The Man Who Loved Mars Page 7

  “Hoya! But you bear the marks of not one but four!” the lord exclaimed. “How is this? You claim the Four Nations as your brethren? Never have I heard of such a thing.”

  The boy cantered near, half-drawing his sword.

  “The F’yagh is a cheap imposter and does not know the Laws!” he shrilled accusingly. “Let me slay him now, Kurak, and the old man below. We will take the goods and the woman and leave the men head down, as a warning—”

  “Eh, heh, brothers!”

  A laughing, lazy voice spoke up. It was the moon-faced little man with the harp. They turned, I as well; his merry eyes laughed at us.

  “This one has heard a tale, oh, a mad, mad tale!” he chuckled. “Of an Outworlder, tall and straight, broad shouldered and hard faced, with gray hair and wintry eyes… Oh, a mad tale they tell of this one! He turned against his own people, they tell, to ride with the Nations in holy war; he is brother to the Four Nations of the North, they say…but they are mad, quite mad, who tell it!”

  His soft, lazy voice spun a strange spell. He held them mesmerized, the grim lord, the hot-eyed youth; they watched him, and they listened to him. He held the odyar on his broad lap as he talked in his laughing, breathless way, and his fingers wandered idly across the thirty strings, rousing a weird, careless music.

  “They say he pitied Holy Thyoma in his cell and freed him of his chains. They say he rode out with him under the two moons, deep into the dustlands, so that the old man might rejoin his People and might come to the end of his days among the Nations… Oh, a mad tale, surely! They say the Holy One sickened from the tortures he had suffered, sickened there in the dustlands far from the camps of the Low Clans. And they tell that this tall Outworlder tended Thyoma in his illness, as gently as a woman…”

  The weird music crooned low and ached with sadness now.

  “They say Thyoma died in his arms, blessing him, calling him brother, yea, even the F’yagh,” laughed the moonfaced little man, while the harp moaned beneath his hands. “Even the Hated One, the accursed Outworlder, akin to they that plunder our sad world and rape our women and hunt us like dogs… Why, the mad tale tells that ere he died and journeyed down to dark Yhoom and crossed the Bridge of Fire to lay his heart at the feet of the Timeless Ones, the Holy Thyoma set upon the Outworlder’s brows the Iron Crown itself and died with the last word of the Ritual upon his withered lips… Oh, mad, mad, the tale they tell!”

  Kurak’s eyes were wide in his grim face as he looked at me.

  Under his breath he said faintly: “This one…the…Jamad?”

  But the boy would have none of it. He spat, and his eyes were ugly.

  “Lies, madness, and now blasphemy! I say, slay him and take the woman! Let fat Huw sing his crazy songs and gibber as he pleases; the gods touched him with the sacred madness, and he is mad, and his words cannot be trusted.”

  Kurak measured me with wondering eyes.

  “’Tis not Huw that made the tale, boy! I too have heard it. Outworlder, let us hear truth now. The time for lies is past. Who are you?”

  It was getting dark swiftly. I looked him straight in the eyes. “I am the one,” I said. “The one of whom Huw speaks.”

  “They said you were taken under the walls of Omad,” he said, breathing heavily. “They said the Hated Ones bore you off in chains for judgment, according to their law. They said you died years ago!”

  “I live. And I have come back. To take up the sword again and to lead the People to freedom.”

  His breathing was hoarse in the stillness.

  “If you are…what they say…then reveal yourself to me. Otherwise you die, Outworlder!”

  They watched me as I slid the pack off my shoulders, eased it to the ground, and unseamed it. Kurak watched with wonder and the beginnings of awe; Chaka with hatred in his eyes and a curious fear, as well. Fat Huw watched lazily, fingers wandering idly across the strings, making a tuneless music.

  I heard them gasp as I drew out the ancient cloth. Even in the dimming light, the designs on the precious yonka were clear.

  I raised the Iron Crown into view, and they stopped breathing.

  The vague music stopped abruptly in a jangling discord, as I lifted it to my brows.

