He wasn't lying. For all he knew, that might be true. Shakala stared as if trying to ferret the truth out of Serrin.
Still not replying, he abruptly turned away and pointed at Tom.
"I may speak with him," he said. "Perhaps. If I do not just kill him first. He is either very brave or very stupid
to come here with Mujaji's mark on him. What I am inclined to think" he flashed his brilliant, sadistic smile again "is that he is probably very stupid. Either way, he will not leave with the mark upon him."
Tom stood his ground, unflinching. He didn't know just what the shamans of Table Mountain had done to him. He had been shown the stone and the ocean, felt something of their immanence within him and marveled at it, but he hadn't realized that it could be sensed by other shamans. Bear had not changed inside him; she had not shown any displeasure at what had happened. The elf was gesturing to him, leading him into the circle of trees. Half the surrounding elves formed a circle around them, the others ringing Serrin, Michael, and Kristen. Weapons other than spears were visible now as metal gleamed in the gentle light.
"This is my place," Shakala cried out. "I am prince here. Beware princes, troll, for they are less easy to placate than kings and they take their sport far more seriously." It would have sounded pompous, even ridiculous, had the Zulu elf not looked so striking and beautiful in the barely illuminated darkness.
Tom had met some Cat shamans in his time. They were unpredictable, capricious, and vain, often cruel but sometimes gentle and protective. Shakala didn't seem to be of the latter variety. The troll didn't know anything about Cheetah, but Shakala's words seemed to say that it was a more dangerous totem than Lion. Shakala was going to make sport with him. The troll knew that if he hosed it here, they were all dead. He begged Bear not to send him berserk if Shakala taunted him too long, too hard. When his weapons were taken by Shakala's retinue, he had only himself to depend upon.
Before his eyes the elf's form began to change. His hands became heavily clawed, furred paws. His head changed into that of a cheetah, its powerful canine teeth gleaming, yet the troll could still make out the elf's own features against the animal's face. This wasn't an illusion. Tom was bewildered. Was Shakala a shapeshifter taking elven form and now changing it? No, he didn't sense that. Was he perhaps masked? What was this creature?
The Cat shaman padded around him, now and then stopping to crouch and let out a low growl. The troll also moved in a circle, walking backward, always keeping his face to Shakala. Then the Cat shaman broke into a sprint and raced around to the troll's flank, clawing him hard enough to draw blood. It was only a scratch, but it stung Tom, who realized his adversary was far too swift for him.
Shakala rolled over at the end of his sprint and lunge, then was back on his feet in a single movement.
It's like a homicidal ballet, Serrin thought, unable to tear his eyes away from Tom. Kristen had meanwhile buried her face in his shoulder.
The Cat shaman circled and sprang once more; again the troll was too slow, taking a raking wound to the shoulder. A third attack, after another circling ritual and strike, left him with a flesh wound at the back of his left leg, the cheetah's favored hamstringing. The wounds were still superficial, but Tom felt the anger rising inside him. Please, Bear, no, he begged. If I strike at him, he will kill me. He will have my friends killed.
He had to exert every shred of his will into holding back the growing urge to pounce on the cheetah as it lay in the grass now, quiet and still. Tom knew the creature was inviting him to strike, and his desire to leap on to it, then squeeze the life out of it with his powerful arms, was growing by the second. The next instant the cat pounced straight at him and raked at his chest through the flimsy khaki, leaving a bloody arc of stripes across his flesh.
Shakala retreated again and lay on his back before the troll. It was the classic submissive gesture of a cheetah, back legs curled up and ready to defend itself by rolling into a ball and hiding its underbelly if attacked. He was provoking the troll to attack as persuasively as he could. Blood roared in Tom's ears as it spread across his shirt. He summoned every ounce of will into forcing himself to remain still.
They remained that way for one endless, eternal minute, the stain of blood spreading slowly over the troll's chest, the Cat shaman saying to and fro very slowly, waiting for the troll to strike. Tom balled his fists and bit on his tongue, trying to focus the pains all through his body into resistance. He did not close his eyes, but still stared at the waiting cat. He longed with every ounce of instinct to crush his tormentor, lying so invitingly in the grass. He fought that longing with everything better than instinct that he possessed.
Shakala got to his feet very slowly and advanced. He stood directly in front of the troll and stared up at him. Serrin shook with fear, desperate to help Tom with some spell, some strengthening of his will, but knowing all too well that the eyes of the shamans other than Shakala were on him. All he could do was pray.
Shakala put his paws on Tom's shoulders. Rivulets of blood came from the marks the claws made as they penetrated the troll's flesh, and still the troll did not waver. The cat's head reared back, then he spat in Tom's face.
Tom roared and wrapped his arms around Shakala. The huge biceps of the troll, gleaming with blood, strained as he crushed the body of the elf, squeezing with all the focused rage of his torment and humiliation.
But there was nothing there.
High above him, the great cat leapt from a tree and landed on the troll's back, knocking him to the ground. It
sank its muzzle into the nape of Tom's neck and bit down hard.
Lying under the cat's furred body, Tom's fury evaporated like veldt dew in the sun. He felt huge paws around him, but they were those of Bear and not Shakala, protective arms holding him close and safe. There wasn't any more pain. The bite was not deep; he was not being killed. He curled up, feeling his huge body so ridiculously small in Bear's embrace.
Shakala got up from him, blood on his muzzle and paws. In an instant, the cat form faded and the elf who had greeted them re-appeared. He looked down at the troll, staring hard, completely ignoring the others.
For one horrible moment, Serrin thought Tom was dead. But he'd taken no more than half a step forward before two spears were at his throat and a gun barrel at his back. Shakala did not move a muscle.
"Take them away," the Zulu elf muttered with a wave of his hand to the warriors surrounding Serrin, Michael, and Kristen. "Bring them back at noon." Spears directed the three of them away, into the trees.
"He moved. I think he's still alive," Michael whispered to Serrin. "By God, what have we got ourselves into?"
Serrin didn't want to think about it. He was only too aware that he was the one who had brought Tom here. If the troll were still alive, it was impossible to guess what might be the effect of the ordeal and humiliation. If it hits him the way love did, Serrin thought, I've just cost him his life in a way far worse than being killed by that madman.
The troll came to his senses just after dawn. His wounds were healing even without the application of his own meager power. He was lying in a clearing, the red ring of dawn on the horizon and a bright and brilliant morning chorus of birds and insects all around him. Shakala sat beside him, simply an elf now, but his whole posture intent. He offered Tom water, bread, dried meat, oranges. The troll skipped the flesh and ripped the orange apart. The elf smiled.
"You are weak, but you use everything you possess,"
Shakala said. "Your body is spoiled for power, but you are greater than you should be. You are wise, but you will not be shamed too far. This is my place," he said, "and you respected that. I am surprised by you."
The troll grunted. "I don't know much about your ways," he said finally. Shakala was obviously prepared to talk with him, but there were limits to how friendly he could be with someone who'd taunted and wounded him repeatedly.