Author: Kirk Straughen

Synopsis: Perils abound in this exciting planetary romance saga. William Greysteel travels to Mars and becomes embroiled in political intrigue and duals to the death as he seeks to save a beautiful alien queen and her kingdom from the machinations of a villainous prince. High adventure, action and romance are the order of the day.

Foreword

Dear reader, the narrative you have before you is a species of literary genre known as a Planetary Romance, and derives its inspiration from Edgar Rice Burroughs’ A Princess of Mars (that’s a nice way of saying it’s a pastiche).

The setting for this narrative is Earth and Mars, but with a difference - both worlds are located in an alternative reality where history and the laws of physics are slightly different from our own. Well, quite different when you consider the improbability of medieval space ships and the existence of humanoid life on the fourth planet orbiting our Sun.

So, not wishing to give too much away and thus spoil the story, I present without further ado, the Flame of Rhomnos.

Chapter 1: The World Ship

Again, the grunting soldiers swung their ram and struck another mighty blow upon the massive oaken door. The thick wood shuddered under the smashing impact of the heavy beam, which sent booming echoes skittering up the tower’s spiral stair.

From the high parapet William Greysteel looked grimly upon the surging warriors. If a friend hadn’t informed his master of their coming he would by now be in their brutal clutches. Even so it had been a near thing – the breathless messenger and his gasped warning, and in mere seconds the mad pounding of the soldiers upon the entrance to the building.

They’d escaped by hurling themselves through a window as the front door came crashing down. A crossbow thrummed. The man who’d warned them screamed. He fell, a quarrel between his shoulder blades. Greysteel bolted for the adjoining tower of the house, half carrying, half dragging his master after him.

“Leave me,” gasped the greybeard. “I’m slowing you down.”

Greysteel ignored his master. The warriors gained upon the fleeing pair. Another quarrel nicked the young man’s side as he reached the tower's portal. He jerked it open, thrust his master through. The raging soldiers were upon him in a burst of speed. The foe hurtled towards the door, and he barely managed to enter and slam it shut in the faces of his cursing enemies.

The ram’s crashing boom brought him to the present. He saw Sergeant Matthews’ upturned face - a pale blur illuminated dimly by the gibbous moon whose wan light also glinted on his armour, and the naked sword he savagely pointed at the man.

“Harkin, sorcerers,” shouted Matthews savagely, “In the name of God and King, repent and surrender now to preserve your lives. Resist and it will be the fires of stake and Hell for both of you.”

Greysteel forced a sardonic laugh to mask his fear. He knew their fate was sealed, and the sergeant’s deceitful promise was nothing but a coaxing lie with which he sought to lure them from the tower.

“If Heaven is full of fools like you”, he yelled. “Then I prefer the company of the Devil. You think us wizards? Perhaps my master will send a thunderbolt to scorch your liver, you stupid cur.”

Matthews scarred visage blanched. He uttered a fervent prayer, and Greysteel had the fleeting pleasure of seeing he was not the only one afraid.

“Enough, William,” sternly ordered the youth’s aged companion. “It’s science we deal in, not sorcery. Don’t feed their ignorance with magic’s base delusions.”

Greysteel angrily shook his head. “They’re blind to truth, Master Bacon. It doesn’t matter what we say. The Franciscan Order has convinced the King we’re heretics, sorcerers, and the instruments of Satan.”

Gently, Bacon placed his hand on Greysteel’s shoulder, sorry for the harshness of his reprimand. “It won’t always be like this,” he quietly said. “The age of science is slowly coming. Forget these men. They can’t stop progress any more than they can stop the coming of the day. Now, follow with me, for all is in readiness.”

You have more faith in human nature than I, thought Greysteel, glumly, as he followed his mentor, Roger Bacon, the greatest savant of thirteenth centaury England. Both men walked swiftly towards the World Ship - the cause of all their present troubles.

The young man gazed in awe at the fantastic vessel that stood before him, and wondered what the future held, for in this benighted age of superstition, knowledge seemed a feeble candle flame whose radiance was soon to be extinguished by foolish men steeped in blackest ignorance.

Greysteel’s eyes traced the World Ship’s lines, his mood ambivalent. The huge icosahedron sat quietly upon the tower’s height, its thick bronze plates gleaming softly in the moonlight.

