“An interesting theory,” conceded Russell. “The evidence is merely circumstantial… But—it could be so.”
“Or perhaps it’s more simple than that, old sport,” suggested Mohan with a grin. “Maybe they have simply run out. Maybe the chaps back at base didn’t count on us all becoming chain smokers.” He shuddered comically. “Oh, evil day! It’s the devil of a long jaunt to the nearest tobacconist’s.”
“Of course,” said Russell slowly, “the way to test Andrew’s notion is to set up the camera again and take another picture.”
Mohan’s eyes gleamed in his dark face. He threw up his hands in horror. “Not bloody likely! We can’t risk them cutting off the gin.”
Selene gripped Andrew’s arm very tightly. “Look!” she said, pointing down the street. “Oh, my god!
Oh, my god! What is it?”
A strange apparition seemed to have risen suddenly out of the bright green backcloth of the savannah. It began to walk or lurch almost drunkenly along the short strip of road towards them.
“Now will I believe almost anything,” said Russell in a tight voice. “Gunnar was right. There are knights as well as fairies at the bottom of our garden.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE KNIGHT—if such he was—seemed to be in a very sorry condition. He wore only breast armour, which might have been made of bronze, and some kind of leather trousers and jerkin. If he had had a helmet, or vizor, he had lost it; and his steed—if any—was nowhere in sight.
His face, at first glance a curious blend of mongol and negro, had bloodstains upon it. His trousers and the patch of jerkin below his breast armour were ominously wet and red. Clearly, he was suffering from multiple wounds. But he was still strong enough to carry a kind of sword in his right hand.
The small group on the steps of the hotel were temporarily frozen into immobility. The knight lurched on towards them. His eyes were wide and staring, but he seemed to be aware of nothing in his immediate vicinity, being, perhaps, preoccupied by things that none but he could see.
Even as he sat, frozen, waiting, Grahame’s mind was operating at lightning speed. Everything seemed to be reduced to slow motion, so that he was able to register the most minute details of the knight’s appearance. He saw the holes punctured in the leather clothing, the bruises, the fragments of soil and grass that clung to clothing, armour and face. He fancied he could see the blood pulsing out of hidden wounds—even that he could hear the beating of the man’s tortured heart.
The knight staggered on towards the hotel. At every third or fourth step he struck—or tried to strike—at an invisible enemy.
Presently, after half a century or ten seconds, Grahame pulled himself together, got up and walked towards the strange being.
Suddenly, his presence was noted. The knight stopped moving and swayed drunkenly upon his feet.
With a tremendous effort, he managed to focus upon Russell. What he saw, evidently, did nothing to inspire confidence. He tried to lift his sword, almost fell over, and tried hard again. He couldn’t make it.
With a muffled curse, he stabbed the point of the sword against the road and leaned on his weapon as on a crutch.
He coughed painfully, then spat at Russell. Then, with a supreme effort of will, he managed to raise the sword.
“Avaunt,” he said thickly, apparently in excellent English. “Begone, demon, hobgoblin, sprite, devil, warlock, spirit of evil. In the name of the white queen and the black, I command you. Return to the dark earth whence you came.”
Russell did not move. Idiotically, he could think of only one thing to say: “Peace.”
“Peace!” roared the warrior dreadfully. “Peace! You would mock me in my weakness! Then die, wretched one, knowing that Absu mes Marur is hard put, otherwise the blade would not grace thee.”
The knight lunged. Russell stepped to one side. Even if he had not moved, the attack would never have been completed. For the stranger had evidently used up his last reserves of energy. Without a sound he fell flat on his face.
Russell turned him over very gently. Drained of colour, the man’s face was almost white. It seemed pathetically young.
CHAPTER TEN
ABSU MES MARUR, lord of sept Marur, gonfalonier of the western keeps, charioteer of the red spice caravans, holder of the royal falchion and elected sire of the unknowns, lay unconscious for more than two days in one of the rooms of what it amused Mohan das Gupta to call the Erewhon Hilton. His wounds were grievous, but none by itself was fatal. If he had been a terrestrial, he would probably have died of trauma, infection and loss of blood. But, whatever else he was, Absu mes Marur was not a man of Earth; and, late in the afternoon of the third day, after the fever had worn off, he opened his eyes.
Marion Redman had stayed with him much of the time. She had cleaned his wounds, bathed his burning forehead and had generally endeavoured to make him as comfortable as possible. While this was going on, John Howard and Tore Norstedt had been despatched north, south, east and west in turn on short scouting trips to see if they could contact any of the stranger’s companions. But they found no one.
Grahame was unwilling to let them go more than three or four kilometres away for obvious reasons. If any of the knight’s friends—or enemies—showed up of their own accord and chose to be truculent, there could be some rather serious problems.
Grahame was present in the room when Absu mes Marur returned to consciousness.
“Do not move,” said Grahame evenly. “No one here wishes you any harm. You have been very near to death. When you have rested and recovered yourself. We will—if you wish—escort you home… That is, if we can discover where you live.”
The man on the bed rolled his eyes and shuddered. He felt for his armour, but Marion had cut the harness to get it off him two days before. He felt for his sword, but that also had been removed.
Grahame sensed the man’s unease at what he obviously considered to be his nakedness. With some wisdom, he took the sword from a cupboard where it had been kept and laid it on the bed so that the knight could rest his hand on the hilt. He was rewarded with a look of gratitude.
“Whether you be man, ghost, or demon,” said the knight quaintly, “I would hear the sound of your name, rank and titles. Here before you, shamed in his own eyes, as in yours, lies Absu mes Marur, lord of sept Marur.”
“How do you do,” said Grahame carefully. “I am called Russell Grahame.”
“Lord of your sept?”
“I do not understand.”
Absu mes Marur was still very weak, and he was rapidly tiring himself out. But he was clearly determined to find out as much about his circumstances as possible.
“This woman,” he said faintly, “she is your woman?”
“No, she is not.”
The knight sighed. “Then I shall not speak with you. Bring to me the lord of your sept.”
Marion got the message first. “He wants to know if you are our leader, Russell. Set the poor fellow’s mind at rest before he pushes his temperature into overdrive.”
“I am the chosen leader of my people,” said Grahame. “I hope you can understand. We do not have a sept, as you call it, but I am the chief man, if you like, among my friends and companions.”
Absu mes Marur smiled faintly. “You are the lord of your sept. Know that your metal will not be disgraced when I am able to lift my sword.”