It was difficult to see. Eerie phosphorescent plants provided this section of the swamp with a dim lighting barely able to penetrate the wisps of green fog. Flash glimpsed huge tree trunks not twenty yards away; sometimes he saw the surface break as an Arborian creature passed by; occasionally Tree Men above jeered at the prisoners. These were but impressions. Soon his entire universe was centered on the cage and his efforts to save his fellows from drowning
Perhaps they had been struggling together for an hour when the Frigian said weakly, “It’s no use. I can’t hold on.”
“Never say die,” Flash replied sternly.
“I must. My suffering must end so I may be reborn.” The Frigian pushed himself away before Flash could prevent it. He sank, hardly causing a ripple in the smooth green surface.
Flash moved to go after him, then remembered the dying Hawk Man around his neck. He hesitated. Even if he managed to save the Frigian, the Hawk Man would die. Perhaps it did not matter. Both the Mongians were on the verge of death anyway, and what difference—one way or the other—did a few moments of life make? Flash did not resist the white hatred welling up inside him and saturating his spirit.
Damn Barin!
Four Tree Men alighted on the cage, causing it to sink a few more inches beneath the surface. They had stepped from a platform controlled by a pulley system. Two of Barin’s men held the arms of a gaunt man with sharp canines whose hands were bound behind him. The remaining Tree Man opened the hatch. He then kicked at Flash’s face through the space between the bars, supposedly to discourage any foolhardy escape attempts.
They freed the prisoner’s hands before they threw him through the opening and into the swamp. “Sleep well, you traitor,” said one. “We’ll pull out your heart in the morning!”
“Yes, if you live till morning!” said another.
The Tree Men stepped onto the platform and tugged on the ropes. They were soon lost behind the weak glow.
The new prisoner laughed.
“That’s the spirit,” said Flash. “There’s always hope.”
“Better than hope,” said Fico the minstrel. “I stole a key to this cage.” He held it before Flash’s face. “We’ll need weapons to cross the swamp. They’re stored in the temple. Will you climb up with me?”
“Damn straight I will!” Flash helped the Hawk Man get the best grip possible on the bars. Just before he and Fico opened the cage, he said, “Hold on, Hawk Man. We’ll be back. I promise.”
Angry that they had been prevented from escaping after the two left, the Lizard Men hissed and beat at the Hawk Man.
Prince Vultan felt the involuntary mating urges that signaled another three hours of irrational behavior and bawdy dancing just as soon as a female of his species succumbed to similar desires. As he held his dish to his mouth and picked up grain with his tongue, he was forced to admit today was a good time for mating. The skies were blue, the clouds were vivid white, and the Sky Palace shone with an utterly appealing dull luster. He set down the dish, plucked a few stray pieces of grain from his beard, and watched the procession of Hawk Girls carry the trays of dessert (pastries spiked with insects and grubs) to his men squatting on benches about the banquet tables. Would a Hawk Girl soon be overcome by the urges? Which lovely creature would the ineffable passions randomly select for him; with what creature would he spend a year of loving, cooing, and billing, discovering all sorts of unpleasant things about her personality (not to mention his own), only to have all emotional feeling between them evaporate into nothingness in a year’s time? One day they would be soul mates; the next he would be Prince of the Hawk Men and she would be an underling; perhaps a mutual friendship would grow as the eggs hatched and they supervised the education and flight training of their little ones, but the passion would be gone forever, merely a dim memory barely illuminating his lonely nights as he waited for the unpredictable mating urges to return.
The banquet room was an open-aired circle, with partitions of silver curtains and columns of metal squares strung together, all of which were purely nonfunctional but which lent such an attractive element that Vultan insisted the area be cleaned of droppings and fumigated every day. The landing docks led directly to the banquet room, and it was here that Vultan received dignitaries (or, more likely, captives) from other moons of the Mongian system. In the center was a flat, silver disk separated from the remainder of the room by seven meters.
His rear shaking with pleasure and excitement, Luro (still thin, dark, and unruly) stood at the entrance to the dock. “Fortune has smiled upon us!” he called. “Guess who Big Blue has brought us!” He pointed to the Hawk Men approaching in the sky.
