We weren’t the only ones forced to relocate. It seemed entire buildings were emptying. Masses of gray were on the move, marching down the street and into the plaza. The plaza was a large, open, stone-paved area surrounded by government buildings. These edifices sat back from the plaza a fair distance, allowing room for an elevated walkway to rim the entire forum. Presently, a tiered grandstand occupied this wide walkway, a temporary construction erected for the upcoming festivities. An enormous, mixed crowd populated the seats.
Five streets emptied into the plaza, two each from the east and west, and one from the south. On the north end was a permanent stone platform, wide and elevated, with a speaking podium and lectern off to one side. Behind the lectern stood a clean-shaven, balding priest, flanked by numerous other priests and Creet guards. Creet soldiers also lined the outer edge of the plaza, stationed in front of the tiered grandstand three ranks deep.
As our handlers herded us into the plaza, I stole a quick glance at the balding priest, who had just stepped from behind the lectern. He had a lanky frame and appeared to be middle-aged. A mild wind caused his blue robe to billow, exposing a stirka in a scabbard belted around his waist. That surprised me, as he was the only armed priest I had seen among all those I had previously encountered. He also held a scepter in his right hand, a short, gem-studded rod that glittered in the sunlight. My attention returned to our Creet guards as they prodded us to form columns and rows. I made sure Lillatta stuck with me and soon we stood side-by-side facing the priest’s podium and the stage.
There was no conversation among the gray-clad, as we had learned that silence was the requirement for continued existence. However, the Spood crowd surrounding us on three sides was noisy with chants, hoots, and boisterous laughing. I gleaned nothing from this except that it could not be good for us.
The priest raised his scepter and the crowd quieted. He began to speak.
“I am Smerkas, High Priest of the Spood, masters of the world,” he pompously intoned.
A smattering of titters escaped from the gray throng. Smerkas stopped speaking and motioned with his wand. Creet guards waded into our ranks and began selecting people at random. A Creet walked past me and took the woman three places to my left. The guards guided those chosen up to the platform stage and lined them up. There were four of them, two men and two women. Voices stirred among the assembled viewers, but ceased as Smerkas lifted his staff again and then waved it downward. Creet soldiers standing behind the four drew their swords. They stabbed and the four died, with two of them screaming in pain from the flawed execution. Blood flowed and dripped from the stage as the crowd cheered. My hands and teeth could not clench any tighter.
Smerkas waved the voices down and continued his interrupted speech as Creet guards cleared the bodies from the platform.
“As I was saying, we are the Spood, masters of the world.”
This time, his pompous statement triggered not a single snicker.
“You have been given the privilege of serving us,” the high priest went on. “We have rules you must follow, but they should not be difficult to comprehend. We require that you never speak to a Spood unless spoken to and to follow orders always and immediately.
“They are simple rules and easy to remember. If unable—or unwilling—to follow these perfectly understandable rules . . . Well, let us say the consequences would not be pleasant. The one true god, Gor-jar, has a tremendous appetite. The grottis always awaits those who would defy our authority.”
Smerkas turned as a thin woman approached the podium from the priest’s left.
“Ah, my beautiful wife has arrived and she will now look for the mark.”
Smerkas’ idea of beauty didn’t say much for his powers of discernment. As his wife went over to stand by his side, the priest explained what sort of mark she would be looking for.
“All male slaves will turn your palms upward. My wife will examine them for the mark of the spear.”
Two burly Creet soldiers accompanied Smerkas’ wife as she walked back and forth through our rows. She stopped at every male and closely scrutinized every upturned palm. Satisfied that the “mark of the spear” was not hiding in one, she went on to the next.
When she passed in front of me, she paused, and then she glanced around as if confused. As she turned, I examined her appearance. She wore garish makeup and her nose had a slight crook. Her stretched black hair, pinned up high, looked flamboyant and absurd. Her lips were as thin as the edge of a rik-ta, and I wondered if she ever got any sun. Even now, one of the Creet guards had the humiliating responsibility of shielding her from Ra-ta’s rays. He followed her around, all the while holding over her head a ridiculous sheet of cloth spread onto a wooden frame attached to a stick.
The woman still seemed confused. Then, she must have determined that one of the men in the row ahead of her was the one causing her distraction. She excitedly examined the man’s palms and her excitement died when she discovered nothing of interest.
