The guard struck with his sword, and Ivo automatically blocked with the wooden disk.
It worked.
The blade collided with the notched rim and clung for an instant, held by the spongy wood. Ivo swept his own sword around in a clumsy quarter-circle, and the guard jerked back.
He had missed — but the swing had been oddly refreshing. The sword, so clumsy just to hold, became a nicely balanced instrument in motion. He saw now that its delicate taper contributed to its effectiveness, placing the greatest width and weight behind the intended point of contact.
He had already wasted too much time. During the few seconds of this action, the temple guards had continued advancing, and were now almost upon him. He could not hope to overcome them all. He would have to run, and risk the spears.
He turned — and discovered more troops coming up from the street. He was already surrounded.
Do the unexpected! he thought, remembering the advice from somewhere. The unexpected could prevail in almost any situation. They obviously expected him either to fight or to run, and neither course could save him long.
They had stopped within twenty feet, forming a closing ring of swords, the two original guards among them. The priest stood in the center of the line upon the wide steps, gesticulating. His feet, Ivo noticed, were bare.
Ivo charged at him, bounding up the low steps three at a time. At ten feet he hurled the shield at the priest’s head. It skimmed through the air like a sail, rotating.
The man jumped aside, agile enough, banging into the guard adjacent. Ivo threw his sword at the line of men on the other side. It whirled like a boomerang, flashing sunlight in all directions.
The three nearest shields came up reflexively to block it, as he had known they would, but the men were taken aback. Before they recovered, Ivo dived at the stumbling priest, catching him around the waist and shoving him back against the standing guards again. They all went down in a tangle.
A sword clattered almost by his ear, thrown up by one of the scrambling warriors. Ivo snatched at it, then caught the priest around the waist once more as he tried to stand up. The man, fortunately, was of birdlike physique, easy to manhandle. Ivo pinned the priest against him, in lieu of a shield, and backed up the steps. The guards started after them, but Ivo raised the great blade to his captive’s neck, and they hung back.
But he had to do something else soon, for the heavy sword was already weighing down his arm in this awkward pose. The threat would lose effect if the blade sagged wearily to the hostage’s chest…
“Listen, treacherous one!” Ivo hissed into the man’s ear as the two retreated. “Either we visit Melqart’s furnace together, or we escape together. It is for you to decide whether we part company in life or in death. Do you understand me?”
The man said nothing, but Ivo was sure he had the message. At the top of the stair between the columns Ivo released him, but held the sword at his back. The massed soldiers were following, ever more numerous, not closely; they were making a resounding clatter, but not risking the hostage. Ivo congratulated himself on an excellent choice.
He placed his back against the yellow pillar, mind racing to formulate a workable plan of escape. Audacity he had never suspected in himself had taken him this far, but there had to be a limit to his luck. The priest did not move, and the crowd below did not advance.
He prodded the priest. “Into the temple,” he whispered. “Make no turn or sudden motion without advising me. If I doubt your intention one moment, it will be your last.” Was it he, meek Ivo Archer, reading the lines of this melodrama? Why not complete the scene by informing the man that he had an itchy sword-finger?
Not funny. Sweat made the handle of the weapon treacherously slippery, and already he felt the sting of a developing blister.
The priest uncurled a talonlike finger and pointed. “Oho!” Ivo said. “There’s a private door?” The priest led him around the column to the side of the building. Sure enough, there was a small entrance there opening into a dark corridor running parallel to the outer wall. There was hardly room for his head to clear, though the smaller man had no trouble.
They entered. This did seem better than the main hall, since only one person at a time could follow, and the gloom would make pursuit harder. Light came in only from high narrow vents, embrasures in the outer wall.
Twenty feet along the priest tapped a stone of the inner wall. Then he put his fragile shoulder against it and pushed. Ivo watched this suspiciously, at the same time glancing back to make sure no one was following yet.
The stone swung back, leaving a blank opening from which a cool draft came. Cool, but corrupt; there was stagnant water somewhere. “Secret exit?”
The man nodded. Ivo could barely see him here, and kept one hand on the bony arm. The stone must have been very lightly balanced, to move at the urging of such a skeleton. And why did the hostage never speak?
“In case of rebellion, foreign conquest…?” Ivo inquired, poking his sword-hand into it dubiously. No response.
Ivo prodded him. “You first.” The priest drew back, alarmed. “Uh-huh. We meet our fate together. Hurry!” There was a commotion behind, and he knew the troops were clustered around their entrance, and probably had the temple proper surrounded for good measure. “I know you aren’t dumb,” Ivo said fiercely. “I heard you calling to the guards, before. So either get in there or tell me why not, or I’ll run you through right now!”
He was bluffing, but hoped it didn’t show.
“There is a better exit ahead,” the priest said quickly. His voice, after all that suspense, was ordinary.
Ivo smiled grimly. Victory — and another trap avoided. The violent approach did have its recommendations. “That one we shall both use — for better or worse.”
But there was no time. The sounds outside verified his recent conjecture: the guards surrounded the temple, and this time a higher priest was evidently in command. His human shield was almost useless. Now there were noises from the far end of the passage as well.
The priest suddenly tore free of Ivo’s loose grasp. Ivo lunged, grabbing with his left hand and sweeping with the sword. The blade crashed into the man’s side, but not hard enough to cut through the cloth. Trying to avoid it, the priest scuttled sidewise, his back against the tilted stone.
Ivo grabbed again — and only succeeded in shoving the little man into the hole. The stone yielded smoothly, closing on a descending scream and a faint splash — some fifty feet down, by the timing. Some escape!
Now Ivo was alone, pinned between armed bands without his hostage. Was there another exit, or had that been merely the rascally priest’s stall for time? There had to be one!
He moved along the wall, pushing at each great block, but none gave way. Minutes passed. His eyes adapted to the dim light, but all he saw was a veneer of dirt on wall and floor. His own scuff-marks were all that disturbed it.
Why weren’t they attacking? They must have overheard his struggle with the priest, and realized the man was dead. Or had they assumed that Ivo had fallen, so that the priest would emerge in a moment? Or was the delay part of some more subtle ploy — something less risky to them than a frontal attack in a confined space?
He rolled his eyes up, shrugging… and spied a dark hole in the ceiling, a few feet in front of him. The second exit!
He tossed his sword into it, and the metal clattered on stone and came to rest without falling out. He followed it immediately, reaching up to catch the edges with his fingers. He chinned himself on it — and could not get any higher, as his feet kicked without support. He had to drop down.