Soon Dale and Zarkov, escorted by Hawk Men, entered. Dale smiled stiffly but sincerely. “Hi there, Prince Vultan! Remember us?”
Usually Vultan did not find mammals beautiful, but he thought in this case he would make an exception. “Indeed I do, my lovely!” he exclaimed. With a great laugh, he picked up Dale and set her down amidst the pastries on the table. Her high heels did not provide much footing on the slippery repast.
“We escaped from Ming’s palace,” said Zarkov. “We throw ourselves on your mercy and beg help.”
“You escaped from the palace?” exclaimed Vultan. “That sounds like a terrific story. You must tell it to me sometime.” As he spoke, he gestured for Luro to stand beside him. He whispered from the side of his mouth, “Call Ming. Tell him I’m ready to trade prisoners for my daughter Rima.”
“Call him?” exclaimed Luro. He then realized it was imperative for him to lower his voice. “At this time? He’s knocked off by now.” Luro nervously nibbled at his shoulder. “You know how the Emperor prizes his spare time.”
“Call him,” said Vultan sternly, between his teeth.
“I agree this is important and I agree that he’ll ask why he wasn’t informed at once, but he’ll order my execution before he even gives me a chance to tell him, and what’s more, he won’t change his mind. Don’t you remember Scurvo? Ming agreed wholeheartedly that the Lizard Rebellion demanded his immediate personal attention, but he had Scurvo tortured anyway. Just for the hell of it. I suppose Ming thought it amusing or something. I don’t really care. But I . . .”
“CALL HIM!” yelled Vultan, staring at his fists. His entire body trembled as he controlled his rage.
“You wouldn’t,” said Dale, getting off the table.
Zarkov stepped forward. “Vultan, listen, I understand you owe us nothing. All right, I can accept that. Still, and as a reasonable man you must concur with me, you can’t make deals with a madman. I know what I’m talking about because we tried that back on Earth and it didn’t work. You must destroy Ming before he destroys you.”
Luro laughed. “That’s easy for you to say. Ming’s army outnumbers us ten to one, and they have superior hardwear. Our weapons need at least another year of preparation before we can fight.”
Dale shrugged with a dignified air. “Humph. Ming’s not unbeatable.” She placed her arms on her hips and shook her shoulders. “All his boys couldn’t even kill Flash.”
Vultan spit out a mouthful of grain. Walking onto the table and over a bench, he exclaimed, “Gordon’s alive!”
“Where?” asked Luro, scrambling behind his Prince.
“He’s in Arboria. Prince Barin is aiding him!” Hans Zarkov, Earth scientist, man of peace, held his fist before Vultan’s face. “I tell you—now’s the time to strike!”
In the laboratory where Zarkov had been “brainwashed,” next to the chamber where Aura had been tortured, Klytus gave a sealed scroll to Ming. “Here is the confession, Your Majesty.”
Ming curled his lip as he took it; he bounced it in his hand a few times. “Excellent, Klytus. A wonderful bout of torturing, delicately performed.”
The masked man bowed. “I am honored to have received such praise.”
Ming waved it off, as if to say “Of course.”
“But I’ve one question, if I may.”
Ming nodded.
“What of the traitoress? Should I proceed with the execution?”
Placing his hands behind his back, Ming sucked in his stomach and raised his shoulders; he nearly swaggered down the steps to the lower level. “No, I think a year in Frigia should cool down my daughter. Then, who knows? Perhaps We might marry her off to someone worthy of her treachery.”
“Why, thank you, Sire,” said Klytus with genuine pleasure; he was already savoring the moment. “What can I ever do to repay you?”
“Just get me the traitors Gordon and Barin!”
Klytus bowed. “It shall be done!” He paused a moment. “With pleasure.”
Flash and Fico, the Tree Man, entered the dark temple; the former searched for weapons, and the latter knelt to pick up the sole weapon in the temple, a knife lying beneath a window.
