The Eyes of Sarsis

by Andrew J Offutt

  “My lady,” the sad-faced young man said to an imaginary damsel in distress, “I, your hero, am come to your succor.” And he cursed and bashed a fist into his cabin wall.

  At dawn the lookout sighted land. The sun was a ball of molten gold, still low on the horizon when they entered the harbor of Sonul.

  The appearance of the city of fearful legend was a relief and a disappointment. It was extraordinary only in that it was completely ordinary. The buildings were of the type normal to the tropics: single-story thatched huts. All were in good repair, and of similar size and design. Their appearance was rather bleak, for they were simple functional structures without the slightest decoration. At first glance Bardon thought that since all the houses were nearly the same, the city of Sonul must have neither rich nor poor. Yet that would not explain the lack of ornamentation …

  The streets, he noted, were only hard-packed dirt — yet for a wonder they were clean. The overall impression was one of clean, uniform drabness. Bardon found it hard to believe that so mundane a place was the object of such grim legend. Well; Caranga, for all his dark hints, had admitted that the legends were false.

  Vixen docked smoothly. Pyre stalked out on deck. Most of the crew was waiting for breakfast. The wizard walked among them black-caped, black-robed, a grim raven among lesser birds, and they did not seem to notice him they feared. To the watching Bardon it was more like seeing a tiger walk unheeded in a flock of sheep. Pyre tapped an Ilani guardsman on the shoulder. The man started, looked in terror into the wizard’s eyes. Pyre touched two more men with the same effect. Bardon noted with discomfort that the mage had chosen three men with bodies much like his; tall, angular men with very little flesh on their bones. From within his robes Pyre produced a money pouch and tossed it to Bardon.

  “You will take these three men ashore and do some shopping. We need ten mules, provisions for a week and a hundred picks and spades.” The wizard handed him a scroll of extraordinary size, its ends capped. “Also, you will deliver this message to the House of Rulers. Be sure that none save he that sits upon the throne breaks the seals.”

  Reflecting uncomfortably that Pyre had chosen four men who together would not provide a cannibal with a good meal, Bardon turned to go about the wizard’s business. As he turned, Pyre clapped him on the back.

  “Good luck, boy.”

  Bardon knew he didn’t look much like a pirate, for all that he wore a ring in his left ear. The wizard’s departing fingers brushed quickly against the golden loop. Bardon and company went ashore.

  Odd; no one had been sufficiently curious about the visitors to come down to the quay. Only when the pirates stepped out onto a thoroughfare did they see the people of Sonul. Without exception, they were completely naked.

  Bardon had traveled the world enough not to show surprise. What did surprise him was that all these folk looked good, unclothed. In any normal collection of people, most would look better dressed. Certainly Bardon’s own scarecrow body was better covered. Not so here! He looked carefully without discovering anyone with a withered limp or scar or mark or blemish. All were clearly in perfect health, their bodies young, firm, strong. The city people seemed almost members of a huge family; all strongly resembled each other. The adults were nearly the same height and all on the well-fed side. Oddly, the sight of many naked females did not arouse him. Their skins were a rich deep brown, their legs were shapely, and their breasts full — but their faces were completely bovine, entirely devoid of feeling or expression. All were plump.

  Seeing that his little squad did not share his distaste for cow-faced women, he harangued them: “Come on, you rogues, we didn’t come here for sightseeing.”

  Bardon and his men were more than a head taller than the Sonulites. With their clothing and fair skins they could not have been more conspicuous, yet no one paid them any heed. He stopped one man.

  “Please direct me to the House of Rulers.”

  The fortyish fellow looked at him blankly, then walked off. Several similar efforts went the same way: no one understood any language the four visitors could speak and no one was interested in trying. Bardon pondered the problem. He could put off finding the House of Rulers and go buy the mules. He could find a stable with his nose. Still, he wanted to deliver the scroll as soon as possible. It was an awkward thing, more than an arm’s length long, and rather heavy. Moreover he was a ship’s officer and the men looked to him to plot their course under all circumstances.

