was a lone and friendless woman, she was still a woman. And she had a brain for Blade to pick. Who better than a goddess should know the inner workings, the labyrinthine politics, of Dimension X?
He went cautiously now. He could hear the two black priests talking as they rounded a bend and went down a ramp into a central chamber. Dozens of torches flared from walls and ceiling, casting a smoky scarlet light over the scene. Blade hung back, sheltering behind a row of stone ladies now consigned to shadowy oblivion. Former Junas, goddesses no longer regnant.
In the center of the chamber was a throne. Bound to it with golden chains was a girl. The current Juna. As lovely a girl as Blade had ever seen. She sat naked on her throne and was chained hand and foot, with a thicker chain around her slender waist. There was defiance in her, and pride, and a terror that she could not entirely conceal. Around her, in a circle, like vultures waiting' for a meal, were a dozen of the black robed priests. Each wore a mask of gold. There was a whispering buzz of anticipation among them as Ptol and Zox made their way into the circle.
The spying Blade reckoned his chances. None of the black priests were visibly bearing arms, though he could not know what was concealed by the robes. He eased his position, flattening on his belly between two of the statues, and bided his time. The girl did not appear in-immediate danger. There was going to be a trial of sorts. To put a legal face on matters, no doubt. He prepeared to listen and learn-every crumb of knowledge was treasure to a man in his position-and meantime he studied the vast chamber and everything in it.
That it had been used for torture in the past was evident. Here, at least, DX ran in parallel with Home Dimension, though Blade did not recognize all the devices. Some were familiar: the rack, wheel, Iron Maiden, pulleys and hoist, and a huge flat pan on which glowed a charcoal fire. In the midst of the charcoal was a helmet very like those in the priests wore, but it was larger and of steel. It could not have been on the fire long, for only now it was beginning to turn a dull red. Near it, on the edge of the fire pan, was a pair of long-handled tongs.
Richard Blade was not a man given to excessive pity. His had been a rough life in a dangerous profession, and his ventures into various X Dimensions had served to harden him further. Now, however, he felt pity, and a slow anger, as he studied the fair-haired girl chained to the throne and noted the fearful glances she cast at the glowing helmet on its bed of charcoal. She could not seem to avoid looking at it. Blade could fully understand her feelings. When the farcical trial was over they were going to clamp that white hot helmet over her lovely head and burn it all away-hair and features and flesh down to the bone, If she lived, and far better that she did not, she would be a horror that no man could bear to look on.
Blade, in that instant, did not care for consequences. He was not going to allow this thing to happen.
The priest called Ptol was reading from a scroll. He stood near the throne, hardly glancing at the documentas though he had memorized it-and through the slits in his mask his eyes roamed over her lush naked body. The other priests stood in a hushed silence, heads bowed, birds of evil omen, the golden masks glinting in the torchlight.
Ptol's evil lisp came clearly to the lurking Blade: «You, Juna deposed, no longer. Juna incarnate, no longer the living goddess, being now mere common and mortal woman, have been brought here to hear charges against you and to suffer such penalties as may be decreed.»
Drumhead court, thought Blade. Kangaroo. The girl hasn't got a chance.
Ptol continued, «You are accused of having given false counsel to the priests and military of Thyme. Said false counsel being determined by the following-that when the barbarian Hectoris made offer of an alliance with Thyme, when he agreed to spare the city if Thyme would march with him against Patmos, you did use your influence, your then goddess-hood to ignore and refuse this offer of mercy from the great Hectoris. You did counsel, instead, that Thyme resist the Samostans. In this, because your influence with the common folk and soldiery, you did prevail. Thyme resisted. With what terrible consequences we all know. Thyrne is now a dead city. Our armies are destroyed and our people slaughtered. How say you to this, woman?»
Her voice was firm and high pitched, with scarcely a quaver in it. Blade nodded in admiration at the look of contempt she gave Ptol. And at her words.
«I have seen no dead priests.»
Ptol slapped the scroll on his palm and Blade was sure he scowled beneath the golden mask. «Mind your tongue, woman! Else we might rip it out before we sear your face away. And speak not of priests-you are no longer a goddess and have not the right to mention your betters.»
The chained girl stared levelly at Ptol. «You give yourself away, Ptol. No. I revoke that. You merely confirm what everyone knows. That you are a fat coward and a hypocrite»
One of the black priests tittered, a furtive sound concealed by a golden mask and instantly hushed. Yet Ptol heard it and wheeled to glare about the circle of his minions. None spoke.
When Ptol spoke there was a deadly timbre about his lips. Blade no longer found it amusing. «I would remind you all,» said Ptol, «that in the absence of a living goddess, I, Ptol, am in supreme authority. A sound, any sound, is indicative of the mind and the man behind it. I have a long memory and let me also point out that it-«Ptol pointed to the steel helmet on the coals, now white hot «will fit a man as well as a woman.»
The girl laughed. There was more terror in it than mirth, yet it was a brave effort. «Do you fear them, Ptol? Why? You have them well cowed. As for power, you have always had that. Why persist in this farce? You, and others like you, have always had the power. Juna never did. Any Juna, she you call the living goddess, has never been anything but a shield, a buffer, a front for you and your priests. A female body to use as you willed. A gift of flesh to be given at your pleasure. How many `heroes' have I slept with at your command, Ptol-and how many times have I suffered you in my bed while my flesh crawled at your touch and I fought to keep from vomiting!»
Blade laughed silently. Good girl. Paying him out in the only way she could.
For a moment Ptol lost his temper. He strode to the throne and struck the girl across the face. «Enough of this,» he screamed. «I say enough. Do you admit your guilt of false counsel? Will you sign a confession of it?»
Her beautiful face was splotched red from the blow. She had not shrunk away. She raised her head proudly and managed a smile of contempt. «Why must you have a confession, Ptol? Must I tell you-so you can take it to Hectoris and put a legal face on what you coo and ingratiate yourself with him?»
Ptol was nearly dancing in rage. He waved the scroll at her and began to shout again. «This is sacrilege, woman. Blasphemy and treason to speak to me so. Now once again-do you admit to false counsel? Did you, or did you not, counsel that Thyrne resist to the last man rather than accept the generous terms of Hectoris?»
The captive girl on the throne forgot and tried to rise. The chains restrained her, yet Blade somehow had the impression that she had risen and stood proud and imperious.
«I deny that it was false counsel,» she said. «I honestly believed that Thyrne could defeat Samosta. So I still believe-had we not been betrayed in the night. How was I to guess that some traitor would open the sewer gates, would reveal their location, and would guide the hosts of the barbarian to the center of our city while we slept? How could I guess at such treachery?»
For a moment there was silence. The little tableau was frozen in time and space, Ptol with one arm extended, pointing the scroll at the girl like a dagger. Then the steel helmet, white hot and giving off an acrid smell of scorched metal, toppled over its bed of coals. One of the priests picked up the tongs and clamped them about the helmet.