Lord of the Spiders or Blades of Mars

by Michael Moorcock

  It was to change the entire course of events and fling me into some strange adventures.

  It was to mean death to many.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Betrayed!

  The day of the great meeting dawned and Ora Lis had not returned. Nor had the search parties that had gone seeking her' discovered a trace of her. We all became worried, but priority had to be given to the meeting.

  The proud cilaks and orcilaks were arriving. They had travelled secretly and always alone. The Priosa patrols were ever wary for large groups of men who might represent danger.

  Fanners, merchants, artisans, dahara trainers, whatever their normal occupations they were all warriors. Even the Priosa tyranny had not been able to forbid the countrymen to give up their right to bear arms. And armed they were -to the teeth.

  Guards were stationed in the surrounding hills to keep a look-out for any Priosa patrol, though none was expected on this particular day, which was why the meeting had been called now.

  There were more than forty village-leaders and town-leaders there, all of them looking eminently trustworthy and with integrity ingrained in the faces. But there was independence too - the kind of independence that would prefer to fight its own battles and not rely on any group effort. Their habitual looks of suspicion changed somewhat, however, as soon as they entered the big room set aside for the meeting in Morahi Vaja's house. They saw Hool Haji there and they said, ‘He is like the old Bradhinak alive again!' And that was enough. There was no bowing of the knee or servile salute - they held themselves straight. But there was a new air of determination about them now.

  Having ascertained that all were convinced of Hool Haji’s identity, Morahi Vaja unrolled a large map of Mendishar and hung it on the wall behind him. He outlined our basic strategy and proposed tactics in certain conditions. The local leaders asked questions - very thoughtful and penetrating ones - and we answered them. Whenever we could not answer at once we discussed it.

  With men like these, I realised, pitched against the unwary Priosa, it would be no difficult feat to win the capital and wrest Jewar Baru's stolen power away from him.

  But still the feeling of disquiet was with me. I could not shift it, I was constantly on my guard, glancing about me warily, my hand on my sword,

  A meal was brought into the hall at midday and we ate as we talked, for there was no time to lose.

  By early afternoon the initial talking was over and smaller details were being discussed - how best to use certain small groups of men with a special fighting-skill, how to use individuals such as the local champion spearmen, and so on.

  By dusk most of us were satisfied that on the day set for the attack - in another three days - we should be ready and we should win!

  But we were never to make that attack.

  Instead, at sunset, we were attacked!

  They came on the village from all rides and we were hopelessly outnumbered and out-weaponed.

  They came in a charge, mounted on daharas, their armour shineing in the dying sunlight, their plumes waving and their lances, shields, swords, maces and axes flashing.

  The noise was terrible, for it was the baying blood-lust of men prepared - no, enjoying the prospect - to wipe out a village, man, woman and child.

  It was the cry of the wolverine debased in a human throat.

  It was a cry not only to strike terror into the hearts of the women and children, but into the hearts of grown, brave men. It was a cry that was merciless, malevolent, already triumphant.

  It was the cry of the human hunter of the human prey!

  We saw them riding through the streets, striking at anything that moved. The cruel glee on their faces was indescribable. I saw a woman die clutching her child. Her head was sliced off and the child impaled on a lance. I saw a man trying to defend himself against the battering weapons of four riders - and go down with a shriek of rage and hatred.

  It was a nightmare.

  How had this come about? We had been betrayed, that was plain. These were the Priosa, unmistakably.

  We rushed into the streets, standing shoulder to shoulder and taking the savage riders as they came at us.

  It was the end of everything. With us dead the people would be leaderless. Even if some escaped, there would not be enough to launch any sizeable revolt.

  Who had betrayed us?

  I could think of no one. Certainly not one of these village-leaders, men of pride and integrity, who were even now falling before the weight of the Priosa attack.

  Night fell as we fought - but darkness did not, for the scene was illuminated by the houses which the attackers had already set ablaze.

