monkey’s weapon. He had been mistaken when he had thought it an animal. Or perhaps not. It was a man’s head. The subconscious had worked on the problem and had found the solution.
He slammed the carved head into the monkey mask with enormous force. It shattered into a cloud of choking powder blossoming garishly into the humid night. Kan’s headless body sank to the cold stone.
‘The first move is completed,’ Ek intoned mechanically. ‘Man defeats monkey.’
So there is a way, after all, thought Ronin as, peripherally, he caught a movement from just above and saw the vulture drop down to the fourth level. He reached up with the staff and the vulture, his arm ramrod stiff, cracked it in half. Ronin threw it from him. The pieces spun in the air, bouncing off the lowest step and onto the stone paving before the Sacred Pyramid.
And a different counter to each opponent. But how am I to know?
The vulture reached the third step.
Ronin had defeated the monkey but in so doing he had lost a step and now was one level closer to being driven off the face of the pyramid.
He concentrated on his second foe. The vulture carried no weapon but his arms were thin, brownish-yellow, scaled, and, as he lifted them, Ronin saw that they ended in four-fingered claws tipped with curved talons. These commenced to beat the air in front of the vulture as it came at him.
In a flurry, the talons flashed out and he jerked aside, hearing the hissing of their close passage. They came at him again, aiming for his cheek. He ducked and the other set of talons sank into his shoulder, ripping at his flesh. He groaned, staggering. The step became narrow and his boot went over the edge. He toppled over, taking the clutching vulture with him onto the second level.
He scrabbled at his belt for his dirk as the claw sank deeper into the muscles of his shoulder. At last he pulled it free and the flickering light licked along its blade as the edge scraped across the scales of one of the vulture’s arms, but the claw refused to relinquish its painful hold on him. Again the talons twisted in his flesh and fire seared through him. Gasping now, he hacked with the point of the blade. A shrill call came from within the vulture mask and he smelled an awful, sickly sweet stench: mummified remains, lying within moldy corridors of the ages; cement and limestone walls collapsing; rotting vegetation rising thickly; fetid swamps burbling their liquid call…
Pain; the edge of the second step like a sword blade on his back as the vulture bore its weight down upon him. He was on his way down to the first level!
‘Moichi!’ someone cried. ‘Moichi!’
Up his throat.
And he called out again.
A rustling, a thud of boot soles.
His body tipped precariously while the vulture bore down even harder.
‘Ah!’
A soft breeze behind him.
Talons gouged and he closed his mind against the pain.
The vulture heaved at his body.
Going over.
No! No!
He never reached the first step. His back fetched up against solid flesh, immobile, rocklike. He braced himself against the unexpected bulwark, feeling the hard thud of the heart against the ridged muscles of his back. He gained strength, backstopped. He reached up with both hands, dropping his useless dirk and, screaming, wrenched the convulsed claw from his shoulder.
He took a deep breath, his frame shuddering, and as his blood oxygenated, he felt a surge of adrenalin and now, lowering one wrist to act as a fulcrum, he slammed his balled fist into the claw. Sweat broke out along his forehead, rolled down his heaving sides, along his tensed legs. The vulture wailed as, with a splintering of bone and dry sinew, the wrist snapped. Shards of hollow bone punctured the rent skin and black blood ran in icy rivulets from the maimed member.
The vulture mask vibrated as if with hate and the good claw flailed, the questing talons making a dark melody as they swept through the air. Then the vulture leapt at him.
Gray blur blooming,
He slammed the carved head into the monkey mask with enormous force. It shattered into a cloud of choking powder blossoming garishly into the humid night. Kan’s headless body sank to the cold stone.
‘The first move is completed,’ Ek intoned mechanically. ‘Man defeats monkey.’
So there is a way, after all, thought Ronin as, peripherally, he caught a movement from just above and saw the vulture drop down to the fourth level. He reached up with the staff and the vulture, his arm ramrod stiff, cracked it in half. Ronin threw it from him. The pieces spun in the air, bouncing off the lowest step and onto the stone paving before the Sacred Pyramid.
And a different counter to each opponent. But how am I to know?
The vulture reached the third step.
Ronin had defeated the monkey but in so doing he had lost a step and now was one level closer to being driven off the face of the pyramid.
He concentrated on his second foe. The vulture carried no weapon but his arms were thin, brownish-yellow, scaled, and, as he lifted them, Ronin saw that they ended in four-fingered claws tipped with curved talons. These commenced to beat the air in front of the vulture as it came at him.
In a flurry, the talons flashed out and he jerked aside, hearing the hissing of their close passage. They came at him again, aiming for his cheek. He ducked and the other set of talons sank into his shoulder, ripping at his flesh. He groaned, staggering. The step became narrow and his boot went over the edge. He toppled over, taking the clutching vulture with him onto the second level.
He scrabbled at his belt for his dirk as the claw sank deeper into the muscles of his shoulder. At last he pulled it free and the flickering light licked along its blade as the edge scraped across the scales of one of the vulture’s arms, but the claw refused to relinquish its painful hold on him. Again the talons twisted in his flesh and fire seared through him. Gasping now, he hacked with the point of the blade. A shrill call came from within the vulture mask and he smelled an awful, sickly sweet stench: mummified remains, lying within moldy corridors of the ages; cement and limestone walls collapsing; rotting vegetation rising thickly; fetid swamps burbling their liquid call…
Pain; the edge of the second step like a sword blade on his back as the vulture bore its weight down upon him. He was on his way down to the first level!
‘Moichi!’ someone cried. ‘Moichi!’
Up his throat.
And he called out again.
A rustling, a thud of boot soles.
His body tipped precariously while the vulture bore down even harder.
‘Ah!’
A soft breeze behind him.
Talons gouged and he closed his mind against the pain.
The vulture heaved at his body.
Going over.
No! No!
He never reached the first step. His back fetched up against solid flesh, immobile, rocklike. He braced himself against the unexpected bulwark, feeling the hard thud of the heart against the ridged muscles of his back. He gained strength, backstopped. He reached up with both hands, dropping his useless dirk and, screaming, wrenched the convulsed claw from his shoulder.
He took a deep breath, his frame shuddering, and as his blood oxygenated, he felt a surge of adrenalin and now, lowering one wrist to act as a fulcrum, he slammed his balled fist into the claw. Sweat broke out along his forehead, rolled down his heaving sides, along his tensed legs. The vulture wailed as, with a splintering of bone and dry sinew, the wrist snapped. Shards of hollow bone punctured the rent skin and black blood ran in icy rivulets from the maimed member.
The vulture mask vibrated as if with hate and the good claw flailed, the questing talons making a dark melody as they swept through the air. Then the vulture leapt at him.
Gray blur blooming,
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