“What are you doing here, slave?” he demanded.
chapter XIII
HERE WAS A PRETTY PASS! Everything seemed to be going wrong; first, the summons to the banquet hall; then Zithad; and now Myr-lo. I hated to do it, but there was no other way.
“Draw!” I said. I am no murderer; so I couldn’t kill him unless he had a sword in his hand; but Myr-lo was not so ethical—he reached for the radium pistol at his hip. Fatal error! I crossed the intervening space in a single bound; and ran Myr-lo, the inventor of Kamtol, through the heart.
Without even waiting to wipe the blood from my blade, I ran into the smaller room. There was the master mechanism that held two hundred thousand souls in thrall, the hideous invention that had strewn the rim of the great rift with mouldering skeletons.
I looked about and found a heavy piece of metal; then I went for that insensate monster with all the strength and enthusiasm that I possess. In a few minutes it was an indescribable jumble of bent and broken parts—a total wreck.
Quickly I ran back into the next room, stripped Myr-lo’s harness and weapons from his corpse and removed my own; then from my pocket pouch I took the article that I had purchased in the little shop. It was a jar of the ebony black cream with which the women of the First Born are wont to conceal the blemishes upon their glossy skins.
In ten minutes I was as black as the blackest Black Pirate that ever broke a shell. I donned Myr-lo’s harness and weapons; and, except for my grey eyes, I was a noble of the First Born. I was glad now that Myr-lo had not been at the banquet, for his harness would help to pass me through the palace and out of it, an ordeal that I had not been looking forward to with much relish; for I had been wearing the harness of the commonest of common warriors, and I very much doubted that they passed in and out of the palace late at night without being questioned—and I had no answers.
I got through the palace without encountering anyone, and when I approached the gate I commenced to stagger. I wanted them to think that a slightly inebriated guest was leaving early. I held my breath as I approached the warriors on guard; but they only saluted me respectfully, and I passed out into the avenues of Kamtol.
My plan had been to climb the façade of the hangar building, which I could have done because of the deep carving of its ornamentation; but that would probably have meant a fight with the guard on the roof as I clambered over the cornice. Now, I determined to try another, if no less hazardous, plan.
I walked straight to the entrance. There was but a single warrior on guard there. I paid no attention to him, but strode in. He hesitated; then he saluted, and I passed on and up the ramp. He had been impressed by the gorgeous trappings of Myr-lo, the noble.
My greatest obstacle to overcome now was the guard on the roof, where I had no doubt but that I should find several warriors. It might be difficult to convince them that even a noble would go flying alone at this time of night, but when I reached the roof there was not a single warrior in sight.
It took me but a moment to find the flier I had selected for the adventure when I had been there before, and but another moment to climb to its controls and start the smooth, silent motor.
The night was dark; neither moon was in the sky, and for that I was thankful. I rose in a steep spiral until I was high above the city; then I headed for the tower of Nastor’s palace where Llana of Gathol was imprisoned.
The black hull of the flier rendered me invisible, I was sure, from the avenues below on a dark night such as this; and I came to the tower with every assurance that my whole plan had worked out with amazing success, even in spite of the untoward incidents that had seemed about to wreck it in its initial stages.
As I drew slowly closer to the windows of Llana’s apartment, I heard a woman’s muffled scream and a man’s voice raised in anger. A moment later the prow of my ship touched the wall just below the window; and, seizing the bow line, I leaped across the sill into the chamber, Myr-lo’s sword in my hand.
Across the room, a man was forcing Llana of Gathol back upon a couch. She was striking at him, and he was cursing her.
“Enough!” I cried, and the man dropped Llana and turned toward me. It was Nastor, the dator.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”
“I am John Carter, Prince of Helium,” I replied; “and I am here to kill you.”
He had already drawn, and our swords crossed even as I spoke.
“Perhaps you will recall me better as Dotar Sojat, the slave who cost you one hundred thousand tanpi,” I said; “the prince who is going to cost you your life.”
