Ghirann bled darkly in the water, but started erect upon the six limbs left him. He loomed above Hok like an immense spider above a stinging wasp. Crouched low on the ledge, his rock-weapon ready, Hok could see the under-center of Ghirann’s body, in the midst of those writhing legs. In that center, like the heart of some nightmare flower, was Ghirann’s mouth, a hooked, ravenous beak, opening and shutting viscidly.
Ghirann came on again, and Hok hurled his edged stone. It struck and obliterated one of those unwinking eyes, but the god of Tlanis barely faltered. Hok, too, rose erect, retreated a step, and found himself against a rough wall of stone. He tore fragments from it, with desperation of strength, and hurled them in a volley. That gave Ghirann pause, though his tentacle-tips still came gropingly after Hok.
The cave-man laid both hands to a lump of stone, twice the size of his head, and fully half his weight. It would not come from the wall. Hok dragged and wrenched, and then Ghirann made another rush, enveloping him with tentacles.
The monster pulled strongly, and Hok held himself to the wall by the projection he had clutched. Another pull, that Hok thought would fetch his shoulders from their sockets—and then he was flat on the ledge, being dragged along by the gripping tentacles. But his hands were full of weight—the big rock had broken from its place, by Ghirann’s strength as much as Hok’s.
With a supreme flexing effort, Hok rose erect on the very brink of the ledge, all twined from ankle to armpit with the snakes that grew from Ghirann’s body. But that body lay below him, against the stone floor. Straight at the remaining eye Hok brought down the great missile he had lifted, driving it with all his massed brawn.
And Ghirann, the Many-Legged Hungry One, deity of Tlanis, was smashed like a worm.[8]
When Hok, pushing away the slack tentacles of his dead enemy, turned toward the landward opening, he realized for the first time that he had an audience. The long-robed priest stood there, his eagle face vacant with awe that now turned to terror. Hok strode to the wire-bound grating, and smashed his way through as a bull smashes through a cane-brake. The priest who had thought to feed him to a sea-monster fell nervelessly on his knees, with bony hands lifted to plead for mercy.
CHAPTER V
The Wise Stone and the Thunder Secret
“DO NOT kill me,” stammered the bony man. “I did not know your strength, great lord, or your courage! I crawl before you—”
“I do not kill, except in battle or for food,” Hok interrupted contemptuously. “Yet I think you will die, without my help. This Tlanis affords strange ways for men to get their livings. Your living, I take it, was from those who worshipped the god Ghirann. Now that I have pounded him to death, you will go hungry.”
“No, no,” the priest made haste to say. “You have killed a god, you yourself are godlike. I will serve you, mighty one, as I served Ghirann. Give me your commands.”
“First of all, get up.” Under the blazing eyes of his erstwhile captive, the priest rose, trembling and fawning. “Now, then, there is one secret that I would learn.”
“Anything,” was the quavering reply, but the priest was stealthily plucking at something under his robe. Hok made a quick grab, drew back the folds, and possessed himself of a long bronze dagger, which he thrust into his own girdle. He went on speaking, as though there had been no interruption:
“What I would know is this thunder weapon which Cos, your ruler, says comes from Ghirann.”
The priest rolled his eyes and shook his head. Hok showed his teeth, and offered to draw the dagger.
“But it is Ghirann’s secret,” protested the lean one.
“I have killed Ghirann, and his property becomes mine,” replied Hok, stating a law that governed the cave folk.
“Thunder would blast us both,” the priest wailed. “Come, the Wise Stone will advise us.”
“The Wise Stone?” echoed Hok, once again mystified. “Now, how can a stone be wise?” And he allowed the priest to lead him into the house. The half-witted attendant scampered away before them, toward the path that led cityward.
Inside were couches, stools, and various great stone chests and jars. From one of the latter, the bony priest drew something like a stick with a lump at one end. That lump was huge and shiny. This he carried forth into the daylight.
