Jewel of Tharn

by Jeffrey Lord

  Four ceboid soldiers were guarding the shaft. They bowed obsequiously as Honcho approached. They wore armor, carried swords, and were equipped with the teksin air guns. Honcho spoke briefly to them in their own language and they stepped aside, watching Blade with bloodshot animal eyes.

  Honcho adjusted the belt he wore by turning a dial on it. He told Blade to do the same. The big man did so, understanding now that the belts were some sort of antigravity mechanism. It was perfectly reasonable that the Tharnians, who could harness magnetism and magnetic flux, could also control gravity.

  The neuter stepped into the hole and began to float downward. Blade did the same. It was a pleasant sensation, like descending in a very slow elevator. Very slowly, side by side, they floated down and down into the darkness.

  Honcho was silent for a long time. Then: “We have many magkronos to go. So listen carefully, Blade. And obey absolutely.”

  The neuter talked for a long time, while Blade listened and absorbed.

  At last they reached the bottom of the shaft and drifted gently to a landing. They were in a great arching cave. Honcho took off his belt and also took Blade’s. He bid the belts beneath a rock and beckoned to Blade. They went toward the front of the cave, bending and finally crawling into a narrow passage.

  Just before they reached the end of the passage Honcho said: “From what you have told me, Blade, I think you will find the land of the Pethcines much like the place from which you come. Or claim to come. You will perhaps feel at home here. They are brutes and barbarians.”

  Blade did not answer. He stepped out of the cave, feeling a strange exhilaration. It was dark. Pitch dark. Wind slammed around him and rain dashed into his face and splashed from his armor. It was cold, much colder than it had been above. This was weather, real weather, that he could understand.

  He filled his great lungs with the cold, damp air. Then Honcho tapped his arm. “Come. There is not much time.”

  The neuter led the way along a narrow, rock strewn ravine. He went easily into the dark, obviously knowing the route. They rounded a bend and Blade saw the flicker of a campfire.

  They approached the fire. It was the entrance of another cave and a little knot of men crouched about it. Honcho halted for a moment in the shadows, barring the way with his arm. The men around the fire did not see or hear them, perhaps because of the storm. Blade studied them closely. They were men, real men, and he recognized the type as what he would have once called Mongoloid.

  They were squat, shaggy men dressed in skins and crude armor. They all carried knives, or short swords, or both. Lances were stacked nearby, and some of the men had short bows and quivers slung over their shoulders. They were all talking animatedly, gnawing on joints of meat and every now and then tossing a bone to one of the huge dogs that lolled about.

  One of the dogs suddenly pricked its ears and growled into the darkness. Honcho squeezed Blade’s arm. “Remain here until I call.” He strode into the circle of firelight.

  Blade watched, half admiring Honcho’s poise. The neuter had said there was danger, and Blade believed him, yet Honcho did not appear afraid. He raised his right hand high over his head and walked nearer the fire. Some of the men sprang to their feet, some remained seated. One picked up a lance. Another swiftly notched an arrow to his bow.

  Honcho began to speak in Tharnian. The men eased a little and listened attentively.

  “I am He, of Tharn,” said the neuter. “As you well know. You will take me to King Org at once. I have urgent business. I also bring another, a stranger, who will also be a guest of the King, and whom you will treat with the same courtesy and consideration you show to me. This is understood?”

  One of the men, a beetle-browed man with huge shoulders and powerful bowed legs, pushed back a pointed fur cap from his low forehead and growled, “Where is he, then? This stranger?”

  Honcho turned and cocked a finger at Blade. “Come.”

  Blade strode into the firelight, towering over the squat men, conscious that in his armor and with his magnificent build, he made a striking picture. Blade halted and struck a deliberate pose. Honcho was not the only one who was cunning, who could play games, and already Blade was wondering if he could use these Pethcines, and how?

  The men stared at Blade and muttered among themselves in a language he could not understand. Blade looked at Honcho. The neuter appeared cool enough, though Blade sensed that he was tense and waiting for something.

  The man who had spoken to Honcho, the leader, fell to his knees and touched his short sword to his forehead. “Lord,” he said in Tharnian. “We obey.”

