The Reluctant Swordsman by Dave Duncan

left foot for the third sutra. How many could there be? After the sixth sutra, though, the sadist stopped asking and just continued beating, watching Wallie’s agony with a growing smile and obvious excitement, his face becoming red and shiny. He switched from one foot to the other at random and sometimes faked a stroke to see the foot yank back against the stone in anticipation.
    Wallie tried to explain and was given no hearing. He tried remaining silent until blood from his bitten tongue filled his mouth. He tried screaming. He tried begging. He wept.
    He must have fainted, for he had no clear memory of the monster’s departure. He probably went into shock, too, because the rest of the day was a confusion—a long, shivery, disjointed hell. Perhaps it was good that he could not see his ruined feet lying in the furnace beyond the stone slab. The sun moved, the shadows of the lattice roof crawled over him, and the flies came to inspect his wounds. But his neighbors punched and jeered no more.
     
    The evening basket had been passed down the line, and he had sent it on without eating or caring. The sun had set. The sky was rapidly growing dim when Wallie felt himself snap out of his shocked lethargy. He heaved himself up to a sitting position and glanced around. All the other inmates seemed to have become curiously listless and were lying down in silence. The slimy room was hushed, steaming from its latest inundation, shadowy in the fading light.   The little brown boy was leaning against the slab that held Wallie’s ankles, watching him. He was still naked, still as skinny as a bundle of sticks, still holding a leafy twig in one hand. His face was expressionless.   “Well, does it matter?” he asked.
    “Yes, it does,” Wallie said. Those were the first words he had spoken since Hardduju departed. His feet were balls of screaming agony that drowned out all the other pains and bruises.
    The little boy did not speak for a while, studying the prisoner, but eventually he said, “The temple court is in session, Mr. Smith, considering your case. What verdict will you have it reach?”
    “Me?” Wallie said. “How can I influence its verdict?” He felt drained of all emotion, too battered even to feel resentment.
    The boy raised an eyebrow. “All this is happening inside your head—it is all your illusion. You said so. Can’t you dictate the verdict?” “I don’t think that I can influence the temple court,” Wallie said, “ . . . but I think that you could.”
    “Ah!” the boy said. “Maybe we’re getting somewhere.” He put his hands on the slab behind him and sprang up to sit on it, his legs dangling.   “Who are you?” the man demanded.
    “Shorty.” The boy did not smile.
    “I’m sorry!” Wallie shouted. “I didn’t know!” He glanced both ways along the line of prisoners. No one stirred.
    “They won’t notice,” the boy said. “Just you. All right, let’s get back to faith, shall we?”
    Wallie took a moment to gather his thoughts. He had to get this right, or he was going to die. Or worse.
    “I believe that this world is real. But Earth was real, too.”
    The boy nodded and waited.
    “It was the horses,” Wallie said. “They’re like horses but not quite. I always believed in evolution, not creationism, but the People are . . . people. They don’t belong to any Earthly race, but they’re human. Two worlds couldn’t both produce real people by convergent evolution. Something similar for a similar ecological niche, perhaps, but not so similar. I mean, birds and bats both fly, but they’re not the same. Noses and earlobes? They’re not necessary, but the People have them, too. So in spite of what all the science fiction stories said, another world would not have an intelligent biped that was indistinguishable from Homo sapiens . . . ”
    The boy yawned.
    “Gods!” Wallie said quickly. “It has to be gods, hasn’t it? Purpose! Direction!   That was what you meant with the