Meanwhile, with my arms at my side, I had turned my right hand over to examine a scar etched there. It was a mark burned into my palm from an accident as a very young child. It was a mark shaped like the point of a spear. I had been no more than two and had gotten too close to the blacksmith’s work area. A hot spearhead left to cool attracted me. With a child’s foolishness, I slapped my hand over the glowing object and then screamed from the searing pain. My father applied a salve while patiently teaching me its ingredients, an early introduction to the tools of the healer.
Smerkas’ wife had moved farther along, so after a quick look at my scar, I turned my hand back to my side. I felt relief that the palm search had exempted females.
With the hand examination completed, Smerkas now introduced the main attraction of the day's festivities, a stunning creature who seemed more monster than human—Brum. As he appeared on stage, it struck me that Barkor would look like a wilted flower next to this hulking brute. The man's build resembled that of a porse, and he seemed to share the beast’s lack of agility as well. When he turned, his whole body turned. He seemed unable to twist his large head, for his thick neck had blended into and was indistinguishable from his powerful shoulders. When he stepped, his knees could barely bend, so the entire side of his body seemed to lift and tilt. His muscles were grotesque in their proportions. It seemed miraculous the man could move at all.
His entrance onto the platform caused an instantaneous uproar. The crowd had anticipated his arrival and now they showed their love and appreciation. I cringed from the noise explosion, which came not only from the grandstand, but from the normally stoic Creet soldiers lining the plaza as well.
Up went Smerkas’ sparkling wand and the din subsided.
“Welcome to all attending this initiation for our newly arrived slaves,” Smerkas greeted the crowd. Then he addressed us, saying, “Slaves, this is your one and only chance to gain your freedom.”
The crowd erupted in cheers as my mind wrapped itself around the word—freedom. A Spood promising freedom? I smelled deception.
Smerkas was asking for volunteers while explaining that all a slave had to do was defeat Brum in one-on-one combat to earn his freedom. So, that was the catch. You toss out an offer to the gullible, and then you see how many fools—well, here was one now.
A boy unfamiliar to me, a muscular youth of about eighteen, had raised his hand. A magnanimous Creet soldier escorted the young man to the platform, and to the boy’s surprise (and mine), handed him a knife.
Brum was waiting in the background and now stepped forward. The boy grinned as the muscled freak approached—why, I don’t know. Maybe he thought the knife gave him an advantage. It didn’t. He rushed forward slashing stupidly and Brum grabbed his arm as he was swinging through. The knife fell harmlessly to the stone and we all heard a sickening crack. The boy screamed as his broken arm dangled, now a useless appendage. Then, Brum snapped his neck and the screaming stopped
.
The crowd exploded in ecstatic frenzy, cheering and whistling. Lillatta glanced over at me with eyebrows lifted. I had to agree it was an impressive display of brute strength, but the boy had gone about his attack all wrong.
Smerkas asked for more volunteers, but it seemed no one was in the mood for a spine snapping. Therefore, with total disregard for the word’s inconvenient definition, Smerkas informed us a guard would choose volunteers instead. A Creet soldier sent into our midst selected an unlikely man in his mid-thirties, who seemed not to have a muscle on him.
The man had the look of doom about him, for in truth that seemed his fate. Then, an added twist. A female selectee would join him. It would be the man’s duty to fight for both their lives. If he succeeded in that, then they would both go free. If he failed. . . .
The Creet soldier in charge of picking “volunteers” roamed the plaza with a buoyant enthusiasm, seeming to enjoy his moment as center of attention. He would stop in front of a woman and then, as her terror grew, the man would laugh and decide she wouldn’t do; he would then continue the search. The crowd loved it, but he was getting closer to me and he still hadn’t chosen his victim.
Then, to my horror, he picked Lillatta! Her panicked look spurred me to act.
“I’ll take her place.”
I spoke loudly so everyone could hear. The Creet soldier stared at me in disbelief. Slaves do not speak unless their masters allow it. Before the man could lift his swok to discipline me, Smerkas piped up.
“Wonderful! We have another volunteer. Bring her up.”
The crowd buzzed. Two more for Brum to toy with, one so stupid she volunteered for certain death.
I got to the platform and a Creet handed the knife to the man of no muscle. I could see he was trembling and could barely hang onto the thing.
“Give it to me,” I whispered. The man gave me a blank stare.
