by Travis Perry
I glance back and see the women, their arms crossed over their chests, have separated from the man in the pool, moving back into deeper water. Their faces are white with terror.
The man has white hair and a trimmed white beard. His flesh is white and soft. He backs up into shallower water that reaches the top of his small potbelly. White hairs show on his chest in the Phobos gleam. I recognize his image from a painting.
“My lord, before you stands the King of Olympus!”
“I thought as much,” says Govnor Pederson, striding forward in the pool as the king backs up, his sword still raised high. “Do you recognize me, your Majesty?”
“I…I…” sputters the king. But then he exclaims, his voice rising high in shock, “Are you the Duke of Ascraeus?”
“You have the right mons. But the wrong title. I am Govnor Pederson, of Mons Ascraeus.”
“It’s the same thing,” says the king. He stops backing up towards the shallow end of the pool at the point the lower water level would expose his genitals. Some color begins to return to his face. “And properly speaking, your home is ‘Ascraeus Mons,’ not the other way around. Over time people confused the right way to say Martian topography.”
Govnor Pederson blinks hard and shakes his head. “Speak sense to me or die—how many defenders of your person do you have nearby? Where are they? How can I prevent them from entering the room?”
“There are two outside the chamber. In the direction my servant came from.” He jerks his head in the direction of the young man I’d laid out on the floor. “But they will be outside the door, with strict instructions not to interrupt unless called in. No matter how much noise they hear from within.”
“Good. Evan, take the robe from the servant and toss it over here. I believe his Majesty needs some clothing. It’s up to you to make sure the manservant doesn’t scream. Instructions from the king or no, they may come running if he gets loud. Sir Isaac, watch the women.”
“You two,” the black bearded rider orders in a strong tone softened enough to prevent it from being a shout, “Get in the corner of the pool, there!” Looking up, he waves his sword and calls back in a low tone, “Susan!”
I undress the servant. Thank God he is wearing some kind of loincloth that adheres to him with an elastic band from the Time of Magic. He begins to groan. “Silent now, friend,” I whisper to him, “Or I shall have to gag your mouth.”
I toss the robe over to my lord. Susan comes forward, accompanied by five riders—she must have left David behind to operate the door.
Madam Susan looks over the scene, blinks, and says, “I think this is what the ancients used to call, ‘Getting caught with your pants down.’”
A low grumble erupts from the heretic king. Soon Susan directs cold suits be given to the women. They dress, getting the suits wet in the pool, huddling together for a modesty that was clearly less important to them before we arrived. Susan directs them and the young servant to the back of the room, our Ascraean riders leading them with their mouths gagged. One of the riders, Sir Carlos, mutters loud enough for me to hear, “Have you ever seen so much water!”
The king, now robed, takes a seat on a pure white stone bench beside the pool. He crosses his legs with a disregard for modesty in surprising contrast to his attitude moments before. “So, Govnor Pederson, you, who are too much of a fool to know that the word “Duke” is the equivalent to your Martian title in Earth’s Medieval Age, how did you manage to enter my fortress? Clearly through the back airlock, but how did you get there in the first place?”
Govnor Pederson shrugged. “We did what fools would do. We rode horse and walked. Mostly.”
The eastern side of the glass-paned ceiling is beginning to light up with the pre-dawn glow. In that light I see the king’s eyebrows raise in astonishment. “Without oxygen?”
“We didn’t hold our breath, so no,” my lord answers dryly.
“You free climbed Olympus Mons, without wearing oxygen bottles?” The voice of the king spilled over with disbelief.
“This is how we live on Mons Ascraeus, your heretic Majesty. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. Shall we discuss something of more importance?”
“Oh, you call me a heretic, do you? You small-minded man of this primitive era. I am reader of books of the past, Govnor. I know these knights you call ‘riders’ and this devotion to religion is a horrible aberrancy, a distortion of distant primitive beliefs preserved by religious fanatics. I seek to rise to greater heights, to restore the former civilization of what people like you ignorantly call ‘The Time of Magic,’ to lay aside your fanaticism and replace it with a new era of enlightened tolerance!”
