by Lin Carter
10. The Avenue of Monoliths
Our entourage did not at all care for the silent stone colossusses that brooded down upon us as we rode between them all that day. The glower of those scowling eyes, those frowning faces of slick black stone, cast a pall over our spirits. Kraa rode at my side as before, but now his gaunt face was somber and his eyes were sad and thoughtful, as if dwelling upon grim inward visions. Even the ugly little priest had neither the energy nor the spite to grumble and complain today; he too rode silently, lost in his own thoughts, an indefinable fear stamped on his froglike features.
Nor did I feel particularly gleeful, either. I was cursedly stiff and sore from the tumble I had taken last evening, when the sandcat had run amok and charged into me, and a rare mood of black depression had clamped down upon my spirits. This statue-lined boulevard obviously led somewhere. Nobody was going to go to all the expense and labor of carving, transporting, and erecting all these thousands of tons of stone to make a double row pointing nowhere. And the only place they could lead to was the Lost City itself.
Which meant that before too many days were past, I would be up against a problem I had not as yet wrestled with. For a long time I had been kidding myself. For too long I had postponed even thinking about the thing. Now it seemed time was running out. Before very much longer, I would have to come to a decision. I would have to decide just exactly what I was going to do once we got to Ilionis and found its age-old treasure.
Was I going to fulfill my promise and help Keresny and Bolgov loot the ancient city of its precious wealth? True, I had never actually promised to do so in so many words; I had said that I would use my influence with the natives to help them get to the Lost City. I had said nothing about helping them rob the holy place of its treasure.
But even though I had not explicitly committed myself on the point, we had a tacit understanding, the Doctor and T. And I would have to exert my influence one way or another: either by commanding the Moon Dragon warriors to carry the plunder out of the Lost City to our skimmer, or by refusing to bend them to my command.
This, of course, would make it impossible to plunder Ilionis. Keresny and Bolgov could hardly transport the treasure alone and unaided. And unless I interposed my authority to protect them, 1 knew Prince Kraa and his people would not stand calmly by and let the ancient vaults be ransacked by the Earthmen. They would either seize or slay the F’yagha, and most likely it would be the latter. Especially since the viper-eyed little pontiff would doubtless be foaming at the mouth with rage at the sacrilege.
Ilsa I would protect at any cost, of course. And I could hardly see myself standing by idly while the enraged Moon Dragon warriors killed her grandfather and Bolgov. As for Bolgov���well, I cared nothing for him, of course, and the feeling was mutual. On the other hand, while I disliked the surly, black-bearded Ukranian, he hadn’t actually done anything against me, except to call me a dirty name or two and take a poke at me once. I’m as squeamish as the next citizen, and I don’t think I could just stand there and watch the poor bastard being butchered without trying to help him.
As for the Doctor, he had never done anything against me at all. I rather liked the old fellow in a mild way. He had been unfailingly polite and even friendly toward me; and without his kindness I would still be back in Venice, swilling down cheap brandy in the arcade by the cathedral of San Pietro. Of course, he had brought me here for his own reasons, not mine; and those reasons were completely selfish. But did it really matter why he had done it? Didn’t I owe him something for bringing me back to the world I loved?
In any event, he was an old man, and Ilsa loved him. I would have to protect him���yes, and even Bolgov, I suppose���against the Martian warriors.
But I didn’t have to lend them any help in robbing the treasure vaults of Ilionis!
I could just refuse to do anything and refuse to ask of Prince Kraa’s warriors that which they would not willingly do. Oh, Keresny would rant and rave, surely; maybe even Bolgov would bluster and wave his gun around. But in the end, there wouldn’t be much they could do about it.
Yes, that was probably the wisest course to follow.
One thing was certain. I could not, and would not, jeopardize my relationship with the Prince of Farad by forcing him to command his men to help the Hated Ones rob ancient and holy Ilionis of its fabled treasure. That would be a vile way to repay Prince Kraa for his hospitality and his friendship.
