by C. L. Moore
“He is my friend,” said Smith hastily. “He will help me.”
“Eh—well, let his life be hostage then to your success. Win me the stone, and I stay my wrath at his stupid interference. But remember—the sword of my magic hovers at your throat...”
A shadow quivered over the wizard’s black-robed form. His image quivered with it as a reflection in troubled water shakes, and abruptly shadow and man were gone.
“By great Pharol,” articulated Yarol in measured syllables, “will you tell me what this is all about? Drink this—you look as though you need it. As for me”—he thrust a small glass into Smith’s hand, and drained his own drink at a gulp—“if all this is a dream, I hope there’s liquor in it. Will you kindly explain—”
Smith threw back his head and tossed the pani-spirits down his grateful throat. In crisp sentences he outlined the situation, but though his words were brisk his eyes lingered like a caress over the warm, sweet-scented hills of home.
“Um-m,” said Yarol, when he had finished. “Well, why are we waiting? Who knows, there may be a wine-cellar in that cozy-looking castle over there.” He licked his lips reflectively, tasting the last of the green liquor. “Let’s get going. The sooner we meet the woman the sooner she’ll offer us a drink.”
So they went down the long hill, Earth’s green grass springing under their spaceman’s boots, Earth’s warm June breezes caressing their Mars-burned faces.
The gray heights of Joiry loomed above the two before life stirred anywhere in the sunny midday silences of this lost century. Then high in the buttresses a man shouted, and presently, with a rattling of hooves and a jangle of accouterments, two horsemen came thundering across the lowered drawbridge. Yarol’s hand went to his heat-gun, and a smile of ineffable innocence hovered on his face. The Venusian never looked so much like a Raphael cherub as when death was trembling on his trigger finger. But Smith laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“Not yet.”
The horsemen bore down on them, visors lowered. For a moment Smith thought they would trample them down, and his hand hovered ever so lightly over his gun, but the men reined to a halt beside the two and one of them, glaring down through his helmet bars, roared a threatening question.
“We’re strangers,” Smith told him haltingly at first, and then more easily as long-forgotten French flowed back into his memory. “From another land. We come in peace.”
“Few come in peace to Joiry,” snapped the man, fingering his sword-hilt, “and we do not love strangers here. Have you, perhaps”—a covetous gleam brightened the eyes half hidden by the vizor—“gold? Or gems?”
“Your lady can judge of that, fellow.” Smith’s voice was as cold as the steel-gray eyes that caught the man’s gaze in a stare of sudden savagery. “Take us to her.”
The man hesitated for an instant, uncertainty eloquent in the eyes behind the vizor. Here was a dusty stranger, afoot, swordless, unarmed, such a fellow Joiry’s men might ride down on the highway and never notice twice. But his eyes were the eyes of—of—he had never seen such eyes. And command spoke in his cold, clipped voice. The soldier shrugged inside his mail and spat through the bars of the helmet.
“There’s always room in Joiry’s dungeons for one more varlet, if our lady doesn’t fancy you,” he said philosophically. “Follow me, then.”
Yarol, plodding across the drawbridge, murmured, “Was he speaking a language, N. W.—or merely howling like a wolf?”
“Shut up,” muttered Smith. “I’m trying to think. We’ve got to have a good story ready for this—this amazon.”
“Some brawny wench with a face like a side of beef,” speculated Yarol.
So they entered Joiry, over the drawbridge, under the spiked portcullis, into the high-vaulted, smoke-blackened banquet hall where Jirel sat at midday table. Blinking in the dimness Smith looked up to the dais at the head of the great T-shaped board where the lady of Joiry sat. Her red mouth glistened with the grease of a mutton-bone she had been gnawing, and the bright hair fell flaming on her shoulders.
She looked into Smith’s eyes.
Clear and pale and cold as steel they were, and Joiry’s yellow gaze met them with a flash like the spark of meeting blades. For a long moment there was silence between them, and a curious violence flamed in the silent stare. A great mastiff loped to Smith’s knee, fangs bared, a growl rumbling in its furry throat. Without looking down, Smith’s hand found the beast’s head and the dog sniffed for a moment and let the man rough its shaggy fur. Then Jirel broke the silence.