  That hill inside the city should afford a commanding view; from there he should be able to espy the House of Rulers. Out of the edge of his eye Bardon noticed something. His sword flashed out and with the flat of the blade he struck the backside of one of his men.

  “Alpheg, we’re looking for the House of Rulers; we can find the whorehouse later! Now march!”

  The hike through the city gave him no new information about the people of Sonul. Instead Bardon reflected on what he saw. The myths called this place a fearful hell, while it seemed a paradise. He saw neither wealth nor want. The rule appeared to be equality; everyone with what he needed and no more. There were dreamers who would call that the ideal kingdom. To such dreamers it would seem natural the women be content with the beauty nature gave them and give up the vanities of cosmetics and coiffure, but the city women were content to be nearly identical. Was it natural for women to cut their hair a practical length and do nothing with it?

  Halfway up the hill Bardon called a brief halt. From here he could see most of the city. There were several larger buildings within the city and, on the outskirts, numerous stables. Beyond, neatly plowed fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Two things he did not see; any building that might reasonably be a palace or walls. The city of Sonul had no walls, no fortification; no defenses of any kind. Bardon could have understood old walls, crumbled with disuse, but the total absence implied that war was unknown. Far too good to be true, surely!

  Largumdurga interrupted his thoughts. “Sir, I believe I’ve figured this place out. See how these people are all young. They must have found the secret of eternal youth! They spread frightening stories about the city so the whole world won’t crowd in on them.”

  “No,” Bardon told the Bashanese, slowly and very quietly. “It’s true we’ve seen no aged, Durgy, but we have seen a lot of children. If these people lived forever they wouldn’t breed rapidly.”

  The two men looked at each other, uncomfortably. The more Bardon thought about it, the more uneasy the physical perfection of these people made him. The city of Sonul could not be exempt from age, disease and accident! Yet he had walked a long way through crowded streets without seeing anyone who wasn’t physically perfect. Did the aged and infirm stay inside?

  Perhaps, but there’s a far less pleasant explanation: the imperfect are somehow … removed.

  On impulse he stopped, handed his sword and scroll to Largumdurga of Bashan, and bent to shake off his mail-shirt. Unarmed and unarmored he walked toward the man he had chosen as his victim. Though Bardon was taller, the Sonulite was heavier and much better muscled. The pirate drew back his hand in an obvious motion and slapped the man’s face with all his strength. The blow staggered the fellow. Challenge and insult were plain … And the Sonulite looked at Bardon without anger, indeed with no expression other than vague puzzlement. Then he simply walked away. Bardon picked up his mailshirt, a little bundle of linked chain. Should he try the experiment again? No, best to dress and be about his business. No matter how incredible, the men here clearly had no fight in them. How could they exist? If nothing else their women were portable wealth, attractive to sea raiders. Their rich farm lands should be the envy of hostile tribes.

  Had his mind not been occupied Bardon would have noticed it sooner: his earring was too heavy.

  He touched it. The gold hoop was gone!

  In its place he wore a pentagram of very cold metal — Pyre had switched rings! What dark scheme was the wizard plotting? No matter; Bardon did not care to be an expendable
pawn. As he walked, he tried to be casual in his fumbling to remove the earring — only to discover that it was a continuous, seamless piece of metal. He could remove it from his pierced lobe only by tearing his flesh!

  This was absurd. The wizard had put the thing in his ear in an instant, by an effortless sleight of hand, it must be easy to remove, if only he could see the cursed thing.

  “Sir, you’re a living wonder.”

  He looked up. “What do you mean, Durgy?”

  “Here we are strangers in a large city and you march us straight to where we want to go.”

  It was true. Directly in front of them stood a squat graystone building. Low, windowless, it was somehow faintly repellent. It was also the only building in the city that was more than a simple functional structure. This had to be the House of Rulers.

  Should he tear the pentagram from his ear or wait till he could find a tool to cut the metal? He’d look a pretty fool, standing before the masters of Sonul with his ear bleeding.

