Choose! Choose now! Or die! Guest chose, and led the way through the Door, through to -
'Mother of god!' said Guest, in disbelief.
He was on a battlefield. A battlefield, of all places!
Some of Guest's new companions shared his shock, so he did his best to steady them, speaking as a leader should.
The earth was dusty, and the sky was black with thunder. The air boomed with drums, wailed with screams, roared with fear. But battle had not yet been joined. As Guest's companions mobbed around him, he realized he was standing slap bang between two armies, and that war was about to be joined.
'There is war here,' said Guest, wondering if his own selfpossession might allow him to displace the bald- headed Ashdan as the leader of this band, 'hence there is opportunity.'
So he said. But what he did not add was that the opportunity was mostly for death, for maiming, for capture and imprisonment, for suffering and thirst, for fear and for terror, for trauma and regrets.
A warrior rode from the army to the west. He was mounted on a heavyweight black horse, and from his accoutrements Guest summed him as a Yudonic Knight of Wen Endex. One of Guest's new companions said something to the rider. Guest failed to catch the words, but they must have been mightily provocative, for those few words precipitated a fight.
Moments later, the rider was dead, and his horse likewise.
One of the killers started drinking the blood of the horse, and another – not to be outdone – started drinking the blood of the man. Guest realized the monster with the oversized crowbar had gone through the Door, with one or two of his fellows. The others – those of them who were not greeding on blood – had fallen to arguing. Guest took the opportunity to grab Rolf Thelemite by the arm and drag him out of earshot of the others for a private word.
'Rolf,' said Guest. 'It's Rolf, isn't it?'
'Who else would it be?' said Rolf Thelemite.
'Then – good to see you, man!' said Guest, gripping his erstwhile companion by the shoulder. 'Now, tell me, what's going on here?'
'Well,' said Rolf Thelemite, 'it's a long story.'
A long story, and one which Guest was not to be favored with. For, as Rolf Thelemite geared himself up for the telling of his tale, a savagery of pale-skinned warriors came leaping out of the Door. They were barefooted, had leather breeches, had sheepskin jackets, and were armed with spiked clubs, with spears, and with swords.
In the melee which followed, Guest was separated from Rolf Thelemite. And, as the fighting ended, Guest realized that the two armies of the battlefield were starting to march toward each other, bent on starting a larger war.
'Rolf!' said Guest.
'Here!' said Rolf Thelemite, who was standing on the plinth of the Door. 'I'll see you later!'
And, with that, the Rovac warrior vanished through the shining silver screen of the Door. Guest hesitated.
He had two choices, both unpalatable. He could pursue Rolf Thelemite and his mob through the Door. Or he could stand here and get himself embroiled in a battle.
Another horseman came riding from the west, bearing down on the Door. And Guest, realizing this horseman might be riding for revenge of his fallen colleague, fled precipitately through the Door. He found himself in a huge darkness. A cave? He caught sight of the moon, and realized it was night. Then someone or something moved in the night, and Guest, fearing attack, plunged back through the Door.
No sooner had Guest plunged – jumping through to searing sunlight – than the silver screen of the Door snapped out of existence. Guest glanced back to confirm what his ears had told him. The Door was closed! So here was sun, here was sand, he was back on his island, but the blood -
The sand stretched away.
Thirty paces away, a totem pole.
Sand hot in the sun.
Sand scattered with bodies.
Corpses of men and corpses of monster.
And the sand was fringed with a circular arena, the walls of which were of white marble. The arena's steeply-sloped tiers of seating – packed with people, all of them yelling and roaring – reminded Guest of Forum Three, the lecture theater in Cap Foz Para Lash. Then, with a shock of recognition, he realized where he was.
He was standing in the Grand Arena of Dalar ken Halvar (otherwise known as the Great Arena, and, to scholars, as the Kilsh Dilsh Dalsh Tantasand).
He saw the corpses of those death-lizards known as striders, their heads pulped. He saw dead men. And he saw crocodiles.
Crocodiles very much alive! By the look of them, they looked hungry! And they were coming in Guest Gulkan's direction! Guest looked around at the packed arena.
'It's me!' he roared. 'Guest Gulkan! Friend of Plandruk
Qinplaqus!'
But the Weaponmaster's shout was drowned by the maelstrom of the crowd's rioting enthusiasm. Dalar ken Halvar recognized him not. He was in the arena, alone in the arena, alone with his sword, and the crocodiles were closing in on him. There were dozens of the monsters.
But could they climb the plinth? Guest glanced around, and saw that the sand had been ramped up at the back of the plinth. He guessed that the ramping had been done especially for the convenience of the crocodiles. The steel arch looked unclimbable. But just thirty paces distant was the totem pole. Guest gathered his wits and ran for the totem pole. But a man stepped from its base and challenged him with a sword. The man was barefooted, wore leather breeches, wore sheepskin jacket – and was, Guest realized, one of those who had so lately been engaged in a m?l?e on the battlefield Guest had fled. Moreover, now that he examined it closely, he realized the totem pole was jam packed with such savages.
Even had the savages been cooperative, there was simply no room for Guest Gulkan on that totem pole. And, to judge from the attitude of the man at the base of the pole, they were in no mood to be cooperative. Guest backed off.
The crowd went wild.
Here was a great spectacle! One man, alone in the arena against a horde of hungry crocodiles! The totem pole is crowded, so he cannot climb! The gates are closed, so he cannot run! One side of the plinth has been ramped with sand, so it is useless as a fortress! He has nothing between him and monstrous death but the strength of his sword!
The crowd cheered with a passion. Whooped, hollered, yelled, stamped, clapped, applauded!
Ah, drama!
Blood, death, fear, pain, anguish!
But the man in the arena was undaunted.
For the man in the arena was no ordinary mortal. Rather, he was the mighty Guest Gulkan, the Weaponmaster, the Emperor in Exile. If Crabs, Bankers, therapists and Shabbles were not sufficient to encompass his doom, how then could any mere rabble of crocodiles hope to pull him down, however great their numbers? Guest Gulkan strode grimly across the burning sands of the arena. He raised his sword on high. With a felicity beyond the command of any ordinary mortal, the Weaponmaster took the measure of his target. Then he struck. A mighty blow he struck, for the training of a lifetime went into that single swordstroke.
Down came the Weaponmaster's sword. The very sun itself burnt hot-white in the brightness of its steel. With heroic force the blade descended. Impact! The sword hacked into flesh! The sword struck clean, struck true, and hacked the head away from one of the human corpses with which the burning sands were littered. Guest seized the head by the hair and lifted it. The head was heavy. The hair started to slip through his fingers, till he clutched it tighter.
With his grip secure, Guest raised the head on high, scattering droplets of blood.
Then he locked eyes with the nearest crocodile, which paused in its waddle and regarded him suspiciously.
