And The Devil Will Drag You Under (1979) (11 page)

The challenger yowled with pain, a scream that echoed down the canyon, and dropped the club as he doubled over. Malk was ready; as the club dropped he caught it, shifted it to his right hand, and brought it down on Bakh's head-hard.

It was no contest. The challenger collapsed in a heap. His scalp was bleeding, but as the others rushed up to check they saw that he was still alive.

Malk caught his breath; he was breathing hard, and the adrenalin was already starting to fade from his system. He turned to one of the slaves. "Priest!" he ordered. The slave took off at a run down the canyon, back toward the tribe.

Everybody must have been waiting just out of sight for the results, for the slave returned with the priest in a matter of moments. The priest differed from the others. He was about their size, but much thinner and bonier; he walked oddly and was tremendously scarred from head to foot. He wore a piece of bone through his nose, bone through his ears, and a necklace made up of nobody knew what. He carried a container made from skin of some kind under his arm, and he approached the scene of the fight hurriedly.

He stopped, examined the unconscious loser, and sighed. "Priest wait for Bakh wake?" he asked, his voice tinged with anticipation.

The chief looked at him in disgust. "No. Bakh brave. Do now!"

The priest's expression changed to disappointment. He sighed and pulled from the pouch a series of ex-tremely sharp stones and what looked like herbs of one kind or another, then proceeded with a gruesome mu-tilation of the fallen foe which included the removal of the man's thumbs and tongue, and castration. At least now Mac Walters understood the terrible terms invoked and the price paid for losing. He turned away, much too sickened to continue watching.

He knew a few things now, though. The young man whose body he wore had lost fights without mutilation, so it was far less costly to fight someone low in rank. He thought he could take the chief, but he wasn't sure; and the chief was a lot more experienced and bloodthirsty than he.

Too much of a risk.

He also knew now that the demon was in fact with the tribe, that he was the high priest and witch doctor, and that he was, among other things, a sadist as well as a masochist.

Mac Walters decided he needed time to think this thing through.

3

Although time was of the essence, as Mogart had said, Mac Walters decided early on that if the world was going to be saved, he was going to be one of the saved if at all possible. That meant not rushing into things where death could be just a minor little occurrence if that damned demon had him on the wrong end of those nasty sharp stones and needles.

He waited until everyone had gone, then walked back, away from the direction of the tribe, trying to spot the man's hideout. This body occupation was less than perfect; he felt as if he were in familiar surround-ings, and new scenes looked very normal to him. But he couldn't remember specific facts the man wouldn't even have had to think about.

Finally, though, he saw what he was looking for near the other end of the canyon, about halfway up the wall of red rock. It was not an easy climb, but he seemed to know the steps and holds automatically, and finally reached a small cave hidden from view by a jagged outcrop. It was dry and hard and not very homey, but it would do. Inside he found evidence that the man had lived there for some time-remains of excrement,
which
didn't thrill him, some dried-out grasses that made at least a makeshift cushion to sleep on-not
much
better than the bare rock, but a little.

And some strangled birds.

The man would have to be pretty damned quick to catch birds,
he thought. There seemed no way to cook them, though; a fire would betray his position even if he had had a fire source, he realized. He was still too much Mac Walters for his own good, he realized sourly, and settled down to get some sleep while wondering how hungry he would have to be before he'd eat raw dead birds.

Hungry was what he was when he awoke shortly before dawn, but not
that
hungry. He knew he would have to reconnoiter the tribe a bit more before making his move and hoped that, perhaps, they'd leave something edible within snatching range.

Spying on them was easy. He just climbed farther up to the top of the canyon, then, crouching low, walked carefully down until he was across from and above the main tribal area.

They were nomadic, no doubt about that. Their pits were crude and shallow, their weapons and imple-ments also crude and carried tied on a yoke of thin logs designed for humans, not animals.

They
had
domesticated the dog, which was bad. That meant there would be no getting close to them without a lot of barking and maybe worse. Horses, cows, or any sign of agriculture were absent, though. They were hunters and gatherers.

He felt genuinely sorry for them. They were people, just like himself, really-but cruelly and permanently trapped in the early part of the Old Stone Age, locked in an artificial heredity-mandated social system that absolutely prohibited the new and revolutionary idea.

They
did
seem to have fire in those pits, though; thin wisps of smoke curled from the dozens scattered around the cleft floor. He wondered how they made or carried their fires
-flint, probably,

he decided. This area was dry enough so that you could start a fire without much patience if you had flint.

The tribal organization was also easily observed. A large number of women and children, most still asleep, flanked both sides of the waterfall, and there was a clear space around them for several meters. Their own territory was marked by an old spear stuck in the ground with what looked like a human skull impaled on it. A couple of early-rising women in the chief's group seemed to be pounding or grinding something on nearby rocks and watching the large fire pits.
Break-fast, of
course,
he concluded hungrily.

Flanking the chief's area were several younger men
-slaves, probably,
he guessed. The other areas were organized in much the same way, in a descending order of magnitude. Far from the cleft and the water source, separated from the rest, were a number of young men in a group by themselves.
The unattached male surplus,
he thought.

As the sun rose higher and its light started to filter down into the canyon itself, the community began to wake up.

The day progressed, with Mac just watching, getting hungrier and hungrier, but learning.

The women prepared the foods, dug the pits, tended the fires, even maintained a very primitive, public pit toilet. The family men hunted, fished with crude nets made of bark and skin, and generally worked together to find a food supply, be it deer or lizard, fish or certain kinds of marsh grasses. The food was brought back, then the men were allowed to pick their needs based on their tribal rank. The surplus males, who also were required to hunt, got what was left over.

