Astride her throne lounged Dhurga. She was attired as before, in armor, with a gold helm. As she sat there, motionless, she seemed more like a magnificent statue than a living being. Then she raised one of her six arms and crooked a long finger.
“We are bid to approach the royal presence,” Kayala stated the obvious.
“Big whoop,” Hickok said.
“Pardon?”
“I never have cottoned to high muck-a-muck’s like her,” Hickok said. The infamous Doktor and Thanatos came to mind, tyrants so full of themselves, they believed they had the right to lord it over everyone else. And they weren’t the only ones. The Family once had to deal with a would-be despot from their own ranks. Power Mongers, the Family called them. The bane of the prewar world, and every other era, for that matter.
“You will live longer if you comport yourself humbly,” Kayala advised.
“I’m not about to kiss her blue tootsies,” Hickok said. Only then did he notice that the female Lord possessed six fingers on each hands. He wondered if her highness had six toes on each foot, too. The notion made him laugh.
“What can you possibly find amusing at a time like this?” Kayala asked.
“Stinky feet times six,” Hickok said.
“I do not understand. There are times when you make no sense.”
“I have a pard named Geronimo who has been sayin’ that for years.”
Dhurga was reclining with three arms resting on either side of her throne and her six long legs spread in repose. Her long black hair gleamed lustrous in the bright light. Across her lap rested her trident.
Kayala dipped to a knee and bowed her head. In a language Hickok hadn’t heard before, she addressed the blue goddess at some length.
Dhurga barely gave the old woman a glance. She was studying Hickok from his scuffed boots to his blond hair.
“Admirin’ the view?” Hickok said.
“Get down on your knee,” Kayala said.
“And scuff my kneecap? No thanks.”
“This is serious. Bow to her, then.”
“Nope.” Hickok beamed at the self-styled Lord of Kismet. “Too bad you don’t savvy English, lady, or I’d tell you where to stick that pigsticker of yours.”
Dhurga blinked. Not as a human would do, with her eyelids moving from top to bottom. She blinked vertically, using lids that closed in the middle. Then she did something even more unnerving. She smiled. “So childish, this one.”
“You know my language?” Hickok blurted in surprise.
“I speak more than a score of languages, little human,” Dhurga said, her voice as melodious as music.
“I am sorry he will not bow to you,” Kayala said, her head still down.
“That is all right, faithful one,” Dhurga said. “I expected no less.”
“Faithful one?” Hickok said.
“Rise,” Dhurga commanded Kayala. “I see no reason to continue the deception. Show him your true self.”
Kayala slowly stood and faced the Warrior—and her skin began to ripple.
“Hell in a basket,” Hickok said.
CHAPTER 39
Yama exploded into motion. Whipping the Wilkinson up, he triggered a burst even as he flung himself to one side. He went for the purple creature, the Indrian, his slugs stitching its torso from waist to throat. It staggered, but incredibly, it didn’t go down. He should have gone for the head as Hickok would have done. To remedy his mistake he elevated the Wilkinson, but before he could squeeze the trigger the two green-hued Batuas were on him.
Instead of going for their guns, the pair had drawn their swords. The nearest darted in and thrust at Yama’s leg, clearly intending to maim, not kill. Yama barely avoided the blow. He pointed the Wilkinson, only to have the second Batua knock it from his grasp with a powerful blow to the barrel. Skipping out of their reach, Yama whisked his scimitar from its scabbard. He could have resorted to his Browning auto pistol or his Smith & Wesson Magnum, but if they wanted to try to take him with swords, fine. He was partial to curved blades, himself.
The second Batua launched itself at him, whipping its sword on high for a downward stroke. Yama parried, steel ringing on steel, the force knocking him back a step. The creatures were inhumanly strong; he mustn’t make the mistake of underestimating them.
The Indrian had drawn his pistol but didn’t shoot. Instead, he snapped orders at the green things.
The Batuas spread to either side, adopting ready stances.
Yama assumed a guard position and waited for them to strike. The basic rule of combat had it that the best defense was a good offense, but in sword-fighting the proper defensive move could serve as both.
The Batuas exchanged glances. The one on Yama’s left arced his sword at Yama’s shoulder, going high. The other went low, swinging at Yama’s shins. Either blow would cripple him.
Yama blocked the high strike while simultaneously leaping straight up to evade the low attack. In midair he lashed out with his foot, smashing the second Bauta in the face. In the next heartbeat, he slashed the first one across the arm.
By their startled looks, they weren’t accustomed to such resistance. Retreating beyond his reach, they looked questioningly at their superior, the Indrian. The purple creature snarled new commands.
People, and other creatures, had frozen to gape and stare.
Yama became acutely aware of being in the open, and how exposed and vulnerable that made him. Should more demigods show up, he would be in serious trouble.
This fight wasn’t necessary. Finding Blade and Hickok took priority. He had to get out of there, and to that end, and as much as it galled him, he turned and ran.
They were after him in a flash, the green pair, anyway. The purple creature pointed at him and shouted something.
Yama fairly flew. No one tried to stop him. Their fear of the demigods was part of it; humans shrank from the green duo as if their own lives were in
