Garth slashed out blindly with his sword, but hit nothing. Again, unseen hands clutched at him; he tore free, and slashed again. He wished he had not so willingly surrendered the flint and steel that had been his only means of making light; if he could see, he would have the advantage.
At least, he so assumed; so far he had detected no weapons. Certainly none had been used against him, and how could the priests risk them in the dark? It would be far too likely that they would hit their companions instead of them opponent. And if the priests were blind, as the voice had implied, light would give him a truly immeasurable advantage.
"Give up, defiler. You cannot get away from us; even should you somehow slay us all, you will never escape. The only exit is through the maze, and without a guide you will never find the true path."
Garth made no answer, but swung the sword again, and again struck nothing. Fingertips brushed his arm, and he moved instinctively away. He was no longer sure of his location relative to altar and entrance; escaping the priests' attempts to capture him had distracted him and moved him he knew not where.
"Do you know what will happen, defiler, if you do not surrender? You will tire eventually; you will fall, and sleep, and when you do we will capture and bind you."
Garth slashed again, and thought he nicked something; perhaps a sleeve. Not flesh, unfortunately.
"Then, when you are securely bound, you will make a sacrifice. Not to Andhur, the darkness that passes, but to everlasting Regvos; you will become one of us."
Instead of a sweeping slash, Garth tried a lunging jab; he was lucky, and a yelp of pain answered him. He doubted he had inflicted a serious wound; there was as much of surprise as pain in that cry. He had probably pinked someone's arm.
"Blasphemer! Do you know how the sacrifice is performed, in cases such as yours? A rope, a thick rope knotted twice, is placed around your head, with the knots resting upon your closed eyelids."
Garth attempted another jab, this time aiming for where he judged the voice to be coming from; the speaker paused as steel whistled near him, but the blade did not connect. When next the voice spoke it had moved well to one side, although Garth had heard no footsteps or rustling garments.
"Then we will begin the Great Ritual, and with each chant the rope will be twisted a half-turn tighter, until the knots crush…"
A particularly fast, vicious lunge tore cloth audibly,and the voice cut off abruptly; Garth heard two quick steps away from him. He was heartened; he was beginning to think that nothing could faze the man.
The voice did not speak again; instead, he felt fingers groping. He whirled abruptly and slashed close in and was gratified to feel the blade cut into flesh and scrape on bone; he had caught a wrist before it could be withdrawn. There was not so much as a whimper of pain, though; Garth marveled at the fortitude that implied.
Even in the dark, the sword gave him quite an advantage; all about him were his enemies, so he could strike freely. That would not get him out of the temple, necessarily, but it might drive away his tormentors, at least temporarily. He charged, swinging wildly.
The sword whistled and cut through cloth, but struck nothing more substantial. He charged again, in a different direction, and struck nothing at all. He stopped and listened.
He could hear nothing; had the priests retreated? He knew they were exceptionally good at being silent, but he was fairly sure that none stood within reach. He wished he could feel about him, but his left hand was occupied with the stone and he dared not lower the sword in his right. He stood for a moment, trying to decide on his next move.
He had not planned on this fight; he had not expected these annoying priests to notice the loss of the altar-stone so promptly.
A hand closed on his right forearm; he yanked free and slashed. The blade bit into something; there was a gasp, and when he raised the weapon back to the guard position something wet ran down over the quillons onto his hand. He felt a grim satisfaction at that; a blow that drew so much blood so quickly might well be mortal. He almost wished that the priest would taunt him again; the silence was making him nervous, and surely the others must have some comment to make about the man he had struck?
There were retreating footsteps, two sets moving together, as if carrying something between them; he heard something drag. There had been no sound of a body falling, however; his victim was still upright, merely being helped away.
In hopes of surprising and further discouraging his antagonists, he leapt forward without warning and laid about him with the bloody sword; there were short, sharp cries, but he did not feel the blade connect with anything. He recalled that he was dealing with humans, much shorter than himself; were they ducking under his blows? He went down on one knee and made a long, horizontal sweep with his blade, scarcely two feet from the floor; it ended abruptly when his steel struck something much harder than flesh or bone, and he almost lost his grip as the blade rebounded, ringing, from what he realized must be the stone altar.
Two hands grasped at his shoulder; he twisted away and struck without thinking, swinging the sword in a downward arc. It struck the altar again, rather than his assailant, scraping across stone, and for the first time since entering the temple Garth's eyes responded; there was a blue-white flash, almost painful after such a long time in absolute darkness, and Garth stood motionless for an instant, dazed, wondering what he had just seen.
At last, he realized what had happened; his sword had struck sparks. The altar, whatever stone it was made of, had served as flint to his weapon's steel.
A hand closed on his right ankle; he guessed that the priest who had grabbed his shoulder had ducked, and was now aiming lower. Remembering the direction the grip on his shoulder had had, Garth guessed where on the floor his attacker would have fallen and chopped downward; the blade bit into cloth and flesh, and a high-pitched scream echoed through the chamber. Garth stepped away, without attempting to finish the human off; he had another idea.
The altar, he realized, could provide the light he needed, if he could find something to use as tinder. He mentally reviewed everything he had with him. A purse, containing a dozen gold coins; a dagger in his belt; the belt itself; a leather pouch that held dried beef, dried fruit, an awl, and other useful items-such as the map the Forgotten King had given him, showing the route to Dыsarra. It was old, dry parchment; it should burn readily.
Unfortunately, he had both his hands full at present.
It was also necessary not to let the priests know that he was up to something; he made a few feints and jabs with his sword, not seriously expecting to hit anything, just to keep up appearances. Then, carefully, he bent down and placed the stone firmly between his knees; he dared not put it down anywhere for fear a priest would snatch it away. His now-free left hand plunged into the pouch and pulled out the map; he placed it in his right hand, held tightly against the hilt of his sword by his outer thumb and two fingers, then returned the stone to its place under his left arm.
He made a trial pass at the altar with the sword, and with a long, diagonal blow scraped up a shower of sparks. This time he was ready, and saw them plainly; the altar was rough stone, his sword was smeared with blood that was black in the faint light. He watched where the sparks fell and placed the map accordingly, still neatly rolled.
It occurred to him that the map would not burn for very long once lit, but he had nothing else readily combustible; he would have to make do.
As he withdrew after placing the map, a hand pressed against his back; he whirled and slashed, and was rewarded with a yell and the hiss of steel cutting cloth. Thinking quickly, he dropped the altar-stone, and simultaneously clamped a foot atop it and reached out with his left hand.