The Valley Where Time Stood Still

by Lin Carter

  The priest hissed wordlessly, bobbed his head, and scuttled over to snatch up Thaklar’s pistol. Chastar took it from him and examined the weapon. It bore no clan crest, for it had been purchased from a smuggler in the back alleys of Yeolam. He grunted something and thrust it within his belt.

  “Who are you and how did you get here?” he demanded harshly.

  “My name is Thaklar, and I walked most of the way.”

  Chastar opened his mouth as if to challenge that, but then his eyes narrowed as he took in, perhaps for the first time, the worn and weary and dust-laden condition of Thaklar’s clothing.

  His eyes fell next to the half-conscious Earthman at Thaklar’s feet. He indicated him with a nod.

  “What is that you have with you? Are you a friend to the accursed Outworlders, or perhaps in their pay?”

  Thaklar shook his head stiffly.

  “I bear no love for the F’yagha—as a race. But the man who lies here in the shadow of death, although it is true he is a F’yagh, is my friend. My brother.”

  Without speaking, the other man studied him with cold, curious eyes. He suspected that there were words left unspoken; he hesitated.

  “Thaklar—that is your name? But you do not name your nation,” he observed.

  Thaklar said: “No more than you name yours, and for the same reason. Because I have no nation; I am aoudh. An outlaw, as I have already told you.”

  “He lies,” a clear, sweet voice sang from the shadows.

  At the sound of that voice Thaklar froze and his grim face went pale.

  Now the third of the band stepped forth from the shadow of the pillar into the open sunlight.

  It was a woman. A girl, really, from her shallow pointed breasts and long, slim, coltish legs. Her hair was a banner of black silk flung carelessly back over strong, slender shoulders to pour down her spine like a cataract of glittering ink. Her face was heart-shaped, elfin, with broad cheekbones, slanted eyes, and a small, pointed chin. It was a mask of tawny, smooth loveliness, that face, with a wide, full-lipped mouth on which malicious laughter sat enthroned. There was mischief in the immense sparkling eyes that flashed like wet jewels under thick lashes. She was beautiful, the girl; she was very beautiful. Even in the dreamlike stupor of his fever, the manhood in M’Cord responded to the promise and the tempting allure in that beauty.

  She strolled out into the sun-lit plaza, lazy and languid, like a slim, tawny cat. The eyes of the men were upon her, and she knew it. She basked in their gaze.

  Holding their eyes, she stretched and arched her slim, supple back, and yawned a small, pink-mouthed little kitten yawn. Her eyes twinkled as she took in her audience with a quick flicker of a glance; then thick lashes fell demurely, masking her gaze.

  Chastar stood regarding her with baffled, wary puzzlement. The little priestling watched her appraisingly, his eyes drawn into slits. But Thaklar stood as one thunderstruck, his face frozen into an expressionless mask of cold bronze.

  Only his lips moved, whispering a name. The word fell into the silence, which absorbed it as sun-baked dust drinks up a droplet of moisture. The others did not hear that name, but M’Cord heard it.

  The name was … Zerild.

  VII. The Empty Place on the Map

  It was a curious tableau, the sun bright but shedding no heat, the worn, crumbling, ancient stones, and the motionless group.

  Sprawled in the shadow of the wall, M’Cord felt somehow detached from it all. He was a mere spectator, while the others were the actors in this little drama.

  For a moment the girl held them with her witchery. But then the moment passed.

  “I say again: he lies,” the girl said, smiling. There was mischief and mockery in her eyes. She grinned at them all; then she turned away.

  Chastar was tense and nervous. He tinned upon her swiftly, his eyes hard and wary again.

  “What is it that you would say? Speak, woman, and have done with these hints and mockeries!”

  “Yes. How does he he, lady?” murmured the hunched little old man with the shaven pate. He still held the gun clenched in knotted, ugly hands. The muzzle of that gun pointed directly at Thaklar’s heart. And it did not waver.

  Thaklar stood impassively, arms folded upon his breast. His face was devoid of any expression at all.

  The girl shrugged.

  “A lie is a lie,” she said.