Oh, I was fairly certain that the Prince would obey me if I were foolish and cruel enough to command him, as his Jamad. But were I to make him break his own laws and violate his own traditions to that extent, I would lose his friendship forever. He would cast his vow of fealty back into my teeth; the gates of Farad would close in my face forever; and never, while the world lasts, would the legions of the Moon Dragon nation ride to war against the Earthmen under my banner.
Yes, I was willing to break the spirit, if not the letter, of my promise to Dr. Keresny, rather than cripple my forces in the coming holy war and alienate the Moon Dragon Prince and his heirs for all time.
And it passed through my mind right then that I would be wise to keep a wary eye on Bolgov during the next few days. For once 1 made it plain that I would not help them get the treasure out, it was not at all impossible that Bolgov would do something crazy, like putting that gun to my head to make the Martians carry out the plunder, at peril of the life of their Jamad.
No, I’d better keep an eye peeled for the big Ukranian; he was a rough, unscrupulous type, and he would stop at little to get what he wanted. Maybe there was some way I could get the gun away from him … I would have to mull the problem over and see what I could come up with. I put the whole question out of my mind for the moment, promising to give it some further thought later on, when it became relevant.
I would to God I had not set the problem aside at that time! If only I had seized the thought the moment it occurred to me! If only I had turned my beast to one side��� had ridden back to Bolgov’s place in the procession���and had simply snatched the gun away from him then and there!
Busied each with our different thoughts, we galloped on down the avenue of black monoliths under the far, pale fire disc of the distant sun.
The Doctor had been keeping mental count of the number of stone ushongti that lined the way to Ilionis for the eventual book or article or monograph he would refine from his experiences, but after counting five thousand of the glaring diorite images, he gave it up. I think the gloom and apprehension that haunted the rest of us as we rode along, hour by hour, under the ominous frown of the stone genii, got to him eventually and dampened even his keen excitement. For the shadow of foreboding seemed to darken his fine eyes and lend his features a worn and weary aspect.
As for big Kuruk, the grizzled veteran was no less susceptible to the mood of apprehension that gripped us all; but he rode at my back, faithful and watchful as some great dog. I think it was enough for the grim-faced chieftain that his Prince and his Jamad were there to guard and to worry over. I looked back once, feeling his eyes on me, and smiled to see him. He sat his saddle easily, unwearyingly, one hand at the pommel of his sword, his narrow eyes prowling to all sides watchfully, ever alert for the chance of danger.
Faithful, simple, brave Kuruk! Staunch comrade in battle, unyielding and untiring friend! I knew his kind of manhood, for my legions had been filled with many such ���but never with enough. The sort of man who gave you his whole heart and strength and loyalty when he swore his oath to you: and never retracted it, even to the death.
Give me a thousand Kuruks and I could have conquered all of Mars years ago. No; give me only one hundred and I could make a damn good try!
As for Chaka, the boy was the only one whose bright eyes were undimmed by the grim row of glowering giants, lie rode with his shoulders back, his eyes alive and eager in his bright face, afire with youthful excitement and hungry to obey any whim of mine. I grinned at his clear eyes and fiery zest. He wou
ld follow his grandfather to the dais of Farad���among the Martian princes, inheritance is through the female line, and it would be the son of Prince Kraa’s widowed daughter who would inherit the rule of Farad, not his own son, Kuruk. And he would make a strong Prince and a good one, I knew.
We had been riding for some hours now. I could not rid myself of a feeling of Uneasiness, a prickling sensation at the back of my neck, as if my nape hairs had stiffened, sensing the touch of unseen eyes, watching, watching . ..
An aura of ancient mystery brooded over this bleak land like a hovering shadow. There was strangeness here, and there was also that which was more than merely strange: a dim premonition of otherness lurked at the far borders of comprehension.
There was the silence, for one thing. Sound carries poorly in the thin air of Mars, but surely such taut, breathless silence as hung about us here was no natural thing. Why did the pads of our mounts fall dully on the harsh, gritty stone? Why did it seem that the creak of saddle leather, the jingle of our accouterments, the clash of weapons, the rustling of our cloaks���all sounded dim and far-off, as if oddly muffled?
