“Perhaps—though I think it would need a stout chain to hold him.” Varra turned and looked at Stark, bold and bright, taking in the breadth and the height of him, the shaping of the great smooth muscles, the iron line of the jaw. She smiled. Her mouth was very lovely, like the red fruit of the swamp tree that bears death in its pungent sweetness.
“Here is a man,” she said. “The first man I have seen since my father died.”
The two men at the gaming table rose, their faces flushed and angry. One of them strode forward and gripped the girl’s arm roughly.
“So I am not a man,” he said, with surprising gentleness. “A sad thing, for one who is to be your husband. It’s best that we settle that now, before we wed.”
Varra nodded. Stark saw that the man’s fingers were cutting savagely into the firm muscle of her arm, but she did not wince.
“High time to settle it all, Egil. You have borne enough from me. The day is long overdue for my taming. I must learn now to bend my neck, and acknowledge my lord.”
For a moment Stark thought she meant it, the note of mockery in her voice was so subtle. Then the woman in white, who all this time had not moved nor changed expression, voiced again the thin, tinkling laugh he had heard once before. From that, and the dark suffusion of blood in Egil’s face, Stark knew that Varra was only casting the man’s own phrases back at him. The boy let out one derisive bark, and was cuffed into silence.
Varra looked straight at Stark. “Will you fight for me?” she demanded.
Quite suddenly, it was Stark’s turn to laugh. “No!” he said.
Varra shrugged. “Very well, then. I must fight for myself.”
“Man,” snarled Egil. “I’ll show you who’s a man, you scapegrace little vixen!”
He wrenched off his girdle with his free hand, at the same time bending the girl around so he could get a fair shot at her. The creature of prey, a Terran falcon, clung to her wrist, beating its wings and screaming, its hooded head jerking.
With a motion so quick that it was hardly visible, Varra slipped the hood and flew the creature straight for Egil’s face.
He let go, flinging up his arms to ward off the talons and the tearing beak. The wide wings beat and hammered. Egil yelled. The boy Bor got out of range and danced up and down shrieking with delight.
Varra stood quietly. The bruises were blackening on her arm, but she did not deign to touch them. Egil blundered against the gaming table and sent the ivory pieces flying. Then he tripped over a cushion and fell flat, and the hungry talons ripped his tunic to ribbons down the back.
Varra whistled, a clear peremptory call. The creature gave a last peck at the back of Egil’s head and flopped sullenly back to its perch on her wrist. She held it, turning toward Stark. He knew from the poise of her that she was on the verge of launching her pet at him. But she studied him and then shook her head.
“No,” she said, and slipped the hood back on. “You would kill it.”
Egil had scrambled up and gone off into the darkness, sucking a cut on his arm. His face was black with rage. The other man looked at Varra.
“If you were pledged to me,” he said, “I’d have that temper out of you!”
“Come and try it,” answered Varra.
The man shrugged and sat down. “It’s not my place. I keep the peace in my own house.” He glanced at the woman in white, and Stark saw that her face, hitherto blank of any expression, had taken on a look of abject fear.
“You do,” said Varra, “and, if I were Arel, I would stab you while you slept. But you’re safe. She had no spirit to begin with.”
Arel shivered and looked steadfastly at her hands. The man began to gather up the scattered pieces. He said casually, “Egil will wring your neck some day, Varra, and I shan’t weep to see it.”
All this time the old woman had eaten and watched, watched and eaten, her eyes glittering with interest.
“A pretty brood, are they not?” she demanded of Stark. “Full of spirit, quarreling like young hawks in the nest. That’s why I keep them around me, so—they are such sport to watch. All except Treon there.” She indicated the crippled youth. “He does nothing. Dull and soft-mouthed, worse than Arel. What a grandson to be cursed with! But his sister has fire enough for two.” She munched a sweet, grunting with pride.
Treon raised his head and spoke, and his voice was like music, echoing with an eerie liveliness in that dark place.
“Dull I may be, Grandmother, and weak in body, and without hope. Yet I shall be the last of the Lhari. Death sits waiting on the towers, and he shall gather you all before me. I know, for the winds have told me.”
