Chapter 6
DEATH'S DOMINION
The Death car phased south, emerging in dense jungle. The rutted mud trail here was too difficult for the mechanical vehicle, so it shifted to the stallion Mortis and trotted readily through the steamy growth.
'Halt!' someone cried in Spanish, the translation sounding in Zane's left ear. He looked around and spied a camouflaged soldier whose rifle was pointed menacingly.
Zane halted, drawing cloak and hood close about him, just in case. 'Where is this?'
'I'll ask the questions!' the soldier snapped. 'Who are you and what is your business?'
Should he tell the truth? Zane knew that could complicate things. Yet he was increasingly disinclined to deal in falsehood for any reason. 'I am Death, come to collect a soul.'
'Oh. Yes, sir,' the soldier said, snapping to attention.
Surely he had not heard what Zane had said! The words must have come across as the recognition code for a high officer of this army. Well, if that was the way of it, he would play the part, as he didn't want to get lost in a region of violence. 'Identify yourself and your mission,' Zane said curtly.
'Sir, I am Fernando of the Loyal Niqueldimea Army, on patrol to rout out the Seventh Communist renegades.'
Zane remembered now: Niqueldimea was a banana republic, where guerrilla infiltration had been occurring for some years as the Communists sought to topple its unpopular autocratic government. Naturally there would be many killings here, and some would require Death's personal service.
His watch showed thirty seconds. 'Carry on, Fernando,' he said, and urged Mortis on toward the rendezvous.
In a moment he entered a rather pretty jungle clearing. But as he did so, small-arms fire erupted. A bullet bounced off his impervious cloak. There was a scream beside him, and a Niqueldimean soldier jumped up, stiffened, and spun to the ground. Zane needed only a glimpse before the man was buried in the brush below to see that the right side of his head was gone. He was definitely dead — in fact, it was amazing that he had been able to jump — but this was not Zane's client. This soldier could make it to Eternity on his own.
More government soldiers charged into the clearing, intent on obliterating the sniper. The ground gave way under three of them, and they fell, screaming, into a pit. Yet the surface of the ground remained unbroken. Zane realized that this trap was concealed by a spell of illusion. In one sense, illusion wasn't real, but it could be just as deadly as tangible magic. Enchantment was countering bullets quite effectively.
Zane looked at his orientation stone. His client was in that pit, it seemed. Zane dismounted and stepped forward cautiously, following his gem-arrow as his watch countdown swung to zero.
His foot found the edge. He squatted, then sat, putting his feet down into the invisible hole, leaning forward, and getting his head inside the spelled region. Now he could see reality.
It wasn't pretty. It was a large, open cavity, with a dozen sharpened wooden stakes set upright in the bottom. The three soldiers were skewered on these. Two were dead, the third dying. The third was his client.
Zane slid carefully down the steep side of the pit and landed on his feet. This required only a few seconds, but in that time he became aware how the man was suffering.
The soldier had somehow turned as he fell, and the cruel spike had penetrated his back and emerged from the side of his abdomen. He had been impaled excruciatingly, his head and feet dangling down to the ground. His blood was hardly flowing; the stake filled the puncture.
Zane tried to retch, but clamped his mouth shut. He lurched across and hooked out the soldier's soul, relieving him of his agony. Then he turned and leaned against the pit wall, breathing in long, shuddering efforts.
'You're new at this, aren't you?' someone said.
Zane turned about, still feeling dizzy and sick. A large man stood between the stakes. He wore brief, polished armor, a short, woven-metal skirt, and sported an ornate golden helmet, just like the picture of a Greek god of — 'War!' Zane exclaimed.
'Death!' the man returned sardonically.
'I didn't know — '
'That I existed?' War made an imperious gesture. 'And who but Mars do you suppose should supervise this altercation?'
'No one else,' Zane acknowledged, relaxing. 'I just didn't think it through.'
'I have been meaning to meet you,' Mars said. 'After all, we must often associate closely.'
'Yes,' Zane agreed distastefully. 'I'm still breaking in. I've got the routine down well enough, but scenes like this — '
'This is a good scene,' Mars said. 'Small, but intense. It is the best that offers between major engagements.'
'You like your work?' Zane asked, hardly concealing his revulsion. 'What is accomplished by combat and bloodshed?'
'I'm glad you asked that question,' Mars said expansively, and suddenly Zane was sorry he had asked it. Speeches of self-justification were seldom worthwhile for any but the speaker. 'War is the final refuge against oppression and wrong doing. You have another client on your watch. I'll walk with you while you attend to him.'
Zane saw that it was so. Now he lacked even the excuse to quit the company of this grim warrior.
Mars walked to a corner of the pit where an earthen ramp led to the jungle floor. Zane glanced again at his watch, verifying that he had five minutes to reach another client close by, and followed.
'What refuge do these dead soldiers have?' Zane asked, discomfited. 'How did this battle help them?'
'They have glory,' Mars explained. 'All men must die sometime, and most go ignominiously from age or illness or mishap. Only in war do large numbers get to expire in decent glory.'
'Glory?' Zane thought of his recent client, impaled agonizingly on a wooden stake. 'Seems more like gory to me.'
Mars bellowed out his laughter. 'Cute, Death! You perceive only the instant of discomfort; I perceive the eternal reputation. A moment of pain for eternal fame! These men are sacrificing their blood on the altar of righteousness. This is the termination that renders their entire mundane lives sublime.'
'But what about those who die fighting for the wrong cause?'
'There is no wrong cause! There are only alternate avenues to glory and honor.'
'Alternate avenues!' Zane exclaimed. 'It's pointless brutality!'
'You speak of brutality,' Mars said, as if pleased to meet the challenge of opposition. 'You are as brutal in your own office, I believe. How many of your clients go sweetly to Eternity on blithe wings of song? I will answer that — damned few! Even your reforms are savage things, less defensible than what I offer my clients.'
'Your clients are my clients!' Zane protested. 'Your clients, my clients,' Mars said, shrugging. He had excellently broad shoulders, making the shrug impressive. 'Some coincide. Most don't. Consider the mode of executions. Do you approve of stoning a person to death, regardless of his crime, which may have been simply making time with a willing woman? Of crucifying him for his religious beliefs? Of breaking his body on the wheel because he stole a loaf of bread to keep himself from starving, or pulling his limbs off by means of chains attached to six horses because he refused to pay sufficient graft to get out of it, or burning him at the stake on a false charge of witchcraft?'
'No, of course not!' Zane said, taken aback by this savage catalogue. Mars had a rough-and-ready tongue! 'But execution has been reformed.'
'Reformed!' Mars snorted. 'I remember the French reform. Doctor Guillotine invented a huge humane blade to sever necks quickly and cleanly. No more of this messy and sometimes inaccurate chopping that could cut into the shoulder or lop off the top part of the head or even take out the hands of the innocent person holding the condemned head in place. This modern method brought elitism to the poor, for before then only nobles had warranted execution by the sword. But do you remember what they did with that invention? I will inform you. They discovered that it could bring mass production to political murder! They could kill thousands in a day, chop-chop!
