The Hand of Grethia: A Space Opera

by Guy Antibes

  Jan could see a twinkle in the King’s eyes as he said, “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Come!” Obsomil rose with the word. “Let us discuss this further. in private.” In a louder voice he said, “Court is closed.” Others struggled to maintain some kind of ritual that ended the session, which Obsomil obviously ignored, as the King stepped through a door at the back of the throne room. Jan’s guard followed Obsomil to the door. “I have him now. Bloodin, come with us,” glared Obsomil at the guards. They shrunk back and let an older man through.

  Taking Jan by the arm and waving the inert blaster under his nose, the king and his advisor led Jan away from a rather concerned court. The trio walked along a back corridor to a large door. Lord Bloodin opened it for Obsomil.

  A small fire greeted the men since the day was warm, but he imagined that the palace stayed cool most of the time. Jan liked the size of the room. This had to be for informal meetings with overstuffed furniture filling the carpeted floor. Over the fireplace was the head of a large animal Jan had never seen before. The walls were paneled in a medium brown wood with gilding highlighting the carved molding. The ceiling arched over the fireplace. Windows echoing the arch let light into the room on both sides. Jan walked to the window and down into a courtyard filled with lush plants. He turned to look at Bloodin and Obsomil sitting down on facing couches.

  “So, Bloodin, our off-worlder has finally arrived. We have our sign to proceed.” Obsomil waved the blaster meaningfully. “We have the means and perhaps the agent himself. We will take the Hand now!” Obsomil declared virtually ignoring Jan.

  “Your Majesty, what has changed?” Bloodin looked at Jan doubtfully. To Jan’s eyes, General Lord Bloodin appeared to be a weathered, yet vigorous man of about sixty. Not quite what he must have been in his prime, Bloodin nevertheless exhibited a strong commanding presence. “What is your name?”

  “Jan Smith, late of Impollon IV, a planet far, far away.” Jan had nothing more to say at present. He was intent on finding out what this hyperactive lion of a king was up to.

  “Master Smith removed something from the instrument before he handed it to you. I would say it enables it to operate. Am I right?” Bloodin raised his eyebrows in an inquiring look at Jan. The look was all Jan needed to know that Bloodin knew all about him.

  Jan nodded affirmative.This man is no fool and he is a very cool foil to the King’s enthusiasm, he thought.

  “I noticed that also, Bloodin. That is why I took it. If he meant me harm he wouldn’t have given it to me so easily. No matter. We now have a secret device that will get us into the temple at Alchant and give us the Hand.”

  “I can’t let anyone use the weapon except myself,” Jan said, looking levelly at the King.

  “Well, you look a resourceful lad. You’ll be the one to retrieve the Hand. You’re marooned from another planet and need sponsorship. Bloodin’s cousin sent us your story. We know of the star ship that can’t move and the excitement you caused in Garst’s village.”

  “I have to conserve the power left in my blaster—the weapon. I need to learn how to live as you do, so I have not used it until today. As you said, I’m marooned on your planet. I seek a way to power my ship and to do that I will need some help, so I am at your disposal, King Obsomil.” Jan gave the king a bow.