“Tigre—ici!” Her voice was strong and suddenly deeper in timbre, as if emotions she would not acknowledge were stirring in her. The mastiff went to her chair and lay down, finding a well-gnawed bone to crack. But Jirel’s eyes were still fast on Smith’s, and a slow flush was mounting her face.
“Pierre—Voisin,” she said. “Who is he?”
“I bring you news of treasure,” said Smith before they could speak. “My name is Smith, and I come from a—a far land.”
“Smeet,” she murmured. “Smeet. ... Well, what of this treasure?”
“I would speak to you alone of that,” he said guardedly. “There are jewels and gold, guarded by thieves but ripe for harvesting. And I think Joiry—harvests well.”
“C’est vrai. With the luck of the Starstone—” She hesitated, wiping her mouth on the back of a narrow hand. “Are you lying to me? You who come so curiously clad, who speak our language so strangely—always before I have seen the lie in the eyes of the man who tells it. But you—”
Suddenly, and so quickly that despite himself Smith blinked, she had flung herself across the table, leaning there on one knee while the slender blade of her dagger flickered in the air. She laid the point of it against Smith’s bare brown throat, just where a strong pulse stirred sunburnt flesh. He watched her without a quiver of expression, without a twitch of muscle.
“I cannot read your eyes—Smeet... Smeet... But if you are lying to me”—the point dented the full swell of his muscular throat—“if you are, I’ll strip the skin from your carcass in Joiry’s dungeons. Know that!”
The blade fell to her side. Something wet trickled stickily down Smith’s neck inside the leather collar. So keen was that blade he had not known himself scratched. He said coldly,
“Why should I lie? I can’t get the treasure alone—you can help me win it. I came to you for aid.”
Unsmilingly she bent toward him across the table, sheathing her dagger. Her body was one sweep of flowing grace, of flowing strength, slim as a sword-blade, as she half knelt among the broken meats upon the board. Her yellow eyes were cloudy with doubt.
“I think there is something more,” she said softly, “something you have left untold. And I have a memory now of a yelling warlock who fled from my blade, with certain—threats ...”
The yellow eyes were cold as polar seas. She shrugged at last and stood up, her gaze sweeping down over the long table where men and women divided their time between feasting and fascinated staring at the tableau by the tablehead.
“Bring him up to my apartment,” she said to Smith’s captors. “I’d learn more of this—treasure.”
“Shall we stay to guard him?”
Jirel’s lips curled scornfully.
“Is there a man here who can best me with steel—or anything else?” she demanded. “Guard yourselves, you cravens! If you brought him in without getting a poniard in the belly, I can safely talk to him in the heart of Joiry’s stronghold. Well, don’t stand there gaping—go!”
Smith shrugged off the heavy hand laid on his shoulder.
“Wait!” he said crisply. “This man goes with me.”
Jirel’s eyes dwelt on Yarol with a velvety, menacing appraisal. Yarol’s sidelong black stare met hers eloquently.
“Brawny wench, did I say?” he murmured in the liquid cadences of High Venusian. “Aie—the Minga maidens were not more luscious. I’ll kiss that pretty mouth of yours before I go back to my own time, la
dy! I’ll—”
“What is he saying—he gurgles like a brook!” Jirel broke in impatiently. “He is your friend? Take them both, then, Voisin.” Jirel’s apartment lay in the top of the highest tower of Joiry, at the head of a winding stone stairway. Lofty-roofed, hung with rich tapestries, carpeted with furs, the place seemed to Smith at once alien and yet dearly familiar with a strange, heart-warming familiarity. Separated from his own time by dusty centuries, yet it was earth-sprung, earth-born, reared on the green hills of his home planet.
“What I need,” said Yarol carefully, “is some more Minga-liqueur. Did you see how that hell-cat looked me over? Black Pharol, I don’t know if I’d sooner kiss her or kill her! Why, the damned witch would run her sword through my gullet on a whim—for the sheer deviltry of it!”
Smith chuckled deep in his throat. “She’s dangerous. She—”
Jirel’s voice behind him said confidently,
“Wait beyond the door, Voisin. These two strangers may visit our dungeons, after all. This little one—how are you named?”