My lord sheathes his sword before responding. He is still standing in the shallow end of the pool, warm water up to his knees. He looks up at the king and replies, “You just called me a fool. How is that tolerant? Or more to the point, you have forbidden your subjects to make pilgrimage to the Gran Templo of Chryse. How is that enlightened?”
The king shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re so ignorant you don’t even know you’re ignorant. The so-called religious ‘revival’ leading to the spread of the faith you hold so dear was started by Spanish-language Baptists. Which is why you worship at their temple. Why you say, ‘Jesu Christu’ instead of ‘Jesus Christ.’”
Govnor Pederson yanks clear his sword again, “You will not curse the name of my Lord with those words again, not without penalty!”
“What, are you going to chop me up, here and now? Then what will you do? I perceive you want something from me. You won’t get it if I’m dead.”
“Believe me, heretic, I am willing to try something at great risk and see how my God guides me through it. If that includes ending your life right here and now, so be it.” My lord’s voice is low and firm, not out of control at all.
“Roger, allow me for a moment,” says Madam Susan. “I also am a student of the past, your Majesty. And you should know as well as I do there is an historic reason why the English language version of the name of the Lord came to be seen as only profanity. You should also know it was the excesses of the past culture that led to the collapse of the technology of that time. And that the religious revival came mostly afterward. And that our Martian feudalism has preserved human lives—as opposed to the total anarchy ruled by unbelievers that preceded it.”
The king looks her over. “I take it you opened my doors, then?”
“Yes, not that it was hard. You haven’t been very careful with your codes.”
“I shall have to change that in the future. If, that is,” he turns his head to the govnor, “Your govnor doesn’t butcher me for my so-called ‘heresy.’”
My lord snorts and resheathes his sword. “You will stand in judgment before el Todopoderoso, heretic. As for what happens to you, that’s good enough for me. But you will also allow your people the freedom to continue to make pilgrimage if they so choose to do so.”
The heretic king looks back at Susan. Now the sun has risen enough that I see his face clearly. His eyes are gray. “How did you get past my gunman? He should have been able to shoot down any of you before you entered.”
“I don’t think he was particularly alert,” Susan replies. “And by the time he started shooting, he missed every shot. Sir Evan over there,” she points at me and I feel myself flush with pride, in spite of being taught how important it is to be humble before the Lord, “charged up the scaffolding and destroyed the gun with a sword blow. Your man reeled backward and fell to his death after that.”
The king looks at me, his eyes widening slightly. “You charged up without an oxygen bottle? At this altitude?”
“No bottle, your Majesty,” I reply.
The king turns back to the govnor. “It seems I have underestimated the hardiness of you Ascraeans...but let us talk honestly of our differences, like men.”
My lord replies dryly, “If you can, please do so.”
The ruler of Mons Olympus ignores this remark. “You want t
he pilgrimage to resume. Is that all you want?”
“Why would you oppose the pilgrimage?”
“I mean to rebuild the past here. Including space travel. I need every working hand—I can’t have my people wasting time on religion. I want them to build a future of freethinking minds, a future like the past, but better. The pilgrimage takes too much time for too many people.”
Susan asks, “Pardon me, but you intend to force people to be freethinking?”
“Believe me,” the king answers her, “Once they realize what they have to gain, they will thank me for it.” Turning to the govnor, he adds, “Speaking of gain, is there something else you would like from me? Gold perhaps? To compensate you for the losses of your merchants from passing pilgrims?”
“Our merchants, such as they are, do make some money off the pilgrimage. But this is not what we are here for. Keep your gold! I am here for the rights of men, women, and children.”
“Ah, the best of knighthood, pure and noble,” says the king with obvious sarcasm. “Are you sure that’s all you want?”