  Blade was watching Honcho’s green eyes. He saw amusement, and something of relief.

  Blade touched the kneeling man’s shoulder. “Rise,” he said. “You are my friends. So it shall be, now and always.” One of the great dogs whined softly and came to lick Blade’s hand. Blade felt a strange sense of pleasure, or power, that he had never known before. He was playing a role, but at the same time he was living it!

  Honcho clapped his hands. “Take us to King Org now.”

  The leader of the band plucked a torch from the fire and led the way. The others did not follow.

  They followed the wavering torch back into a narrow ravine. The wind gusted and guttered the torch, which tossed smoky red shadows on the rain streaked rocks. Honcho, walking beside Blade, said in a low voice: “You did that well. I admit that you have fine presence. I begin to think that you have not told me all about this place of yours. Were you a king there?”

  “I am no king,” said Blade curtly.

  They left the ravine and approached a wide opening to a vast cavern. Before they reached it Blade heard the murmur of hundreds of voices. The place was ablaze with the light of a thousand torches.

  The Pethdne who was leading them flung down his torch and stood aside. He looked at Honcho in a strange manner and there was defiance in his voice. “We are having the feast of our own Sacer, as you see. Not as THEY of Tharn have it, but as we Pethcines have it, and will have it again in Urcit.”

  The neuter nodded and touched the man on the shoulder. “So it will be. Go now. My thanks. When you come to Urcit I will not forget you.”

  The man vanished into the dark. Blade gazed at the blazing entrance of the cave, from which came the roar and mumble and shouting of a great crowd. And, as Blade recognized at once, not a sober crowd. He looked at Honcho and gestured toward the cave mouth. “Soka?”

  The neuter’s smile was faint. “They call it dema. It is the same, with the same effects. I told you they are a swinish, brutish lot, and there is danger. Do exactly as I told you. Come, Mazda!” Again the sneering little smile.

  They walked into the vast cave and paused. For a moment they were not noticed, then someone saw them and shouted. A hush fell over the crowd as all peered to see. Blade gazed around, feeling his heart step up its beating. It was a garish and barbarous spectacle.

  The cavern was gigantic, in the form of an amphitheater, with myriad torches ringing it. The crude stone seats were packed with Pethcines in every stage of disarray and disorder and drunkenness. Most were staring at Blade and Honcho, but some were not. The couples who were copulating nearby, in plain view of the mob, and without anyone seeming to care or notice, did not so much as glance at the two interlopers.

  Honcho nudged Blade. “The stone! Go to it at once and bow. Do not touch the sword!”

  Blade nodded. He remembered his instructions well. He glanced down the huge oval to the great block of stone that stood exactly in the middle of it. The stone was at least ten feet long and stood shoulderhigh to Blade. He began to walk toward the stone. His stride was firm, his shoulders squared, his head high. He glanced about him as he walked, deliberately making his gaze arrogant. The Pethcines would understand arrogance.

  He was walking on sand now. His foot struck something and he saw that it was a severed head. Another one lay near by. Gouts of blood stained the sand. He passed a naked and headless body and ap
proached the stone. Honcho had been most explicit about this.

  Blade paused at the end of the stone. The silence was nearly absolute now. Beyond the stone, fifty feet or so, was a high double throne on which sat a man and a young woman. King Org and his daughter Totha. Blade’s glance flicked over them without hesitating. He stared down at the huge sword on the stone.

  He had seen swords like it before. In museums. It was not unlike a medieval broadsword, double edged and with a sharp point. The long hilt was a mass of twisted gold, tarnished now, and heavily studded with jewels. Blade knew it would be tremendously heavy. No Pethcine, Honcho had said, had ever been able to wield it with one hand.

  Blade fell to his knees before the stone. He placed his forehead against the cold edge and raised his hands, careful not to touch the sword. Then he stood up. A great roar filled the cavern. Blade could not tell if it was approbation or bloodlust. He stepped around the stone and stood waiting, as the neuter had said to do.

  Honcho now approached the stone and made his obeisance. He joined Blade and together they approached the throne. The throng was still howling like a mad thing. Yet Honcho spoke clearly enough for Blade to hear above the roar.