  Chastar spat and swore viciously.

  “Do you know this man, slut? Speak! Answer me, Zerild, or I will lay your back open with the whip. Do you know this man?”

  She looked at him and laughed.

  “You will not touch me with that great whip of yours, for if you do, then you will never learn from me the way to The Holy. So watch your tongue and mind your manners, red wolf, or you will lock my lips on silence, if you are not careful, and I will seek another to go with me to the Valley.”

  “Curse you, wench!” the outlaw snarled. “You will strangle yourself with that tireless tongue of yours, someday. Now answer with no more foolishness: do you know this man or don’t you?”

  Her lazy, mocking eyes turned to meet the stony gaze of Thaklar.

  Then they looked away.

  “We have met,” she said, shrugging carelessly.

  “Well, then? You say he lies—what is the lie, curse you!” Chastar spat. Dreaming, M’Cord knew somehow that they were constantly at each other’s throats, the wolf-man and the cat-woman; the love between them—if they were indeed lovers—must be a wild, furious thing of claw scratches and brutal buffets.

  She lifted one slim hand to toy with the little copper bells woven in her hair. They chimed faintly, making soft, whispering music whenever she moved.

  “He is a prince of the Dragon Hawk nation,” she said indifferently. “Or, at least, he was when I knew him.” Something unspoken hung behind her words. Chastar began breathing heavily; the smell of male jealousy was heavy in the air, like sour musk.

  “He had you? You were lovers, then? Speak, you silken tormentor!” he cried out, his voice harsh and raw and thick with murderous fury. She eyed him lazily, coolly, eyes faintly disdainful.

  “If you prefer to think so,” she said.

  “I know it; I can taste in on the air,” growled Chastar, breathing heavily. There was murder in his eyes now, and the hands that held the gun shook with the intensity of his emotion.

  The man was strung too taut, M’Cord thought dreamily. His nerves were raw, exposed. The slightest touch stung him to fury. And the dancing girl played with him like this—taunting him, teasing him? It was like playing with a naked razor.

  “If you like,” Zerild shrugged. “But the truth of the matter is that he has never once touched me—no, not so much as to lay his hand upon me. Not that he did not wish to, and very strongly. Almost as strongly as you, Chastar.” Mockery sparkled in her eyes until the lashes veiled them again.

  The odd thing was that her words seemed to calm the wolfish outlaw. Perhaps it was that he knew she always spoke the truth, or perhaps it was merely that he wished from the very roots of his soul to believe her. At any rate, the murderous fury faded from his burning eyes and he grew calmer. Indeed, a sardonic humor welled up from within him; he looked Thaklar over from head to foot, and laughed a little. It was an ugly laugh—cruel and gloating.

  “Ah! Now I understand It! He is the princeling from whom you tricked the secret of the Road, eh, wench? Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Faugh! You are a sly and devious slut, upon my honor! Well, princeling; and how does it feel to have been the dupe of a woman like her, eh?”

  Thaklar was sweating under his tunic, but he remained poised and outwardly cool. The emotional tensions between these persons were subtle and complex—too complex to be grasped easily. He shrugged, ignoring the malice behind the bantering tone.

  “You know how it feels, Chastar,” he grinned. “I think she dupes you, too. Or have you had better luck than I, and actually got your money’s worth—in bed?”

  That
stung the outlaw. He swore and took an impulsive step forward, one hand falling to the butt of the whip which hung coiled at his waist.

  Then Zerild laughed—a silvery music, cold and lovely. “He has had no more of me than have you, O Hawk!” she said. “And it has chafed him raw. Oh, you men; you men! You must forever be trying to possess something, to own it, to grapple it to you with chains or oaths or promises! But I am Zerild—a free woman! I do not give myself lightly, but when I give, I give utterly.”

  “And do you ever give, then?” asked Thaklar.

  The girl laughed, flaunting her vivid beauty before him. For a moment her eyes met his, freely, joyously, as if sensing a kindred spirit. Then the little witch-lights of mockery danced in them again and they turned cruel.