And why did a party of thirty warriors and personages ride in such somber and unspeaking silence? Even lazy, laughing Huw no longer hummed a tuneless song under his breath���no longer strummed a jaunty, jangling tune on his many-stringed odyar���but rode glumly, slumped brooding in the saddle, his bland grin and cheerful eyes shadowed as if by some nameless foreboding.
And there was the Road itself. All about to either side the barren, rocky tableland stretched away, cleft by ten thousand cracks and crevices, riddled with volcanic fumaroles and pockmarked by the innumerable impact craters, small and large, that peppered the surface of the planet from pole to pole. But the Road ran ever on! And for all of its die-straight length visible to us, it was unblemished.
As if some unseen and omnipresent force shielded the stony way from even the hurtling meteorites of heaven and preserved it unchangingly in the very teeth of time …
Strange as it was, this was to prove but the least, and the first, of many mysteries!
We made early camp that day, and we chose for our camping site the Road itself, for all that we no longer cared to meet the carved glower of the frowning colossusses.
But we somehow knew, all of us, that whatever monstrous predators might prowl this land by night, here we would be safe from attack and “alarm. And how we knew this thing we could not say, but neither did we question it.
Perhaps the long day of riding had wearied us and sapped our spirits; or mayhap it was the shadowy gloom that brooded over this desolate and terrible land where naught but we moved or lived under the carved glare of the monolith monsters; but whatever the reason, our hearts did not lift with the coming of darkness. The white glare of the campfire (fed by those same chemicals which had blazed on the hearths and in the bronze cressets of the Hall of the Moons) did not warm us. Even a bellyful of hot meat did not lift our mood of ominous oppression. Neither did the cold red wine of Farad bring joy to our hearts. We ate in silence and drank without words and went to our furs, unspeaking.
I sought out Huw. The fat minstrel sprawled lazily, pillowed on his saddle, rubbing the soreness from aching leg muscles, looking thoughtfully up at the stars. Like strewn gems they were, and they blazed fiercely on the black velvet of the sky. At my approach he would have risen, but I gestured to him to remain where he was, as 1 sat wearily on heaped saddlebags. He eyed me somberly.
“You feel it too, Lord?”
My voice was heavy. “Yes. Like a cold black pall laid upon my heart. What is it, Huw���you, a minstrel, are a master of the lore���what is it haunts us?”
He scratched his ear and rubbed a big hand slowly over his fat jowls. “Magic, I suppose … The sagas tell that the Ancients had some weird power to oppress the hearts of men with dark sadness and with the echo of unheard warnings. Oft in the old tales the holy places were thus guarded from impieties … Oh, ‘tis mad enough, I wager, this babble of sorceries and spells. Yet I do feel it, nonetheless, like a cold hand upon the roots of my soul.. .”
I frowned thoughtfully. Subsonics? Could it be something as simple, as mundane, as merely a projection of sound waves? Could the Ancients have known that sound waves, projected at certain intensities and wavelengths, can make people edgy, nervous, tense, depressed���or, conversely, excited and happy?
Could that be the purpose for this meaningless row of stone colossusses that marched off across the world? Did concealed mechanisms within their towering pillars project or conduct an omnipresent, mood-dampening vibration��� sound pitched too low for the ear to hear, sound sensed in the very blood and bone?
“They were a great folk, Lord, eh, with strange mastery
of unknown forces,” Huw muttered, as if receptive to the very thoughts that passed through my brain. ” ‘Twould be cleverness itself���would it not?���to drive away the unwanted visitor, the intruder into this land, by some strange witch art that preys on his taut nerve until it breaks, and he flees, mad with a fear he cannot even name? For, look you, Lord, the beasts themselves sense it!”
That was true enough, I knew. All day, ever since we had ridden between the first pair of scowling stone genii, the slidars had been restive, snappish, and unruly beyond even the wont of their temperamental kind. And with evening we had been forced to bed them down outside of the Avenue of Monoliths, if they were not to panic and break into flight.
