The starting line was at the bottom of the village, made of fifty carved stones, one for each runner. Blade studied the stones carefully. They were sacred, kept under the Wise One's care most of the year and only brought out for important rituals such as the Long Race. He'd also heard it said that these stones were carved in the shape of the head of one of the Idol Makers who had made great magic among the Rutari.
Unfortunately the stones were worn and the carving had been stylized to begin with. He couldn't even tell if the stones showed a living creature, let alone the head of one, or what kind. So much for his last hope of finding out about the Idol Makers and the Idol before he left the Rutari!
At least the Uchendi would also know something about the Idol Makers. After all, the Idol had originally been theirs, before the Rutari declared a holy war on the other tribe and stole it. If Blade had better luck winning cooperation among the Uchendi from somebody besides lusty women…
The first leg of the race ran north, the second south. Blade planned to take leave of the Rutari on the northbound leg. It would mean farther to go to safety, since the Uchendi were to the south, but it would also confuse the Rutari about what happened to him. They might think he'd suffered an accident and spend days looking for his body, while a live Richard Blade tramped south toward the plains.
The drum sounded to call the runners to their marks. Blade stripped off his clothes down to his loinguard and piled them in the sacred circle with the weapons and clothes of the other runners. He'd be leaving the Rutari in his bare skin and the Kaldakan plastic harness and wrist braces. He could only hope that the compass, knife, and other gear he'd be leaving behind wouldn't teach the Rutari too much. Cheeky might be able to explain some of it, but that wouldn't be entirely bad; it would earn the feather-monkey the Wise One's goodwill and make his position secure. He was no longer bitter about Cheeky's desertion; now he wished the feather-monkey as long and happy a life among the Rutari as he could reasonably expect.
The drums thudded again, longer and louder. Blade stepped up to his rock and began his warming-up exercises.
Ten miles into the race, Blade had to admit that he'd underestimated the difficulties of his plan. It didn't help that much of the trouble really wasn't his fault. If he'd been allowed out of the village, he'd have got a better idea of what the race course was like.
The problem was that he'd expected to be out of sight of any other runner for many minutes, even an hour, at a time. It wasn't working out that way. So far he could see a good mile either way, and three or four other runners could always see him.
He had allowed for this-he thought he would simply move out so far in front that he'd have the course to himself. However, he hadn't expected most of the Rutari to be such good runners! Blade was a first-class long-distance runner; he'd kept up with Zungan warriors on their native plains, and run some of them to exhaustion. But he hadn't spent all his life walking and running over the rugged hills the Rutari called home. If he did manage to get out ahead, he'd be too exhausted to run much farther to escape.
Blade settled down to a pace he could maintain without strain, no longer trying to keep out of sight of his fellow runners. His legs moved like the pistons of an engine and his heavily muscled arms swung like pendulums, pumping the chill mountain air into his massive chest. Gravel sprayed out from under his pounding feet, and dust caked him where rivers of sweat didn't wash it away.
Rivers. That got Blade to thinking. The River of Life was the biggest and best-known river in the land of the Rutari. But it wasn't the only one. One of the others lay about two miles ahead, if Blade's memory served him right. Also, he recalled a hunter saying that the course of the race ran along cliffs beside the river for at least a mile. «A sure foot and a keen eye are needed there more than speed,» the man said. «No man who fell into the Hungry Waters has ever come out alive.»
That might be true for the Rutari, who were a hill folk; most of them could not swim. Richard Blade, on the other hand, could swim like a fish.
That was as far as he dared plan until he'd seen the cliff and the Hungry Waters. It still sounded like a good chance. He'd be breaking away in daylight, with plenty of time before dark, and he wouldn't have to spend days in Rutari land retracing his steps.
Blade settled down to his regular distance-devouring lope, as steadily as the ground allowed. Before another half mile, he felt the ground rising underfoot. Then it dipped through a stand of the blue-leaved trees. They exhaled an odd scent, like a cross between cinnamon and tar. Ahead, Blade saw the trail of a Great Hunter and beside the path a pile of its dung. No danger of attack here, though, with all the men alert and moving fast.
Beyond the trees the ground started to rise again. Within a hundred yards it was rising more steeply than anywhere before in the race. The path zigzagged back and forth up the face of a granite mass with a surface so rough even Blade's leather-tough soles felt it.
Then they were out under the open sky again, speeding along the cliff by the Hungry Waters. One look told Blade why the river had that name. The water boomed and roared dark and swift through a black-walled canyon more than fifty feet deep. At times it leaped over boulders, churning itself into foam. In a few places the foam turned into spray, veiling everything beyond.
Blade hoped what lay beyond wasn't waterfalls or rapids full of jagged boulders. This cliff really was his best chance, possibly his only one, and it wasn't going to last even a mile. Already he could see the first of the men ahead of him turning away from the Hungry Waters.
Well, here l go for the Rutari High Diving Championship, he thought, looking for the best place to jump. There was a nice pool just ahead, but the cliff above was so solid nobody would ever believe he'd stumbled. Just beyond that, though-
It would have to do. As Blade approached the overhang, he drew his hand across his eyes, as if sweat was beginning to blind him. Then he started to weave back and forth, getting a little closer to the cliff's edge each time. He heard a shout of warning from a man behind him; his act seemed to be working.
Up onto the overhang itself now, Blade found the footing slick and unpredictable; the spray was reaching high here. He took a longer step than usual, judged his distance, and let his right leg collapse under him.
The man behind shouted again as Blade toppled off the overhang and plunged into the Hungry Waters.
It was going to be dark soon. Cheeky hoped the Mistress Wise One and her friend Ellspa would be through talking before it was. Moyla said bad Spirits walked in the night, and the Wise One could call them up. So if the Mistress grew angry with Cheeky, she could do bad things to him much more easily in the darkness than in the light.
There was nothing Cheeky could do about it, though. So he sat in the corner and listened to the talk between the women. They were not using the spirit speech but were talking out loud, which made it hard for him to understand. But one of the things that had come to him with the power to have strong thoughts was the power to remember anything he heard, even if he did not understand. He wanted to remember what he heard now, because the Master Blade would want to know about it-if the Master Blade was still alive. The women knew more about that than Cheeky did, but even they were not sure.
«Who has ever come out of the Hungry Waters alive, in all the time since there were Rutari?» said the Wise One. She seemed angry with something or somebody, perhaps Ellspa.