Hok examined the object. At some time in the past, a stout stem or branch had been split, and a piece of stone inserted. Later, when the division had healed to clasp and hold the lump, the stick had been cut away well below, to make a handle the length of a man’s arm. The stone itself was an angular ovoid, thrice the size of Hok’s big fist, and of a semi-transparent whiteness. It glowed and flashed, too, as though from fires within. Hok had never seen its like, but he failed to show the awe with which the priest hoped to inspire him.
“What is this stone’s wisdom?” he demanded, and touched it with his forefinger. There was a tallowy feel to it, though it looked clean enough.
“It holds visions within itself, and tells the future,” was the deep-toned reply.
Hok laughed. “Then it lies, and so do you. The future cannot be told, but is what men make it.”
“I will show.” The priest held the thing up by its wooden shaft, like a torch toward the sun, and stood thus for some time; then he carried it back into the hut, Hok following. With his free hand, the priest drew the curtain of heavy woolen fabric across the door, shutting them into darkness. “Look!” he bade.
The big stone now shone softly, as with diluted moonlight.[9]
“It casts light upon things to come,” came the priest’s hollow whisper.
“Within it unfolds a picture. I see you blasted by fire, and all the world with you, because of your blasphemy and disbelief—”
Hok, staring over the other’s shoulder, saw nothing but the moon-glow of the stone. “Stop that babbling!” he growled, and, putting out his hand in the dark, snatched away the Wise Stone by its haft. “I count this thing as no more to be feared than Ghirann. Like Ghirann, it shall be smashed.”
Surprisingly, the priest laughed, with a scorn to match his own. “Try it,” he dared Hok.
“I will,” and Hok thrust aside the curtain and emerged into the light. He turned toward the stout rocky front of the house, swung the stone against it like a hammer. The priest laughed again; for the clear crystal lump remained unchipped, while a sizeable niche showed where it had struck.
Hok studied the phenomenon with a scowl, then drew the bronze knife he had appropriated. With the stone firmly clenched in one fist, he pressed the metal point hard and fair against it. His muscles poured pressure upon the contact. He heard an audible clink, saw the point bend; but not so much as a scratch marred the Wise Stone.
“Well!” he said, and drew a breath. “It is very hard. I will keep it—for a club, since it cannot be chipped into an axe. Lead me to the thunder secret.”
And the priest did so, because he must.
HE CONDUCTED Hok along the barrier, between sea and sunken valley, toward the peak that gave off a veil of smoke. As they drew near, Hok saw caves in the lower slopes of the peak.
“Is the thunder made there?” demanded Hok.
“Yes—by slaves and prisoner,” was the answer. “They must make much of the stuff, for Cos needs it to rule his people, and to conquer others.”
At the entrance to the largest cave, they paused to look in. There, under two heavy-faced overseers, toiled many squatting men and women, all naked and miserable-looking. Some stirred messes of black-looking muck in pots of clay and stone. Others spread the muck carefully on the hearth of a fire that gave both heat and light to the operations. Still others were rubbing dried flakes of the material into meal, between pestle and mortar.
“Is this the thunder stuff?” Hok asked. “I still do not understand.” He sniffed, and wrinkled his nose distastefully. “It smells like rotten eggs in there.”
“That comes from one of the materials used,” the priest told him. “Come, I will show you that also.” They
skirted the peak, and looked into a smaller cave. It gave into a long tunnel, full of the sharp eggy smell Hok had noticed. The lower end held a little soft rose of light.
“That way leads to the heart of the smoking mountain,” the priest said. “Fire?” suggested Hok.
“Smoke, on which the deeper fire reflects. From those depths comes a part of the thunder weapon. See.”
A skinny, wretched-looking slave came up, gasping from heat and foul vapors. He bore a shoulder-pole, with baskets slung to either end. Those baskets were full of yellow fragments, duller than gold. Hok, bending to examine, sneezed and stepped back. The priest found himself able to smile maliciously.
