by Sutha, went down under a wave of kicking legs and waving arms and tawny posteriors.
It was useless to try to watch everything at once, so Blade concentrated on the scene in the middle. Here the fight was brief enough, if rough. A tall redhead, well muscled and superbly breasted, was straddling the fallen Lordsman and beating off all comers. As soon as she had established her rights the other women fell back. By that time it was too late for them, for all the other Lordsmen had been similarly conquered and claimed.
Trumpet.
The fight was over. The losers retired to their seats and began to dress, sullen, muttering, but obeying the rules.
Each of the Lordsmen had been taken now. The woman stood over him, naked, sweaty, disheveled and a little bloody perhaps, but triumphant. Blade saw that Isma was laughing now as she made another sign to the old neuter.
Trumpet.
Blade had never seen mass rape before, and he had never dreamed that it could be comic, yet somehow it was now. To him.
Certainly it was not comic to the women. At the last blast of the trumpet each one fell on her victim like a female wolf on a helpless lamb. Blade noted that the Lordsmen were, for the most part, passive. There seemed to be no real lust in them. They were simply machines, not very good ones, to be used by the women to achieve this long denied, and illegal, gratification.
Some of the women cried, some howled like lost demons, some laughed wildly, some worked away in a deadly writhing silence. All of them, he saw, placed the man in the lower, the subordinate position and mounted him in one fashion or another. Some of the women were brutal, cuffing and kicking their partners into a submission that was never in doubt.
There was a great silence in the seats as the women watched their luckier sisters. Isma, her chin cupped in a palm, leaned forward to watch with an occasional delighted laugh. Astar still paid no attention. Sutha, the old neuter, appeared bored by it all. He had, Blade imagined, been through it all many times.
It was all over quite suddenly. Nearly all the women seemed to finish at the same time. One laggard, a sinuous blonde, was at last admonished by Sutha and raced to a finish with a great series of ecstatic wriggles. The women vanished from the arena and the Lordsmen again donned their clothes, armor, and weapons.
The fun and games, Blade sensed, were over. Serious business was on the agenda now. The Lordsmen formed two lines facing each other, swords and shields at the ready.
Isma stood up and clapped her hands once more. "Let the sacred flame be made ready."
Ceboids brought forth a large platform of teksin on which a small fire burned. Sutha cast some powder into the flames and there was a puff of red and yellow smoke.
Sutha raised his skinny arms and proclaimed: "Let the sacred slaying begin!" The music leaped up, furious and martial, bearing in itself the clangor and clash of arms.
The women watched in silence again as the Lordsmen began to fight. Blade admitted that, for their size and condition, some of them were very proficient at arms. And they were evenly matched physically, so that it was some time before the struggle had been narrowed down to the last two. Yet gradually the twenty were whittled down. Heads rolled and blood gushed from great ugly wounds. As soon as a man fell and was dispatched the ceboids came out to drag the corpse away and scatter fresh sand over the blood.
As the last two exhausted Lordsmen panted and slashed at each other, both on the verge of utter collapse, Blade knew that his time was growing very near. He knew what he must do. At the outset, at least, he meant to carry out Honcho's orders. Later he might decide on another course. He was not yet a free man. He walked in danger every moment. He was not sure, even now, that Honcho would keep his word, adhere to the plan. Honcho was cunning and malicious beyond measure. He might have evolved a new plan by now, one that did not include Blade or included only his death.
There was a stifled, choked, dying scream as the next to last Lordsman died. His opponent's sword ripped out his throat and he sank to his knees, the red blood spurting. The survivor hacked off the head, and then turned the body over and cut off the genitals. He picked them up, carried them to the fire and cast them in, at the same time bowing to Astar and Isma.
Isma raised a hand. She stared down at the bloodstained victor.
"You live," she said. "You are Keeper of the Cage for the next kronoseg. You have won the right to consort with any of the Maidukes you choose. I, Isma, High Priestess of Tharn, pronounce it so. As it is so written in The Word. I command..."
It was time. And Honcho was carrying on with the plan. Blade felt his body flow into sensate being, was aware of his great muscles and his flesh, of his clothing and his armor and the great sword in his right hand. Honcho had kept his word thus far, and sent Blade's body from the Gorge Tower. It meant, or Blade hoped it meant, that Honcho still did not distrust him too much. It was life again. Real flesh and blood life! And for a time he was beyond Honcho's reach; for now the neuter could not harm him.
There was stricken silence in the huge arena. Blade had materialized near the thrones. Isma was staring at him, her mouth still open. The Lordsman gaped. Sutha folded his arms over his bony chest and stared at Blade with slitted green eyes. The old neuter, alone of all, did not appear very surprised.
Blade raised the big sword and brandished it. The sword would, Honcho had promised, be recognized at once for what it was. His coaching of Blade had been long and meticulous.
Blade brandished the sword once more. He flung back his head and roared out the words.
"You do not command, Isma! I command! I am Mazda and I have come at last as was promised. I am Mazda! Whom all will obey."
There was a flutter of fear through the assembled women. Some fell to their knees, others stared and hugged their breasts, the bolder ones leaned to get a closer view of this magnificent apparition.
Astar, the Queen-Goddess, did not so much as look at Blade. She stared ahead of her, her face impassive. Something was very wrong there.
Isma stood up and stretched out both hands. "If you are indeed Mazda you will carry out the prophecy."
This was the part that Blade did not like. Yet it must be done. The play must be carried through. There was no help for it.
Blade spun the huge sword in his hand. He turned toward the lone surviving Lordsman. "Defend yourself," he warned.