Nesca tried to explain it. “It is a wise tradition,” she said. “Sometimes the Arklans have had bad rulers. When they have a bad king, they must remove him. If he resists, then there will be fighting, many will be killed, and the race will be weakened. If the ruler does not resist, then he and those who choose to be loyal to him, will be the only ones to die. The whole ruling group will be wiped out, a new group will be formed, and the race will go forward without the loss of many lives and without the bad blood that would come if they had to fight the ruler. You see, it is for the good of all the Arklans that I refuse to resist. It is for the benefit of the whole race.”
Explained that way, it made a kind of sense.
“But you have not been a bad ruler,” Jongor protested.
“The people are revolting against me,” Nesca pointed out. “That proves I have been a bad ruler.”
“It proves they have been bought,”
Jongor exploded with sudden wrath.
His words made an impression on the ten loyal Arklans. He saw them looking at each other as if a new idea had occurred to them. Even Nesca looked thoughtful.
“You think you are helping your people by refusing to resist,” Jongor continued. He had to find some way to make them break the tradition that bound them. Had to! His life and the life of Ann Hunter were now bound up with the life of Nesca. The palace was surrounded. When they had finished their chant, the executioners would enter. Anyone found in the presence of the queen was automatically presumed loyal to the queen—and would be destroyed with her.
“You are not helping your people by refusing to resist,” Jongor insisted. “You are harming them.”
“How can you say that?” Nesca questioned.
“You have been a good ruler. But will Mozdoc, who is trying to gain the crown by trickery, by bribery, will Mozdoc be a good ruler?”.
The Arklans looked perturbed. Here was something they had not thought of.
“That is right,” one of them nodded agreement. “Mozdoc will be a bad ruler. He is treacherous, not loyal, sneaking. He will oppress the people. I had not thought of that.”
“Then resist him!” Jongor said fiercely. “Fight him. Destroy him. Do not let him conquer you.”
He could see the idea appeal to them. They were a warrior race, these Arklans. But they were also a tradition-bound race. Almost they roused themselves to action. Almost, but not quite.
“It is not the custom to resist,” an old Arklan croaked. “We have never resisted. I remember when Nesca’s father was old and was no longer fit to rule. We went in to him and he received us with courtesy. He did not attempt to resist us. He seemed, somehow, glad that we had come. He died willingly.”
“He must have been an old man who knew he was not fit to rule;” Jongor said hotly. “Nesca is not old. She is not unfit to rule. With her as your queen, you will continue to be a great people. If Mozdoc rules you, you will degenerate. Fight Mozdoc!”
He almost had them then. They liked his idea. They wanted to fight. But they could not quite bring themselves to do it.
ABRUPTLY the chant ended. The mournful cadence of voices died into the silence. In that silence there came the sound of feet walking in the sand of the corridor.
Two executioners entered the room. Each was armed with a double-bladed ceremonial axe. The Arklans had other and far more formidable weapons but tradition required that they use the ceremonial axe on the occasion of the disposal of a ruler.
The executioners looked at Nesca.
“You have heard the chant?” one of them said, apparently following a ritual decreed by custom.
Nesca paled but her voice did not falter. “I have heard the chant,” she answered.
“Do you accept the voice of the people?” the executioner continued.
“I—I accept the voice of the people,” Nesca answered. Jongor was proud of her then. He was irritated beyond measure at the supine way she accepted the situation but he was also proud of her. She faced death without a whimper. Nesca might be superstitious, she might be bound by dark traditions, but there was no questioning her bravery.
“Do you accept the will of the gods?”
“I accept the will of the gods.”
“In the darkness that is beyond will you still work for the greater good of your people?”
“In the darkness that is beyond I will still work for the greater good of my people.”
The executioner looked at the ten Arklans lined up beside Nesca.
“Do you accept the will of Nesca as your ruler?” he asked.
There was a split second of hesitation then the answer came. Chorus was ragged but it was still a chorus. “Nesca is our ruler. We know no other ruler. Nesca is our queen. Whither she goes, so go we.”
Jongor’s heart was in his throat. There was something fine about this people. And something monstrous. They faced death like lions. If only they had the courage of cornered rats! If only they would fight as they would die, then something fine might be done with them. If—”
The executioner turned again to Nesca.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I—I—” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I am ready.”
The executioner raised his axe.
“I’m not ready,” Jongor said. With a single lunge, he ran his spear completely through the body of the executioner.
With a thud, the axe fell on the floor. The executioner turned startled eyes on Jongor. Since he had found the two humans with his queen, he had assumed they were willing to share her fate. For someone to resist was not in the ritual, it was not traditional, it was not according to custom. The executioner scarcely realized what had happened to him. He had expected to strike down with a single blow his helpless queen. Instead he himself had been struck down.
Jongor’s battle-cry was roaring in the palace.
“Give ’em hell, Yale.”
Jerking his spear from the body of the falling executioner, he turned to attack the second one—and saw it was not necessary. The instant his spear struck the first executioner, a loyal Arklan had jerked the axe from the hands of the second killer.