He commenced to shout for the guard, and I heard the sound of running footsteps which seemed to be coming up a ramp outside the door. I saw that I must finish Nastor quickly; but he proved a better swordsman than I had expected, although the encounter quickly developed into a foot race about the chamber.
The guard was coming closer when Llana darted to the door and pushed a heavy bolt into place; and not a moment too soon, for almost immediately I heard pounding on the door and the shouts of the warriors outside; and then I tripped upon a fur that had fallen from the couch during the struggle between Llana and Nastor, and I went down upon my back. Instantly Nastor leaped for me to run me through the heart. My sword was pointed up toward him, but he had all the advantage. I was about to die.
Only Llana’s quick wit saved me. She leaped for Nastor from the rear and seized him about the ankles. He pitched forward on top of me, and my sword went through his heart, two feet of the blade protruding from his back. It took all my strength to wrest it free.
“Come, Llana!” I said.
“Where to?” she asked. “The corridor is full of warriors.”
“The window,” I said. “Come!”
As I turned toward the window, I saw the end of my line, that I had dropped during the fight, disappear over the edge of the sill. My ship had drifted away, and we were trapped.
I ran to the window. Twenty-five feet away, and a few feet below the level of the sill, floated escape and freedom, floated life for Llana of Gathol, for Pan Dan Chee, for Jad-han, and for me.
There was but a single hope. I stepped to the sill, measured the distance again with my eyes—and jumped. That I am narrating this adventure must assure you that I landed on the deck of that flier. A moment later it was beside the sill again, and Llana was aboard.
“Pan Dan Chee!” she said. “What has become of him? It seems cruel to abandon him to his fate.”
Pan Dan Chee would have been the happiest man in the world could he have known that her first thought was for him, but I knew that the chances were that she would snub or insult him the first opportunity she had—women are peculiar that way.
I dropped swiftly toward the plaza. “Where are you going?” demanded Llana. “Aren’t you afraid we’ll be captured down there?”
“I am going for Pan Dan Chee,” I said, and a moment later I landed close to Nastor’s palace, and two men dashed from the shadows toward the ship. They were Pan Dan Chee and Jad-han.
As soon as they were aboard, I rose swiftly; and headed for Gathol. I could feel Pan Dan Chee looking at me. Finally he could contain himself no longer. “Who are you?” he demanded; “and where is John Carter?”
“I am now Myr-lo, the inventor,” I said; “a short time ago I was Dotar Sojat the slave; but always I am John Carter.”
“We are all together again,” he said, “and alive; but for how long? Have you forgotten the skeletons on the rim of the rift?”
“You need not worry,” I assured him. “The mechanism that laid them there has been destroyed.”
He turned to Llana. “Llana of Gathol,” he said, “we have been through much together; and there is no telling what the future holds for us. Once again I lay my heart at your feet.”
“You may pick it up,” said Llana of Gathol; “I am tired and wish to sleep.”
Part 3
ESCAPE ON MARS
chapter I
T
HERE WERE FOUR OF US aboard the flier I had stolen from the hangar at Kamtol to effect our escape from The Valley of the First Born: Llana of Gathol; Pan Dan Chee of Horz; Jad-han, the brother of Janai of Amhor; and I, John Carter, Prince of Helium and Warlord of Barsoom.
It was one of those startlingly gorgeous Martian nights that fairly take one’s breath away. In the thin air of the dying planet, every star stands out in scintillant magnificence against the velvet blackness of the firmament in splendor inconceivable to an inhabitant of Earth.
As we rose above the great rift valley, both of Mars’ moons were visible, and Earth and Venus were in conjunction, affording us a spectacle of incomparable beauty. Cluros, the farther moon, moved in stately dignity across the vault of heaven but fourteen thousand miles away, while Thuria, but four thousand miles distant, hurtled through the night from horizon to horizon in less than four hours, casting ever changing shadows on the ground below us which produced the illusion of constant movement, as though the surface of Mars was covered by countless myriads of creeping, crawling things. I wish that I might convey to you some conception of the weird and startling strangeness of the scene and of its beauty; but, unfortunately, my powers of description are wholly inadequate. But perhaps some day you, too, will visit Mars.