“That yellow cake from the mountains entrails is mixed with black wood, which we make by roasting willow.”
“You burn it?” Hok tried to elaborate, but the bony head shook.
“No, burnt wood has no life. We roast it black, in clay pots.”
Hok stared after the slave. “Black willow wood, and that yellow dirt! Are thunder and lightning made from those?”
Again the head shook. “Not entirely. The yellow and the black, placed together in equal proportions, make up only a fourth part. There is another thing, which we add—little grains and crystals, coming from the heaps of seaweed that rot along this water’s edge.[10] Three times as much of that as the yellow and black together—the whole stirred and melted in water, then dried and ground. It is the thunder, speaking loudly and killing many at the command of its master.”
“Yet I have seen it strike such a master,” growled Hok, remembering how he threw back the bomb at Cos’s guardsman. “Well, the more I hear of the weapon, the less I like it. With it a woman can stand safe and slay a warrior, but not cleanly, as with a spear-throw. This,” and he flourished his diamond-headed club, “is more to my taste and understanding.”
“What is your will now?” asked his companion as they turned from the mouth of the cave.
“To depart from this insane place,” Hok was beginning to say, when his eye caught a figure, hurrying along the rocks toward them from the direction of the slanting runway and the priest’s house.
It was the mad attendant. He skipped, gestured and grimaced, but the sounds he made were unintelligible. Both men questioned him—Hok roughly, the priest nervously. All he could do was point to the landward rim of the barrier, and they all three went to peer down upon the city of Tlanis.
Nearest to them though still far below, was the green, flower-rimmed terrace that held Cos’s white palace and courtyard. It appeared black and crawling with humanity, which bunched up suddenly, then split into little struggling groups. Hok had seen battles too often to mistake this one, even from a distance above it.
“Fighting,” he said, and the priest gaped. “Yes,” went on Hok, “someone has roused his friends and attacks that fat spider, Cos.”
“But who would dare?” demanded the priest, of the unanswering sky. His imbecilic companion whimpered to attract attention, and put out a trembling finger to Hok’s wrist. He plucked at the gold collar fastened there. The priest understood the gesture.
“Ehhh!” he ejaculated. “He has been down to the city—he has seen. It is the woman, Maie—she has power and popularity. For some reason she has rebelled against Cos.”
CHAPTER VI
War in Tlanis
HAD the priest been as wise in human thought as he deemed himself, he would have known Maie’s reason for rebellion.
It was simply that she had never welcomed the insistent love-profferings of her ruler. Had she been less handsome, Cos would have ignored her. Had she been less powerful, he would have taken her. Things being what they were, he had wooed her for many moons without ceasing and without making real progress.
Hok’s defiance in the gravel-strewn courtyard, with his capture and departure for the sacrifice, had been the occasion rather than the reason for what happened. Maie, who had first begged for the cave chieftain’s life and had been refused, turned and hurried from the courtyard. Cos had called commandingly for her to return, and, as she passed the sentry and vanished from his sight, he made up his mind that there should be no further flouting of him. He called for a messenger and issued orders.
Meanwhile, Maie reached her own dwelling, a sprawling stone house on the level below the palace. In the front room she sat alone, trembling with emotions she found hard to analyze. She kept envisioning the blond giant who had walked by her side to Cos’s audience, and had departed in bonds. She thought of his engaging ignorances, his strange philosophy of life, his puzzling questions and his definite statements. He was the strongest man she had ever known, and the most honest, and the most handsome. And she loved him—at least she assured herself that she did. Perhaps she really did. Such things were so hard to know.
In the midst of this, a slave came to her inner sitting-room to say that an armored man was asking for her at the door. She went, inquiringly, to find that the visitor was the courier from Cos.
“You are to come with me to the palace,” he announced. “Cos wants you. Today you become his chief woman.”
Maie shook her dark head, her mouth too dry to speak. The long, frustrating consideration of whether she would yield to the master of Tlanis was now up for a decision; and she was deciding against it.