  If I had had any doubts that Hool Haji had exaggerated the cruelty of the tyrant and his chosen supporters they were quickly dismissed. I have never seen such sadism exhibited by one part of a race for another.

  Memory of it is still burned deep in my mind. I shall never forget that night of terror - I wish that I could.

  We fought until our bodies ached. One by one the brave hope of Mendishar fell in their own blood, but not before they had taken many of the better-equipped Mendishar with them!

  I met steel with steel. My movements became almost mechanical - defence and attack, block a thrust or a blow, deflect it, aim a thrust or a blow of my own. I felt like a machine. The events, the weariness, had momentarily driven all emotion from me.

  It was later, when only a few of us remained, that I became aware of a shouted conversation between Hool Haji and Morahi Vaja, who stood to my left.

  Morahi Vaja was remonstrating with my friend, telling him to flee. But Hool Haji refused to go. 'You must go - it is your duty!'

  'Duty! It is my duty to fight with my people!' 'It is your duty to choose exile again. You are our only hope. If you are killed or captured tonight, then the whole cause is destroyed. Leave, and there will come others to take the place of those who have died tonight.'

  I at once saw the logic of what Morahi Vaja said and added my voice to his.

  We continued to fight, arguing as we did so. It was a bizarre scene!

  Eventually Hool Haji realised that this must be so - that he must leave.

  'But you must come with me, Michael Kane. I - I shall need your comfort and your advice.'

  Poor devil - he was in a strange mood and might do something rash. I agreed.

  Pace by pace we retreated to where two men, grim-faced, held mounts for us.

  We were soon riding out of the devastated village, but we knew that Priosa would be encircling the place waiting for such an attempt - it was a standard tactic.

  I glanced back and again felt horror!

  A small group of defenders stood shoulder to shoulder just outside Morahi Vaja's house. Everywhere else were the dead - dead of both sexes and of all ages. Lurid flames licked from the once beautiful mosaic houses. It was a scene from Bosch or Breughel - a picture of hell.

  Then I was forced to turn my attention to the sound of dahara feet thundering towards us.

  I am not a man to hate easily - but those Priosa I hated.

  I welcomed the opportunity to kill the three who came at us, grinning.

  We used warm, much-blooded steel to wipe those grins from their faces.

  Then we rode on, heavy-hearted, away from that place of anger and cruelty.

  We rode until it was almost impossible to keep our eyes open and the cold morning came.

  It was then that we saw the remains of a camp and the outline of a prone figure stretched on the sward.

  As we neared the camp we recognised the figure.

  It was Ora Lis.

  With a cry of surprise, Hool Haji rode up to the spot and dismounted, kneeling beside the woman. As I joined him I saw that Ora Lis was wounded. She had been stabbed once with a sword.

  But why?

  Hool Haji looked up at me as I stood on the other side of the prone girl. 'It is too much,' he said in a hollow voice. ‘First that - and now this.'

  ‘Is it Priosa work?'
I asked quietly.

  He nodded, checking her pulse. 'She is dying,' he said. 'It is a wonder she has lived so long with that wound.'

  As if in response to his voice, Ora Lis' eyes fluttered open. They were glazed but brightened in recognition when they saw Hool Haji.

  A choking sob escaped the girl's throat and she spoke with difficulty, almost in a whisper.

  ‘Oh. my Bradhi!'

  Hool Haji stroked her arm, trying to frame words which would not come. Plainly he blamed himself for this tragedy.

  'My Bradhi -I am sorry.'

  'Sorry?' Words came now. 'It is not you, Ora Lis, who should feel sorry - it is I!'

  'No!' Her voice gained strength. 'You do not realise what I have done. Is there time?'

  'Time? Time for what?' Hool Haji was puzzled, though some sort of realisation was beginning to dawn in my mind.

  'Time to stop the Priosa.'

  'From what?'

  Ora Lis coughed weakly and blood flecked her lips.

  ‘I - I told them where you were . . .'

