Thanator, the fifth moon of Jupiter, literally has no sun. In common with the rest of the twelve moons of the giant planet, it is so very distant from the central luminary of our solar system that the sun seems but the brightest of the stars visible in its skies.
By all rights, I suppose that the surface of Callisto should be a cold and airless waste of dead, frozen stone, drenched in perpetual gloom, illuminated only by the dim reflected glory of the Jove-light, for that mightiest of the planets bulks enormous in its skies. The above description doubtless tallies with the sober and considered pronouncements of terrene science.*
But in fact, Callisto enjoys a gravity only fractionally less than that of my home world; and however impossible it may be, according to the currently accepted dogmas of science, Thanator is a warm and even tropic world, teeming with fecund life.
The skies of this jungle moon are composed of breathable vapors whose composition seems to me identical with that of Earth’s own atmosphere (if this were not so, then how could I breathe it and continue to live?) with just one rather peculiar difference.
And that difference is the sky itself.
For high in the stratosphere of the Thanatorian atmosphere a layer of strange golden mist may be seen. Indeed, the skies of jungle-clad Thanator are not azure, but a glowing amber!
Dawn on Thanator is a sudden, sourceless brightening of this dome of golden vapor, which changes from complete darkness to a full and noonlike brilliance in just a matter of minutes.
This peculiar illuminative effect extends uniformly across the entire dome of the heavens, and it does not “rise” in the east and “set” in the west. I have never found a satisfactory answer to this phenomenon, but many are the mysteries of Thanator, and this is but one more.
All night we had traveled north through the Kumala, until shortly before dawn we were some distance north of Shondakor. Here I bade my comrades an affectionate farewell. From this point I must go forward alone in the face of whatever perils the unknown future held for me.
I traversed the plains to the shores of the river Ajand, forded the river, and came to a stone-paved highway which Lord Yarrak had called to my attention; from thence I turned south and rode for Shondakor. Since my story would have it that I came from Soraba, which is on the southern shore of the inland sea of Corund Laj, it would not do were I to approach the city from any direction but the north. I rode steadily, while the golden sky flushed suddenly with brilliance above me and bathed all of the level plains round about with noontime light.
My steed was a thaptor, a beast used by the natives of Callisto in place of the horse, which is unknown upon this world. In fact, mammals of any description are exceedingly rare upon Thanator, I have noticed.
Thaptors are wingless, four-legged avians. They resembled nothing so much as an unlikely hybrid of bird and horse, and whenever I see one I am irresistibly reminded of old Earth legends of the hippogriff,° for the thaptor might well have modeled for this fabulous creature. It is about the size of a large horse, but has clawed bird-feet, is clad in feathers, which rise in a manelike ruff just behind its head. Its beaked head and staring eyes bear a marked resemblance to the parrot.
The thaptors are unruly and restive and have never been completely domesticated, which makes riding one of them partake of the element of an adventure. Indeed, a mounted Thanatorian warrior habitually carries, strapped to his saddle, a small wooden club called an olo wherewith to crack his mount soundly atop the head should it seek to dislodge him from his place, or strive to crane its neck around and bite out a portion of his leg. This last habit of the thaptor makes me puzzle that the Thanatorians seem never to have invented the riding boot.
In their jungle home, the Ku Thad have little use for thaptors, but retain a few whereby their messengers can travel more rapidly than on foot. Thus it was that Yarrak was able to lend me a mount: it would have aroused needless suspicions in the breasts of the Black Legion had I arrived before their gates unmounted, claiming to have traversed the many miles of road from Soraba on foot.
After an hour of hard riding I came within sight of Shondakor.
The great city of the Ku Thad rose amidst the Plains of Haratha, on the eastern shore of the river. It was a splendid metropolis. The massive ramparts of its mighty wall encircled the city; tall spires rose in the brilliant morning light, and I could see the domes of palaces and mansions. All was built of stone, and the outer walls were faced with plaster that gleamed pale golden―hence its appellation, the “Golden City.”
As I rode down to the gates of the walled stone city, I could not help feeling like some heroic warrior in a Sword and Sorcery novel. I’m sure I straightened my back, threw out my shoulders, and let my hand rest on the pommel of my sword in a swashbuckling manner.
Somewhat to my surprise, the gates were open and a number of farmers were passing through, leading carts and wagons filled with bags of grain, sides of meat, sacks of vegetables, and the like. This, I soon realized, was market day and the farmers from the surrounding countryside were bringing their goods to the bazaar. Ahead of me, as I joined the line filing through the gates, I saw warriors of the Chac Yuul negligently waving the peasants through the portals. Wheels creaked, dust swirled, and the heavy wagons clattered over the stone pavement. They were drawn by a species of draft animals unfamiliar to me―a heavy, lumbering beast with a thick short tail and a massive head, beaked, and horned, which looked like some ungainly cross between rhinoceros and triceratops.
I observed with a touch of wry humor that evidently life must go on, even in a conquered city which lay in the grip of its enemies. Farmers must sell their produce at market, housewives must purchase them, and men must eat, the rise and fall of dynasties notwithstanding.
I joined the end of the line and rode slowly towards the moment of decision. Would I be permitted to enter the city of the Chac Yuul, or would I be challenged?
As I approached the gates I felt the eyes of the guards upon me. One of them, a flat-faced, Mongollike little warrior with bandy legs and long, apelike arms, gestured me to a halt.
“You, there! Where do you think you are going?”
I looked down at him from the height of my saddle.
“Since this path leads only within the city, you should be able to figure out the answer to that question yourself,” I replied calmly. Some urge of inner deviltry inspired the mocking insolence of my manner. I do not know whether or not it was wise, but it aroused a chorus of laughter from the bowlegged guard’s comrades. His swarthy cheeks flushed and his eyes went cold.
“Get down off that thaptor,” he snarled.
“Certainly. But I will still be taller than you, even when dismounted,” I smiled. He flushed again, and again the hooting mockery of his comrades stung him. He turned on them.
“You―Calcan! Fetch the komad,” he snarled. Then, displaying a vicious little hooked dagger, he said in a cold, level warning voice: “The next one of you horeb to laugh will kiss this.”
They fell silent.
A horeb is a repulsive, wriggling rodent, a scavenger of loathsome habits, not the least of which is that it feeds off rotting garbage.
I waited, standing quietly, ready for anything. My hands swung easily at my sides, only a fingerbreadth from the pommel of sword and dagger. The bandy-legged little guard eyed me with cold malevolence and spat into the road dust eloquently.
“What’s the trouble here?” a deep voice boomed.
A burly-shouldered, hulking Black Legion warrior strode through the gates, to look over our little tableau.
“It’s this fellow here, Captain Bluto,” the bandy-legged little guard who had challenged me at the gate whined, cocking a thumb in my general direction. “He wants to get in the city, but he wears weapons, which is against the rule.”