He turned his suffering eyes upon Stark and smiled, a smile of such woe and resignation that the Earthman’s heart ached with it. Yet there was a thankfulness in it too, as though some long waiting was over at last.
“You,” he said softly, “Stranger with the fierce eyes. I saw you come, out of the darkness, and where you set foot there was a bloody print. Your arms were red to the elbows, and your breast was splashed with the redness, and on your brow was the symbol of death. Then I knew, and the wind whispered into my ear, ‘It is so. This man shall pull the castle down, and its stones shall crush Shuruun and set the Lost Ones free’.”
He laughed, very quietly. “Look at him, all of you. For he will be your doom!”
There was a moment’s silence, and Stark, with all the superstitions of a wild race thick within him, turned cold to the roots of his hair. Then the old woman said disgustedly, “Have the winds warned you of this, my idiot?”
And with astonishing force and accuracy she picked up a ripe fruit and flung it at Treon.
“Stop your mouth with that,” she told him. “I am weary to death of your prophecies.”
Treon looked at the crimson juice trickling slowly down the breast of his tunic, to drip upon the carving in his lap. The half formed head was covered with it. Treon was shaken with silent mirth.
“Well,” said Varra, coming up to Stark, “what do you think of the Lhari? The proud Lhari, who would not stoop to mingle their blood with the cattle of the swamps. My half-witted brother, my worthless cousins, that little monster Bor who is the last twig of the tree—do you wonder I flew my falcon at Egil?”
She waited for an answer, her head thrown back, the silver curls framing her face like wisps of storm-cloud. There was a swagger about her that at once irritated and delighted Stark. A hellcat, he thought, but a mighty fetching one, and bold as brass. Bold—and honest. Her lips were parted, midway between anger and a smile.
He caught her to him suddenly and kissed her, holding her slim strong body as though she were a doll. He was in no hurry to set her down. When at last he did, he grinned and said, “Was that what you wanted?”
“Yes,” answered Varra. “That was what I wanted.” She spun about, her jaw set dangerously. “Grandmother…”
She got no farther. Stark saw that the old woman was attempting to sit upright, her face purpling with effort and the most terrible wrath he had ever seen.
“You,” she gasped at the girl. She choked on her fury and her shortness of breath, and then Egil came soft-footed into the light, bearing in his hand a thing made of black metal and oddly shaped, with a blunt, thick muzzle.
“Lie back, Grandmother,” he said. “I had a mind to use this on Varra—”
Even as he spoke he pressed a stud, and Stark in the act of leaping for the sheltering darkness, crashed down and lay like a dead man. There had been no sound, no flash, nothing, but a vast hand that smote him suddenly into oblivion.
Egil finished,—“but I see a better target.”
6
Red. Red. Red. The color of blood. Blood in his eyes. He was remembering now. The quarry had turned on him, and they had fought on the bare, blistering rocks.
Nor had N’Chaka killed. The Lord of the Rocks was very big, a giant among lizards, and N’Chaka was small. The Lord of the Rocks had laid open N’Chaka’s head before the wooden spear h
ad more than scratched his flank.
It was strange that N’Chaka still lived. The Lord of the Rocks must have been full fed. Only that had saved him.
N’Chaka groaned, not with pain, but with shame. He had failed. Hoping for a great triumph, he had disobeyed the tribal law that forbids a boy to hunt the quarry of a man, and he had failed. Old One would not reward him with the girdle and the flint spear of manhood. Old One would give him to the women for the punishment of little whips. Tika would laugh at him, and it would be many seasons before Old One would grant him permission to try the Man’s Hunt.
Blood in his eyes.
He blinked to clear them. The instinct of survival was prodding him. He must arouse himself and creep away, before the Lord of the Rocks returned to eat him.
The redness would not go away. It swam and flowed, strangely sparkling. He blinked again, and tried to lift his head, and could not, and fear struck down upon him like the iron frost of night upon the rocks of the valley.