  She tried to rise then. 'I told them where you were ... Do you not understand? I told them of the meeting I was mad. It - it was my grief. Oh ...'

  Hool Haji looked at me again, his eyes full of misery. He realised now. It had been Ora Lis who had betrayed us - her revenge on Hool Haji for his rejection of her.

  Then he looked down at her. What he said to her then told me once and for all that he was a man in every sense - a man of strength and of pity also. 'No,' he said, 'they have done nothing. We will warn the - village - at once.' She died saying nothing more. There was a smile of relief on her lips.

  We buried the ill-starred girl in the loamy soil of the hills. We did not mark her grave. Something in us seemed to tell us not to - that in burying Ora Lis in an unmarked grave it was as if we sought to bury the whole tragic episode.

  It was impossible, of course.

  Later that day we were joined by several more fleeing Mendishar. We learned that the Priosa were hunting down all survivors, that they were hot on the heels of the warriors who had escaped. We also learned that a few prisoners had been taken, though the survivors could not name them, and that the village had been razed.

  One of the town-leaders, "a warrior in middle age called Khal Hira, said as we rode 'I would still like to discover who betrayed us. I have racked my brains and can think of no explanation.'

  I glanced at Hool Haji and he looked at me. It was at that moment, perhaps - though it might have been earlier - that we entered into an unspoken agreement to say nothing of Ora Lis. Let it remain a mystery. The only true villains were the Proisa. The rest were victims of fate.

  We did not answer Khal Hira at all. He did not speak thereafter.

  None of us was in any mood for conversation.

  The hills gave way to plains and the plains to desert country as we fled in defeat from the Priosa pursuers.

  They did not catch us - but they drove some of us, indirectly, to our deaths.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Tower in the Desert

  Khal Hira's lips were swollen but firmly clenched as stared out over the desert.

  Desert it was - no longer a bare wasteland of cracked earth and rock, but a place of black sand stirred into constantly shifting life by a perpetual breeze.

  We no longer found pools of brackish water, no longer knew, even roughly, where we were, save that we had travelled north-west.

  Our tough mounts were almost as weary as we were and beginning to flag. Here the sky was cloudless and the sun a throbbing, burning enemy.

  For five days we had ridden the desert, rather aimlessly. Our minds were still stunned by the sudden turn of events at the village. We were still badly demoralised, and unless we were able to find water soon we should die. Our bodies were grimed with the thick black desert sand and we were slumped in our saddles with weariness.

  There was nothing for it but to keep moving, to continue our hopeless quest for water.

  It was on the sixth day that Khal Hira keeled from his saddle. He uttered no sound and when we went to his assistance we discovered he was dead.

  Two more died on the following day. Apart from Hool Haji and myself, three others remained alive - if 'alive' is the proper word to use. These were Jil Deera, Vas Oola and Back Puri. The first was a stocky warrior of even fewer words than his fellows and very short for a Mendishar. The other two were tall young men. Of the pair, Bac Puri was beginning to show visible signs of losing his grip. I could not blame him - very soon the beating sun would drive us all mad, even if it did not kill us first.

  Bac Puri was beginning to mutter to himself and his eyes were rolling dreadfully. We pretended not to notice, partly for his sake, partly for our own. His condition seemed prophetic of the state we ourselves would soon be reaching.

  Then we saw the tower.

  I had seen nothing like it on Mars. Though partially ruined and seeming incredibly ancient, it bore no trace of erosion. Its partial destruction seemed to be the result of some bombardment, its upper sections having great jagged holes blown through them at some stage in the tower's history.

  It offered shelter, if nothing else. But it also told us that once there had been a settlement here - and where there had been a settlement there might have been water.

  Reaching the tower and touching it I was astounded to discover that it was of no natural substance - at least none that I could recognise. It seemed to be made of some immensely durable plastic as strong as steel - stronger, perhaps, since it had withstood any sort of damage from the corrosive sand

  We entered, my companions being forced to duck. Sand had drifted into the tower, but it was cool. We collapsed to the ground and, no one having spoken, almost immediately fell asleep.