The men spent the rest of their time-if, as on this day, they were lucky enough to gather enough food early-making and tending their weapons, shaping stones, as tools for the women, and a few even indulged in elaborate sand paintings or more simplified draw-ings on the canyon walls. Chief Malk himself seemed to be the one who taught the young men the art of fighting-an act of extreme bravery, considering he was training the people who would, certainly, one day challenge, beat, and replace him.
But then,
Mac re-flected,
you never play poker with the man who taught you.
There was not only the matter of experience but the one or two tricks he kept to himself that would do you in.

Malk's primary enemy, he realized, was age or crippling injury. There were no old men or obvious cripples among any there except for a few slaves of the chief who were, like the unfortunate Bakh, kept around as object lessons.

One day Malk
would
be too old or too slow, or would have an accident and break a limb and wind up on the losing end of a challenge. So would the lesser-ranking males. The older females seemed to keep their position, but not the men. They had a very limited time of power, then fell into disgrace, disfigurement, and probably quick suicide. It was a terribly uncertain life; even a bad cold could do Malk in.

Mac wondered idly what the average life span of a chief really was.

By midafternoon, he no longer wondered how hun-gry he'd have to be to eat raw birds-or raw anything else for that matter. He forced himself to do it and to trap and strip a couple of lizards as well. He felt better, although he still preferred his food cooked and would have preferred something more substantial.

He knew one thing-he couldn't keep up this rou-tine very long. Better to go down and get it over with, trusting to his football training and his college wrestling experience to see him through.

He left the cave and walked, boldly this time, toward the tribe. He was still a way off when he saw a young woman slip into the river to wash off. She turned, saw him, and her mouth dropped open in surprise. He approached her curiously.

"Dend be crazy! Bad spirit in Dend!" she uttered in complete wonder. He was obviously expected to know her.

"Dend win fight that comes," he responded, hoping he sounded confident. The exchange was a little un-settling. He could internally verbalize anything he wanted, but apparently he could vocalize only what this language allowed-and that really wasn't much.

He walked on. This late in the day most people were back in their areas. He hit the young men's area first, and they looked up at him with surprise and shock on their faces. He guessed that Dend must have gotten beaten pretty badly the last time and been run out of town on a rail or some equivalent.

He wasn't going much farther. The first, outer area was composed of groups of no more than four wives and one or two slaves. He had seen the pro leagues; he would be satisfied with a spot on the lowest of the amateur clubs.

They gave him wide berth, knowing what he must be there to do. The males in particular seemed frozen, waiting to see who he would pick. He, in turn, looked them over, trying to select his victim. Two he dis-missed immediately. They hardly had a mark or scar on them and so were obviously damned good fighters on their way up. He wanted one of younger years who was fairly well marked up and had the look of com-placency rather. than ambition.

He found no such man, and he understood why almost immediately. In the lowest rank you always had all those young, unattached men looking for a way into society. Only in the middle ranks would such a complacent one be found, and he'd probably be pretty damned good.

Mac noticed that one of the men stood a little un-comfortably, as if he had some sort of physical prob-lem. He was young but well scarred-a better bet than most, Mac decided. Since it was his move and he was already committed, he walked over to the gimpy-legged man. Standing up straight, trying the best look of arrogance he could muster, he pointed at the man and said,

"Dend challenge!"

It was a good thing the girl had called him by name; the language had no personal pronouns.

The other males visibly relaxed, and one or two went back to eating or being preened or whatever it was they had been doing when he arrived.

The gimpy-legged man grinned evilly, exposing broken and crooked teeth. "Fight now?" he came back, looking not the least bit worried. Then he added, "Run now-like fight-that-was?"

Walters understood suddenly why there was so much amazement and contempt at his return.

This Dend had turned coward and run the last time.

"Fight
now," he emphasized. The other man nodded and turned to walk down to the river. Mac was confused. "Weapons?" he asked.

The little man grinned that evil grin again, stopped, and held up his powerful-looking arms. "

Guml no need weapons for
Dend,"
he responded, pronouncing the last word as if it were a dead skunk that needed quick burial before it stank up the place.

The rules were slightly different in the lower ranks, Mac discovered. First, the unattached young men were permitted to watch-an open invitation to challenge the winner after spotting his weak points, Mac noted.

Gumi's slight limp didn't seem to bother or limit him in the least, much to Mac's disappointment.

The young men formed a wide circle around the two fighters; he and Guml stood facing each other, sizing each other up. The other man had good balance despite his injury, and there was no mistaking the power in his bulging arm and leg muscles. Mac felt as if he were back on the line, in a sort of nudist pro football game, one-on-one.

"Fight!" Guml snarled, and without any of the cere-mony or ritual Mac had earlier witnessed, the fight was on. He was thankful they hadn't traded challenges, anyway. Nonetheless, he had the same problem Bakh had had, in one respect-Guml didn't have to expose himself to attack, but could afford to wait for the challenger.

Mac put his arms in the blocker's position and charged with a bloodcurdling scream. The combination of sudden charge and scream caught the other man off guard. Mac was on him before he could twist away, and in another second they were on the ground, grappling for position, rolling over and over. The circle of young men, curiously quiet for spectators, made room for them.

Mac felt incredibly strong viselike fingers on his throat and pushed out hard against the other's strong neck, trying to break the grip. Almost reflexively, he brought his knee up toward the other man's groin. Guml was too good for that, though; he released his grip and twisted, catching Mac's knee, and using his whole body as a lever, threw the challenger to the ground hard.

What followed was almost classical wrestling, Guml on top, hands and knees keeping Walters'

body pressed against the ground. Mac couldn't break the grip in this position; but, unlike wrestling where pinning would do it, Guml would have to move off one of the pressure points for the
coup
de grace.
Mac waited, knowing he would have only a split second before it would be all over
.
He guessed the shot would be the man's right arm-his legs weren't his strongest suit, and he was right-handed.