Elvir had been whipped before. Tears gathered in her eyes, and at last she blurted out: “I only wanted Captain Gan to stay away from the Amazons…and I didn’t know what else to do.”
Celys’ further questions proved of no help. Her origin remained a mystery, except that it was obvious that the ship from which the Cap had taken her was one bought and paid for by a Phiran buyer, at which time Elvir had received the indelible tattoo of ownership. Celys had her sent to the slaves’ quarters and proceeded to forget about her. Tor Branthak would demand audience within the hour and she must make ready. She had no time for a silly child. As for Tor Branthak, she could not imagine what she should be ready for, except that it would not be pleasant.
CHAPTER FIVE
ON THE great plateau above the city—where the fleet lay while the troops disembarked, formed ranks, marched down the steep highway into the city—a council of war was being held. In the salon of Tor Branthak’s flagship officers stood at attention as the bearded Regent gave final orders for the occupation of Alid. One by one the officers saluted, wheeled, left on the double to join the waiting troops.
When the room was quite empty, Gan Alain found himself alone, facing the quizzical smile of the Regent. For a long moment the silence held as the two big men measured each other, then the Regent gave a booming laugh and reached out with a big hand to shake the Captain’s. Gan smiled. The ruler was hard to resist. He had a way with men and it was evident that his officers admired him.
“I suppose, Captain, that you are wondering just where you fit in now that the nut is cracked? Whether you come out catbird or get some of the meat? To tell you the truth, to get the most out of you, I’ve got to offer you the most. Sit down.”
The furnishings of the salon were screwed fast to the floor plates, and the only place to sit near at hand was the top of an ornate desk. Alain sat, swinging one booted leg from the edge. The Regent crossed behind it, swung open a door in the back, handed a tall flagon of blue liquor and two glasses to the Cap. Gan set the glasses down, and the Regent sat in the chair behind the desk. Gan filled the glasses raised one to eye level, grinned as he toasted: “To Myrmi-Atla and her daughters, the priestesses of Sacred Alid. May they live…long.”
Gan waited, his eyes on the suddenly wary eyes of Tor Branthak. Slowly the ruler picked up his glass and, as Gan touched his own to his lips, tossed the liquor down his throat with a quick motion and set the glass down hard as if he had made a decision.
“I was going to tell you anyway, Captain, but since you know, it makes it simpler. It’s not generally known, you realize?”
Gan’s voice was hard and even, without a shade of emotion. “On the contrary, it’s well known.”
“My officers do not know! As far I have been able to learn, I’m the only man in all the forces of Konapar who does know for a certainty what treasure these women hold in secret. For to whom could a man trust a secret so valuable?”
Gan Alain’s voice remained even and calm as he echoed: “To whom trust—immortality?”
“My spies stole the record books from the temple some time ago. Those records reach back many centuries, Captain Alain. In those records are many deaths, and every death is male! Yet the whole organization of this religion of theirs is dominated, staffed—by women! It’s impossible!”
Gan’s voice echoed the Regent’s once more: “Impossible but true, Your Highness. Quite true. And not the secret you think. I’ve heard it in rumor often. Once I had it by word of mouth from one who claimed to know. They don’t die, these women!”
The Regent’s voice took on a note of awe, of puzzlement, and ended in an angry exclamation: “They live on and on! But how? Man, how?”
Alain shrugged, his face expressionless.
The Regent clenched a big fist, struck it on the table. “We’re men, Captain. They are women who deny this thing to any man, deny it to any but members of their sacrosanct religious organization. We’ve got to wring it out of them some way. Any way. I can’t go after it openly—my followers would think me mad to believe such an impossible story. But you and I, knowing, having them in our hands, under our absolute power—it will be strange if we can’t get the truth out of them, or out of at least one of them!”
