Standing once again before the crystal globe, he struck a proper wizardly pose arms wide, thumbs and first fingers touching. He commenced a monotonous chanting.
Again, he stopped.
“No, not Trent,” he decided.
He resumed his stance and the incantation.
The globe grew milky. Motile shadows writhed within it, and fuzzy images flew hither and yon.
A face appeared; less a face than a contorted mask of pain, a horrific caricature of a face he knew.
“Ferne!” he called, dismayed.
The answer was a moan. Flecks of bloody foam dribbled from the lips.
“Ferne!” This time he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Ferne, where are you?”
The face of his sister changed. The eyes opened, a glimmer of desperate hope in them.
“Who …?”
“Incarnadine, your brother. Where are you, Ferne? Tell me! Who has done this to you?”
Her face tightened again, the eyes became tiny wrinkled slits. She screamed hideously.
He shouted her name again, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.
“In the name of the gods, Ferne, speak to me! Tell me where you are!”
She spoke in Haplan, the traditional tongue of the Haplodites; her milk tongue, and Incarnadine’s. “In Hell. In deepest … darkest … Hell.” She screamed again.
“They’re hurting me. Inky.” Her voice was like a child’s. “Tell them to stop.”
“Steady on, woman. I will come and help thee.”
“Please.” The voice was a rasp. “Help me.”
“I swear on my life. The gods strike me dead an I fail thee.”
There was a long, ragged breath, then coughing.
This now in English: “Hurry, Inky dear. Hurry.”
The globe grew milky again, and the image faded. Soon the crystal cleared.
He lowered his arms. He staggered to an easy chair and collapsed into it.
He was a long time recovering. When he had composed himself, he got up and moved purposefully toward the door of the study, but stopped in midstride. He turned, pondered, then made a motion toward the bank of instruments, but again came to a halt.
What to do?
So many things. He needed help. Trent, it seems, had problems of his own. But Trent would have to fend for himself. There was no time for him, at least for now.
Who, then? Deems was gone, poor, dear, dead brother. Victim of his own venality.
Dorcas? A good heart, but not much talent. As for the other relatives …
No, he must avail himself of the resources of the castle, human and otherwise. But who —?
He had the answer. He would be taking a risk in relying on one so young and inexperienced, but raw talent was the requirement here….
At that moment the quaking began. He looked off, sensing, judging the magnitude of the disturbance. The effects were minimized here, protective spells shielding this section of the castle. He checked his guesses on the banks of measuring instruments.
When it had passed, he nodded his head.
“On schedule. I wonder if they know they’re bound to destroy themselves as well.”
He moved toward the door.
“Probably do, the insane bastards.”
Seventeen
New Barsoom
Across a wide dusty plain, Gene rode for his life.
His mount was a voort (which Gene privately called a “thoat”), a six-legged cross between a camel and a knock-kneed llama. The sun was high and hot, but hotter still were Gene’s pursuers, mounted ape-men bestride huge beasts that resembled Brahma bulls. They were riding hell-bent for leather and closing fast.
Gene called them ape-men, but didn’t really know what animal stock they had been created from. They were likely some hybrid breed. Humanoid, exorbitantly muscular, their skin color a cadaverous blue, the hrunt were real mean sorts. The Umoi had created them for heavy labor, reserving the yalim for domestic and other semiskilled tasks.
The ape-men’s mounts were generally faster than voort though not as surefooted in hilly country. But these were the lowlands, hruntan lands.
Gene skirted a shallow depression, then came upon another one, this one wider, which he thought better to cut across than ride around. The hrunt disagreed, and, as it turned out, made the wiser decision. Slowed by rough ground, Gene’s mount scrambled out of the depression a bare six lengths ahead of the pursuit, its six spindly legs working in a complicated cadence, producing a rocking, seasickly gait.
A lance whistled by Gene’s ear. Legs tightening around the saddle’s girth, Gene took an arrow from his quiver, cocked his bow, pivoted his torso, took aim, and let fly. The arrow went wide of its mark, but the lead hrunt cautiously reined up and eased off the pace.
Gene followed up with another arrow to keep him honest, then turned forward and concentrated on whipping more speed out of the voort. But the beast was simply not built for speed.
Ahead were rocky foothills, leading to stark mountains beyond. Up there a voort would have the advantage, being a surefooted expert on the trails that wound over boulder-strewn slopes. Gene simply had to make it out of flat country and into the hills.
But that was the problem. He wouldn’t make it in time.
Having certainly done a bang-up job of locating the enemy, it could be said that in a certain sense his reconnaissance mission was a success. But he was fairly new to the scouting business and apparently had much to learn about keeping a low profile. Well, live and learn.
If he could live. He hoped there would be future opportunities for learning and growth and all the rest of that good stuff, but prospects weren’t exactly rosy at the moment.
Maybe he did have a chance. Hills rose up at either hand and the way narrowed between them. Just another quarter mile or so and he’d be among rocks, and his pursuers’ mounts tended to be gall-footed over anything but the packed sand of the plains.
Maybe —
The voort bleated and collapsed under him, sending him flying over its head and into the dirt. Shaken, he was slow getting to his feet, but managed it, sword already drawn. He saw the lance sticking out of the voort’s backside. Merely flesh-wounded, the animal struggled to its feet and limped off, bleating piteously.
The hrunt leader, its huge scimitarlike weapon raised, bore down on him. Gene stood his ground until the last second, then leaped away. Another rider followed close behind, and Gene dodged one lance, then a second. He dashed up the rise, making for a stand of boulders halfway up.
The riders dismounted and followed him.
Hrunt were fleet-footed, and Gene, still feeling the effects of the spill, had to turn and make a stand. The leader reached him first.
Up close, the hrunt was ugly as advertised, pinhole eyes, no neck, bulging upper body, and short fat legs. Its long greasy hair was blue black, its lolling tongue a liver brown. The thing snarled at him, wide thin lips curling into some thing resembling a victorious sneer. Then it spat.
Gene dodged the gob of green phlegm.
“Completely lacking in all the social graces, aren’t we?” Gene said. “Well, my good man —”
The thing charged. Gene took a swipe at it, backed off, feinted, then lunged. The hrunt fended off the attack, countering with a vicious slash.
Which Gene ducked under, coming up to drive the point of his sword into the hrunt’s throat.
The huge blue monster gurgled, thick blue ichor flowing from the gash in its neck. Then it fell over backward and rolled down the steep trail.
Fortunately hrunt were decidedly second-class swordsmen. Not so fortunately there were eight of them coming up the trail. Sometimes quantity counts.
Gene was therefore puzzled to see an arrow materialize in the forehead of the next hrunt. More arrows found their marks, beginning trajectories from the rocks above.