Though his baser instincts were more interested in the astounding array of luscious beauties with strategically exposed expanses of smooth skin (in an utterly delightful gamut of shades), Zarkov found his attention arrested by the alien specimens present, in particular by the contingent of Hawk Men segregating themselves in one corner. Tugging at his beard, a nervous habit he sometimes exhibited while in a frenzy of scientific curiosity, he forgot all about the attack on Earth and his dire predicament. His heart pounded as the Hawk Men, clad in helmets, sandals, and loincloths, flapped their large, curiously inflexible wings. They occasionally adjusted the harnesses strapped about their bare chests. Save for their wings (which Zarkov presumed to be natural), they were human in every appearance. The scientist catalogued a hundred questions in his mind. He prayed he would have the opportunity to study the Hawk Men.
Dale, for her part, pretended not to examine the ladies who, for their part, made no pretense. They frankly scrutinized her, like some men she had met who believed an open appraisal of her sexual potential was somehow the modern, sophisticated thing to do. Though the sheer number of women was overwhelming, though Dale blushed and tried to appear indifferent, she nevertheless felt herself superior to them. The women were only playthings, and this palace hall was their home territory only so long as they remained playthings. However, she could not resist appraising the secrets of their youthful beauty from the corner of her eye. She was impressed with the glitter surgically implanted in the eyelids of a blonde; with the halter padding of a brown-skinned redhead; with the delicate manner and supple stomach muscles of a lithe yellow-skinned woman whispering to a red-skinned woman-child tattooed with blue glitter; with the firm breasts and high cheekbones of one of the most enticing beauties—who stood with her hands on her hips and who frequently licked her wide dark lips when she directed her eyes at Dale’s ankles. Though the variety of costumes was endless, each possessing some sort of subtle variation, there was a basic pattern from which the women deviated rarely: long, gauze robes hung from ornate headdresses, providing a semblance of modesty for the halters and scanty briefs exposing shameless amounts of cleavage and midriff, respectively. These women were obviously the most pleasing the city and the moons had to offer. Once they passed their prime, they were undoubtedly sent back to their families, who found them husbands. They were to become like the women Dale had seen from the vehicle taking her through the city, professional mothers whose one duty to the state was to be fertile. Dale tried not to think of the personal implications for her, of the pulp stories her father had once read to her.
Without warning, a howling wind of indiscernible origin swept through the palace hall; the light radiating from the ceiling flickered as if it was fed by electrical impulses (causing Flash to question his earlier deduction); the hems of the curtains billowed. Dale held her hair to keep it from flying in her face; grimacing, she looked to Flash, who put his arm about her. The people of the court reacted as if nothing unusual was transpiring, though they quieted and directed themselves toward the circular opening beside the throne. The majestic, imposing form of Ming seemed to rise before the tunnel’s bright red material.
A figure emerged from the court and walked onto the platform. “Hail, Klytus!” called the people he passed.
Though this Klytus was approximately five and a half feet tall, it was impossible for Flash to ascertain his weight—or anything else about him—due to his black robes and his gold, cubist mask. Gold strips highlighted his hood and shoulders, and upon his chest was a gold design of interconnected Vs enclosed by a circle. Flash could not see his footwear, but he would not have been surprised if he wore goat’s hooves. Klytus held up his hand in a perfunctory manner, exposing a golden glove that, extended far beyond his wrist; on his other hand was a black velvet glove. He called out in an impersonal, toneless voice which nevertheless demanded respect, “Hail Ming, Rightful Ruler of the Universe!”
The court repeated the salutation as Ming emerged from the opening. Flash felt the cold clutches of fear grip his heart; Dale tensed beneath his arm and Zarkov inhaled sharply. There was a final gust of the howling wind, rustling Ming’s flowing robes, and then it suddenly died, casting a pall of silence over the palace hall.