  “You may not know that Habamil’s people had you followed from Grammley village. I would say you are in dire need of a sponsor. That is something I can do myself. But you will do as I ask. I am the king here, you know.” Obsomil laughed. “Your device may be wonderful for demonstrations, but it will not stop all of Diltrant. Besides, as you heard I have a mission for you.” The king grinned as he extended his hand. “Slap it! That’s our gesture of consent.” Obsomil kept his grin up. Jan tentatively slapped at the hand. “You’ll have to do better than that off-worlder!”

  ~~~

  Chapter 8

  Jan looked over his shoulder. The darkening mist kept him from seeing any danger from behind. He had to glance longer than he would have liked to see who might follow him. He stopped and tried to look interested at the display in a meat shop window. His heart beat wildly and he tried to keep from over-ventilating. A barefooted man dressed in a plain, rough-woven tunic over tattered trousers hurriedly rushed past, obviously on an errand for his master. Through the window, plucked chicken bodies hung in a row above the dressed meat. He chanced a sideways glance, peering into that gathering darkness.

  Jan did not exactly present an unobtrusive figure. Red velvet cloak, trousers and gloves made him standout under the lanterns that lit the shop. A large sword clanked loudly at every step and drew attention away from the only blaster in the world, holstered in a makeshift pouch at his other hip. No one in Grethia had seen a blaster before, so a casual observer would see it as large purse and nothing more. A scowl crossed his face--his eyebrows, furrowed.

  The mist darkened further and the lights from the shop made his red cloak stand out even more. Jan had stood exposed long enough. He adjusted his cloak and hurried towards the docks.

  The steps of the stone walkways began to echo as most of the waterfront denizens had found refuge from the cold, dark dampness that the evening mist brought. Jan stopped suddenly. Footfalls more than echoed his own and made two or three more sounds, then stopped. He had no doubt someone followed him. Despite the damp, Jan slipped off his boots revealing soft leather shoes beneath instead of stockings. He removed the clanking sword when he found a suitable hiding place and quickly, silently, rushed off into the mist.

  ~

  Jan held the cup of hot brew tightly to warm his hands. “Halfway from the temple. I knew for sure I was followed. That mist came in and swallowed me up, just like you said. The last thing I wanted was a confrontation with anyone. The sword you gave me was so huge and noisy. I was glad to be rid of it.” The light swayed slightly in the cabin of the ship rolling with the gentle rise and fall of the water.

  “The danger is not yet past, off-worlder,” Yorg, the stocky ship’s captain said. He put a hand to his beard and tugged it to and fro in a gesture that seemed to indicate that his mind churned. If that were truly the case, he thought furiously while he talked to Jan. “Your pursuers, as covert as they were, don’t worry me, but I think we’d better not wait for the best time of the tide. We’ll put out now. I’ve let it known to those in the Port that we may be leaving tonight in any case.” Yorg rose and went topside leaving the young man in red alone—Jan’s breathing had not yet returned back to normal after his ordeal in the town.

  The sway of the ship increased as they put out to sea. The calls of the seamen were muffled. Yorg told him that the pilot knew the channel by feel. Even still, as far as Jan could tell, the boat made slow headway with the sails, meeting resistance from the slowly outgoing tide. At intervals, he heard seamen calling out soundings that were made in the channel.

  Suddenly, he heard a concerned voice. “Captain,” It was the mate who bellowed from topside, “There’s a Murgrontian Shark ship heading toward us!”

  “I knew it wouldn’t be so easy!” said Yorg as he came back down into his cabin, his bad mood becoming foul. “Jan, it seems your twilight stroll may have initiated more attention, after all. We will show these Murgrontians what makes Diltrant the real rulers of the seas. Jontri!” Yorg called out to his first mate, “Put three measures of fuel into the drive system and get us out of here, said out the open door to his cabin.

  Jontri ambled down the ladder with a large pot and set it down. Two other seamen followed and left after leaving their containers. The captain and Jan stood aside while the mate moved the tabletop to reveal an engine of sorts. Jontri poured out a thick black liquid from all three containers into a hopper, pulled on a rope, and then pushed a lever to get the engine moving.

  After a few tries, the engine belched into life. Jan heard a hissing sound that turned into boiling and a slow grating of gears. Jan could see the arcing of a spark from a crude electrical circuit used to fire small amounts of
fuel dropped from the tank. With the engine’s sound, there was little doubt that Diltrant used oil-powered steam engines. The electrical firing mechanism reminded him of old fashioned internal combustion engines. This seemed to be a combination of the two.

  As the engine built up speed, the mechanical sounds smoothed out. Jontri closed up the access cover to the engine, and then followed Yorg up the ladder. Three sailors removed the big pots while Jan could feel the ship picking up speed. He looked out the rear windows of the cabin. No longer coasting on the light wind and the tide, the Diltrantian vessel cut through the glassy water creating a wake that boiled over the lightly rolling surface of the water. He could see the sleek Murgrontian ship slowly, but steadily, falling behind, fading into the mist.