“Where are the weapons?” asked Flash eagerly, though he secretly wondered how crossbows and knives would help him rescue his friends.
“Heh, heh, feel one,” replied Fico, pressing the point of a double-edged blade in Flash’s back. There was the heavy rustle of men making no effort to conceal their approach. Just like the cops, thought Flash. Each window was suddenly filled with Tree Men, their swords and knives bared.
Barin and the old priest entered the doorway as men standing outside ignited torches. The men in the windows were briefly silhouetted pitch black against the blinding white, and the visual effect encompassed Flash’s entire field of sight. The glow of the torches quickly diminished as the men jumped from the windows and surrounded Flash in a line of blades. The second shift hung the torches on fixtures inside the temple, then calmly withdrew their swords and knives, becoming a second row of blades as well.
Leaning against a wall, Barin restrained a smile with difficulty. “Do you know where you are?”
“Don’t you?” asked Flash.
“You have trespassed where only a Tree Man may enter!” said the old priest. “Fortunately Fico and a friend managed to see you commit this heinous crime. A stranger in our temple must try the Wood Beast or die!” His indignation could only have been the result of genuine rage; Flash guessed they both had been duped.
“It figures,” said Flash. “You guys must make up these dadblamed rules as you go along!”
“That has been our custom since time immemorial,” said Prince Barin. “You entered here of your own free will, Earthling. But I swear by the Great God Arbor, because of my word to Aura, I won’t kill you unless you beg me to.”
“If you’re so confident of victory”—Flash’s eyes narrowed—“then why don’t you try against me? How do you know your God Arbor isn’t on my side?” Improvising desperately, he knew a slim chance of victory was better than none at all.
The men regarded each other with hard, meaningful expressions. A few mumbled about the possibility Flash had been sent here by the ineffable.
That’ll be as good a reason as any, thought Flash.
As the Earthling had expected, Barin took it as a personal affront that his men would rationally consider the proposition. “The Beast lies somewhere in this stump. At all times, there are five safe passages; the Beast always inhabits the sixth. Its venom contains a substance so poisonous that the merest scratch infects its victims with a bliss so glorious and magnificent that it drives them insane. The victims slowly die witless.”
“You mean—like the Joke that Kills?” asked Flash.
“Something like that,” said Barin. “Are you scared? No? Well then, let the test begin!”
As the priest poked his staff into the stump, Flash glared at Barin. “You first,” he dared.
Snorting once, Barin removed his glove, tucked it in his belt, and walked toward the Wood Beast. When he thrust his arm into a stub, he stared at Flash as if his fate was a trifle in light of his overwhelming hatred. He withdrew his arm with a triumphant air. “What would Aura think of you now?”
Despite Barin’s cockiness, Flash could not help but notice that he had pulled out his arm somewhat quicker than the youth had. The Terran quarterback did not take the time to contemplate his approaching death or to move ponderously, as befits a man taking the loneliest walk. Returning Barin’s stare with an equal amount of antipathy, he abruptly thrust his arm into a stub. He trembled when he removed it.
Barin stuck in his arm up to the elbow. The creature hissed and growled, and Barin held his breath. But he pulled out his arm unharmed.
Once again, Flash thrust his arm. Barin licked his lips as he anticipated the inevitable. Rarely did the Wood Beast wait four times before striking. The Prince controlled himself with difficulty when, despite the Beast’s growling, it was apparent the Earthling was safe. For the time being.
“Second down,” said Flash, wiping perspiration from his brow. “Your play.”
Barin shook his head. “No, yours.”
“Are you sure these are the rules?”
“They’ve just been changed,” said Barin grimly.
Flash glanced at the Tree Men surrounding him. It appeared he had no choice but to continue. He thrust in his arm a third time, withdrawing it as soon as he dared.
With another nod, Barin indicated that Flash was to try a fourth time. Flash complied.
He gasped. The Wood Beast hissed. Flash’s mouth twitched and for a moment he had trouble retracting his arm. His hand covering his wrist where the wound should be, he whirled toward Barin. His eyes asked all the questions.
