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Before he could wonder for very long what was going on, the stroke-caller shouted out a single sharp cry, and the paddles suddenly stopped. A moment later a long rolling, grating sound came from underneath, and the whole canoe shook and vibrated as it ran up on the shore. Blade slid forward on his bare rear end for several feet, ending up with a number of splinters stuck in his skin and his feet sticking out from under the canopy.
Now that they had reached land, Blade suddenly became the center of attention. Half a dozen warriors snatched off the black canopy, grabbed him, and hoisted him out of the canoe. They lowered him onto a litter of dark blue leather slung between heavy carved wooden poles. Then a contingent of priests shouldered their way through the crowd of Holy Warriors and surrounded the litter. At a shouted signal eight of the priests hoisted Blade up on their shoulders and set off at a trot.
Hands and feet still bound, Blade bounced about wildly in the litter. Several times he wondered if he were going to bounce right out and fall to the ground, adding more bruises to his battered frame. But gradually the priests got in step, or perhaps the path smoothed out underfoot. Now Blade was able to get a better look at his surroundings.
All nine canoes were drawn up on another gravel beach, this one at the end of a long, narrow bay. Bay? Blade took a second look. To his left stretched the wide blue horizon of the lake. But to his right the «bay» ran off into the plain in a winding, narrow cha
The canoes were drawn up at one end of the beach in a close-packed line. The warriors were still climbing out and gathering in ragged clusters at the bow of each canoe. The priests who were not carrying Blade's litter had gathered separately in front of a cluster of low, blue wooden sheds, painted with more white signs. From a hole in the largest shed's roof, a thick column of yellow-orange smoke rose straight into the calm air, pale in the bright daylight.
Blade felt the litter begin to tilt under him again and heard the priests begin to breathe harder: He looked ahead, and saw that they were climbing up the side of a broad conical mound. Although it was made of the same dreary blue-gray earth and stone as the rest of the plain, its regular outlines told Blade that it was artificial. As they climbed higher up its side, Blade could not help being amazed by its size. Five hundred feet wide at the base and at least a hundred feet high from top to bottom. The amount of labor involved in building this thing must have been incredible. He wondered what purpose it served. He could see only a small hut made of stone slabs on top of the mound, hardly large enough to house a self-respecting peasant.
Atop the mound, the priests lowered the litter to the ground and stood unashamedly gasping for breath. One of them went over to the door of the stone hut. A large set of chimes was hanging there, made of slabs of polished stone three feet long and a good six inches thick. The priest picked up a wooden mallet with a padded leather head and began beating out a complicated rhythm on the hanging stones. Blade was surprised to hear the stones giving off a solid reverberating brrrroooom when struck, instead of merely a dull clunk.
The priest reached the end of his rhythm and began repeating it. Before he was halfway through the repetition, the door of the hut slid open, the bronze reinforced stone slab rumbling aside on polished bronze ru
Before Blade's eyes recovered, the litter tipped up violently as the priests plunged down a steep flight of stairs-at such an angle, in fact, that Blade almost sailed right off the litter. He had momentary visions of plummeting down the dark staircase and reaching the bottom long before the priests-and breaking every bone in his body in the process.
They reached the bottom of the stairs safely, just as Blade's eyes adjusted to the dimness around him. The stairs came out into a long vaulted corridor, dimly lit by oil lamps hung on bronze brackets set in the walls. The lamps burned with the now familiar yellow-orange tinge, their oily smoke blackening the stones and adding to the thickness of the air. At intervals along the walls stood reliefs and statues of the man-bat, all painted white.
The priests carried the litter down the corridor at their usual brisk trot, then swung left into a smaller passage and along it. In a few moments they came up to another stoneslab door. This one rumbled open as they approached it, without any signal.
In the section of the warren beyond this door the ceilings were still lower, the light still dimmer, the stonework still blacker with grease and strange hideous molds, and the smells thicker than ever. They were thick enough to make Blade gag, although the priests still seemed to take no notice. And then he stiffened, as his nose detected a fleeting but sinister whiff of an unpleasantly familiar odor.
It was the sap of the bushes by the lake, the sap with its mysterious narcotic properties, the sap of the bushes that the priests of Ayocan had gathered in such numbers. Somewhere in this underground warren it was being stored or used in large amounts. For what? There were any number of things a religious cult might want a narcotic for, some of them almost i
There were sounds as well as smells filling this part of the cult's-temple? headquarters? monastery? Blade didn't know, and wasn't entirely sure he really wanted to know. But he was determined to find out as much as he could, even if he wasn't going to live long enough to get any use out of it. The habit was too deeply ingrained in him by twenty years of Home Dimension field missions and Dimension X trips. And there was always the possibility that he might find out something that would help him live longer.
So he listened carefully to the sounds floating through the smelly darkness, and tried to identify them. The clink of chains, the tramp of guards' feet, the sound of slops being emptied, occasional human voices. Some of the voices were chanting in the familiar rhythm of prayers to Ayocan, some were barking orders-and some were sobbing, moaning, and even screaming in rage or pain or despair. Blade felt a chill at those last sounds. The purposes of the priests of Ayocan definitely did not sound i
Now they were passing doors made of bronze or stout wooden bars instead of stone slabs, with heavy cross-bars and ropes holding them closed. As the priests swept the litter along the corridor, Blade saw what lay behind those doors. Like the screams, the sights gave him an unpleasant chilling sensation.
Men, chained to the walls, but jerking at their chains, staring wide-eyed, drooling and moaning like idiots. Were they idiots, or were they drugged? Other men-no, not quite men, eunuchs, with thick wads of once white bandages showing that they had become eunuchs only recently. Some of them were boys who had never even been men, and now never would be. Still other men, chained only by the leg, screaming and hurling themselves against man-shaped dummies, hitting them, kicking them, slashing them with swords. Some of these last men wore masks that concealed their whole heads, white masks in the shape of a bat's head.