Then—to my complete surprise—a slim, elegant figure interposed itself between the raging albino and myself.
It was Delgan.
“No manner of death can be deemed fitting for such a crime, great chief,” he declared in a clear, ringing voice, “but one!”
Growling an oath, Gor-ya raised one burly arm to deal him a buffet. But something in the smaller man’s poise and demeanor made him check the blow.
“What death, cringing worm?” Gor-ya demanded. Delgan bowed obsequiously, shooting me a nasty, smirking smile. When he spoke, his oily tones oozed servility, and had in them a vile music of sadistic gloating that surprised me. Had I been wrong about the strange blue man with the clever, glittering eyes? And had Klygon been right all this time, in his suspicions of Delgan’s trustworthiness?
“It has been a long time since last we fed… the God,” Delgan whispered suggestively.
An evil little light gleamed in the piggish eyes of Gor-ya. He licked his blistered lips… and my heart sank within me. It was not going to be a quick death, after all.
“He lifted his hand against the mighty chief Gor-ya,” hissed Delgan cunningly. “Is it not time the God… fed?”
A cruel gloating expression came into the face of the savage who stood there, breathing heavily, eyes glaring at me with hideous malevolence. He grinned hungrily, revealing the rotting stubs of broken, discolored teeth.
“Yah!” he grunted. “We feed him to the God—now!”
He lifted one arm, gesturing. Arms tightened about me to drag me away. But Delgan crept closer to the huge form of his master.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “Give him all night to sweat in fear.”
That tickled the cruel fancies of Gor-ya. He threw back his ugly head and laughed harshly.
“Yah! Take him away! Tomorrow… the God eats!”
They dragged me off to a dark pit and I caught a glimpse of Klygon’s face, white and wet and distorted with horror, where he lingered on the edge of the crowd.
Then they thrust me over the edge and I fell into the pit, to await the morning. And the last thing I saw as they left me to the cold wet darkness and the misery of my own thoughts was the face of Delgan, peering down over the edge of the pit… the cold, mocking face of Delgan, creased in a leering smile… Delgan, whom I had thought my friend.
The Fourth Book
LORDS OF THE WORLD ABOVE
Chapter 13
Under the Peering Rays
For some days Janchan, Niamh, and the others dwelt undisturbed in the huge chamber of the Flying City, as part of what the ancient philosopher Nimbalim had ironically termed “the Legion of the Doomed.”
They were a healthy, well-fed, physically robust lot, the captives of the Skymen. Nutritious broths, cakes of highly enriched cereals, and a delicious variety of meat Nimbalim assured the travelers was synthetically grown in breeding vats, comprised their diet. The perpetual radiance of strange lamps suspended far above provided a stimulating and healthful illumination that was a precise imitation of sunlight.
For all their vigor and health, however, the Legion of the Doomed were a listless, dispirited lot. Their eyes were empty of hope, almost of cogitation, and, with nothing to do, they sprawled about on mats or merely wandered to and fro without purpose. Janchan had never seen laboratory animals, for his race was not of that level of technological advancement, but the similarity between the plump idleness of guinea pigs being fattened for the experimental lab and the healthy but spiritless humans penned by the black men would have struck him, had he known of such practices.
There was, quite literally, nothing to do. And from long inactivity, the morale of the captives had dwindled until will and ego were vestigial among them at best. They did not converse, or if they did, it was in the most desultory fashion. There was no activity among them, neither games nor communal enterprises of any kind. They merely sat slumped, hands empty and dangling, eyes glassy with bore dom, or wandered to and fro as aimlessly as bubbles drifting upon a current.
The listlessness of their fellow-prisoners began to get on Janchan’s nerves. He sought to engage them in conversation, to learn of their origins and professions, to enlist them in games. To all such attempts to arouse them from their stupor, however, they responded with disinterested monosyllables or merely with blank stares.
There were, however, a few who, like Nimbalim, strove to retain their sanity. Nimbalim tutored some of the brighter, less mentally dead of the captives in mathematics, philosophy, logic. With the few younger persons who gathered about the ancient philosopher, Janchan struck up friendships. Many of these, the still alert ones, had been born in captivity here in Calidar. They knew nothing of the outer world, nothing of the great planet beneath them, where tens of thousands of men and women of their kind lived and fought and loved and hunted, sang songs, pursued goals, created art, and worshiped gods.
To them The World Below was as much of a legend as this very Flying City had been to those who dwelt in the treetop cities. It was a twist of irony, and had Janchan been in better spirits, he might have appreciated the irony of it. However, he was sinking into despondency and despair himself, and was beginning to feel desperate.
“The only thing to do is to contrive our escape from this nightmare realm of living death,” he confided to his comrades.
“I agree,” said Niamh, “but how shall we manage it? The only door is of solid metal and must weigh tons. Furthermore it is locked or barred in some fashion on the outside, and here within it presents only a smooth, unbroken surface.”
“I know—I know!” Janchan groaned.
“Our food and drink come from panels in the wall, which seem to be operated automatically, and which are apertures too small to admit the passage of a human body, anyway,” she added.
“I am aware of that, as well,” he sighed. “Nevertheless, I intend to keep my eyes and ears open. Sooner or later we will be presented with the opportunity to make our escape, and I plan to be ready when that moment comes.”
“It is blasphemy, to speak of wishing to escape from the Holy City of the Gods,” Arjala said, “and my Divine cousins will punish you for your iniquities.” But her heart was not really in it, and, as no one paid her any attention, anyway, she lapsed into glum silence.
The following day there came a break in their routine. The great door unexpectedly slid open and superb black men with disdainful faces, armed with curious glassy rods, appeared, and for once the dull-eyed captives displayed animation. They squeaked, cowered, fled from the appearance of their masters.
The black men stepped through the milling throng without glancing to left or right. It was the four newcomers they were after, and, for all the interest they displayed in the mob of other captives, they might have been a herd of frightened but harmless sheep.
Janchan permitted himself to be taken, and stopped his companions when they would have fled, for he desired to discover more concerning the mysterious supermen who ruled this fantastic aerial city.
Light leashes were settled around their throats. Janchan, Arjala, Zarqa, and Niamh the Fair were singled out of the throng and were led from the great chamber into a domed corridor beyond. From thence they were led into a brilliantly lit laboratory, with openwork metal-frame tables rigged before immense screens of ground glass.
Then they were stripped naked. When the Skymen laid hands on Niamh and Arjala for this purpose, Janchan sprang among them and knocked down two of the ebon-skinned attendants. Another stepped up behind him and laid the glassy rod he carried against the back of the prince’s neck. Frightful agony exploded in his brain and Janchan reeled and would have fallen had not two of the Skymen seized him and held him erect. The glassy rods evidently carried a charge of electricity and served rather like bull-prods. He was dazed but conscious, although temporarily unable to move his limbs, due to the temporary paralysis induced by the electrical charge which overloaded and, for the moment, had burned out his motor-nerves.