“The knife. Give it to me,” I demanded, for Brum was coming. The man meekly handed it over.
The crowd gasped, and then exploded in uproarious laughter over the man’s spineless act. This show was getting better and better.
Brum came forward. I let him get within an arm’s length and then jumped back and to the side, away from his clutching grasp. He turned in slow motion and began inching toward me again. He had no expression, and it was then I realized he was as dumb as a rock. I wiggled my finger, indicating for him to come get me; the crowd roared. I could see an annoyed Smerkas gesturing over by the rostrum, and at last he shouted, “Go get her!”
Brum lumbered forward but seemed unsure of himself. My strategy of not letting him get close had him flustered, and he didn’t have the brains or mobility to adjust.
The brute began to bore me. I made a rush toward him—then stopped. He reached out those massive arms in slow motion and grasped nothing but air. I poked the knife lightning fast to flick his chin, drawing blood.
A disturbed rumbling emanated from the crowd. Brum slowly lifted his hand to wipe away the crimson streak. I took the opening to stab the blade deep between his ribs, then withdrew it and retreated. Enraged by pain, the slow-witted beast came at me again. I let the maddened monster waddle up close and then stepped nimbly aside to my left. I whipped a wicked, sweeping kick to his right leg and he toppled forward like a rotten kanser in a high wind.
The place was in near riot. The spectators screamed at Brum to get up, but that wasn’t going to happen. I walked over, jumped onto Brum’s back and then jammed my knife through thick layers of muscle. I sought the brute’s heart, hoping to find it in the right place, where a normal human heart might be. The metal found it and stilled its beat.
Brum was dead. The killer would kill the defenseless no more.
However, I had no illusions that freedom was any closer.
“Seize her! Seize her!” Smerkas screamed.
The Creet guards on the platform surged toward me as my no-muscle companion jumped off the stage and into the slave congregation to disappear. I stood alone, vastly outnumbered, bracing myself for battle.
Then, the most remarkable exhibition of bravery I have ever witnessed occurred. A droove leaped onto the platform, appearing suddenly from the street that ran behind it. A gray-clad form slid from the beast, and with sword in hand began raining destruction onto the stunned mass of Creet soldiers. The blade danced, with smooth, effortless strokes slicing and stabbing. A Creet head separated from its moorings. A priest with a heart full of metal staggered and fell.
Panic broke out among the grandstand spectators. They stumbled over each other as they screamed and fled in terror. The Creet lining the plaza advanced as slaves instigated a spontaneous revolt. The slaves had witnessed the Spood treachery in not allowing my freedom, and now seized the weapons of soldiers caught off guard by the fluid events. The high priest, Smerkas, had vanished from the stage as the Creet on the platform began to back away in horror from the wrath of the sword master decimating their ranks.
Meanwhile, I went to assist the brave newcomer. She grinned, and her eyes held that mischievous look I was getting to know so well. Izzy was in her element, wielding a flashing blade, having fun.
“Where’s Brilna,” I asked in a conversational tone while bending down to snatch up a fallen spear.
“Oh, she’s around,” Izzy answered in casual response, then rammed the butt of her stirka into a Creet forehead.
At that moment Lillatta joined us, so I tossed her the rik-ta I had used on Brum. She immediately put it to good use by utilizing a deft move to force a Creet attacker to blunder into an off-balance position. She finished him off with a quick thrust through his leather vest to the heart. I marveled that the girl had not forgotten her training, and didn’t even appear to be rusty. She seemed to have no aversion to killing Spood, either. Good for her. She would avenge Kalor.
It must have been quite a mind-twisting sight for the Spood. Three young girls, slaves at that, standing in a circle, slaughtering with ease the best the masters of the world had to throw at them. I could see the confusion in their faces as they went down before our blades. I was feeling that strange rush of energy that sometimes came, an extra burst I attributed to Ra-ta guiding my hand. My spear was relentless, stabbing and swiping, fending off awkward thrusts of swords and knives and spears, and then returning the same, only with efficiency and with lethal results.
We were soon awash in blood and that made the stage slippery. It was time to go. I tapped my companions each on the arm and signaled my intention. The Creet had wised up and were now tossing their spears at us, heedless if they struck their own in the process.