GAN STOOD up, leaned over the desk to bring his face on a level with Tor Branthak’s. “Give me a free hand, Tor Branthak! Back my play with your authority. Put my men in charge of the main temple and the priestesses. When I get the secret, then we open it up, make it known to all, and your conquest will be justified in all men’s eyes and you will become a savior, a champion who fights for all men against an ugly, secretive monopoly—of life itself! We’ll have proof…”
“If we tell them, Captain. It’s a problem unique to my experience. A lot depends on the nature of the secret. Is it a drug, a medicine, a ray, or is it some damned impossible abracadabra of their religion, something we couldn’t give away if we wanted to? For that matter, why tell anyone if we do find it?”
“We’ll find it! What do you think I threw in with you for? What you do with it after we find it is entirely up to you, Tor Branthak. I’ll know too, and I’ll not deny such a thing to my friends. I’ve small respect for Myrmi-Atla if she teaches her worshippers to keep such a secret from all mankind. Or for her priestesses! They’ll find my hand heavy enough, never fear.”
Gan Alain straightened, his eyes still holding the dark, hot eyes of Tor Branthak. “Just one more thing, Your Highness. I’ve a reputation for square dealing. I’ve also a reputation for getting even. This thing is quite a prize, and a terrible temptation. I’ll go along with you as long as I get aboveboard treatment. But don’t, Tor Branthak, deal off the bottom of the deck. Don’t even consider it!”
“You threaten me, Captain?”
For an instant there flashed between the two men a kind of still, terrible lightning; a leashed and fearful power of strange and threatening nature. That lightning came from the glance of Gan Alain’s eyes upon Tor Branthak’s, a piercing into him of personal power, so that for an instant the Regent’s fingers shook on the stem of his glass. As Gan turned away, strode for the door, Tor Branthak poured the glass full again, sipped it slowly, his eyes brooding upon the door through which Gan’s broad back disappeared. At last the ruler set his drink down with a hand that was steady again, and his full, sensuous lips twisted in a smile of pure delight—delight tinged with sinister exultation. It was the kind of smile a breaker of horses gives who has bought a seemingly average mount of good appearance, only to find, when astride it, a creature filled with wild, unbounded vitality—a horse hard to break, but infinitely valuable once broken. Tor Branthak spoke aloud to the empty room—and his words were a cold, heavy music ringing in the silence:
“Now that was a mistake, my captain, to show me that in you!”
CHAPTER SIX
THE ANCIENT Temple of Myrmi-Atla was a vast pile, very old and many times rebuilt and enlarged. There were chambers within chambers, passages in the walls unknown even to the present occupants, and secret chambers known only to the inner circle.
Within one of these secret chambers stood now at attention a hundred young, strong women—warrior women bearing weapon harnesses as if the leather grew upon them. Their eyes were fixed upon a flaming-haired beauty who stood before their ranks with hands outstretched in benediction.
“You go, war maidens, not in fear or in flight, but only to make ready the way for your return. Our Mother needs time to meet this new threat to the Matriarchy; but the rule of women will not perish from Phira. In every other world known to mankind, the male is dominant, save on Mixar. But it is here, and here alone, where woman fills her proper place in life. Here alone is woman not a downtrodden chattel, not a plaything, not a decoration or a mere bearer of children; but the end and aim of all of the race’s existence. You go to Alavaon, not to hide, but to study our conqueror from far-off, and to learn his weaknesses; and when he has forgotten the warrior-women of Myrmi-Atla, we will strike. When all thoughts of peril from our ancie
nt power has vanished from his mind—we will strike, and once again the All-Mother will rule in the same old way. Go, my sisters; go with love and without shame. Shame will come only when you forget our purpose and become again but fireside kittens purring at the feet of the dominant male.”
Her words rang with a sincere and ardent determination. On the faces of all the handsome war-maidens the same purpose lived and shone from their eyes, glanced from the hardened muscles of their rosy jaws, breathed with each lift of lovely, proudly swelling young breasts—made for love yet hardened by teaching and encompassing steel to the taste for war and struggle. Red as new-shed blood were their uniforms, slim, graceful legs clad in sleek, shining plasticord, weapon belt, with dagger and needle-gun holster hugging each graceful hip, torso and fair breasts covered with the brilliance of ray-proof flex-steel, shoulders bearing proudly the folded glide-wings of the air-soldier, back wearing the small triple cylinders of the standard atomic jet drive for all glidewings, strong and graceful arms ringed about with the deadly lightning rings, that Terran-forbidden device of prisoned electrons released only by the ray of the needle gun on their hips.
