Spectrum of a Forgotten Sun

by E. C. Tubb

  The stands were packed but there was no jostling, no voices raised in argument and Dumarest knew why. An armed society is a polite one; when a look or word can bring injury or death then neither are lightly given. And surrounded by people ready to gun down anyone killing without cause an aggressor was forced to have regard for the code.

  Hendaza said, "You have no doubts as to the procedure, Earl? If there is anything you need to know don't hesitate to ask. As your official mentor and aide it is my duty to help you in any way I can."

  He had done his best, arriving an hour before dawn, fussing as Dumarest had bathed, worried at the little he had eaten. Now he stood at his side in the opening leading to the arena-a courtyard ringed with rising tiers of stone which served as seats. In another opening across the empty space Galbrene would be waiting.

  Dumarest said, in order to please the man, "Are all challenges fought like this?"

  "Not exactly. We stand as you are now but we are armed. Pistols-and the first one down or hit yields the day. We walk at the signal and fire at will." He rubbed at his chin, perturbed, torn with conflicting loyalties. Dumarest was a stranger, Galbrene was not, yet he liked Dephine despite what she had done.

  "But all serious challenges are to the death?"

  "Yes."

  "And if the victor should decide to be merciful?"

  "I don't know." Hendaza frowned. "I don't think it has ever happened. But if-"

  The blast of a trumpet drowned what he was saying. A second note and the ritual began.

  Dumarest stepped forward, seeing the shift of shadow in the far opening, the sudden appearance of a man. Like himself Galbrene was naked aside from abbreviated shorts. His hair was freshly cropped and his beard was little more than a fuzz the shorn hair offering little chance of a hold. Oil shone on his body so that little gleams of reflection accentuated the firm musculature beneath the skin. Ropes and ridges of muscle packed with animal-like power. The body of a man who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of physical perfection.

  Dumarest slowed a little, feeling the coolness of sand beneath his feet, the firmness of stone beneath the layer of grit spread to ensure good traction. Galbrene walked a little wide-legged, the result of the bulging muscle padding the inside of his thighs. His arms too were lifted away from his body, thick biceps and massive forearms ending in broad, splayed hands and fingers.

  Dumarest could understand Hendaza's shocked incredulity when he had demanded they meet without weapons. "But, Earl, you can't! It would be madness!" The man had wanted him to fight with pistols-but that would have given Galbrene the advantage. He had used guns all his life. A knife would have given Dumarest a better chance, but to demand one weapon was to open the door to an alternative demand. The whole point of the code was that the opponents should be as equal as possible, the only way to ensure that right would triumph.

  And so they were to fight almost naked and hand to hand.

  "Fool!" snapped Galbrene as they came closer. "Why waste your life on such a harlot? Yield now and I will be merciful."

  Dumarest hesitated, appearing to consider the offer, noting the slight bunching of the toes of Galbrene's right foot, the swing of his left arm.

  "If it can be made to look good I'm willing," he said. "I didn't expect anything like this. Dephine-"

  He broke off as Galbrene charged, stooping, taking the rasp of a bunched fist over his shoulder, twisting and feeling the slamming blow of a foot against his side. His own hand grabbed at the ankle, slipped on the oil, rose with a stiffened edge to hit hard behind the calf. He had tried for the knee but it had been beyond reach. Deliberately he made the blow weak.

  They broke and circled, hands lifted, feet sidling on the sand. Again Galbrene rushed in, hands pummeling, a knee jerking upwards, his head lowering in a butt to the face. Dumarest moved to one, side, dodged the knee, took a blow on the upper arm, sent his own clenched fist rising upwards to pulp the tissue of the nose.

  "Fast!" Galbrene dashed blood from his lip with a sweep of his hand. "You move like a greased olcept. But how long can you keep it up?"

  Longer than if he wasted breath in talk. Dumarest backed, dodged as the other rushed again, wove from the reaching hands and struck twice at a bicep. Blows which could have been delivered to the air for all the damage they seemed to have done.

  "Fast but weak!" Galbrene laughed. "And you claim to be a champion? Dephine could have done better. Too bad, my friend, but now you die!"