“Death is certain,” said Barin. “But only after tortured madness.”
“How—how long?” asked Flash.
Barin smiled and shrugged. “Hours—or days. Depending on your strength. I think you could last, oh, maybe two days. At least.”
Flash fell to his knees; he threw back his neck and exposed his chest to the Tree Man’s blade. “Please—end it now!”
Allowing the moment to creep as long as he dared, Barin slowly raised his sword. Flash suddenly pulled the Prince’s legs out from under him. Suffering a nasty bump on his head, Barin released his sword. He lay stunned, as his men stood frozen. Flash picked up the sword and held the tip at his throat.
“I tricked you, Barin!” He allowed the Prince to see that his wrist had not been stung. “One move and your boys’re going to be looking for a new prince.”
Standing over Barin for several moments, Flash stared deep into his eyes, attempting to reach the decent he sensed in the Mongian’s heart. His instincts, normally infallible in such matters, could not fail him a second time. The Tree Men backed away, dropping their weapons at the Earthling’s silent command.
Discarding the sword (because keeping it would hinder his escape), Flash bounded out an opening and leaped from the boardwalk. He caught a vine and slid down it as quickly as he dared.
Inside the temple, before the Tree Men had reacted, Barin cried, “He’s mine! I hunt him alone!”
The vine ended twenty feet above the swamp. Wondering if he would strike land or water, Flash dropped through the green mists. He landed in a foot of particularly fetid liquid. Without glancing about (he could not see far in any direction), Flash ran beneath the village. He did not have a plan per se; he was still desperately improvising. He hoped to return later and hijack a flier or something, but his immediate objective was to avoid recapture.
He dashed through a maze of swirling green mist. Occasionally he paused, felt his heart pounding, wondered how long he could continue running madly before he collapsed in an exhausted heap; his subsequent running was at a quicker pace, though it ultimately slowed until he paused again. The mists caressed and cooled his perspiration. His trousers soaked water up to his thighs, weighing him down as much as his fatigue; he perceived his steps as sluggish. Coherent fragments flickered through his mind as he ran. What if he traveled in a circle? What if he became lost forever? What would happen to Dale and Zarkov then? The frantic trembling of panic weakened his leg muscles. Beyond loomed what appeared to be a large shallow pool; near a huge trunk on the opposite side hung three vines. F
lash smiled. Perhaps he might pick up information on his pursuers. Who knows? He might even reassert some control over the situation. He made for the vines.
He stepped on what appeared to be a carpet of leaves over mud; and immediately sank to his waist in quicksand. All manner of horrible scenarios occurred to him, each one ending with his death. He imagined himself smothering to death, gasping for oxygen and instead sucking warm gook into his mouth and up his nose. Spotting some vines that led toward solid ground, he lunged for them, an effort which only caused him to sink another foot. He wished that he could reach the vines without lunging, but he was sinking too quickly to tread his way slowly. He had no choice but to lunge again. And again. The quicksand was up to his shoulders when he realized, with a shudder, that his only opportunity to grab the vines would be beneath the surface. His skin feeling as if it was pulling up stakes and crawling away from him, he submitted to the tug of the quicksand and blindly moved his hands through the density.
He found the vines. He pulled his head above the surface, experiencing a tremendous elation. Only in retrospect did he realize how much he feared death by suffocation. He pulled himself with difficulty to the dry land, turned over on his back, and drank in the sweet, musty air of Arboria. He lay silently for a moment. The peacefulness of the swamp was suddenly, surreally broken when the ground began to slurp.
Something big and blunt pressed against him, bearing him down before he could scramble from beneath it. The slurping ground swelled up like a frog’s bulging throat. Instinctively, he grabbed at what appeared to be a huge spider leg before it weighed down his shoulder, and his free hand waved about until it, too, grasped a spider leg. He felt a tiny mouth equipped with a pair of miniature pincers working in the middle of his back. It would take that mouth a long time to eat him, but the spider legs would ensure he stayed within its pitiful range. The spider would slowly eat him for hours.
Flash Gordon Page 17