  “I have never given myself to a man yet; for I have yet to meet the man worthy of the gift! Know, O Hawk, that when I do meet such a man, he will have all of me. You others, wolf-Chastar and your ilk, all you will ever have of me is a glimpse—a whisper of my laugh—a wisp of perfume on the air!”

  Chastar stared at her hotly.

  “I will have you when I want you. I have told you that. I—take what I want. You shall be mine, Zerild!”

  “Perhaps,” she yawned. “And perhaps not. But anyway, that was not part of the bargain. You are to make easeful my road to The Holy; and I am to be the signpost that tells you the way. And we are to share the treasure that we shall find there together, you and I. As for anything else, it was not in the pact. If it shall happen between us, then it shall happen. If not, then it shall not.”

  Chastar turned to regard Thaklar.

  “So you followed the wench here, eh, princeling? The taste of cuckoldry is bitter on the tongue, eh?”

  “Not cuckoldry,” said Thaklar, smiling. “For you took from me nothing which ever once I possessed. She has told the truth in that, at least, wolf. Nor does it seem you have her yet. But I did not follow her; I came here thinking that I might find her here. And 1 came alone.”

  “For revenge—is that the name of it?”

  “Some might call it that. But I have another name for it.”

  Chastar made an impatient gesture as if to shove all of this away from him.

  “I grow weary of all this wagging-of-tongues. What shall we do with them, eh, Phuun?”

  The little priest regarded the two with flat eyes, hard and dull.

  “Kill them, lord. What else?”

  Chastar grinned viciously—a wolfish leer that bared his long teeth as a snarl would bare them. But before he could speak, Thaklar laughed. The unexpectedness of the reaction made the outlaw pause; he blinked puzzledly.

  “Now, here is another marvel! First we have a man who follows a woman he hates halfway across the world— and not for revenge. And now he laughs in the very mouth of death! Riddle me this wonder, priest!”

  “I will riddle it for you,” Thaklar said. “The Road is unfinished.”

  The words hung there in the sun-baked silence. Chastar blinked.

  Zerild turned back to face them, hands on slim, rounded hips.

  “He lies again, Chastar. Kill him now, wolf, for we cannot take the Road with an enemy among us. He will slay us all while we sleep, for only thus may he redeem his error in yielding the secret unto me. Kill him, wolf, and perhaps I will love you for it—a little, anyway!”

  “You will not take the Road at all, woman, because you do not know the way,” Thaklar said calmly.

  Chastar turned his gaze upon Zerild.

  “Now, by the gods, woman, have you lied to me after all? Know you the way to Ophar, or don’t you?”

  Thaklar laughed boldly, and sat down in the shadows. “Ah, wolf, you have trusted a woman who betrays men because she loves to do so; and now you, too, have been betrayed! Is it possible, then, that she has never shown you the map? I see by the look in your face that thus it is. Well, there is one part missing from that map—one portion left blank. And only I know what should be written there; therefore, if you slay me, you shall never reach the Valley and live to tell the tale. Ask her to show it to you, if you think I lie.”

  Chastar glowered upon Zerild, and she shrank from meeting his gaze and bit her lip in vexation. The priest kept his gun trained on Thaklar and M’Cord; but he watched the outlaw and his woman with cold and hungry eyes.

  “Is this true?” Chastar breathed between his teeth.

  “It is true … there is a blank spot on the map … but—”

  “But—what?”

  “But the—the silver is worn and frail and very old, and I … I thought that the markings were merely rubbed away…..”

  “And that is where you made your mistake, woman,” Thaklar said softly from the shadows. “For my ancestors knew well that, guard a treasure however you will, there will always be men clever enough to steal it in the end. So they left part of the secret chart unmarked, and that which should have been marked there was handed down from father to son in spoken words, whispered from the deathbed. You can never reach Ophar alive, unless I go with you to tell you the way.”

  “How can we trust you, knowing that you are the guardian of that which we have contrived to steal? You will trick us all into the jaws of death, to keep the secret safe,” snarled Chastar.

  Thaklar calmly watched his working face and furious eyes.

  “That, Chastar, is your problem. You must find a way to convince me that you will not have me slain the moment we are past the place where only I can guide you.”