Govnor Pedeson pauses a moment. “Now that you mention it, I demand full freedom of worship for your people. Including the right to make pilgrimage. I also ask that you will cease all warlike activity after this and be at peace with Ascraeus and all your other neighbors.”
“I see,” replied the king slowly. “You have captured me and threaten me at this moment. To be frank, what is to keep me from promising you everything you want, including letting the pilgrimage continue, then changing my mind later?”
Govnor Pederson considers the remark before answering. “Normally a rider or lord is bound by his word, but in your case I see that means nothing to you. So nothing stops you. Other than the fact I will come back.”
His majesty chuckles. “We will improve the guard, you know. I will provide more guns. And this time give ammunition for practice. We will change the codes to the airlocks. We will release robots we’re rebuilding for defense. You will never again get in so easily.”
My lord glances at me before saying, “Who says it was easy? But easy or hard, we are men of Ascraeus. We can do what I now know you cannot. We can climb the mountain as it is. We can come from any angle. We can rope down into the caldera. We can attack the bridge to the south from above. We can assault this fortress. And we can do so without you knowing we are here. Until it’s too late.”
The king gets a most uncomfortable expression on his face. He squirms on the bench. “I see,” he says.
And from there on out, the conversation becomes a negotiation over precise terms. We depart on the road back to Mons Ascraeus the next day, on a southward trail the Heretic King opens for us. Our guides, all of them, wear oxygen bottles as we descend the mountain.
Eventually we returned to Ascraeus, after escorting a first wave of Olympian pilgrims to the Gran Templo, and many other events happened between then and now. Sir Isaac became like an uncle to me. And the Govnor like a father. He kept his word to me during all the days I served in his govment.
This then is the true story of what is usually called “The Bloodless War between the Mons.” But I was there. I saw myself and remember it as if I were there now, which is why I’ve written it in this style, the present style of today’s bards. I also know it was not quite bloodless. It cost the lives of a falcon and a horse. And two men fell, but neither of them from battle wounds.
There are many sayings of the distant past I do not understand. But my Lord Pederson demonstrated to me that, “Fortune favors the bold,” is not one of them. He was right. It certainly has favored me.
My friends and recipients of this letter, the Lady Rebecca greets you.
Written from Jovis Tholis.
Travis Perry is a serving US Army Reserve Civil Affairs officer and a veteran of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, in addition to other combat-zone deployments. He’s fascinated with history and enjoys foreign language studies—he’s worked as both a teacher and a translator, in particular for French and Spanish. A native of Montana, he currently makes his home in Texas.
Medieval Mars is based on an idea concept he came up with and developed. Travis enjoys writing fiction and exploring strange, distinctive ideas. See more at http://travissbigidea.blogspot.com/.
Golden
by Allison Rohan
In the long, rich history of the races of Mangalia, the desert-city had never seen such crowds. Bustling couples in trim, elegant city clothes strolled around the race grounds, purchasing pouches of hard candy and twisted pretzels from the golden-haired locals. Traffic thrummed through the streets, spiraling in on the comfortable racing grounds. Unlike those of Mons Olympus, they didn’t use a track. For that matter, they didn’t use horses.
The crowd nearest the racing grounds was of a different, finer variety. Linen and cotton brightened to glowing rayon and vinyl, trimmed lavishly with buttons burnished to look plastic. Fingers, curled around the stemmed handles of tea cups, flashed with gems. Broad hats and plastic veils sheltered gentle heads from lowland heat. Heaven forbid that the residents of Mons Olympus should suffer any discomfort.
And above it all rose the shrieking cacophony of conversation, the mindless chatter like gulls tearing into fish. Only the Olympians of the noblest rank, seated at elegant tables close to the finish line, waited in stony silence.
Then something gold flashed on the horizon, and all sound extinguished like a dying candle.