  A quick end to the combat and a greater enhancing of his own prowess. A mistake, one Dumarest had helped him to make. Galbrene, confident of his own physical superiority, had forgotten the danger of guile.

  Dumarest dropped as hands reached towards him, spinning to one side, his hand grabbing up a mass of sand, stinging grains which he threw into the other's narrowed eyes. As the cloud of grit wreathed Galbrene's head he rose, hands poised, the edges like blunted axes as they struck at the point where the neck joins the body. Blows which would have broken an ordinary man's neck, ruptured arteries and sensitive tissue. Blows which met solid muscle which did not yield.

  Dumarest felt a fist drive into his stomach, another scrape the edge of his jaw. Excited, unthinking, Galbrene pressed forward, eager to pound, to pulp, to destroy. His massive fists were like hammers which beat and beat as if he were a smith working at an anvil. Blood from his broken nose ran unheeded over his face to smear his chest and dapple the sand with carmine stains.

  Dumarest ran. He turned and raced over the sand, to halt, to run again as like an engine of destruction Galbrene pounded after him. A race to gain time, a retreat in order to clear his head of the flashing stars the other's fists had created. Movement to wear the other down a little, to rob his blood of needed oxygen.

  A small gain, but in the arena small gains could spell the difference between victory and defeat.

  "Slow down!" yelled Galbrene. "Stand and fight like a man!"

  A demand echoed from the stands where men and women leaned forward, shouting, faces avid, eyes reflecting their hunger. The lust for blood and pain and death, the primeval desire always to be found when the veneer of civilization was torn away and the true nature of the beast was revealed.

  "Kill! Kill! Kill!"

  The shouts were like the beat of a drum, a command to Galbrene, one which spurred him on to gain even greater fame than he possessed. The weakness of the culture to which he belonged; a society which insisted that a man always needed to prove himself without end.

  "Kill!"

  Dumarest halted, turned, ducked as the arms came towards him to rise within their circle, his hands stabbing upward with stiffened fingers, hitting the soft flesh beneath the chin, the windpipe and larynx. As the arms locked around his torso he swept his hands up and back, sent them forward to stab at the eyes. The left missed, the fingers catching the heavy brow to slip upwards to the cropped hair. The right plunged home, turned the eye into a thing of ruptured tissue and oozing fluids, sent blood to gush over the cheek and shoulder as, too late, Galbrene jerked his head to one side.

  "Kill!"

  Hurt, the man was still dangerous, the more so because of his pain. Dumarest felt the arms tighten and struck again at the neck, the remaining eye. Galbrene, eager to save his sight, leaned back, his arms slackening a little and Dumarest ducked, rammed the top of his head beneath the other's chin, jerked down his elbows and, resting his hands on Galbrene's shoulders, lifted his feet and slammed them hard against the point where the thighs joined the body.

  A move which, had it worked, would have torn him from the crushing constriction of the arms.

  One which failed.

  Galbrene snarled, moved, and Dumarest felt his feet slip from the oiled skin. He settled them again on the other's insteps, his own arms circling the thick torso, fingers interlocking, the muscles of back, shoulders, thighs and loins straining as he fought the pressure which threatened to splinter his ribs and drive the jagged ends into his lungs. The constriction which, unless stopped, wo
uld snap his spine like a rotten twig.

  "Kill!" The shouting was another thunder to add to the roar in his ears. "Kill!"

  Galbrene was strong, but his head was being bent backwards and his back arched as he yielded to the pressure. A loss of leverage which alone was saving Dumarest's life. One which the other could regain by throwing himself down, twisting free his head, using his legs and massive arms to their full advantage.

  Dumarest felt him shift, felt a foot slip from where it rested, the other as Galbrene jerked back his legs, sensed the coming jerk which would free the trapped head. Releasing the grip of his arms he sagged, turned limp as if stricken land then, as Galbrene shifted his own grip and moved his head, Dumarest lifted up a knee in a savage blow at the groin.