As we rose above the rim of the mighty escarpment which bounds the valley, I set our course for Gathol and opened the throttle wide, for I anticipated possible pursuit; but, knowing the possibilities for speed of this type of flier, I was confident that, with the start we had, nothing in Kamtol could overhaul us if we had no bad luck.
Gathol is supposed by many to be the oldest inhabited city on Mars, and is one of the few that has retained its freedom; and that despite the fact that its ancient diamond mines are the richest known and, unlike practically all the other diamond fields, are today apparently as inexhaustible as ever.
In ancient times the city was built upon an island in Throxeus, mightiest of the five oceans of old Barsoom. As the ocean receded, Gathol crept down the sides of the mountain, the summit of which was the island on which she had been built, until today she covers the slopes from summit to base, while the bowels of the great hill are honeycombed with the galleries of her mines.
Entirely surrounding Gathol is a great salt marsh, which protects it from invasion by land, while the rugged and oft-times vertical topography of the mountain renders the landing of hostile airships a precarious undertaking.
Gahan, the father of Llana, is jed of Gathol, which is very much more than just a single city, comprising, as it does, some one hundred forty thousand square miles, much of which is fine grazing land where run their great herds of thoats and zitidars. It was to return Llana to her father and mother, Tara of Helium, that we had passed through so many harrowing adventures since we had left Horz. And now Llana was almost home; and I should soon be on my way to Helium and my incomparable Dejah Thoris, who must long since have given me up for dead.
Jad-han sat beside me at the controls, Llana slept, and Pan Dan Chee moped. Moping seems to be the natural state of all lovers. I felt sorry for Pan Dan Chee; and I could have relieved his depression by telling him that Llana’s first words after I had rescued her from the tower of Nastor’s palace had been of him—inquiring as to his welfare—but I didn’t. I wished the man who won Llana of Gathol to win her by himself. If he gave up in despair while they both lived and she remained unmated; then he did not deserve her; so I let poor Pan Dan Chee suffer from the latest rebuff that Llana had inflicted upon him.
We approached Gathol shortly before dawn. Neither moon was in the sky, and it was comparatively dark. The city was dark, too; I saw not a single light. That was strange, and might forebode ill; for Martian cities are not ordinarily darkened except in times of war when they may be threatened by an enemy.
Llana came out of the tiny cabin and crouched on the deck beside me. “That looks ominous,” she said.
“It does to me, too,” I agreed; “and I’m going to stand off until daylight. I want to see what’s going on before I attempt to land.”
“Look over there,” said Llana, pointing to the right of the black mass of the mountain; “see all those lights.”
“The camp fires of the herdsmen, possibly,” I suggested.
“There are too many of them,” said Llana.
“They might also be the camp fires of warriors,” said Jad-han.
“Here comes a flier,” said Pan Dan Chee; “they have discovered us.”
From below, a flier was approaching us rapidly. “A patrol flier doubtless,” I said, but I opened the throttle and turned the flier’s nose in the opposite direction. I didn’t like the looks of things, and I wasn’t going to let any ship approach until I could see its insigne. Then came a hail: “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” I demanded in return.
“Stop!” came the order; but I didn’t stop; I was pulling away from him rapidly, as my ship was much the faster.
He fired then, but the shot went wide. Jad-han was at the stern gun. “Shall I let him have it?” he asked.
“No,” I replied; “he may be Gatholian. Turn the searchlight on him, Pan Dan Chee; let’s see if we can see his insigne.”
Pan Dan Chee had never been on a ship before, nor ever seen a searchlight. The little remnant of the almost extinct race of Orovars, of which he was one, that hides away in ancient Horz, has neither ships nor searchlights; so Llana of Gathol came to his rescue, and presently the bow of the pursuing flier was brightly illuminated.