Ming surveyed his court with brooding eyes flickering with alertness, eyes simultaneously burdened with an unfathomable weariness. Highlighted by gold, the bottom portion of his wide, rose-colored collar was formed by two triangles with slightly curved borders, while the top was circular, concealing the rear of his bald head. Below the collar and running down his torso was a strip of a rose hue, the gold sewn into the fabric outlining the five points of a star. His arms were concealed by his crimson cape, though his hands at his abdomen and the jeweled rings of his fingers were exposed. Ming possessed the lean face of a wolf, with pointed eyebrows and a goatee jutting beneath his chin. His nose was straight and narrow, his black mustache prim and sinister. Standing before the court with the ease of a man alone in his private quarters, Ming was indifferent to his subjects even as he acknowledged them with a half-hearted movement of his fingers. He possessed the aura of a man whose voracious appetites were eclectic and insatiable. His manner was as weary as his eyes, but there lurked in his thin limbs and soft belly a tremendous strength awaiting its opportunity, a strength both physical and spiritual. The captives were mesmerized by his presence.
However, upon three or four separate occasions, Flash could not help but notice a particularly voluptuous, aristocratic young woman, wearing a scanty gold outfit, peeking from behind a curtain. Yanking a leash attached to a collar about the neck of a curious, red-faced midget, she did not notice, or acknowledge in the least, the court members automatically making a narrow pathway through the palace hall, as if they were performing what was expected of them with the tiniest effort. Her only words were barked to the midget: “Come along, Fellini!” Once she had ceased to move, she occasionally appraised Flash frankly, her mouth twitching and her breathing becoming heavy in proportion to the torridity of her thoughts.
Ming made an impression in his thin upper lip with the long nail of his left forefinger. He gestured for Klytus to approach him. They spoke as if they were perfectly alone, though the palace acoustics carried their words clearly to every individual in the court.
Klytus bowed, a purely mechanical gesture of respect. “Were your meditations satisfactory, Sire?” he asked with an equally mechanical air.
Ming sighed. “Oh, there were a few brief moments of illumination, but the glow has deserted me, the insights have fled.”
“That is to be regretted, Sire.”
Ming raised his right eyebrow. “Klytus, I order you to correct me if I am mistaken, but I thought you were unable to regret anything save the loss of your personal power.”
“An eventuality I pray will never occur,” the masked man replied with another mechanical bow.
“It seems odd that a man without a soul would pray.”
“Even the hopelessly fallen have their personal gods, Sire.”
“So it would seem. What is first on the agenda for Us today?”
Klytus turned toward the court. “The tribute of the Hawk Men will be first!”
The people of the court parted to make way for the three Hawk Men approaching the throne. The leader was Vultan, Prince of the Hawk Men, a barrel-bellied, bearded man who walked proudly, his shoulders straight, the habitual flapping of his stiff wings firmly under control. He held his burly hand on the handle of his sheathed three-pronged weapon. Like those of his companions, his loincloth was decorated with layers of leather pieces, creating an illusion of feathers. His chest harness, studded with gold chips shaped like a sun, was the largest, due to both his rank and his size.
Walking behind him, carrying a hollowed stone, were his lieutenant Luro (thin, dark, and unruly) and an elderly adviser named Biro (whose wings were becoming as white as his hair).
Dale whispered to Flash, “I know it’s a little late to ask, but are we dreaming?�
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“I’d like to think so,” said Flash, though in his heart he hoped it was real almost as much as he hoped he survived.
Halting at a respectful distance before the steps, his chest swelling with pride, Vultan proclaimed in a soaring bass: “The fabled Ice Jewel of Frigia! We seized it in battle from the royal crypt.”
Vultan lifted the crystal from its stone casing. It froze the air about it, creating wisps that immediately dissipated, but true to the legends of its magic powers, its frigidity did not harm Vultan’s fingers. The crystal’s interior sparkled heliotrope and jasmine; however, the exterior radiated a soft, soothing white accentuating the subtle beauties of its crevices and blunt points. Vultan raised the Ice Jewel above his head so all could see the Hawk Men’s tribute.