  “All right, boys, let’s see if anyone here can speak our language.”

  The door to the House of Rulers was bronze, carved with a pattern imitating the scales of a fish or snake. Bardon banged on it, demanding admission in every language he knew. He was answered in his native Bemaristu.

  “Remove your armor and lay aside your weapons.”

  When the four visitors had done so, the door slid silently back to reveal guards who were clearly not of the same race as the city people. Indeed they scarcely appeared to be men. Small black eyes seemed to glint with a bestial ferocity. Wide and powerful jaws opened to reveal canine fangs above short bodies that were thick with muscles positively bulgy.

  Bardon was ashamed to show fear. With a front as calm as he could manage, the dolorous-looking man stepped in among those … creatures. When his men sought to follow, the guards stepped forward to block their way. Largumdurga looked at the bared fangs of the snarling beast-man.

  “By your leave, sir, we’ll wait outside,” he said, and the brazen door slid shut before Bardon could reply.

  He submitted to a rather rough search, after which the guards’ attention fixed upon the scroll. One started to undo the seals. Bardon slapped his hand away.

  “No, for the master only, masters only.”

  The beast-man’s eyes blazed with rage for a moment, and Bardon saw death there. Then he … it seemed to understand.

  They led him through a labyrinth of passageways, most of which led downward. Apparently the House of Rulers was an extensive set of underground tunnels. At last they pushed him through a door and locked it behind him. He was alone in a narrow room lighted by a single small lamp that flickered weakly. The door at the far end of the chamber turned out also to be locked. Bardon had an intense sensation of being watched. He wondered if it could be illusion. The thought, or concept, of weapons kept coming into his mind, again and again. He had no weapons. He had only his bare hands. The pressure of the hidden eyes grew more intense. It was a question, a demand.

  Suddenly Bardon was moved to shout. “Look, I’m unarmed.”

  The pressure vanished and he heard a click. The door at the far end of the room was slightly ajar. Just as he started toward it, his earring whispered. The voice was Pyre’s.

  “Not yet. First you must open the scroll.”

  Bardon stopped in shocked surprise. Then anger filled him and he quivered with it. Controlling himself with some effort, he whispered, “Why should I play your dark game, wizard?”

  “Two good reasons. First Caranga gave me command of Vixen because I am the only hope of saving Tiana and Jiltha . You are oath-bound to their rescue and hence bound to my service. The second reason is even better. The scroll contains a sword. If you do not remove and hide it immediately the riders of Sonul will decide you’re an assassin and kill you out of hand ”

  “Damn your evil soul, what do you want me to do?”

  “Break the main seal.”

  The main seal was a blob of red in the shape of a flame. When Bardon broke it, it burned his fingers. The scroll rapidly unrolled like a living thing. It dropped a strange sword in his hand — and immediately rerolled itself. The flame seal was whole, unbroken. The sword was the same cold metal as his earring, a sword of ice; an enchanted sword. It had the feel of a living thing in his hand.

  “Hurry, man, hide the sword ”

  Bardon stared about the empty room. “Where?”

  “Use that height of yours — put it in the ceiling.”

  Bardon imbedded the fell sword’s point in one of the beams. A poor hiding place, he thought, but it would go unseen unless someone happened to look directly up at it.

  “Now go to the Rulers swiftly; this delay may make them suspicious ”

  Bardon stepped through the door into a large audience hall of paneled wood walls and stone floor. The chamber smelled … earthy. The area where he stood was well lighted while the far end was in darkness. A throne squatted darkly in the center of that dark. Little could be seen of the man who sat in the high-backed seat, for he wore dark, dark robes and the wall behind him was curtained in forest green velvet that might as well have been black.

  A smooth, sibilant voice hissed from the throne.

  “It is our policy to encourage trade with the outside world and ordinary merchant ships are welcome in our harbor. You, however, come in a ship of war. Who are you and why do you intrude upon our realm?”