  Had it landed as he intended it would have killed, as it was the knee hit bone as Galbrene twisted, slid up over the stomach to be trapped as again the enclosing arms exerted their pressure. Dumarest sent the other to join it and rode for a moment with both legs doubled, knees resting against Galbrene's stomach and then, with an explosive release of energy, he burst clear and was hurtling backward to land on the sand, to roll, to spring to his feet and dart in again to the attack.

  To pause as Galbrene swayed.

  A momentary pause made in order to gauge the situation. The man looked dazed, turning vaguely so as to present his blind side towards Dumarest. An advantage only a fool would waste.

  "In, Earl! In!"

  Dephine's voice, high, shrill and close. During the fight they had moved to where she sat on the lower tier, now leaning forward, both hands extended before her, the fingers pressed together and pointing into the arena. A thing Dumarest noticed before he reached his opponent and sent his hands to do their work, the stiffened edges crashing against vital centers, repeated blows delivered with blinding speed which sent the man slumping to the ground.

  "Kill!" screamed Dephine. "Kill him, Earl!"

  But there was no need. Galbrene was dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  The chapel was as he remembered, the gloom dispelled only by the tiny flames of the vigil lights illuminating the broken weapons, small patches of brightness to reveal the sacred things. A custom Dumarest could understand; each man had his sacred thing, something set apart in a special place or carried like a vision in heart or mind. For some it was a scrap of cloth, a gem, a faded image, a tender memory. For himself it was an entire world, his home, Earth.

  "Earl?" Navalok rose from where he had been kneeling his face taut in the glimmering light. A face tense with strain and marred by envy. "I saw you fight," he said. "They didn't know I was there but I managed to sneak in and stay out of sight until the battle had commenced. Twice I thought he had you but both times you recovered to gain the final victory." He added, wistfully, "I wish I could fight like that."

  "A wise man doesn't need to fight at all," said Dumarest.

  "You aren't wearing his badges." The luminous eyes examined the plain tunic. "It is your right to wear them, Earl. They will tell all of your prowess. Didn't they offer you the badges?"

  The badges, the gun, some items of personal jewelry which he had taken.

  "And the gun," said Navalok. "Why aren't you wearing a gun?"

  "I haven't the right."

  "But-" The boy paused, frowning. He was troubled at the contradiction; Dumarest had killed an armed adult in fair fight and by the custom all the man owned in the way of personal gear was his as the spoils of victory. And yet he, a proven fighter, carried no gun. No visible and accepted proof of his manhood.

  "The gun was proof of Galbrene having won his trophy," said Dumarest. "It was his trophy, not mine. Until I gain my own I have no right to carry a gun. Isn't that the case, Navalok?"

  An appeal to his knowledge. An adult talking to him as if he were an equal. A red tide of pleasure rose to suffuse the pale cheeks.

  "Technically you are correct, Earl. A small point, perhaps, but one of importance. To defy the custom would be to invite challenges and there could be many who would be eager to prove themselves." He spoke like an old man who has spent too many years breathing the dust of books. "In any event gaming a trophy would be, for you, a mere formality."

  Again the envy, the wistful longing, emotions too long repressed and triggered into stinging wakefulness by his sight of the recent combat.

  Dumarest said, "How would I go about it?"

  "Go into the hills, find an olcept, kill it and return with its head to place before the Shrine." Navalok added, "No guns, of course, only hand-weapons such as a sword, a spear or," he glanced at Dumarest's boot, "a knife."

  "Do I need witnesses?"

  "Usually a youngster is accompanied by an adult when he sets out to make his kill, but there is no law insisting on it. Just return with a trophy-that will be enough."

  A small thing, quickly said and casually mentioned, but Dumarest could sense the fear in the artificially stilted voice, the sick longing which must make the boy's life a hell. To venture out, to kill, to return in triumph.

  The dream of one branded as a coward.

  Dumarest turned, avoiding the luminous eyes, looking around the chapel. Nothing seemed to have changed but something was missing. Something he had expected to find.

  Navalok said, when he mentioned it, "Galbrene isn't here, Earl. He has been taken to the preparation rooms of the Hall of Dreams."

  "Is that normal?"