Save for the fuming, silent Queen of Frigia (clothed in a white, conical gown with a crown that resembled an inverted icicle), the court gasped and mumbled among themselves. One side of Ming’s mouth moved upward; he gave no other indication of his approval or disapproval. Klytus was, as usual, devoid of a discernible reaction.
Followed by his men, Prince Barin of the Tree Men pushed his way through the crowd. He wore a green cape, emerald-hued trousers, and a golden vest. “Stop!” he shouted. “The Ice Jewel is our tribute, not Vultan’s!”
Barin halted only when he reached the steps, though he did have the audacity to place his foot on the lowest one. Flash clenched his free hand into a fist as he saw that right eyebrow of Ming’s perk up.
“We took it,” said Barin, gesturing to include his green-clad men. “Vultan stole it from us while we were burying our dead on Frigia!”
The Tree Men looked at various members of the court and nodded, smiling grimly, not as yes-men but to personally attest to the accuracy of Barin’s words. Though it was probably quite true that they feared Ming to their marrow, it was very plain that their loyalty to their bold and dashing prince knew no bounds. Barin’s physique fit his personality: He had a muscular, well-proportioned body, short brown hair, a mustache of a lighter shade of brown, a square dimpled chin, a perpetual scowl, and a nose which looked like it had only been broken once. Bet he swung right into a tree, thought Flash.
“Liar!” exclaimed Vultan to Barin, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him away from Ming. “For that I shall plummet your father’s grave with my pellets!”
“I doubt it,” said Barin. “He’s buried in a cave. He knew you cowardly Hawk Men would never defile him there because you fear darkness, and artificial light”—he gestured at the ceiling—“eventually hurts your eyes. Not only are you cowards, but rebels as well. Night and day your Hawk Men plot strategies to overthrow this citadel!”
Vultan’s only reply was to raise his weapon.
“Vultan!” bawled Klytus. He paused menacingly. “Nobody, but nobody dies in the palace except by command from the Emperor.”
Barin instantly spun on his heel, saluted with his sword, bowed, and said, “Hail, Ming!” He sheathed his sword. Grumbling, Vultan reholstered his weapon, but only after he hesitated in a manner that implied he had considered open defiance.
Ming now allowed both sides of his mouth to rise, but the result could not exactly be called a smile. “An excellent performance, Barin. We are certain We are not alone in Our enjoyment. We quite agree with your claim to the tribute, especially since we know full well the cause which forced Vultan to adopt such desperate tactics. Our illustrious ancestors had always presumed the Ice Jewel to be merely a legend. We accept it. And now, Ice Queen, We command you to make a full report to Klytus—at his convenience—on how and why this fabled jewel was concealed from Our knowledge for so many years.”
The Queen of Frigia bowed stiffly. “It shall be done, Sire.”
“Barin, you and your men shall remain in court. Some of today’s new business might interest you.”
As Barin and the Tree Men bowed and withdrew into the crowd, Klytus said, “You owe the Emperor something else this year, Vultan.”
The Prince of the Hawk Men paused before replying. “Not yet. My daughter is still only twelve.”
“Have you brought Rima?” asked Klytus. Though his tone was similiar to that of a man ordering breakfast, there was an unmistakable undercurrent of menace in his voice.
Still, Vultan moved his hairy hand toward the hilt of his weapon, halting its progress when it was only half an inch away. A bead of perspiration flowed down his cheek, into his beard.
A young Hawk Girl, dressed in a blue gown, with pale skin, blond hair, and a thin face, walked toward the steps. She stood beside Vultan.
Why, she’s just a child! thought Flash.
Ming and Klytus were as impassive as ever as they examined the Hawk Girl before them.
Finally, Ming said indifferently, “We will keep her.”