  Starlight flashed dazzlingly in the great crystals set in the iron hoops. A tangle of rays, a blur of light, spun about my head like a crazy halo as I settled the Crown into place.

  I turned my gaze upon them.

  They were pale, the three of them, and fear was naked in their faces.

  I assumed my Power and wrapped myself in it like a cloak before them.

  My thought, magnified ten million times, projected into their minds like crashing thunder, rolling among the hills.

  I am the Lord of Lords! And I am the Prince of Princes. Nine Nations ride in thunder at my heels, and nine banners go before me when I ride to war. Behold me in my Power, men of Chun, and fear me. For the Timeless Ones watch over my path, and this world is my domain, from the white pole of the north to the white pole of the south. I am the Jamad Tengru. There is no other.

  A great sigh went among the warriors on the ridge, and they came down from their beasts and bowed all in a line, as a row of corn bows beneath the unseen passing of the wind.

  “Lord…”

  I looked down to where grim Kurak knelt in the dust before me, with the boy Chaka at his side, frightened now, and hungry for my blood no longer; and even fat Huw had scrambled down to his knees and knelt wheezing in the grit.

  “Lord, we have threatened you with bronze, and we have named you with names of hatred and called you liar,” said Kurik heavily, not daring to look at me. “Spare the young chieftain Chaka, who bade us to take your woman and to slay you. He is a worthless puppy and a boastful child, but he is a warrior of the Moon Dragon and my sister’s son. Slay me, if it please you but let the boy live; let him live, that he may fight by your side in the holy wars.”

  “Get up, Kurak,” I said. “All of you, get up. No one shall die for a few hasty words. There will be a need for every sword when the Moon Dragon banner flies in the winds of war. Enough of us will shed our blood under the two moons, before we hold this world in our hands. Get up!”

  He rose, grinning, wiping the dust from his knees.

  The young chieftain rose also and stood shamefaced. There was a hang-dog look to him. I laughed and clapped his shoulder.

  “Chaka! You look like a boy who has spat in the wind and finds his face wet. Be bold!”

  The youth grinned, blushing, and his shining eyes were full of something I had not seen in a long time. A sort of hero worship; a kind of love.

  “Yes, Lord,” he said. And I knew he was mine from that moment to the death.

  Old Huw chuckled and struck a wild chord from his harp.

  “Eh, Lord…a mad world, when mad tales come true,” he wheezed in his merry, lazy way.

  Kurak looked to me for instruction.

  “How far is it to your camp?”

  “Four hours’ hard riding, Lord; we have not beasts enough for you and your people. But the warriors will be proud to walk in the dust while you honor their saddles.”

  “Not tonight. My friends and I have walked all day. Meet us here at dawn with fresh mounts, and we will go to your camping place together, for I must hold converse with your Prince.”

  He nodded. “Prince Kraa, my father, will deem himself blessed to lay his sword at your feet. I go, Lord.”

  I stood and watched them mount. They whirled about, raising their right arms in the warrior’s salute, and were off in a billow of dust. And I came down to the camp very wearily.

  The Doctor was pale and shaken, but jubilant.

  “Good God, my boy! That was a tense moment… Why, my heart was in my mouth when they sprang off those scarlet animals. They knelt before you! An amazing sight! Simply amazing!”

  Ilsa’s face was full of wonder; Bolgov was sullen and subdued. The force of the Power had perhaps brushed them with the edges of its aura, but
they had not heard the thought message as it thundered—being F’yagha.

  “They’ll be back at dawn with steeds for us,” I said in a tired voice. “We’ll go to their camping place tomorrow and get guides to take us to the site. Now let’s eat and get as much rest as we can. Tomorrow will be a busy day.”

  * * * *

  Something woke me suddenly. I cannot put a name to it: a tension in the air, to which subtler senses than the known and numbered five responded. But I came from the depths of sleep to full, tingling wakefulness all at once, like a cat.

  There was a strange silence. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was full morning. Something was wrong, or the others would have awakened me ere this. I dressed in haste, fingers trembling over the fastenings of my thermal suit. Then I unseamed the tent, drew back the flap, and stepped out into the wash of full sunlight—

  And stopped dead!