  "He died in combat. Before he is laid out for those who wish to pay their homage he must be presented as they remember him. Later he will be taken and set in his place there to sit and dream for eternity."

  Dumarest said, "You know these things. Is that how you spend your time? In studying the traditions and customs of your Family?"

  Navalok said, dully, "My father died in the crash which left me with a twisted foot. My grandfather fell to a death-challenge. My mother formed a new alliance and has a younger son. By custom and tradition I should take my place at the Highest Table and don the authority of the House. It is necessary for the one who rules to know the history of the Family and be able to pass judgment on the right of any challenge and any appeal. To be weak is to risk dissension and destructive partisanship. It has happened before when brother fought brother and no man could be sure of who was a friend. So I study in order to be able to pass the tests of fitness and knowledge. Fitness as to determine judgment, of course, the other-"

  Dumarest saw the eyes move to the broken weapons, the lights, the thing they represented. Strength and courage and the visible proof of manhood. He remembered Hendaza's sneer. The boy must gain his trophy soon or be relegated to the lower strata there to be scorned and treated with disdain never to take his high position.

  A problem, but not his.

  "The preparation rooms," he said. "Where Galbrene is lying. Could I see him?"

  An unusual request, he could tell it from the sudden shift of the eyes, the abrupt look of wonder. A man defeated was, by his victor, a man forgotten.

  "Yes, Earl, if you want."

  "I do. Is it far?"

  * * * * *

  It was where he should have known it would be, set close to the House, forming an integral part of the structure and now overlaid by a maze of rooms and chambers. The great doors were clear and it was obvious the walls had been extended and would be again in order to accommodate what rested within.

  Dumarest followed Navalok as the boy guided him to a room which stank of chemicals. A dimly lit place containing stone slabs set on a stone floor, runnels channelling the flags and leading to a drain. A second chamber held a great vat of noxious liquid in which naked bodies like flensed beasts floated beneath the surface, held down by broad straps weighted with lead.

  An old man, armed with a long wooden paddle, stirred the liquid and held up a hand to cup an ear as the boy shouted at him.

  "Who? Galbrene? He isn't ready yet."

  "I know. Where is he?"

  "Waiting presentation. In the annex." The man thrust his paddle irrit
ably into the liquid. "Hasn't a man enough to do without young fools asking stupid questions? Get on your way, now. Move before I splash you!"

  Galbrene lay in a smaller room, one scented with floral perfumes and lit by the gentle glow of yellow lamps. He rested supine on a wooden table, a decorated cloth covering his body, his hands crossed over his chest. In the soft lighting he seemed to be asleep.

  "Earl?"

  "Leave me," said Dumarest.

  "But-"

  "There is something I must do." And then, with quick invention, "A homage I must make to ease myself of the burden of his anger. It is a custom of my people."

  And explanation enough to anyone born into a culture obsessed by tradition and ritual.

  As Navalok padded from the room Dumarest leaned forward and studied the body. The damage to the eye had been masked and the nose set straight. The blood, sweat and ofl had been washed away and, aside from a slight puffiness of the lips and the dark mottle of bruises on the throat the man looked unharmed.

  A jerk and the covering fell away to leave the dead man naked.

  Slowly Dumarest inspected him, turning over the body and lifting the arms. He found it beneath the left shoulder-blade, a small, dark-edged puncture, one which could have been made with a heavy bodkin. He leaned close and sniffed at it, pressed the surrounding flesh with his thumbs and sniffed again. A wound too small to have attracted attention and those who had washed and prepared him had no reason to search for anything unusual. Even if they had spotted it it would have meant nothing to them.

  Navalok was waiting in the room containing the stone couches. One was occupied now by the body of a young woman, the soft flesh marred by wounds in the stomach and chest.

  "The Lady Sepranene," explained Navalok. "They've just brought her in. She challenged the Lady Glabana and wouldn't listen to good advice. She insisted it should be without armor and she had the right."

  "To die?"

  "To insist. Glabana, so she claimed, was making advances to her lover. The act wasn't denied and after she had publicly accused the woman a challenge was inevitable."