It was all wrong. He could see himself clearly, a naked boy dizzy with pain, rising and clambering over the ledges and the shale to the safety of the cave. He could see that, and yet he could not move.
All wrong. Time, space, the universe, darkened and turned.
A voice spoke to him. A girl’s voice. Not Tika’s and the speech was strange.
Tika was dead. Memories rushed through his mind, the bitter things, the cruel things. Old One was dead, and all the others…
The voice spoke again, calling him by a name that was not his own.
Stark.
Memory shattered into a kaleidoscope of broken pictures, fragments, rushing, spinning. He was adrift among them. He was lost, and the terror of it brought a scream into his throat.
Soft hands touching his face, gentle words, swift and soothing. The redness cleared and steadied, though it did not go away, and quite suddenly he was himself again, with all his memories where they belonged.
He was lying on his back, and Zareth, Malthor’s daughter, was looking down at him. He knew now what the redness was. He had seen it too often before not to know. He was somewhere at the bottom of the Red Sea—that weird ocean in which a man can breathe.
And he could not move. That had not changed, nor gone away. His body was dead.
The terror he had felt before was nothing to the agony that filled him now. He lay entombed in his own flesh, staring up at Zareth, wanting an answer to a question he dared not ask.
She understood, from the look in his eyes.
“It’s all right,” she said, and smiled. “It will wear off. You’ll be all right. It’s only the weapon of the Lhari. Somehow it puts the body to sleep, but it will wake again.”
Stark remembered the black object that Egil had held in his hands. A projector of some sort, then, beaming a current of high-frequency vibration that paralyzed the nerve centers. He was amazed. The Cloud People were barbarians themselves, though on a higher scale than the swamp-edge tribes, and certainly had no such scientific proficiency. He wondered where the Lhari had got hold of such a weapon.
It didn’t really matter. Not just now. Relief swept over him, bringing him dangerously close to tears. The effect would wear off. At the moment, that was all he cared about.
He looked up at Zareth again. Her pale hair floated with the slow breathing of the sea, a milky cloud against the spark-shot crimson. He saw now that her face was drawn and shadowed, and there was a terrible hopelessness in her eyes. She had been alive when he first saw her—frightened, not too bright, but full of emotion and a certain dogged courage. Now the spark was gone, crushed out.
She wore a collar around her white neck, a ring of dark metal with the ends fused together for all time.
“Where are we?” he asked.
And she answered, her voice carrying deep and hollow in the dense substance of the sea, “We are in the place of the Lost Ones.”
Stark looked beyond her, as far as he could see, since he was unable to turn his head. And wonder came to him.
Black walls, black vault above him, a vast hall filled with the wash of the sea that slipped in streaks of whispering flame through the high embrasures. A hall that was twin to the vault of shadows where he had met the Lhari.
“There is a city,” said Zareth dully. “You will see it soon. You will see nothing else until you die.”
Stark said, very gently, “How do you come here, little one?”
“Because of my father. I will tell you all I know, which is little enough. Malthor has been slaver to the Lhari for a long time. There are a number of them among the captains of Shuruun, but that is a thing that is never spoken of—so I, his daughter, could only guess. I was sure of it when he sent me after you.”
She laughed, a bitter sound. “Now I’m here, with the collar of the Lost Ones on my neck. But Malthor is here, too.” She laughed again, ugly laughter to come from a young mouth. Then she looked at Stark, and her hand reached out timidly to touch his hair in what was almost a caress. Her eyes were wide, and soft, and full of tears.
“Why didn’t you go into the swamps when I warned you?”
Stark answered stolidly, “Too late to worry about that now.” Then, “You say Malthor is here, a slave?”
“Yes.” Again, that look of wonder and admiration in her eyes. “I don’t know what you said or did to the Lhari, but the Lord Egil came down in a black rage and cursed my father for a bungling fool because he could not hold you. My father whined and made excuses, and all would have been well—only bis curiosity got the better of him and he asked the Lord Egil what had happened. You were like a wild beast, Malthor said, and he hoped you had not harmed the Lady Varra, as he could see from Egil’s wounds that there had been trouble.