  I was the first to awake. This was probably because I had not yet became fully used to the longer Martian night.

  It was barely dawn and I still felt weak though refreshed.

  Even in the condition I was in I felt curiosity about the tower. There was a roof about twelve feet above my head, but no apparent means of reaching the upper floor which must obviously be there.

  Leaving my sleeping companions, I began to explore the surrounding desert looking for some sign of water lying somewhere beneath the sand.

  I was sure that it must, but whether I would find it was an entirely different matter.

  Then my eyes caught sight of a projection in the sand. It was not a dune. Inspecting it, I found it to be a kind of low wall made of the same material as the tower. However, when I scraped away the sand I saw that the wall enclosed a surface also of the same material. I could not make out the purpose of this construction. It was laid out in a perfect square some thirty feet across. I began to walk towards the opposite wall.

  I was not cautious enough - or perhaps I was too weary - for I suddenly put one foot upon yeilding sand, tried to recover as T lost my balance, failed and fell downwards through the surface. I landed, winded and bruised, in a chamber half filled with sand. Rolling over and looking up, I saw that there was a jagged hole above me through which daylight filtered. The hole seemed to have been caused by the same thing that had torn the holes in the tower. Some attempt had been made to patch it and it was across the makeshift patch that sand had blown. It was through this that I had fallen.

  The patch was flimsy, originally a sheet of light plastic. I looked at a piece that had fallen with me. Again I could not recognise the substance, although not being a chemist I could not say whether the process was familiar on Earth of my own time or not. Like the tower, however, it spoke of an advanced technology not possessed by any of the Martian races with whom I had come in contact.

  Suddenly my weariness seemed to fall away from me as a thought struck me. The thought had many implications but I confess I did not think of my companions above but of myself.

  Was this a dwelling of the Sheev? If so, there might be a chance of being able to return to that Mars of the age I needed to visit - the age in wh
ich my Shizala lived!

  I spat the harsh sand from my mouth and stood up. The chamber was almost featureless, though, as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I made out a small panel on the far wall. Inspecting this I saw it consisted of half-a-dozen small studs. My hand hovered over them. If I pressed one, what would happen? Would anything happen? Maybe it was unlikely - yet the hand which had patched the roof might have kept any machinery alive. Was the place occupied? I was sure that other chambers opened off from this one. It was logical. If there were control studs there was machinery.

  I pressed a stud at random. The result was rather anti-climactic, for all that happened was that dim light filled the chamber, issuing from the walls themselves. This light revealed something else - a rectangular hairline close to the panel, speaking of a door. I had been right.

  And the power - or some of it, at any rate - was still working.

  Before exploring further I cautioned myself and returned to my position immediately below the gap in the roof. I heard faint voices. Evidently my companions had awakened, wondered where I was and had come to find me.

  I called upwards.

  Soon I saw Hool Haji’s face staring down at me in surprise.

  'What have you found. Michael Kane.'

  'Perhaps our salvation,' I said with a passable imitation of a grin. 'Come down - bring the others - see for yourselves what I've discovered.'

  Soon Hool Haji dropped down into the chamber, followed by Jil Deera and Vas Oola. Bac Puri was the last to swing downwards, looking intensely suspicious and still half mad.

  'Water?' said Bac Puri. 'Have you found water?'

  I shook my head. 'No. But perhaps we shall.'

  'Perhaps! Perhaps! I am dying!'

  Hool Haji put a hand on Bac Puri's shoulder. 'Calm yourself, friend. Have patience.'

  Bac Puri's tongue moved slowly across his swollen lips and he sank into a mood of sullen gloom. Only his eyes continued to dart about

  'What are these?' Jil Deera waved his hand towards the studs.

  'One of them brought this light,' I said. 'I presume that another activates the door -I cannot guess which.'