  Chastar stared at him blankly.

  “Do you mean to say—you will go with us, to the Valley?”

  Even Zerild stared with amazement at the princeling. He laughed and stretched wearily.

  “What else is there to do?”

  “But why?” demanded the outlaw.

  Thaklar shrugged. “Perhaps because I am as curious as any other man, and would know the truth behind the old story. Or because, like any other man, I hunger to live forever—eternally young, eternally strong.”

  He sat up, rubbing his face.

  “But now—let us have done with talking for a while. Let it be a truce between us, for a little. You have my word as a prince of the High Blood that I shall not attempt to slay you when your backs are turned. I am weary and would rest; hunger and thirst quarrel together in my belly, so that even I cannot say which yowls the loudest. And my brother here is very weak and ill with the sickness; are there medicines here, or be one of you a healer— the priest, perhaps?”

  “There is a F’yagha healer in our camp,” muttered Chastar, nodding to the ruined palace across the plaza. “My prisoner; he will have medicines. Phuun—take them

  hence and see them locked within with the Hated Ones. My brain whirls with all these words. We will speak together when we dine, princeling. Come, woman! I would see this precious map of yours at last, to make certain how much of your words have been lies!”

  They left the square, Chastar and the dancing girl, and . Phuun, nudging with the barrel of his gun, indicated the far building. With a groan of weary muscles, Thaklar bent and took up the burden of his brother once again and carried him into the building.

  As for M’Cord, this latest and strangest dream of all faded as the brief spell of lucidity blurred into the red murk of nightmare again, and he sank back into the hot embrace of the fever.

  And when he next emerged to wakefulness, it was to look up into the face of an angel.

  II

  THE ROAD

  TO OPHAR

  VIII. A Time of Healing

  At least, she looked like an angel to a man who had seen no women but wine-shop sluts and back-alley wenches for more years than he cared to count. Her hair was cornsilk yellow, tied back with a scrap of cloth, tumbling about the nape of her neck in careless, shining curls. The thermalsuit she wore was old and stained and loose-fitting; but even it could not really conceal the slim, strong lines of her body nor the rounded fullness of her breasts.

  Her eyes were blue. There were lines of s
train about them, and shadow stains of weariness. And there was pain in them, an old pain, and a haunting guilt. They puzzled him, those eyes. The eyes of angels should be pure and candid and guilt-free.

  She was bathing his brows with a piece of scrap cloth soaked in astringent cleanser when he opened his eyes and looked up into her face. For a moment she did not notice that he was awake, nor did he realize that she was real. He lay there, blissfully relaxed, weak to the point of being feeble, but free of pain. Even the fever had drained from him: his mind was clear enough, but empty. And the pain in his leg, which he had lived with so long that by now it seemed like part of him—the pain was gone.

  He wished he could see her mouth. It would be soft and full-lipped, tender and vulnerable, that mouth. Somehow he knew it. But she wore a respirator. And angels would not need respirators, even here on Mars.

  “Did I… lose the leg?” he mumbled.

  She jerked, stared down at him, then turned her head away to call to someone he could not see. The name she called was Karl.

  A tall, youngish-looking man in a travel-stained thermalsuit came to look down at M’Cord over the girl’s shoulder. He had the soft, silken, white-blond hair and transparent white skin of some Scandinavians, especially Swedes. His face was tired and his blue eyes—weary, and very like the girl’s—had fear in them. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

  “How do you feel, Cn. M’Cord?” he asked in a high, husky voice.

  “Empty … washed out,” said M’Cord. “You a doctor?”

  The blond man shook his head. “Archaeologist. But Inga trained as a medic, once.”

  “Inga?” M’Cord cocked an eyebrow at the girl. “Your wife?”

  For some reason, the blond man flushed scarlet.

  “My sister. Excuse me, Citizen. My name is Nordgren, Dr. Karl Nordgren. Formerly of the Stockholm Institute of Extraterrestrial Historical Studies. Now on sabbatical, attached to the Syrtis Colonial Administration Department of Cultural Affairs.”