Izzy led the way as we jumped from the rear of the platform to the street that ran behind it. The battle was not going well for the outnumbered slaves. Many were already back in custody as more soldiers poured into the plaza. Our pursuers multiplied, but our sudden escape to the street had surprised them and we enjoyed a decent head start.
“I hope you know where you’re going,” I yelled ahead to Izzy. My breath came hard as I chased her down the paved street.
“No, not really,” Izzy said, turning her head to deliver the reply.
I exchanged looks with Lillatta, who was racing beside me, and she just shrugged, indicating it didn’t matter to her where they were going, as long as it was away from here.
I shifted my spear to get a better-balanced grip. As we fled down yet another street, surprised Spood parents gaped, and then grabbed their children to hustle them away from these armed heathens. I knew we would soon exhaust our energy and be run down by the pursuing Creet. Spotting a dark opening that appeared on our left, I shouted to Izzy to turn into it. Perhaps we could find a moment to catch our breath and hide, granting even a brief respite from our pursuers.
It worked. The Creet soldiers passed by as we huddled in the darkness of what appeared to be an empty droove stable. When we were sure the last of the pursuers had passed, we relaxe
d and let our breathing steady. It was absurd and improbable that yet another plan-that-was-no-plan seemed to be working. By some miracle we still lived. Ra-ta must really be enjoying himself—or, perhaps this time it was Mim directing the show.
Then, as if to counter my foolish optimism, a door dropped. A heavy door cross-hatched with metal bars, upraised just moments before, had come crashing down to block the stable opening. We were trapped.
A crowd formed outside the stable and it was not long before I learned the door drop had been deliberate. By the talk, it appeared a number of townsfolk had watched us enter the stable, and one had released the mechanism that held the door in its upraised position.
Other talk filtered in as we waited to learn our fate. More people were arriving, and some of those had come directly from the extravaganza we had just escaped. They had witnessed our three-against-a-thousand performance.
“I tell you it’s them,” one of the speakers was insisting as he examined us from a safe distance outside the bars. “It’s the three from the prophecy, here before our eyes.”
Another man was contemptuous, dismissing his companion’s conclusion.
“They are women, mere girls,” he said. “The prophecy is about men. Any fool knows that.”
“You did not see them,” the first man replied. “They were beasts of terror. Their blades moved in two directions at once. The one with one arm I swear had three. The Creet were falling dead without even being touched!”
I was enjoying this perfectly accurate account of our recent exploits and I saw Izzy and Lillatta were as well. I hoped the man would not forget how I blasted one Creet clear across the plaza simply by exhaling. I imagined, in years to come, this story would wind up resembling the truth in little but that the day was sunny—if they even got that right.
A commotion interrupted the two men’s conversation and the crowd began to part.
“She is coming!” someone exclaimed.
Then “she” arrived, the high-haired wife of the head priest Smerkas. Accompanying her were her shade-provider and a contingent of grim-faced Creet. Keeping a safe distance from the potential of a jabbing spear, she spoke to us, and her manner showed typical Spood arrogance.
“Each of you slaves will approach the bars, one at a time, and hold out your hands, palms up. Do it now.”
Izzy looked to me. Then she shrugged and went first, for we had little choice. The woman exercised caution as she moved closer, motioning several guards to accompany her. As Izzy’s lone hand protruded from the enclosure, the woman grew angry.
“Put the other one out!” she demanded.
“I have only one.”
A Creet glanced inside the stable.
“There’s just the one,” he confirmed.
The impertinence of Izzy having only one hand clearly perturbed the woman. I knew the Spood frowned on physical defects. She grabbed the hand roughly and after a practiced scan quickly discarded it.
“Step back,” she commanded. “Let me see the next.”
Lillatta’s turn. Same result.
“Last one, hurry it up. I don’t have all day to waste on slaves.”
I put my hands through the bars and turned my palms up. The woman gasped and lurched back as if struck.
“No, it can’t be, it can’t be,” she said.
I thought she was about to faint, for her skin had managed to turn a paler tint than it already was.
Smerkas’ wife made a deliberate effort to compose herself, and then she took a long look at me. Her demeanor began to change, and I thought I saw a glint of triumph in her eyes. The terror had vanished, replaced by her previous confidence and haughtiness.
“Throw out your weapons or I will have the guard spear you where you stand,” she commanded.
We had little choice but to obey. The door lifted and we were prisoners once more.
**
~~SEVENTEEN~~