The Arklans had been roused to battle. They were fighting! All of them were fighting. Like a tidal wave, they flowed toward the second executioner. He turned startled eyes on them, then fled out the door.
Where words had failed to rouse them, a single act had brought out all their fighting instincts.
“Nesca, forever!” they were shouting.
“Nesca is our ruler!”
“No one else shall rule us, ever!” Outside the palace was an ominous silence.
“WEAPONS,” Jongor said tersely.
“We’ve got to have weapons. Those blast guns of yours, that thunderbolt weapon that Nesca used on the lion—we’ve got to have those blast guns if we are to fight our way out of here.”
He knew the Arklans possessed weapons, small, strangely shaped hand guns which hurled a blasting bolt of radiation that was like a flash of lightning. The dead lion had been killed by such a weapon. Now that the Arklans were willing to fight for their queen, they needed guns above everything else.
The ten loyal Arklans were unarmed. Tradition decreed that they carry no weapons when they came to share the fate of their ruler. Jongor looked at Nesca. She was already hurrying toward a wall chest in the big room. “They’re in here,” she called out.
“This is my private armory.”
The lock, an ingenious combination affair, was already spinning beneath deft movements of her fingers.
The Arklans quickly gathered around here. Outside the palace the ominous silence had given way to a far more ominous mutter. Somebody out there was making a speech. Jongor caught flashes of it.
“—Nesca—flouting the traditions of our forefathers—must be destroyed at once—”
A roar of applause greeted the statement.
“Do those outside have the blast-guns?” Jongor asked the Arklan nearest him.
“N
o,” was the answer. “They can return to their homes and get them, of course, but they do not have them now. Tradition requires that, except for the executioners, they come unarmed to this ceremony.”
“Then we’ll be able to blast a hole right through them!” Jongor exulted.
He knew the power of those little guns. There might be hundreds of the Arklans outside and they might—certainly would—oppose their ruler’s effort to escape; but if Nesca and the ten loyal centaurs were armed with the blast guns, they could blast an avenue of escape through the Arklans who stood against them. Later, when those outside had a chance to arm themselves, there might be a hot battle. By that time Jongor intended to be far gone into Lost Land.
The lock opened with a final click, Nesca swung the heavy door open, eagerly reached inside.
The eagerness on her face changed to sudden fear.
Jongor saw the cause of that fear.
The wall chest was empty.
“The blast guns are gone!” Nesca whispered. “Somebody—somebody has looted the cabinet. Mozdoc must have anticipated that I might resist and had someone steal the guns so I could not fight back.”
The roar outside the palace was a growing murmur.
“The time is now!” a voice was raging out there. “Attack the palace, destroy this queen who has lived too long—now!”
A great shout greeted the outburst. “Is there any other way out of here?” Jongor demanded. “Any secret underground tunnels?”
Nesca shook her head. Her desire to resist seemed to be fading. The loyal Arklans also seemed to be losing their will to fight.
“It is the will of the gods,” Jongor heard one of them murmur. “Why try to fight the will of the gods?”
HE led them toward the back of the palace. Once action was started, they would fight well enough, with their hands, with their hard hoofs, but unless they got started soon, they would decide they were going to die anyhow, and why bother to fight about it? Jongor’s hope was that the speaker in front would attract the attention of the guards in the rear and open the way for a quick charge which might enable them to escape from the palace. Once they were outside, once they reached Alan Hunter, Schiller, and Morton, on the wall, two guns would hold up the attacking Arklans long enough for them to get over the wall. If they could reach the jungle of Lost Land, they would have a chance.
There were only four guards at the back of the palace, and they were gathered at one corner, peering around at the crowd in front.
“We’ll slip past them, if we can,” Jongor said.
With Ann Hunter close beside him, he led the way. Nesca followed. Then came the ten Arklans. They had recovered some of their will to fight, now that fighting was probably imminent, and they truculently followed their queen like old hunting dogs guarding their mistress from danger.
“Into the palace!” the voice from the other side of the building yelled.
A great roar followed. Crashes sounded. The mob was entering the palace.
The excitement was too much for the four guards at the rear. They wanted to get in on the kill too. They wheeled away from the corner of the building, turned toward the rear entrance—and saw Queen Nesca and her party slipping away into the darkness.
One of them yelled a warning.
Feet pounded in the sand as they gave chase.
Fortunately the guards did not have blast guns. They were armed with the traditional weapon—heavy clubs. When they gave chase, they thought the Arklans they were hunting were also unarmed. They met Jongor with his heavy spear and promptly discovered their error. Jongor did not throw the spear. Throwing it would have left him unarmed. He used it as a lance, holding it in front of him. The first Arklan guard spitted himself on the point, and the other three hastily swung aside.
“Call Mozdoc!” one yelled to the other two. “I’ll follow the fugitives while you tell Mozdoc what has happened.”
Two of the guards raced back toward the palace. The third one remained just out of reach. Apparently it was his intention to follow Queen Nesca and her party.
“As long as he follows us, we’ll never escape,” one of the loyal Arklans said.
