And The Devil Will Drag You Under (1979) by Jack L. Chalker Page A
Authors: Jack L. Chalker
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the challenger. But Bakh saw it and deflected the axe with his club, which he held like a quarterstaff. The deflection threw him off balance, though, and Malk seized the opening to leap again at the chal-lenger. The club went up in a defensive motion, but only the chief's left hand grabbed it; his right went hard into Bakh's suddenly undefended crotch.
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
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
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