  Yorg walked back into the cabin and smiled as he observed the receding ship from the stern window. His nerves had settled down as evidenced by a deep breath. He peered at Jan and said sharply, “Show me the Hand.” Yorg looked excited to view the artifact.

  Jan went to his cloak and parted a section of the lining and pulled out a purple velvet pouch. Jan put it on the table, loosened the drawstrings and showed Captain Yorg a gem about two inches in diameter. The facets of the jewel reflected tiny spots of light from the candles into cramped rumpled cabin when he put it close to the flame.

  The captain’s eyes gleamed, “This is incredible. This must be the fabled Eye of Gort. Now let’s see the Hand.”

  ~

  Deep within the Grethian Temple of Alchant Port, a disheveled priest cursed. The light within the temple was a wash of deep blue light coming from glowing paint on the walls, but the dimness didn’t stop him from rushing down ancient stone stairs.

  The Grethian priest had long uncombed hair. It radiated from his face, exaggerating his features as the emotions churned within him. In the light, the aura of his hair backlit from behind gave him an ethereal look. His eyes were wide with whites showing all around his pupils. His face twisted in a grimace. His silver Grethian amulet swung back and forth on his neck as other priests joined him in his run down the stairs. They quickly halted as they entered a large subterranean chamber.

  His eyes rolled around the room and centered upon a short column. Upon the pedestal, a pillow of velvet revealed a cavity that was made by an object no longer there. “The great Eye of Gort has been taken from our midst! Our greatest secular treasure,” the priest muttered to two acolytes hunched and trembling beneath the cowls covering their heads. The priest’s features body jerked nearly uncontrollably. He turned as other priests filled the room.

  A thin late-middle-aged man confidently strode into the chamber. A low fringe of hair ran from just above his ears to low in the back of his head. Ichar, the High Priest of the Grethian Temple of Alchant had entered the room, the center of the Grethian Priesthood. He held up his hand in the manner of the amulet. The disheveled priest stood at Ichar’s side and tried to control himself with little success. He looked upon Ichar with barely concealed anger.

  “What has happened here, Pola?”

  The wild-eyed priest fidgeted with his hands. “Our inner sanctum has been violated and the Eye of Gort stolen. We must flood the city with priests to find the thieves.”

  “Settle down. I have men watching tonight and every night. How could you have let such a thing happen? The Sanctum is your responsibility.” Although the room was dimly lit in blue, Ichar’s eyes burned with cold passion. His gaze drew the priests back from the velvet pillow. The indentation lay unchanged.

  The despair that Pola felt turned to outrage on the face of Ichar. Some other thoughts must have run through Ichar’s mind hardening his knitted brow. His eyes flashed.

  “Check the alcove of the Hand ... and quickly!” Ichar said.

  Pola made the connection of the loss of the Eye of Gort to a possible theft of the Hand at the same time.

  Two of the priests walked over a golden metal circle, inset in the floor. A hidden stud was pushed and the circle swiveled to reveal a small chamber hidden in the floor. Pola reached in and pulled out… an empty velvet bag. How could this be? Utter sacrilege! He screamed and tore at his hair.

  The rest of the priests, now as deflated and empty as the bag, began to wail and throw themselves on the floor. Someone had stolen the great Hand of Grethia. The spiritual key to the power of the priesthood of Grethia in Port Alchant was now lost! If the eyes of Ichar burned before, they were lances of lightning, only competing with intensity to the violation that the wild-eyed priest felt.

  Ichar jerked Pola’s sleeve in anger. “Come,” he said to Pola. “There is nothing more we can do here.” Ichar’s scowl did not change as they ascended the many stone steps leading up from the room. The pair passed the main level of the Temple and ascended polished marble steps to Ichar’s official chambers, midway up the pyramid shaped temple.

  As they entered his room Emon, the Captain of the Temple Guard, immediately stood. “High Priest Ichar, what happened? Was the Temple truly violated?”

  Peering from his smoldering, hooded eyes, Pola heard Ichar declare, “The Eye of Gort has been stolen. I don’t know how it was done. Evidently, some of our priests were drugged. They still haven’t regained consciousness yet. Its value is monetary only. Have your people seen anything suspicious, Emon?” Pola noticed that Ichar didn’t mention the Hand.

  “We followed a person, a tall young man. But he couldn’t be a burglar...not the way he was dressed. We lost contact with him to the mist as it came in from the sea. A merchant ship from Diltrant was seen leaving tonight. We asked a Murgrontian shark ship to intercept it, but this one was powered by one of their cursed engines. The ship was left far behind,: Emon said.

  “I’ll tell you, we have lost the Hand of Grethia for now, but that relic will light the path to our enemies. The theft and the fleeing ship are connected. Pola and others of the priesthood may pay King Obsomil an unannounced visit.” Ichar looked out of the window to his quarters at the dark port beyond. The mist now swallowed all light.

  “Let me know how your guard may help,” Emon said. He bowed to Pola and Ichar and left the room.