“I know,” Jongor answered grimly. They were a block away from the palace. No lights were burning in the neighborhood and the illumination from the palace did not penetrate this far. The guard was keeping well in the shadows and well out of reach.
“You go ahead,” Jongor said to Nesca. “I’ll take care of this fellow.” He dodged into the shadow of a building.
Nesca and her followers, divining his plan, hastened down the street. A few minutes later Jongor joined them. He was wiping blood from the blade of his spear.
“He came trotting along behind you,” he said grimly. “Come on, now. We’ve got to get over the wall and away.”
A shout from the palace told them that their escape had been reported to Mozdoc. Silently they hurried through the dark city. In the east the moon was just rising. Its bright rays illumined the city of the Arklans.
CHAPTER X
In the Temple of the Arklans
THEY wasted precious minutes finding the spot on the wall where Jongor had left his companions and when they did approach it, a shot rang out.
One of the Arklans groaned and sank to the ground.
“Stop shooting!” Jongor hissed.
There was a moment of silence then Schiller called out. “Is that you, Jongor? I saw something coming and I couldn’t tell what it was—”
“So you fired without thinking.” Jongor said angrily.
“I’m sorry,” Schiller answered apologetically. “I didn’t know they were with you. All I could see was centaurs and I thought they had spotted us and were stalking our position—”
Jongor listened to no more. He was busy with the wounded Arklan, The centaur had been shot through the body. Nesca was bending tenderly over him.
“Is he badly hurt?” Jongor asked. “He’s finished, I’m afraid,” Nesca answered. “Listen! He’s trying to say something.”
The dying Arklan spoke in a whisper and Nesca bent over to hear what he had to say. The other centaurs crowded around. The whisper died in a rattle and the Arklan’s head slumped silently to the sandy ground. He had spoken in the old time Arklan language which Jongor did not clearly understand.
“What did he say?” Jongor asked. Queen Nesca was grave. “He said that when he came to the palace and stood by my side, he expected to die, and that, in consequence, he did not mind dying now.”
The words ran into silence. Then abruptly Nesca was speaking again. “He said it was the will of the gods that he should die, and that I, and the others who came to stand by me, will also die, that no matter how much we try, we will never escape. He said our time is upon us, that the time of the Arklan race on earth is ending, that soon all Arklans will go to their last home—”
The words sent a touch of chill through Jongor. Had this dying centaur caught a glimpse of the future? Was this prophecy, a vision of the shape of things to come? Was escape impossible?
He shrugged the thought aside. When the time came, he would die. Until that time came, he intended to make every effort to remain alive. He swung to the top of the wall.
“What the devil is going on down there?” Schiller demanded. “What was all the rumpus about? We thought you were a goner.”
“There was a little trouble in the city,” Jongor answered. To Alan Hunter’s anxious question, he replied that Ann was safe and was with him.
“You were supposed to sneak in and get the girl,” Schiller said, half angrily. “Damn it, you’ve roused the whole hornet’s nest. Now we’ll be lucky if any of us manages to escape.”
“I wonder if we will be lucky,” Jongor answered.
“What do you mean?” Schiller questioned.
Jongor pointed along the wall. A horde of Arklans were pouring through the nearest gate. They were carrying torches. As he watched, they swung in a great circle outside the wall of the city, began to take up positions
covering all possible exits.
“We’re trapped!” Schiller gasped. “They’ve got the whole city surrounded.”
“It looks like it,” Jongor answered. “Mozdoc, I’m afraid, is a capable general. See! Other groups are beginning to search the city for us.”
He pointed down. Flaring lights were visible on the streets. Arklans, hunting through the darkness for their victims.
Jongor dropped to the ground, explained the situation to Queen Nesca. “Do you have any suggestions?” he ended.
“The only hope I see for us is to reach the fortress carved in the cliffs,” Nesca slowly answered. “If we can reach it, we can hold it against an army. The blast guns are kept there and we can cover all approaches, if we can reach it.”
“We’ve got to reach it,” Jongor said grimly. He called to Schiller, Morton, and Alan Hunter, on the wall, explained what must be done. They dropped down beside him. Morton was almost gibbering with fear and Schiller was roughly telling him to be silent.
Like ghosts, they slipped furtively through the moonlit city—toward the dark shadow of the cliffs.
THE Arklans were making a great hullabaloo searching for them. Twice, searching parties almost caught them. Then they reached the fortress, going, with Nesca’s guidance, to a little-used entrance.
The door was guarded. Two Arklans armed with blast guns were nervously pacing back and forth in front of it.
“Mozdoc seems to have taken every possible precaution,” Nesca sighed. “Don’t try that. Before you get close enough to throw your spear, they will see you and burn you to a cinder. Also, if you managed to spear one of them, the other one would certainly kill you. Your spear will not serve here.”
“I was not going to use my spear,” Jongor said. He motioned again to Alan Hunter, who was carrying his bow. The youth handed it over. Jongor silently fitted an arrow to the string.
“I have a better suggestion than that,” said Schiller. Carelessly he threw his rifle to his shoulder, seemed not to bother to take aim. Two shots rang out.
Jongor- the Complete Tales Page 16