“He’s called Yarol,” Smith said curtly.
“Yes—Yarol. Well, we may find means to make you a taller man, Yarol. You would like that, eh? We have a little device—a ladder which I got from the Count of Görz when he visited me last summer—and the Count is clever in these things.”
“He does not speak your tongue,” Smith interrupted.
“No? It is not strange—he looks as though he came from a far land indeed. I have never seen a man like him.” Her eyes were puzzled. She half turned her shoulders to them, toying with a sword that lay on a table at her side, and said without looking up, “Well, your story. Let’s have it. And—yes, I’ll give you one more chance at living—if you’re lying, go now. None will stop you. You are strangers. You do not know Joiry—or Joiry’s vengeance.”
Over her shoulder she slanted into Smith’s eyes a level glance that burnt like the stab of lightnings. Hell-fires flickered in it, and despite himself Smith knew a sudden crawl of unease. Yarol, though he did not understand the words, whistled between his teeth. For the heartbeat no one spoke. Then very softly in Smith’s ear a voice murmured,
“She has the Starstone. Say the spell of the Gateway!”
Startled, he glanced around. Jirel did not stir. Her lion-yellow eyes were still brooding on him with a gaze that smoldered. Yarol was watching her in fascination. And Smith realized abruptly that he alone had heard the cracked quaver of command in—yes, in Franga’s voice! Franga, the warlock, whispering through some half-opened door into infinity. Without glancing aside at Yarol he said in the ripples of High Venusian, “Get ready—watch the door and don’t let her out.”
Jirel’s face changed. She swung around from the table, her brows a straight line of menace. “What are you muttering? What devil’s work are you at?”
Smith ignored her. Almost involuntarily his left hand was moving in the queer, quick gesture of the spell. Phrases in the unearthly tongue that Franga had taught him burned on his lips with all the ease of his mother-tongue. Magic was all about him, guiding his lips and hands.
Alarm blazed up in Jirel’s yellow eyes. An oath smoked on her lips as she lunged forward, the sword she had been toying with a gleam in her fist. Yarol grinned. The heat-gun danced in his hand, and a white-hot blast traced a trail of fire on the rug at Jirel’s feet. She shut her red lips on a word half uttered, and twisted in midair, flinging herself back in swift terror from this sudden gush of hell-flame. Behind her the door burst open and men in armor clanged into the room, shouting, dragging at their swords.
And then—down swept the shadow over the noisy room. Cloudy as the sweep of the death-angel’s wings it darkened the sunny air so that the ray from Yarol’s gun blazed out in dazzling splendor through the gloom. As if in the misted depths of a mirror Smith saw the men in the door shrink back, mouths agape, swords clattering from their hands. He scarcely heeded them, for in the far wall where a moment before a tall, narrow window had opened upon sunlight and the green hills of Earth—was a door. Very slowly, very quietly it was swinging open, and the black of utter infinity lay beyond its threshold.
“Hai—s’leli—Smith!” Yarol’s warning voice yelled in the darkness, and Smith threw himself back in a great leap as he felt a sword-blade prick his shoulder. Jirel sobbed a furious curse and plunged forward, her sword and sword-arm a single straight bar. In the dimness Yarol’s gun hand moved, and a thin beam of incandescence burned bright. Jirel’s sword hissed in midair, glowed blindingly and then dripped in a shower of white-hot drops to the stone floor. Her momentum carried her forward with a hilt and a foot of twisted steel still gripped in her stabbing hand, so that she lunged against Smith’s broad chest thrusting with the stump of the ruined sword.
His arms prisoned her, a writhing fury that sobbed wild oaths and twisted like a tiger against him. He grinned and tightened his arms until the breath rushed out of her crushed lungs and he felt her ribs give a little against his chest.
Then vertigo was upon him. Dimly he realized that the girl’s arms had gone round his neck in a frantic grip as the room swayed—tilted dizzily, amazingly, revolving as through on a giant axis—or as if the black depths of the Gateway were opening under him... he could not tell, nor was he ever to understand, just what happened in that fantastic instant when nature’s laws were warped by strange magic. The floor was no longer solid beneath his feet. He saw Yarol twisting like a small sleek cat as he stumbled and fell—fell into oblivion with his gun hand upflung. He was falling himself, plunging downward through abysses of dark, clasping a frightened girl whose red hair streamed wildly in the wind of their falling.