  ~~~

  Chapter 9

  Jan smiled and pulled the second bag from his cloak. “The red coat, as ostentatious as it seems, provided me with a black cloak of invisibility in the blue light inside the temple. I don’t know if I’ll ever see colors normally again.” Jan blinked, almost involuntarily at his remarks.

  “Here is the Hand of Grethia,” he announced as he slid the relic from the bag, a translucent stone in the size and shape of a common building brick. Inside a distinct a representation of a hand could be seen, upraised like the amulets of the priests. “Watch this...” Jan took a lantern from a hook and brought close to the Hand. As the yellow light was brought closer, the hand disappeared.

  Yorg cried out in anguish “The stone! You have destroyed the Hand! Obsomil will have your head for this.” Yorg’s anguish turned to anger.

  “Steady, Yorg. Watch again,” Jan said as he moved the lantern away. The hand reappeared and began to wash the room again in its glow as soon Jan turned down the lamp.

  “I found out about that as I looked at the hand outside of the temple when I first got out onto the street. You think you were shocked! I didn’t want to go back into the temple and find another hiding place. I thought I had the wrong thing until I turned into a dark alley, away from the light. By the way, your intelligence on the Temple was superb.”

  “I can’t say I completely trusted the information from a priest that likes good wine and, fortunately for us, good little boys,” Yorg said with a sour look on his face. “A person is ripe for exploitation, even if there is a tiny bit of evil among the good. Just the same, we were fortunate to get such accurate intelligence. Good work from both of us led to success.”

  Jan nodded in agreement and turned back to examine the relic. “You know, this Hand is not a stone at all, you know.” He knocked the side with his finger, hearing a dull sound. It’s a piece of pla
stic or clear resin. Man manufactured this. The Hand is made out of substance that appears in the dark and glows. I’m not sure how it acts as a key. In that respect I’m as ignorant as any of you.” Jan admitted half to himself.

  “Your escapade still worries me. Did you get a good look at the men who followed you?” Yorg said. “I can’t help connecting your shadow and our marine shadow. Alchant and Murgrontia might be talking to one another again. That is not a good thing to contemplate. The king must know.” Now it was Yorg speaking half to himself. “Jan, here have some of this ale. You look tired. Maybe you should get some rest.”

  “I won’t argue with you on that point, Captain. I hope this Hand is the key King Obsomil wants.” Jan drained the mug of liquid and lay down on a bunk. Yorg looked down at the young man. Jan thought he noticed him shaking his head ruefully when he went topside.

  ~~~

  Chapter 10

  The jagged edges of lofty crags split sunlight into shards, striping the land below into light and shadow. The trees in the valley below reflected a brilliant gold-green back at the emerging day. A mist hung low in the air, giving a crisp, idyllic, look to the scene. Below the trees, a stone building belched black smoke from numerous chimneys. Its length and low height minimized the size of the structure. Within, the inhabitants were starting the day.

  In the ancient Great Room, once a meeting place for Grethian priests, men were already gathering. The beginnings of morning fires in four fireplaces spaced around the hall began to dissipate the chill. Smoke leaked into the room and made the shafts of sunlight from windows in the roof appear like pillars holding up the roof. A gallery surrounded the entire room with corridors leading off to quarters. Tapestries covered the stacked-stone walls on the main floor. Flags and banners hung out into the cavernous room from the second floor above with the upper floor broken up by the corridor entrances and an occasional display of arms and hunting trophies.