"No. Do you?"
"Nay, though I speak five or six tongues besides my own Mulvani."
"Can you cast a spell upon them?"
"Not whilst they hold me, for no spell worthy of the name is effected by a simple babbling of magical words."
Jorian: "Tvasha told me they're under Murugong's protection."
"Ah, woe! Then what Jainini told King Darganj a thousand years ago is still true. I do fear the worst."
"You mean they'll skin—"
Jorian was interrupted by a movement among the ape-men. In response to a barked command from one of their number, they heaved Jorian to his feet and half-led, half-dragged him through the overgrown ways of Culbagarh. Others bore Karadur. They zigzagged through ruins until Jorian was lost.
They stopped before some large stones. The nearer and smaller of these was a simple block, two cubits high and twice as wide, weathered until its ancient edges and corners had all been rounded off, so that it might almost be mistaken for a natural boulder.
Beyond the low block rose a large, squat pedestal or plinth, atop which something had once been sculptured; but so worn was this statue that one could no longer tell for sure what it had depicted. Its general shape was that of a seated man, but no definitely human limbs or members could be discerned. It was low and squat and rounded, with here and there a mere suggestion of carving. A large, red-and-black banded snake, lying at the base of the statue, slithered away and vanished into a hole.
"This must be the statue of Murugong, whereof you told me," said Jorian.
"Ah me, I fear you are right. I do blame myself for bringing this doom upon you. Farewell, my son!"
An ape-man appeared, holding a rusty iron knife. This was the only metal tool or weapon in sight, all others being of wood, stone, or bone. The aboriginal whetted the edge on the altar block, wheep-wheep.
"Blame not yourself, Doctor," said Jorian. "We must all take our chances. If they'd only just tie us up and go off and leave us a bit, perchance I could do something…"
Wheep-wheep went the knife. The ape-men had no intention of tying up their captives. Instead, they stood or squatted about them, firmly gripping their arms and legs with ominous patience.
At last the ape-man with the knife completed his whetting, tested the edge with his thumb, and stood up. At a grunted word, the ape-men holding Jorian dragged him to the altar and laid him supine upon it, still holding him firmly. He of the knife, standing before the statue, raised his arms and intoned a speech wherein Jorian caught the word "Murugong."
Then the ape-man turned back to Jorian and bent over the victim. He raised the knife, then drew the blade in a long, deliberate slash along Jorian's breastbone from throat to waist, bearing down hard. Jorian tensed himself to bear the pain manfully.
The knife cut neatly through Jorian's tunic but was stopped by the shirt of fine mesh mail beneath. With a guttural exclamation, the sacrificer bent over, flipping the severed sides of Jorian's tunic aside to examine this garment. Words broke out among the ape-men holding Jorian, and a couple began tugging at the mail shirt to pull it off over his head. While they struggled and argued and got in one another's way, an altercation sprang up out of range of Jorian's vision. Soon all the ape-men were shouting unintelligibly.
Gradually the noise died down. The ape-men holding Jorian pulled him up, so that he was sitting on the altar. He confronted a peculiarly ugly, middle-aged ape-man, who thrust a thick, hairy forefinger at him.
"You Jorian?" said this one in barely comprehensible Novarian.
"Aye. Who are you?"
"Me Zor. You remember? You save my life."
"By Imbal's brazen balls!" cried Jorian. "Of course I remember, O Zor. Tell me not that after you got out of that cage, you marched afoot all the way from the western Lograms to Komilakh!"
"Me strong. Me walk."
"Good for you! How have you fared?"
"Me do well. Me chief."
"And now, what of us?"
"You help me, I help you. Where you go?"
"We should like to get to Halgir, to cross the strait."
"You go."
Zor pushed aside the ape-men holding Jorian and threw a thick, hairy arm around Jorian's shoulders. Jorian winced from the bruises he had received from his captors' fists. Gesticulating with the other arm, Zor made a short but emphatic speech to the other ape-men. Although he could not understand a word, Jorian thought the speech meant that he was Zor's friend, and nobody should harm him on pain of Zor's displeasure.
"How about my friend?" said Jorian.
"You go, he stay. He not help us. We kill him."
"Either let us both go, or neither."
Zor scowled into Jorian's face. "What for you say that?"
"He is my friend. You would do the same for your friend, would you not?" Zor scratched his head. "You speak good. All right, he go, too."
The next day, having left the banks of the Shrindola, they jogged across country northeast through a thunderstorm, with a squad of ape-men trotting along to show them the way and fetch food for them. Karadur said:
"An I have ever criticized you, my son, I humbly ask forgiveness now."
"What?" shouted Jorian over a roar of thunder. Karadur repeated.
"Why, Doctor?" said Jorian.
"You came within a hairbreadth of letting yourself be sacrificed—in a singularly painful manner—rather than abandon me, when you had an excellent opportunity to escape alone. I humble myself before you."
"Oh, nonsense! It just came out. Had I stopped to think, I should probably not have had the courage. As it was, I was so terrified of that skinning knife—oh, very well, very well, I'll say nought of my own fears aloud."
"Have you our new god with you?"
" Tis in the pack, though how much good Tvasha will do us is open to question. I think we ought to invent a new religion: the worship of the god of the absurd. If any force rule the universe, it is surely absurdity. Consider: you cast a confusion spell that goes awry and brings the foe right down upon us."
"That was not the fault of the spell. We lacked the proper ingredients."
"Then I stumble upon the statue of Tvasha. The god saves us from the Mulvanians—only to let us fall into the clutches of the ape-men because he's too busy telling me some long, boring tale about a king of olden times to notice them. When he does observe them, he's too fearful of the greater god Murugong to interfere.
"Then we are saved from painful deaths by Zor's happening along, and happening, moreover, to recognize me, when I should never have known him; these aboriginals look all alike to me. Zor believes I purposely released him from the cage of Rhithos' house. Truth to tell, that was a pure accident, resulting from my own stupidity, and for which Rhithos would have slain me had not the wench released me.
"Nor is that all. Were this a tale of some minstrel's fancy, Vanora and I should have been predestined mates and lovers—whereas, after trying me at stud, she finds she can't bear the sight of me and goes off with that halfwit Boso, who would be right at home amongst these escorts of ours. Now try to tell me that the universe makes sense?
"I am sure it makes most excellent sense, were our puny mortal minds strong enough to grasp its entirety."
"Ha! Howsomever, one more dinner of roots and fungi, served in a sauce made of mashed bugs, and I may tell our friends to take me back to Culbagarh and sacrifice me. From such a diet, death were a welcome relief!"
Chapter Eight
THE SEA OF GRASS
IN THE MONTH OF THE RAM, A COLD WIND ROARED ACROSS the steppe of Shven. The gently rolling plain stretched away northward to a flat horizon unbroken by tree, house, or hill. The long grass was a faded yellow-gray, for the new spring crop had not yet come up. When the grass was scanty, it showed the wet, black soil beneath. An occasional water course traced a shallow, winding dale across the plain; here grew small willows and alders along the swollen stream. Snow lingered in patches in the shade of these trees.