“The Lord Egil turned quite purple. I thought he was going to fall in a fit.”
“Yes,” said Stark. “That was the wrong thing to say.” The ludicrous side of it struck him, and he was suddenly roaring with laughter. “Malthor should have kept his mouth shut!”
“Egil called his guard and ordered them to take Malthor. And when he realized what had happened, Malthor turned on me, trying to say that it was all my fault, that I let you escape.”
Stark stopped laughing.
Her voice went on slowly, “Egil seemed quite mad with fury. I have heard that the Lhari are all mad, and I think it is so. At any rate, he ordered me taken too, for he wanted to stamp Malthor’s seed into the mud forever. So we are here.”
There was a long silence. Stark could think of no word of comfort, and as for hope, he had better wait until he was sure he could at least raise his head. Egil might have damaged him permanently, out of spite. In fact, he was surprised he wasn’t dead.
He glanced again at the collar on Zareth’s neck. Slave. Slave to the Lhari, in the City of the Lost Ones.
What the devil did they do with slaves, at the bottom of the sea?
The heavy gases conducted sound remarkably well, except for an odd property of diffusion which made it seem that a voice came from everywhere at once. Now, all at once, Stark became aware of a dull clamor of voices drifting towards him.
He tried to see, and Zareth turned his head carefully so that he might.
The Lost Ones were returning from whatever work it was they did.
Out of the dim red murk beyond the open door they swam, into the long, long vastness of the hall that was filled with the same red murk, moving slowly, their white bodies trailing wakes of sullen flame. The host of the damned drifting through a strange red-lit hell, weary and without hope.
One by one they sank onto pallets laid in rows on the black stone floor, and lay there, utterly exhausted, their pale hair lifting and floating with the slow eddies of the sea. And each one wore a collar.
One man did not lie down. He came toward Stark, a tall barbarian who drew himself with great strokes of his arms so that he was wrapped in wheeling sparks. Stark knew his face.
“Helvi,” he said, and smiled in welcome.
“Broth
er!”
Helvi crouched down—a great handsome boy he had been the time Stark saw him, but he was a man now, with all the laughter turned to grim deep lines around his mouth and the bones of his face standing out like granite ridges.
“Brother,” he said again, looking at Stark through a glitter of unashamed tears. “Fool.” And he cursed Stark savagely because he had come to Shuruun to look for an idiot who had gone the same way, and was already as good as dead.
“Would you have followed me?” asked Stark.
“But I am only an ignorant child of the swamps,” said Helvi. “You come from space, you know the other worlds, you can read and write—you should have better sense!”
Stark grinned. “And I’m still an ignorant child of the rocks. So we’re two fools together. Where is Tobal?”
Tobal was Helvi’s brother, who had broken taboo and looked for refuge in Shuruun. Apparently he had found peace at last, for Helvi shook his head.
“A man cannot live too long under the sea. It is not enough merely to breathe and eat. Tobal overran his time, and I am close to the end of mine.” He held up his hand and then swept it down sharply, watching the broken fires dance along his arms.
“The mind breaks before the body,” said Helvi casually, as though it were a matter of no importance.
Zareth spoke. “Helvi has guarded you each period while the others slept.”
“And not I alone,” said Helvi. “The little one stood with me.”
“Guarded me!” said Stark. “Why?”
For answer, Helvi gestured toward a pallet not far away. Malthor lay there, his eyes half open and full of malice, the fresh scar livid on his cheek.
“He feels,” said Helvi, “that you should not have fought upon his ship.”
Stark felt an inward chill of horror. To lie here helpless, watching Malthor come toward him with open fingers reaching for his helpless throat…
He made a passionate effort to move, and gave up, gasping. Helvi grinned.
“Now is the time I should wrestle you, Stark, for I never could throw you before.” He gave Stark’s head a shake, very gentle for all its apparent roughness. “You’ll be throwing me again. Sleep now, and don’t worry.”
The Best of Leigh Brackett Page 22