  Two thousand silent warriors sat their steeds, drawn up in two perfect ranks.

  They formed a double lane that led straight from the front of my tent to where an old, old man with silver fur stood facing me from a considerable distance.

  It was like a weird vision, the ranks of motionless men, the huge scarlet beasts, old banderoles hung from long slender spears, all bathed in the sunlight, suspended in an aching silence.

  I looked away. Bolgov and Ilsa and Keresny stood by their tents, all frozen in silence. There was awe upon their faces: fear in the eyes of the black-bearded Ukrainian, wonder in the pale visage of the blond girl and nervousness and excitement in the Doctor’s lean, aristocratic face.

  I walked forward slowly, down the lane of mounted warriors who watched me pass with impassive features. I held my head high and my shoulders back and did my best to walk like a king. Grit and pebbles crunched under my boots; I felt the unnerving pressure of hundreds of eyes upon me.

  As I neared the old man, I could see that he was truly aged, aged even beyond the longevity usual to his race. The fur on his head was pure silver; the flesh of his face had fallen away, and the fine bones showed through. But his eyes were keen and alert. They studied me from shadowy hollows as I came striding up to where he stood, huddled in splendid robes more ancient even than was he, threadbare in places and faded by centuries.

  I came to a halt before him. The silence stretched taut around us. He peered deeply into my eyes, and as his wise, sharp gaze probed me I felt ghostly tendrils touch the outer fringes of my mind ever so gently.

  He was of the Old Race, and something of the Power lingered within him too. The blood of ancient dynasties of kings flowed in those shrunken veins, attenuated, but true bred.

  I think he read authority in my eyes. I think he felt the aura of my Power about me, which rises to its peak only when I don the crown. His eyes widened; his intent gaze faltered and fell.

  The old prince went slowly to his knees before me.

  He leaned forward and kissed the dirt between my boots.

  And as one man, two thousand warriors flung themselves from their saddles into the dust.

  I leaned forward and raised the old man to his feet and kissed him between the eyes to seal the peace between us.

  The warriors sprang to their feet. They brandished their spears in the air joyously. There was one great, crashing shout—

  “Hai-yaa! Jamad!”

  I smiled at Prince Kraa, and he returned my smile, for all that tears trembled in his old eyes. He touched my hand.

  “Lord, command us: the Riders of Chun are your servants,” he said in a quavering voice.

  I shook my head. “They are my comrades-in-arms,” I said. “For too long have the warriors of the Moon Dragon nation dwelt apart from their brethren. The Four Nations rode at my back in the holy war against the Hated Ones. But nine share this world between them. When next the war banner flies beneath The Twin Moons, five nations, at least, shall follow it.”

  Fire flashed in his eyes. He drew himself up proudly, like an old warhorse.

  “Jamad, it shall be even so!”

  I felt the pressure of other eyes upon me.

  I turned to stare directly into a cold, malignant gaze. They were cold and black and beady, those eyes, and there was suspicion and distrust in them. The man was a priest, I knew, for his head was shaven and his hunched, hideous body was wrapped in voluminous robes of virulent green.

  I felt an instinctive revulsion and recoiled as one might shrink back from a venomous serpent. The priest recognized my emotion and laughed. An ugly, hard laugh, devoid of warmth or humor. But in truth, the priest was hideous, monstrous, terribly deformed. Some spinal defect had twisted his body until he hunched as if half-crushed under a terrible weight. And he was no more than half my height—a dwarf—the first such I had seen among the People. His face was seamed with deeply carved lines; a cold sneer was stamped about the lipless gash of his froglike mouth, and his eyes were set far apart under beetle brows. His face was a mask of malignant fury and despair and self-loathing.

  All this I took in at a glance.

  The old Prince gestured. “Dhu, priest of the Timeless Ones, hereditary Guardian of the Gates of Yhoom.”

  I nodded curtly to the little monster of a pontiff and exchanged a few more words with the old Prince, telling him we would return with him and his legion to their base.

  The dwarfed priest cleared his throat raspingly and cocked a contemptuous eye at my companions.