  “I am Bardon, second officer of the ship Vixen. As for why we come here, I really cannot say but Pyre sent this scroll to you.” He scarcely noticed the servant who took the scroll from him. He was again overwhelmed by the sensation of being watched. The question “who am I?” kept coming into his mind. The searching was intense but brief.

  “Well, marrin hound,” the voice hissed from the throne, “your master chose you well. We can learn nothing from you because you know nothing. The scroll you delivered is passing strange for its uses much paper and ink to say very little: only that Pyre believes there need not be war between himself and us, and to this end he requests an audience tonight. We grant this request. We grant his further request that you, Caranga and six others may be his honor guard. However, no weapons may be brought into the House of Rulers. You may go.”

  “May” was not the appropriate word. Though Bardon was eager to leave, the guards were even more eager to be rid of him. He was rapidly propelled through the passageways and flung out past the bronze door. He landed on his backside in full view of his men. So glad was he to see the sun again that the loss of dignity was a secondary annoyance.

  Standing among his men was one of the city people, a man whose eyes showed a slight spark of intelligence. “Rulers send help get mules and shovels,” he said in the Narokan tongue that Bardon could just handle.

  Though Bardon had told no one what he wanted, he was not surprised. This was but a further proof that the Rulers had read his mind. He still resented Pyre’s use of him as a cat’s-paw but now he saw why it had been necessary. As his body had been searched for weapons, so had his mind. Only after the Rulers had searched and found nothing had Pyre revealed the sword to him.

  Bardon examined the Sonulite, who seemed a bit older than the others. “What’s your name?”

  “Name?”

  After a few tries Bardon concluded that the problem lay not in his knowledge of the Narokan language or the man’s ignorance. The wretch had no name.

  The bargaining for the mules and picks and shovels was a most unusual experience. The man simply named a price. While such a take it or leave it “offer” seemed grossly unfair to Bardon, the Sonulite had orders from which he dared not depart — and every mule’s price was the same. Bardon carefully chose the best, and decided he was getting the best of the bargain.

  Supplies were a problem. Grain and dried fruit were available at a reasonable price, but the man looked blank at all references to meat, pigs, cattle or sheep. Bardon had met vegetarians before but never people who did not understand that meat w
as food. If Vixen’s crew was to march any great distance overland, they would need meat. Reluctantly and yet ingeniously, he bought five extra mules.

  Pyre’s money pouch was full of gold. People who had mules must possess horses. Why should Bardon and his shipmates march when they could ride? Following this logic the second mate asked about horses and was promptly shown a stable of plow horses. As work animals these massive, powerful beasts were superb, but a man would be better off walking then riding one of their slow and huge-footed number. The man was blank when Bardon asked for riding horses. When he mounted a plow horse in demonstration, the Sonulite watched in vague puzzlement. Bardon realized these people had horses and mules and no concept of riding and Bardon was getting a headache.

  When he returned to Vixen with his purchases, the second mate saw that his ship was no longer alone in port. The newcomer was a long canoe, equipped with a single outrigger. The tribesmen of some nearby village had apparently come to trade. He counted twelve of the black warriors, carrying spears and dressed in loincloth, amulet, and shells.

  Piled on the side of the dock were their trade goods: Ivory, tiger skins, and gold nuggets. On the other side stood their purchases: some thirty of the city women. At first glance nothing about this scene disturbed Bardon: bride purchase was hardly an uncommon custom. Then he saw that the warriors’ teeth were filed to points. The horrible suspicion grew in his mind. He turned to his guide.

  “What are those men doing?”

  “Buy girls.”

  “Yes, but for what?”

  The guide thought for a moment, then smiled, his eyes bright. “Now understand. Not understand before. Now understand what is meat. Men buy girls for meat.”

  Bardon swallowed, shocked to hear his suspicions confirmed. He looked at Vixen; his shipmates were on deck and watching the black warriors warily. Standing procedure was that weapons were kept ready in a strange port. Bardon knew that bows were strung and close to hand. If he but shouted one order the cannibals would find their stomachs filled not with human flesh but with arrows.