He began to find bodies. Some of them were human. Some of them were not, and in one broad pillared hall done all in bronze and gray he saw two of the creatures with bright cords stretched between neck and ankles, strangling themselves in a state of ecstasy while others watched, swaying like trees in a hot wind.
In the middle of a deserted square he found Rogain. He recognized him by his hands, the fine scholar’s hands stained with blood. A sword lay across the body.
Stark straightened and looked around. There was no one to see, but he knew they were watching. He knew he had been driven here deliberately. The sword was clean, both hilt and blade, and Rogain had never used it. It had been put there for him to find.
“All right,” he said to them, and added an obscene name. “I’ll do what you want.”
He picked up the sword. It felt very good in his hand. He thought perhaps they had made a mistake.
He took his bearings from the tower and started again toward the outside. They did not stop him. But from this square there was only one way that he could go.
He went, through the colored lights. A band of aliens came upon him suddenly from out of a tall pavilion. They were carrying between themselves two of their females who were either dead or close to it. All of them were bleeding from self-inflicted wounds. Stark wondered if they were drugged. Perhaps, or perhaps the euphoria of self-immolation was enough to make them as strange as they were. They laughed and pointed, and some of them came toward him. Stark had a weapon now, and his wisdom was all gone out of him. He bounded toward them like a big dark cat, and suddenly he was as lunatic as they, prancing and whirling with vicious grace as he drove the steel in. He could not avoid their spurs entirely. His shoulders bled, but he hardly noticed. He rushed on and the others swayed aside from the blade, apparently content to wait a little longer. After a bit he looked back and they had ambled on, dragging their wounded with them.
Then for a space it was quiet. The street led on between high walls. The light changed, blue, gold, violet, soft pink. And then there was another little square all enclosed in a fencing of fine wrought work in a pattern of strange leaves that must have been a memory of another place and a far gone time. At the far side of it, the street was covered by a series of elongated arches that receded in perspective, and the light was red. Coming toward him through the arches, in the bloody light, was a tall white-bodied long-striding woman, with black hair covering her shoulders and a sword in her hand.
Ciaran.
He stopped and waited. She saw him. She came into the square and stopped also, and said his name.
“I think I understand now,” she said, “why they gave me this.” She held up the sword.
Stark said, “Yes. And mine, too.”
“But how did they know…”
“You were a captive. And they heard what Balin said to you about your red wolves. They would know you had something to do with the taking of Kushat.”
He glanced from her in the red light, to the wrought work that fenced the square. Through the openings he could see them gathering to watch, their great eyes luminous. Then he looked beyond her through the arches.
“They are behind you now,” he said.
She nodded. “And behind you. They’re waiting for us to fight.” They faced each other, two naked humans in a strange far place, with swords in their hands.
Stark said, “Will you fight me, Ciaran?”
She shook her dark head. “No. Not to please them.”
“Will you fight with me, then? Will you be the shield at my back?”
She smiled. “No. But I will fight beside you, and we can guard each other’s backs.” She looked at the tall peering creatures and added, “I have never wanted more to kill.” Her white skin was marked like his with the pricking of their spurs.
“Good,” he said. “Then there are two of us.” He lifted his blade, feeling a new surge of hope and hot vengefulness. “Let us fence while we think how we can best use ourselves.”
They made the ceremonial gesture. Their blades rang together. They moved lightly, their flexing bodies pale in the red glare.
Stark saw how her eyes lighted and glowed. “Remember this is play,” he said, and she laughed.
“I’ll remember, Stark.”
They circled, and the heads in the bright conical caps bobbed to watch them. There was much fluting talk and the smell of dry leaves was strong.
Ciaran said, “I think the outside lies that way. We could try cutting our way through.”
They circled, and Stark’s eyes rested between strokes on the stone tower.
“It’s a long way to the outside,” he said, “and doubtful if we could make it. Remember, they expect to die. They could smother us by sheer numbers.” He parried a stroke and the blades clashed. “But if we took them by surprise, the tower is much closer. We might have a chance of reaching it.”
“The tower? And what would be gained by that?”
“That is the heart of the city. If it dies, all this dies too.” She parried him expertly. He was almost sorry that they would not truly fight. It would have been interesting. “I doubt,” he said, “that they could stand the cold for long.”
“Well,” said Ciaran, “we are not likely to live the night through in any case, so let us throw for the highest stakes.”
Stark nodded. “Quick, now.”
They turned from their fencing and sprang at the creatures that filled the entrance to the street down which Stark had come.
And they almost perished there.
The creatures were close-packed, and they were tall, and their arms were long. Even in dying they could reach and claw. They fluted and screamed and fluttered and Stark had a nightmare feeling that he and Ciaran were being pecked to death by a flock of ungainly birds. He swung his blade in a frenzy of disgust, literally cutting his way through, and glad of Ciaran’s strong shoulder beside his. He saw the street clear before them and they ran with all their might, and behind them the creatures began to stream from around the square and after them. Stark listened to the unmistakable tone of their voices and said between gasps, “They’re delighted. The game is going better than they hoped.”
Now that he was trying to reach it, the tower that had seemed so close looked as far away as the moons. He tried to approach it obliquely, as much as he could without losing distance, so that perhaps they would not understand his purpose until it was too late, and apparently at first they did not. They played as they had before, letting the quarry go and then heading them, only now there were more than had hunted Stark, quite a lot more. He and Ciaran obediently allowed themselves to be driven until they were level with the tower. Then Stark said, “We go now.”
They turned sharply, and the tower was directly ahead of them, set in a great wide circle beyond the end of the avenue.
They ran. And the creatures came striding on their long thin legs out of a side street, to bar the way.
Behind them, Stark heard others coming to close off their retreat. Ciaran heard too. She said, “I think the game has ended.”
Stark grunted. “Break through them now—we won’t have a second chance.”
If only their damned arms weren’t so long. The spurs jabbed and clawed for his eyes. He swung the swordblade high, around his head. This worked cruelly well, and Ciaran was using the same trick, alternately stooping low for the hamstring. They trampled over thin gold writhing bodies and through the line, but others were already pecking and pawing at their backs, and still others ran ahead to close them in again. They set their backs together and moved out across the open, keeping a vicious blur of steel between them and the probing spurs. They had stopped trying to kill. Their only interest now was in staying alive long enough to reach the tower.