“I can’t make out the insigne,” said Llana, “but that is no ship of Gathol.”
Another shot went wide of us, and I told Jad-han that he might fire. He did and missed. The enemy fired again; and I felt the projectile strike us, but it didn’t explode. He had our range; so I started to zigzag, and his next two shots missed us. Jad-Han’s also missed, and then we were struck again.
“Take the controls,” I said to Llana, and I went back to the gun. “Hold her just as she is, Llana,” I called, as I took careful aim. I was firing an explosive shell detonated by impact. It struck her full in the bow, entered the hull, and exploded. It tore open the whole front of the ship, which burst into flame and commenced to go down by the bow. At first she went slowly; and then she took the last long, swift dive—a flaming meteor that crashed into the salt marsh and was extinguished.
“That’s that,” said Llana of Gathol.
“I don’t think it’s all of that as far as we are concerned,” I retorted; “we are losing altitude rapidly; one of his shots must have ripped open a buoyancy tank.”
I took the controls and tried to keep her up; as, with throttle wide open, I sought to pass that ring of camp fires before we were finally forced down.
chapter II
THAT WAS A GOOD LITTLE SHIP—staunch and swift, as are all the ships of The Black Pirates of Barsoom—and it carried us past the farthest camp fires before it finally settled to the ground just at dawn. We were close to a small forest of sorapus trees, and I thought it best to take shelter there until we could reconnoiter a bit.
“What luck!” exclaimed Llana, disgustedly, “and just when I was so sure that we were practically safe and sound in Gathol.”
“What do we do now?” asked Pan Dan Chee.
“Our fate is in the hands of our ancestors,” said Jad-han.
“But we won’t leave it there,” I assured them; “I feel that I am much more competent to direct my own fate than are my ancestors, who have been dead for many years. Furthermore, I am much more interested in it than they.”
“I think perhaps you are on the right track there,” said Llana, laughing, “although I wouldn’t mind leaving my fate in the hands of my living ancestors—and now, just what is one of them going to do about it?”
“First I am going to find something to eat,” I replied, “and then I am going to try to find out who were warming themselves at those fires last night; they might be friends, you know.”
“I doubt it,” said
Llana; “but if they are friends, then Gathol is in the hands of enemies.”
“We should know very shortly; and now you three remain here while I go and see if anything edible grows in this forest. Keep a good lookout.”
I walked into the forest, looking for roots or herbs and that life giving plant, the mantalia, the milk-like sap of which has saved me from death by thirst or starvation on many an occasion. But that forest seemed to be peculiarly barren of all forms of edible things, and I passed all the way through it and out upon the other side without finding anything that even a starving man would try to eat.
Beyond the forest, I saw some low hills; and that gave me renewed hope, as in some little ravine, where moisture might be held longest, I should doubtless find something worth taking back to my companions.
I had crossed about half the distance from the forest to the hills when I heard the unmistakable clank of metal and creaking of leather behind me; and, turning, saw some twenty red men mounted on riding thoats approaching me at a gallop, the nailless, padded feet of their mounts making no sound on the soft vegetation which covered the ground.
Facing them, I drew my sword; and they drew rein a few yards from me. “Are you men of Gathol?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied one of them.
“Then I am a friend,” I said.
The fellow laughed. “No Black Pirate of Barsoom is any friend of ours,” he shot back.
For the moment I had forgotten the black pigment with which I had covered every inch of my face and body as a disguise to assist me in effecting my escape from The Black Pirates of the Valley of the First Born.
“I am not a Black Pirate,” I said.
“Oh, no!” he cried; “then I suppose you are a white ape.” At that they all laughed. “Come on now, sheathe your sword and come along with us. We’ll let Gan Hor decide what is to be done with you, and I can tell you right now that Gan Hor doesn’t like Black Pirates.”
“Don’t be a fool,” I said; “I tell you I am no Black Pirate—this is just a disguise.”
The Collected John Carter of Mars (Volume 3) Page 55