They were as well equipped, as well trained in appearance, as deadly a group of fighting humans as could be found in the entire galaxy. But for them to fight now, with the heavy weaponed ships of Tor Branthak and his horde of Konaparians commanding the plateau overlooking the city with their own fleet almost destroyed—was out of the question. So they saluted, filed into the passage and down to the hidden tunnel, which would conduct them from the city. These were the temple guard, and from all the city that day similar groups of warrior women had been stealing away by secret ways to a rendezvous in hidden Avalaon.
Avalaon had served them in historic times more than once as a reservoir of hidden strength in similar crises. For the rule of women in Phira had been challenged by the war fleets of a dozen powers in times past, powers and empires now passed away and forgotten. But the rule of Myrmi-Atla and her warrior maids, of her teacher-priestesses, had survived.
After their going, the temple lay empty and waiting. There were present only the young acolytes, a few of the superior priestesses, and Celys, the present high priestess, to await the advent of the conqueror and to render him homage.
THE ACOLYTES of Myrmi-Atla were gathered in the great main chamber of worship, before a heroic stone figure of the All-Mother, where Celys led them in singing hymns. They were awaiting their fate, and the furtive glances the young girls threw at the wide doorways for the first glimpse of the inrush of the male conquerors were of two kinds. For their contacts with men of any kind had been nonexistent, and though they had been taught to fear all men of teachings other than Myrmi-Atla’s, still nature herself made their young hearts beat not only with fear but also with anticipation. In the case of Celys, however, the occasional glance she allowed herself would have betrayed her very real emotions to no one.
The expected rape of the temple seemed to have been delayed. The hymns went on and on, and when at last they heard the booted feet ringing upon the sacred paves of the dedicated halls, and raised their voices in even more fervent appeals to the All-Mother, the tramping feet came to a stamping halt some distance from the main doorway.
A single pair of feet moved close now, after a ringing command, and paused quite reverently at the very center of the arched opening. Just as all men of Phira who are devout must remain without any chamber which contains an image of the All-Mother enshrined, the booted conqueror remained.
Celys, her face puzzled at this courteous behavior from the enemy, waved a hand to Eloi, who took her place at the altar. Then Celys moved on silent, graceful feet to meet her fate.
There was a lone man waiting at the door. He was big, scarred, hard, muscular. He was handsome enough, she noted, his mane of hair like curled golden wires in the lamp light. His face was lined with creases of laughter about the mouth, deep crinkles about the corners of the eyes, fierce lines of anger and effort now relaxed. The observing eye of Celys caught them all. His wide cheeks and heavy jaw were bronzed deeply, and his costume, she thought, was far too swashbuckling an assembly of colors and metals to be seemly for any but a blood-dyed pirate. On each thigh swung a hand weapon of a design Celys did not recognize. Had she known what those weapons had done and could do, it is possible she would have dropped in a faint before him.
Celys put him down as a man impatient of all restraint, a ruthless, domineering rogue who used his looks and laughter only to disarm unsuspecting womankind. She was sure the straight-seeming honesty of his eyes was only a guise to outwit other rogues less clever than he.
Celys stood just inside the white line that marked the border where no male foot might treat without eternal damnation from the All-Mother, eyeing this monster out of space with all the chill she could muster against his smiling nonchalance. Gan waited, and she waited, each for the other to speak first. Celys lost the struggle.
She shook her head impatiently, stamped her slim, sandaled foot. “What do you want? Who are you? Why are you here?”
Gan did not answer at once, but stood eyeing her and allowing an expression of astonishment to spread slowly across his features. At last he said, with exaggerated respect: “I had expected a much older woman, Mother Celys! How old are you, anyway? Not a day over twenty-five, by appearance.”