The pale skin of Rima’s face flushed red with fear. “Oh, no! Please, please!” Then, realizing that an appeal to Ming would be futile by definition, she turned to Vultan. “Father . . . can’t you . . . ?” She embraced him. She sobbed loudly, her wings trembling with the violence of her spasms.
Vultan stroked her hair. “Ming has spoken, child. He . . . honors us.” The hatred blazing in his dark eyes as he stared at the Emperor more than adequately revealed his true sentiments.
Rima suddenly broke away from her father’s arms. Her stiff wings made tentative motions, in anticipation of flight, presumably through the passageway which still remained open. But she hesitated; she was indecisive. What she might have chosen to do had the freedom of choice remained hers was destined never to be revealed, for the golden globe whirred above the people of the court and halted directly over the top of Vultan’s head. Rima stared at it for several seconds. She slowly brought her hand to her mouth. Her wings ceased their movement. “I love you, Father,” she said. “I understand.”
The globe returned to its place above the captives as Rima walked as one dead to a group of Ming’s harem women standing near the platform. Vultan stared at her, once making a move to go after her, or to touch her, but he dropped his hands to his side and lowered his head.
Luro placed his hand on Vultan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sire,” he whispered, not realizing the acoustics had carried his simple words to every pair of ears.
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Vultan, quickly assuming his more zestful manner. “She’ll come back to me someday. Besides, I’ve got plenty of other eggs in my nest.”
“Rest assured We shall inspect them when the proper time comes,” said Ming, dismissing the Hawk Men with a wave of two fingers.
“Thun will approach the throne,” said Klytus.
In moments a black man wearing a robe covered with dangling strips of heavy gold coins bowed before Ming. “Your Majesty, my kingdom has suffered a serious economic disruption since you blasted it. We have no wealth to offer you.”
“Have you no daughters?” asked Klytus.
“Sire, I regret to inform you that my only daughter of eligible age defiled herself with the captain of the guards. After she presented us with the indisputable evidence of her debauchery, I had her executed.”
“I trust it was a . . . painful execution?” asked Klytus.
“Painful . . . and prolonged, to set an example for my other daughters, the eldest of whom shall be eligible in another year. However, I regret to say that this year I can offer you nothing but my own loyalty.”
Ming’s eyes narrowed; he formed a steeple with his forefingers. He and Klytus exchanged glances. What they communicated soon became obvious, but how they communicated it remained a mystery.
“The Emperor prizes nothing more highly, Prince Thun,” said Klytus. “How great is this . . . loyalty?”
Thun bowed. “Without measure.”
Ming said, “Fall on your sword.”
Thun gasped and stepped backward, bringing his hand to his throat.
Boy, these guys have tough standards, thought Flash.
The sound of Thun’s sword leaving its scabbard echoed
throughout the silent palace hall. The Prince stared at the blade for several seconds and then kissed it. He turned to the crowd. “Let this deed of Prince Thun be an example to all the kingdoms of Mongo!”
Suddenly, Thun rushed toward Ming, taking the steps two at a time.
Ming stood immobile. Not a trace of interest manifested itself on his lean face.
Just as Thun lunged onto the platform and was preparing to make his thrust, the golden globe inundated him with a blue glow. The atmosphere crackled with the disturbance. Thun strained with all his might, but he was unable to move.
Ming effortlessly reached into the blue glow, taking the sword. The Ruler of the Universe examined the weapon. He stared into Thun’s wide eyes, permitting the Prince a lengthy vision of his fate.
The transformation that came over Ming as he turned the point of the blade toward Thun was awesome and frightening. Dale covered her face, but Flash and Zarkov were so mesmerized they were unable to look away. All traces of boredom and weariness had left Ming. He fairly radiated the energies of life. The outline of a black aura, the manifestation of his evil soul, surrounded his red robes. Savoring the myriad sensations of each second, Ming thrust the sword directly into Thun’s heart. The hilt pressed against the Prince’s breast, the blade protruded six inches from his back.
Flash Gordon Page 9