The courier frowned. “You cannot disobey your master.”
“Cos is not my master,” said Maie at once. She was quoting Hok, and it was treasonable. The courier put out a hand to seize her arm and drag her along.
Maie screamed. At the sound of her voice, a soldier of her own following dashed around the corner of the house. In his hand was a chopping-sword, like a very long-bladed bronze cleaver. He cut down the courier with one stout blow, and faced his mistress across the wilting, bloody body that lay on the outer threshold.
They were lost, they both knew—a representative of Cos had come on his master’s errand, and had been resisted and killed. There was only one thing for Maie’s retainer to say, and he said it immediately and sturdily: “Mistress, I shall not desert you.” To this he added: “No, nor will the other men.”
“But we are few against Cos,” objected Maie. “Drag this body out of sight, and let us think.”
Fate granted them scant time for thinking. The event had been seen by a lounger, who ran to report to others, and even as Maie and her servitor bent above the bloody form, the foremost of a curious throng came in view of the doorway.
Once again Maie screamed. Others of her household ran out, thinking to protect her from some danger. The mob, already numerous, but unarmed and not particularly vicious, was daunted. Maie took time to exhort them.
“Do not betray me, people of Tlanis,” she begged. “Cos sent evil fellow to threaten me. My man came to my defense—there was nothing else to do. Am I to blame?”
“Not a whit!” shouted a citizen in the forefront of the gathering, a man with a loud voice and a secret grudge against the ruler of Tlanis. A murmur of agreement went up, and he was emboldened to speak further: “Would that Cos lay dead here instead of his slave!”
“Well said, friend!” responded one of Maie’s armed men heartily. This soldier was an opportunist, and saw a chance of real resistance against the fate that would soon move against him and his comrades. “Who else is for us and against the tyrant?”
Had a philosopher been present, he might have spoken learnedly about the spirit which sways mobs, all unprepared, to one common fierce impulse. But there were no philosophers—only loiterers and poor laborers, most of them with valid grievances against the cruel, greedy man up yonder in the palace. They began to speak out, bravely, and to roar for blood and vengeance. Maie, more frightened than ever, tried to calm them—she had never quite thought of actual rebellion; but the affair had passed quite out of her hands.
Some of her soldiers, ready fellows without too much forethought or discipline, had plunged zealously through the press of people, and shouted for volunteers to storm the palace and do justice on Cos, the mon
ster. The air was rent with the shouts of those who were anxious to comply—some for sympathy with Maie, who was neither unknown nor unrespected in the community; some for hate of Cos, who had been arbitrary and oppressive for years; and some for the chance of loot and excitement. They drew daggers, flourished sticks and cobblestones. Others, drawn by the commotion, ran in from byways and adjoining squares and streets, then joined the group without real realization of what the disturbance was about.
The mob, with Maie’s soldiers at its head, tramped loudly along the main thoroughfare and came to a small party of Cos’s guardsmen at an intersection. This detachment mistakenly called on the mob to stand. There was a brief, cruel clash, and the men of Cos were slashed and pounded to pieces without exception. Citizens, exultantly blooded, caught up the armor and arms of the slain. “On to the palace!” went up a concerted cry. Maie, the cause of the business, was already forgotten.
SHE ran, a lone and lithe figure, up a ramp and away toward the terraced height where Cos sat awaiting her, all unaware of the danger below. Pushing past the sentry at the gate, she came into the courtyard and faced Cos, who had summoned a barber to trim his singed beard. He looked at her with a sort of tigerish zest, that had very little of love in it.
“It is time you came here,” he grumbled. “Hereafter there will be no misunderstanding between us. I am the master, and you—”
“No time for that,” she panted. “Danger comes—men, armed and angry—are after your blood.”
“Huh!” He stared stupidly at her, and pushed away the barber. “What are you talking about?”
“Listen!” she bade him.
He listened. There was a sullen mutter, growing to a roar, from the levels below.
The Complete Hok the Mighty Page 8