Some of the rude, superstitious warriors were already murmuring of curses and ghosts and of the shadow of some ancient and malignant evil that haunted all this land … But could it be (I stared up, wondering, at the demon-shaped black pillars, where they loomed against the stars) that those tall, standing stones were nothing more weird or wondrous than���antennae?
I clapped Huw on the shoulder and rose stiffly to seek my own sleeping furs and the privacy of my thoughts. But the weariness of the long, shadow-haunted day overcame me instead, and I slept. But it was a fitful and an uneasy sleep, made terrible by dreams wherein dim enormous things swayed and moved closer���closer���and from whose never-seen but momentarily-to-be-revealed faces I awoke shuddering, time and again, through the long, cold watches of the uneasy night.
The sun was a pale disc of cool gray fire part-way up the dome of the sky when I awoke from broken dreams of spectral terror. Perhaps it was the bitter coldness of the air or the bleak deadness of this accursed and barren, rocky land, but even the dawning of the day star did little to lift our spirits.
We broke our fast and saddled up our mounts, Keresny aligning his Mars compass and checking his maps. But this was mere scholarly absentness or thoroughness, for the
Road fell before us like an outstretched and pointing arm, marking the very direction in which we must travel.
All that second day we moved on toward Ilionis. None of us doubted that it would be there, though none of us could have guessed the strange miracle we should find.
The slidars grew ever more unruly and bad tempered, rearing at a shadow, throwing many a warrior, and turning on more than one rider to snap glistening fangs at knee or thigh. Indeed, toward midday one of the gaunt red beasts went mad and turned on another with slashing teeth, in a spitting tangle of threshing limbs. In the end both beasts had to be slain.
We, ourselves, suffered ever more keenly from the unseen assault. Nerves stretched tight to the breaking point, and suddenly quarrels���even stormy bursts of hysteria and weeping���exploded without reason. We ate little and drank less, the meat and wine somehow tasteless in our mouths.
More and more the men muttered of phantoms and of terrible and ancient curses. Eyes rolled from side to side restlessly, showing the whites, and many a stout warrior’s calloused hand surreptitiously fondled an amulet or periapt or charm; and many the hardened fighting man who rode forward, mumbling imprecations or litanies to half the hundred gods of Mars, frightened almost to the naked edge
of panic by���nothing!
I will not even try to guess how much longer we could have endured this siege of shadows.
But���suddenly and without the slightest warning���it was over!
The land before us had been obscured by a strange haze that had blurred our vision. In the weird mixture of lethargy and tension wherein we were all enveloped, it had not occurred to us to wonder at this: for on water-poor Mars, mists or fog or clouds of any kind are never found.
But in the turning of one instant of time the hazy blur vanished; and in that same instant the uneasiness and fear that had held us under its spell also ended.
It was as if we had ridden beyond the zone of some force and were at last in the clear again.
Which may, in fact, have been the case.
But we reined to a sudden halt, gaping.
And there before us lay . .. Ilionis!
We stared for a long time, without words.
O, it was old, that city; old and dead. Ages beyond the numbering of man had trampled it down into the dust. The once-proud walls lay fallen in huge sections. The houses and mansions were empty, gutted���black windows leering like the eye sockets of hollow skulls. Sand had drifted, grain by grain, into the silent streets, until they were carpeted with dust.
All of red marble was lost and ruined Hionis, and the centuries had cracked and pitted and splintered that dead stone to crumbling ruins. The broken towers and fallen rubble lay ghostly before us in the dim light of the dying day, and it well may be that no living eyes had looked on Ilionis for millions of years, before our coming.
“A rose-red city, half as old as time…”
The line from the old poem rose unbidden from my memory. The poet had set down those immortal words to Petra, but this dim red city was older far by a thousand ages.
Once it had been king city of a mighty empire and the center of the ancient faith; Gateway to the Gods, the old epics name it. Now it was dead, empty, deserted, only a dim ghost of its vanished splendor lingered under the hurtling moons.