  “I will bow to Org and his daughter. You will not bow! Mazda does not bow. Do not speak until you are spoken to. Be proud, be haughty, but do not overdo it. Follow my lead in all things, but if something arises that I have not foreseen you must handle it yourself.”

  They halted before the throne. The crowd was still riotous. Honcho fell to one knee. “Org. Totha. I bring the one of whom I spoke. Mazda. HE WHO COMES TO THEY!”

  King Org had eyes that were bloodshot and piggish in a fat, ringlet bearded face. They were also very shrewd. They stared at Blade for a very long time. Blade, unflinching, stared back. The roaring of the crowd died now to a gusty whispering and when Org spoke his words came clear and sharp.

  “You say it, Honcho. I do not have to believe it. I will admit that he looks the part. But you have proof? He has proof?”

  Honcho inclined his head. His smile was slight. “In time, Org, in time. But not before this mob. You know they will accept him if you do. One thing at a time. The important thing is that if he is Mazda, HE WHO COMES TO THEY, he has not gone to they. He has come to us! So what is written in the Tharnian Book is not true. It is false. He is our God, the Pethcine God, and not theirs. He will lead you back to Urcit, where you should be ruling now. It is so easy, Org. All you have to do is allow me to guide you.”

  Org was squat and powerful, with an enormous paunch. His slitted eyes were nearly concealed in fat, yet they surveyed Honcho and Blade with a cold inquisitional stare.

  “So you still say, Honcho. You may be right. I do not say you are not. I do not even say that, for our purposes, he is not Mazda.”

  Org turned suddenly to his daughter. “What say you, Totha?”

  All this time Blade and Totha had been dueling with their eyes. She had never taken her eyes off him, since his approach to the throne, and there was no mistaking the message. Her eyes were oval, almond, true Mongoloid, and at that distance appeared a deep brown. Her mouth was wide and red, her teeth sparkling white, her nose small and straight, her ears tiny. Her glistening black hair was set high on her head and garnished with small golden combs. Her skin was dusky ivory, her pear-shaped breasts sharp and firm with long brown nipples. She wore only a very short skirt of some animal skin and her legs were slim and well formed with exquisite ankles.

  Blade stared back at her, his face impassive. The impact of her eyes was a physical thing, crawling over his flesh like insects that excited instead of repulsing him. They rested for a long time on his groin and her lips moved in what could only have been anticipation. He had never seen a girl so lovely and at the same time so lewd”. He could detect the stark honesty, along with cruelty and desire.

  Totha’s eyes played over his long legs, his torso, his tremendous chest and shoulders, the majestic tallness of him. Her smile grew. At last her glance met his again and again there was no mistaking the offering. Take me if you want me. And if you can!

  Totha leaned toward her father and said something.

  Honcho, without moving his head, spoke through thin lips. “She wants you. I had not counted on this. Not so soon. Be very careful now. I cannot help you. But perhaps it will not be so bad after all…if you win.”

  Win? For a moment he did not understand. Then Blade saw the byplay enacted before him and did understand. There was no mystery. It was as primitive, as elemental, as sex. Or death. Or Totha.

  The young Pethcine had been lounging nearby. He appeared taller than most of them and his body bulged with muscle. All this while he had been glowering at Blade. Now he rose from his stool and went to the throne and said something to the girl. She stared at him coldly. Org slapped his fat leg and shouted with laughter.

  Totha gave the young man a push. He scowled and clutched at her arm, shouting angrily.

  Totha balled her fist and struck him hard in the face. She picked up a cup and dashed the contents into his face. The Pethcine stepped back and glared from Totha to Blade. Org shouted with laughter again and pounded on his paunch with a balled fist.

  Totha stood up and came toward Blade. Her hips were sinuous and she reminded him of a very beautiful snake. Her bared breasts jounced with each step.

  “Be careful,” whispered Honcho. “Do not offend her. She rules Org. She has only to ask and she gets. Our heads if she desires them. Be very careful!”