A FLUSH of embarrassment and anger swept upward from Celys’ white neck, and her tongue seemed to stumble as she snapped: “My age is my business. It is also my business to know what you are doing in the temple at this hour of the evening? No male visitors are allowed except between the hours of three and four in the afternoon.”
The smile left Gan Alain’s face. His voice became hard and smooth as glass. “My lady, you know very well why I am here. This city has fallen into the hands of the Regent of Konapar. To ensure the safety of your priestesses and the rest of your hennery, he has sent me, whom he considers honorable, to protect you from the looting and rapine of conquest. If you expect me to carry out this assignment efficiently, you had better come down off your horse and cooperate. I have already posted my men at the entrances to this warren of misguided female bigots. It would be better if you didn’t mistake where the power rests from now on.”
Celys’ eyes searched the intruder’s strong and bronzed face for an instant, then she bowed her head for a long minute in silent prayer, her lips moving as she asked the All-Mother for guidance. But Gan moved his feet impatiently.
“It would be best if you showed me the place completely. It could well be that I have overlooked the entries and exits which most need guards. No one is to leave without my personal permission, Mother. Understand?”
As Celys raised her head from prayer, she moved silently out before him, expecting to precede him. But he swung into step beside her, and she started at the sound of a score of feet swinging into step behind them. She gave him a glance of pure irritation, but his handsome face remained inscrutable; mockingly so, she decided. She turned her eyes from him with difficulty. There was something indescribably fascinating in the man’s presence, a power and dignity she could not recall having remarked in any other man. Mentally she gave herself a kick at the incongruity of finding power and dignity in the gaudy garb of a pirate.
Celys was not familiar with the rich worlds of space traffic, the brawling, spawning ports of the spaceways. She could not know that Gan’s worn corselet of dull gold leather, gemmed with synthetic rubies, his close-fitting breeches of black plasticord with gold piping, the black weapon belt and silver-handled explosive pellet guns made up a costume that in many places would have been considered plain to the point of shabbiness.
But in one way Celys was right. No clothing could conceal the rich wealth of vitality, the vaulting spirit, the leashed physical strength of the man. To Celys’ eyes, the swell and ripple of muscles upon his bare arms, where the light glinted from little golden hairs everywhere, was positively vulgar. This barbarian, she muttered angrily to herself, had now all power
over the temple, it seemed!
“Did you say something, Mother?” asked Alain, hiding a smile at her reaction to the way he used the word “mother”.
Celys stilled her angry thoughts with a practiced facility and flashed him the first smile he had seen upon her face. “Why do you keep calling me ‘mother’? Certainly you have lived longer than I.”
“On my home planet,” answered Gan easily, “we call all women of religious orders ‘mother’. Does the word irk you?”
“Oh, no.” And Celys gave her head a toss of impatience. “Not at all, Father.”
Gan gave his chin a thoughtful massage with his palm. If she was intending to hide what Tor Branthak wanted, she had made a good start. It surely seemed that she considered herself younger than he. But then again, the truth might be even more irritating, if she were indeed a creature who had lived several lifetimes in some strange renewal of youth. This was going to take some sharp work, he foresaw.
THE TEMPLE was vast, and after two hours of steady pacing up and down stairs and halls, of peering into chambers filled with accumulations of centuries of female living, Gan was ready to call a halt.
“Before heaven, dear lady,” he swore, “let us collect your charges into one corner of this compost heap and post our guards so that we may get some sleep. I’ve been through a hard day, if you have not.”
Celys did not even pause in her long, lithe striding. Her voice was subtly mocking. “I had thought to find our conquerors spending the first night in celebration, in drinking and lewd wallowing with their captive women. Yet here is a great, brawny hero crying for bed like a sleepy boy. For shame!”
Gan was really tired, and her attitude was getting under his skin. He growled in utter irritation. “It might behoove your petty mightiness to keep a civil tongue, at least until this brawl really settles down. Anything can happen, including those things you have mentioned. They will happen if I don’t guard you!”
Empire of Women & One of our Cities is Missing (Armchair Fiction Double Novels Book 25) Page 3