… And there was blood coming from the corners of his mouth.
The invincible toy continued its game.
And then far, far off on the other side of the night, so far that only I could hear it, there came a voice that I recognized.
It was the great hunting-howl of my hellhound, Bortan.
Somewhere, he had come upon my trail, and he was coming now, running down the night, leaping like a goat, flowing like a horse or a river, all brindle-colored-and his eyes were glowing coals and his teeth were buzzsaws.
He never tired of running, my Bortan.
Such as he are born without fear, given to the hunt, and sealed with death.
My hellhound was coming, and nothing could halt him in his course.
But he was far, so far off, on the other side of the night…
The crowd was screaming. Hasan couldn't take much more of it. Nobody could.
From the corner of my eye (the brown one) I noticed a tiny gesture of Ellen's.
It was as though she had thrown something with her right hand…
Two seconds later it happened.
I looked away quickly from that point of brilliance that occurred, sizzling, behind the idiot.
The Dead Man wailed, lost his grip.
Good old Reg 237.1 (promulgated by me): "Every tour guide and every member of a tour must carry no fewer than three magnesium flares on his person, while traveling."
Ellen only had two left, that meant. Bless her.
The idiot had stopped hitting Hasan.
He tried to kick the flare away. He screamed. He tried to kick the flare away. He covered his eyes. He rolled on the ground.
Hasan watched, bleeding, panting…
The flare burnt, the Dead Man screamed…
Hasan finally moved.
He reached up and touched one of the thick vines which hung from the tree.
He tugged at it. It resisted. He pulled harder.
It came loose.
His movements were steadier as he twisted an end around each hand.
The flare sputtered, grew bright again…
He dropped to his knees beside the Dead Man, and with a quick motion he looped the vine about his throat.
The flare sputtered again.
He snapped it tight.
The Dead Man fought to rise.
Hasan drew the thing tighter.
The idiot seized him about the waist.
The big muscles in the Assassin's shoulders grew into ridges. Perspiration mingled with the blood on his face.
The Dead Man stood, raising Hasan with him.
Hasan pulled harder.
The idiot, his face no longer white, but mottled, and with the veins standing out like cords in his forehead and neck, lifted him up off the ground.
As I'd lifted the golem did the Dead Man raise Hasan, the vine cutting ever more deeply into his neck as he strained with all his inhuman strength.
The crowd was wailing and chanting incoherently. The drumming, which had reached a frenzied throb, continued at its peak without letup. And then I heard the howl again, still very far away.
The flare began to die.
The Dead Man swayed.
…Then, as a great spasm racked him, he threw Hasan away from him.
The vine went slack about his throat as it tore free from Hasan's grip.
Hasan took ukemi and rolled to his knees. He stayed that way.
The Dead Man moved toward him.
Then his pace faltered.
He began to shake all over. He made a gurgling noise and clutched at his throat. His face grew darker. He staggered to the tree and put forth a hand. He leaned there panting. Soon he was gasping noisily. His hand slipped along the trunk and he dropped to the ground. He picked himself up again, into a half-crouch.
Hasan arose, and recovered the piece of vine from where it had fallen.
He advanced upon the idiot.
This time his grip was unbreakable.
The Dead Man fell, and he did not rise again.
It was like turning off a radio which had been playing at full volume:
Click…
Big silence then-it had all happened so fast. And tender was the night, yea verily, as I reached out through it and broke the neck of the swordsman at my side and seized his blade. I turned then to my left and split the skull of the next one with it.
Then, like click again, and full volume back on, but all static this time. The night was torn down through the middle.
Myshtigo dropped his man with a vicious rabbit-punch and kicked another in the shins. George managed a quick knee to the groin of the one nearest him.
Dos Santos, not so quick-or else just unlucky-took two bad cuts, chest and shoulder.
The crowd rose up from where it had been scattered on the ground, like a speedup film of beansprouts growing.
It advanced upon us.
Ellen threw Hasan's burnoose over the head of the swordsman who was about to disembowel her husband. Earth's poet laureate then brought a rock down hard on the top of the burnoose, doubtless collecting much bad karma but not looking too worried about it.
By then Hasan had rejoined our little group, using his hand to parry a sword cut by striking the flat of the blade in an old samuri maneuver I had thought lost to the world forever. Then Hasan, too, had a sword-after another rapid movement-and he was very proficient with it.
We killed or maimed all our guards before the crowd was halfway to us, and Diane, taking a cue from Ellen, lobbed her three magnesium flares across the field and into the mob.
We ran then, Ellen and Red Wig supporting Dos Santos, who was kind of staggery.
But the Kouretes had cut us off and we were running northwards, off at a tangent from our goal.
"We cannot make it, Karagee," called Hasan.
"I know."
"…Unless you and I delay them while the others go ahead."
"Okay. Where?"
"At the far barbecue pit, where the trees are thick about the path. It is a bottle's neck. They will not be able to hit us all at a time."
"Right!" I turned to the others. "You hear us? Make for the horses! Phil will guide you! Hasan and I will hold them for as long as we can!"
Red Wig turned her head and began to say something.
"Don't argue! Go! You want to live, don't you!?"
They did. They went.
Hasan and I turned, there beside the barbecue pit, and we waited. The others cut back again, going off through the woods, heading toward the village and the paddock. The mob kept right on coming, toward Hasan and me.
The first wave hit us and we began the killing. We were in the V-shaped place where the path disgorged from the woods onto the plain. To our left was a smoldering pit; to our right a thick stand of trees. We killed three, and several more were bleeding when they fell back, paused, then moved to flank us.
We stood back to back then and cut them as they closed.
"If even one has a gun we are dead, Karagee."
"I know."
Another half-man fell to my blade. Hasan sent one, screaming, into the pit.
They were all about us then. A blade slipped in past my guard and cut me on the shoulder. Another nicked my thigh.
"Fall back, thou fools! I say withdraw, thou freaks!"
At that, they did, moving back beyond thrust-range.
The man who had spoken was about five and a half feet tall. His lower jaw moved like that of a puppet's, as though on hinges, and his teeth were like a row of dominoes-all darkstained and clicking as they opened and closed.
"Yea, Procrustes," I heard one say.
"Fetch nets! Snare them alive! Do not close with them! They have cost us too much already!"
Moreby was at his side, and whimpering.
"… I did not know, m'lord."
"Silence! thou brewer of ill-tasting sloshes! Thou hast cost us a god and many men!"
"Shall we rush?" asked Hasan.
"No, but be ready to cut the nets when they bring them."
"It is not good that they want us alive," he decided.
"We have sent many to Hell, to smooth our way," said I, "and we are standing yet and holding blades. What more?"
"If we rush them we can take two, perhaps four more with us. If we wait, they will net us and we die without them."
"What matters it, once you are dead? Let us wait. So long as we live there is the great peacock-tail of probability, growing from out of the next moment."