The mysterious, solitary glint glided against the red ridge of the desert. Other lights appeared behind it—russet, fawn, jet—but they paled against the brilliance of the single star.
“It’s the Phoenix,” someone in the crowd said with satisfaction. But none of his fellows answered. They were staring too intently at the distant specks.
The series of lights, a glowing constellation, drew slowly nearer, dashing above the crimson desert until the spectators could make out the suggestion of enormous, powerful wings, driving the gem-like shapes forward.
The mounts drew agonizingly close, until the crowd could see the lightness of every speckled feather, the deadly curve of talons and beak, and the vast, hollow wings that propelled them onward. They saw the pilots: small figures in the liveries of a dozen cities, clinging saddle-less to their feathery steeds. They were all small young women—the better to lighten their mounts’ loads—but the girl that clung to the leading falcon was the smallest and youngest of them all, and the only one who wore the scarlet of Mangalia. Sunlight flashed against her golden mask.
“She’s so thin; I can’t believe she eats,” someone protested. “She’ll kill herself if she keeps this up.”
“Surely she’s too young,” another said. “It’s against the rules.”
And always, the whisper, “Who is she?”
Their fellows ignored them. Every plumed fan or tapping cane stilled as the falcon screamed above them, streaking past its fellows. A collective gasp rose from their throats as, with a last thunderous clap of wings, the falcon and its pilot soared across the finish line.
Screams of elation rose above the crowd as the rest of the flock flapped past the golden flags that signaled both start and finish, their pilots slumping dejectedly. A few bright golden coins, stamped with the emblem of Mons Olympus, changed hands in the crowd, but few were foolish enough to bet against the Phoenix. She had won almost every race for the past six months, and some whispered there was magic in her spurring heels or in her swift falcon.
Clapping hands and hooted cheers greeted her latest victory. Once again, only the nobility of Mons Olympus abstained from the merriment. The glassy surface of their untouched tea stirred with the force of the cheers, but none looked to the victor, now surrounded with aides and admirers, or even at each other.
One girl in bright golden silk, her hair strung with ribbons of the same hue, set down her fan with a decisive snap.
“Who is she?” she asked, tilting her head to regard the shapes flying above. “Every time I send riders to follow her, she l
oses them, and the mask keeps anyone from identifying her. Her livery is from Mangalia, but they haven’t produced a pilot in years. I doubt they could afford a bird if the whole city pooled funds!”
She sat at a table for four, along with two boys with such similar faces that they were surely her brothers. They made a handsome set, all dressed in the same livery. And all three avoided looking at the fourth member of the table.
“They call her the Phoenix,” the older boy said, draining his cup. “She’s an idol to these locals, Lucia darling. Few from Mangalia still fly.”
“She doesn’t look old enough for it, and she’s demolishing my pilots.” Lucia frowned. “I don’t spend that much gold outfitting these birds so they can be beaten by some self-taught, inbred yokel.”
The older boy’s eyes flicked to his silent brother, and the hint of a mischievous grin played about his mouth.
“If you must know,” he said with feigned reluctance, “young Leandro is the one who’s paying for her to fly.”
“What?” Lucia shrieked, choosing to ignore the gasps and muffled oaths at the tables around her. “Lee, is Dario telling the truth?”
Lee closed his eyes, his brow etched with a line like it ached. “Give over, Lucia. We don’t need to talk about this.”
“I will not give over!” Lucia cried. She stamped her foot as best she could while sitting down. “Who is she? If you don’t tell me her name this instant, I’ll send riders down to seize her and bring her up here.”
“Give it a rest, Luce,” he snapped, eyes still closed. “She’s some little brat from Mangalia. You can’t expect me to remember her name.”
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll—”
“What, Lucia? You’ll wh—”
“Stop.”
The three siblings, who controlled wealth and power beyond the dreams of most mortals, dropped into silence when the fourth person at their table spoke.
“Leandro,” their father said, “are you sponsoring the so-called Phoenix?”