  Blade understood then what Honcho had really meant by putting himself in jeopardy. Here in the Gorge he was shorn of many of his technical powers. Honcho, at the moment, was as vulnerable as Blade himself.

  The next moment he forgot Honcho.

  Totha stood before Blade. She raised herself on tiptoe and peered into his eyes. She put dainty hands on his big shoulders and caressed them. She ran her fingers down his arms and around his chest and brushed them over his smooth-fleshed middle. She smiled at him.

  “I believe you are a God,” said the girl. “Perhaps not Mazda, but a God just the same. I want you. Totha wants you.”

  She pressed herself against Blade. She crushed her firm bare breasts against him. She reached and pulled his head down to meet her lips. Her tongue struck at his mouth and again he thought of a lovely snake.

  “Totha wants you,” she said again. “You will kill Gutar for me. I have grown tired of him anyway.”

  Blade held her closely. Her skin was petal smooth and smelled of sex and death. Over her shoulder he saw King Org giving orders and men were bringing weapons. Blade also saw Honcho. The neuter’s lips moved.

  “Be sure you kill him!”

  Chapter Six

  The mob of Pethcines, sensing blood, left off drinking and copulating in public and rose to their feet in one great shouting horde.

  “Gutar! Gutar! Gutar!”

  Honcho stood off to one side, his arms folded. He did not speak to Blade again. This was the unforeseen event and the neuter could not help. This in no way dismayed Blade. He was confident.

  Totha kissed him once more and pressed herself against him, then went back to her throne where she sat and smiled at him in encouragement. King Org motioned for Blade to approach the throne. Gutar was already there. He cursed and spat at Blade’s feet as the big man came up.

  King Org was happy at the prospect of a fight He scratched his ringlet of beard and leered at Blade.

  “This is well. It will settle much. If you are indeed Mazda you will Mil Gutar. If not he will surely kill you. He is the champion of all the Pethcines and has already killed three men today.”

  Org waved a hand toward the heads and bodies still littering the sands of the arena. “They challenged Gutar, as it was their right to do on this time of Sacer. Had any of them won they would have had the right to Totha. You have won her without a fight, for she wants you. But you must fight to keep her. I, Org of the Pethcines, say it. What weapons will you have, O Mazda?”

  The l
ast was said with a cunning little wink of the fat enshrouded eyes.

  Blade had been studying the proffered weapons. He wanted none of them.

  Blade drew the rapier from its scabbard with a rasping flourish. “I will have a shield,” he said. “None else.”

  As he spoke he glanced at Honcho. The neuter did not look happy. Blade smiled. Honcho’s carefully laid plans would go up in smoke if Blade were killed.

  Gutar thought Blade’s smile was disdain for him. He leaped at Blade with a roar of rage, still unarmed. Blade moved swiftly, tripping the sturdy Pethcine as he rushed past. Gutar went sprawling heavily on his face. The crowd stopped shouting. King Org looked thoughtful. Totha clapped her hands. Honcho nearly smiled.

  Org pointed a fat round ringer at Gutar, who was getting up and looking a bit crestfallen. “You will wait, Gutar, until I give the word. Or I will kill you!”

  Gutar retired to confer with his Pethcine friends. He was stripped down now. Naked. It was the way the Pethcines fought.

  Org said: “Shields are not permitted in private combat. You must fight naked, with only your weapons. You really wish to use only that stick, that thing?” Org gazed doubtfully at the slender rapier.

  Before Blade could answer Gutar was shouting. “Let him have his shield! And I, Gutar, will use a bow.” One of his men handed him a short bow and a quiver with three arrows in it. Blade guessed that there was tradition for this.

  Org looked at Blade. “You agree?”

  It changed the odds, especially as Gutar was also armed with a short heavy sword and a long throwing net, but Blade’s reply was curt. “I agree. Let us be on with it. before Gutar has time to think and loses his courage.”

  The big Pethcine howled in new rage at the insult, as Blade had intended. He was confident, but not overconfident. He had not counted on arrows, and would have to match them with psychological arrows of his own. So he stared in contempt at Gutar and said, “Are you ready, Gutar? Or do you wish to weep a little first? Or perhaps to pray?”