  “‘We’? Go the accursed F’yaga with us to the city?”

  I tried to cow him with an imperious glance, but in vain. “My…friends…go with me. Unless the priest Dhu has any objection?”

  He shrugged elaborately, deformed shoulders lifting. “Not I! The Lord may bring his dogs with him as he wills.”

  The Prince turned on him sharply. “Enough, priest! You shame us before the Jamad; his brethren are our brethren, while the world lasts. I will suffer no insolence, on my honor!”

  The dwarf bowed obsequiously as I turned away.

  But all the way back to where the Doctor and the others waited, I felt his cold, ugly eyes at the back of my neck.

  7. The Gates of Farad

  The slidar is a beast unique to Mars and cannot easily be compared to anything Earthside. It is a little larger than a terrene horse and has four legs and a long, arched neck, but there the resemblance stops. For the slidar is a reptile, scaled, fanged, snake tailed. Yet in its gaunt, big-shouldered awkwardness, bony and ungainly, it reminds many Earthmen of the camel.

  It runs with a shambling, loping stride, hence its name: for slidar means “loper” in the Tongue. Few Earthmen master the art of riding the beasts or feel easy in the saddle. But my companions managed it, although Bolgov’s panic was evident and even laughable. He clutched the high saddle bow in a deathlike grip and paled under his swarthy tan, cursing volubly all the way.

  Ilsa had learned the equestrian art at fashionable riding schools and adapted to the rolling stride of her mount with comparable ease. Even the Doctor managed to look graceful in the saddle.

  The Chun warriors bundled our gear for us, loaded it on the backs of pack slidars, and we rode up the slope of the cantilene to the crest of the cliffs and set off due north across the top of the plateau.

  Here all was crumbling, dry rock with yellow, dust-fine sand accumulating in the hollows. Nothing grew here but tough lichens and occasional patches of scabby moss. The tableland was scoured clean, an expanse of pitted, naked rock, pockmarked with the fumaroles of gas geysers.

  Ilsa rode at my side. She could hardly manage to keep her eyes off our escort. I repressed a grin of amusement, for I well understood her amazement. For the desert world reserves yet a third surprise for its visitors: the People themselves.

  Few Earthmen who have not seen the People realize how thoroughly human they are. True, the native Martians are, on the whole, taller and more leanly built than we are; lighter of bone and broader in the chest, to accommodate oxygen-storage cells to live in their rarified atmosphere. True, also, their heads,
the backs of their hands, and chest and throat are covered, not with hair, but with a fine, silken fur, generally russet colored and forming a remarkably efficient natural insulation against heat loss. True, as well, that their eyes are larger than ours and with wider pupils, in compensation for the lesser amount of sunlight their dim world receives. It is these subtle peculiarities of eye and furcap, a certain gliding grace of motion, and the copper-amber of their pigmentation that instinctively remind us of cats and has earned them the appellation Catmen.

  But these are only superficial differences and mean little. The racial variations of Earth itself are greater—the epicanthic fold above the eyes of the Mongoloid race, the woolly hair and ebon pigmentation of the Negroid. But surface oddities aside, the People are startlingly human, human where it really matters.

  In the blood chemistry and down in the genes and chromosomes, they are—men.

  At first all you notice is the amber skin, the russet fur, the large, black eyes of glittering obsidian. But before long, if you have no prejudices and certain powers of observation, you find yourself thrilling with awe and wonder at how recognizably human—at how genuinely earth human—they really are.

  And those minor oddities of pigmentation and eye and hair somehow blend together: they fit somehow; they look—right. It comes over you with a weird shiver of mysterious awe that they could almost be a lost division of mankind…one more race, like the black, the brown, the yellow and the white…a race somehow lost or mislaid or strayed curiously afar in time’s forgotten dawn.

  When Christoffsen first got here and made contact with the White Hawk nation, he recorded with amazement and wondering speculation in his journal the essential humanness of the Martians. The very last thing the scientists had expected to find on the desert world was an intelligent indigenous race: that hoary old dream was a primitive plot concept that even the science fiction writers of the last century had long since abandoned. But there they were…