Stars were swirling about them. They were dropping slowly through stars while the air danced and dazzled all around them. Smith had time to catch his breath and flex the muscles of his gun thigh to be sure the comforting weight pressed there before a spongy ground received them softly. They fell like people in a nightmare, slowly and easily, with no jar, upon the strange dim surface of the land beyond the Gateway. Yarol landed on his feet like the cat he was, gun still gripped and ready, black eyes blinking in the starry dark. Smith, hampered by the terrified Jirel, sank with nightmare ease to the ground and rebounded a little from its sponginess. The impact knocked the stump of sword from the girl’s hand, and he pitched it away into the blinding shimmer of the star-bright dark before he helped her to her feet.
For once Joiry was completely subdued. The shock of having her sword melted by hell-fire in her very grasp, the dizzying succession of manhandling and vertigo and falling into infinity had temporarily knocked all violence out of her, and she could only gasp and stare about this incredible starlit darkness, her red lips parted in amazement.
As far as they could see the mist of stars quivered and thickened the dim air, tiny points of light that danced all around them as if thousands of fireflies were winking all at once. Half blinded by that queer, shimmering dazzle, they could make out no familiar topography of hills or valleys, only that spongy dark ground beneath them, that quiver of stars blinding the dim air.
Motion swirled the shimmer a little distance away, and Jirel snarled as Franga’s dark-robed form came shouldering through the stars, spinning them behind him in the folds of his cloak as he moved forward. His withered features grimaced into a grin when he saw the dazed three.
“Ah—you have her!” he rasped. “Well, what are you waiting for? Take the stone! She carries it on her.”
Smith’s pale eyes met the warlock’s through the star-shimmer, and his firm lips tightened. Something was wrong. He sensed it unmistakably—danger whispered in the air. For why should Franga have brought them here if the problem was no more complex than the mere wrestling of a jewel from a woman? No—there must be some other reason for plunging them into this starry dimness. What had Franga hinted—powers here that were favorable to him? Some dark, nameless god dwelling among the stars?
The warlock’s eyes flared at Jirel in a flash of pure murde
r, and suddenly Smith understood a part of the puzzle. She was to die, then, when the jewel could no longer protect her. Here Franga could wreak vengeance unhampered, once the Starstone was in his hands. Here Joiry was alone and helpless—and the flame of hatred in the wizard’s eyes could be quenched by no less than the red flood of her bloody death.
Smith glanced back at Jirel, white and shaken with recent terror, but snarling feebly at the warlock in invincible savagery that somehow went to his heart as no helplessness could have done. And suddenly he knew he could not surrender her up to Franga’s hatred. The shift of scene had shifted their relations, too, so that three mortals—he could not think of Franga as wholly human—stood together against Franga and his malice and his magic. No, he could not betray Jirel.
His gaze flicked Yarol’s with a lightning message more eloquent than a warning shout. It sent a joyous quiver of tautening along the little Venusian’s body, and both men’s gun hands dropped to their sides with simultaneous casualness.
Smith said: “Return us to Joiry and I’ll get the stone for you: Here—no.”
That black glare of murder shifted from Jirel to Smith, bathing him in hatred.
“Take if from her now—or die!”
A smothered sound like the snarl of an angry beast halted Smith’s reflexive snatch at his gun. Past him Jirel lunged, her red hair streaming with stars, her fingers flexed into claws as she leaped bare-handed at the warlock. Rage had drowned out her momentary terror, and soldier’s curses tumbled blistering from her lips as she sprang.
Franga stepped back; his hand moved intricately and between him and the charging fury the starlight thickened—solidified into a sheet like heavy glass. Jirel dashed herself against it and was hurled back as if she had plunged into a stone wall. The silvery mist of the barrier dissolved as she reeled back, gasping with rage, and Franga laughed thinly.
“I am in my own place now, vixen,” he told her. “I do not fear you or any man here. It is death to refuse me—bloody death. Give me the stone.”