It was the marvellous child of Bacon’s mighty intellect - a vehicle designed to traverse the gulf of space, to fly between the worlds and explore horizons beyond the petty sphere of Man. But to narrow and ignorant minds it was darkest blasphemy. To the Church the heavens were God’s abode, and sinful man could not venture upon this sacred realm.

Yes, thought Greysteel in defiant resolution. It’s worth the Church’s ire - to traverse the void, and stand upon the soil of other worlds. I shall outfly Lucian’s whirlwind*, and thus make dreams become reality.

Another crashing boom brought home to Greysteel their dire plight. A cheer rose up from far below - at last, the door had fallen to the hammering blows of their brawny adversaries.

“Our tower is breached,” stated Bacon, calmly. “You must board the World Ship and start your journey now.”

“Come with me. To stay will gain you nothing but a slow and painful death.”

Bacon shook his head, his noble mien remarkably calm despite the danger - a stark contrast to Greysteel‘s worried, imploring gaze and his impassioned urging.

“There is insufficient air aboard for two, as you know. And the craft, once under way, can’t deviate from her preset course. It is enough that my philosophy will endure. I can go calmly to my death for I know that reason‘s light will triumph in the end. “

The pounding tread of the charging foe ended all debate. Greysteel cursed. He drew his falchion, and ignoring Bacon’s desperate pleas rushed the mass of men now surging through the portal at the tower’s upper works.

Blade rang against buckler - the grim clash of arms. One man fell beneath Greysteel’s shearing stroke. His severed head spun away - a macabre ball that bounced upon the stones. Another foeman tripped upon it and tumbled to the floor. Two more warriors stumbled over him. They collided with the others, and the crowding soldiers, weakened from their climb, toppled helplessly upon each other.

Greysteel struck the fallen men without mercy, shearing arms and heads with swift and savage blows, and splitting others like gutted fish. The sergeant cursed sulphurously. He shouted desperate orders above the screams of stricken men. Other soldiers staggered up and leapt at the loan defender. With grim determination they rushed the man, their eyes as hard as the glinting steel in their callused hands.

Bacon, with growing worry, watched the unfolding carnage as Greysteel spun his bloody sword in deadly play. It was clear his pupil would defend him to the death and the aged scientist, who loved the youth like a son, could not bear the thought of his brutal and untimely end.

Too brave and noble for his own good, thought the troubled man. As am I, he reflected wryly as he stepped within the vessel’s open lock. Then aloud: “I’m aboard the Word Ship. Fall back and we’ll flee.”

Greysteel grinned with vast relief - he didn‘t relish dying. With a wild rush he drove back the rallying foe by laying all about with furious, deadly blows. Then he swiftly dashed for the waiting ship before the enemy could recover.

Through the craft’s portal leapt the fleeing man, the mob of warriors now hot upon his heels. His final thought was that they were safe. Then Bacon struck him swiftly upon the nape, and Greysteel, taken completely by surprise, collapsed senseless to the vessel’s deck.

Forgive me this deception, William, thought the scientist. Bacon pulled a lever, exited the craft, and was roughly seized by the rushing foe that savagely fell upon him. The lock clanged swiftly shut in their startled faces. A vibrant hum filled the air as the ship’s propulsion system powered up.

Rays of pastel light shot forth from crystal hemispheres mounted upon the World Ship’s poles, and weird lightning crawled across its brazen form. The lancing beams deepened to a violet hue and became purple shafts of intolerable brightness. The mechanism’s droning rose to an ultrasonic pitch.

The ship rose with stately grace, impaled upon a beam of blazing light that leapt towards the sky. The frightened soldiers stumbled back, dazzled by its scintillating glare. They cowered in weak-kneed terror, aghast at the awesome spectacle confronting them. Slowly, the vessel gathered speed as it mounted heaven on a pillar of actinic light. It arrowed towards the orb of Mars twinkling upon night’s dark cloak, and vanished into the depths of star strewn space…

Sergeant Matthews stirred. “Witchcraft, he muttered uneasily as he tore his wide-eyed gaze from the twinkling heavens. Though brave, all the superstitious terrors of the age suddenly threatened to engulf him, and he was hard pressed to fight off the rising tide of dread.

My men are on the point of bolting, he thought as he noted their stricken faces and their trembling limbs. The fools, the King will have us executed if we fail. Then aloud:

“God is with us,” he cried in vibrant, stirring tones. Seize the sorcerer in the name of Christ and King.”

Bacon now stood on the tower’s parapet. The savant had gained its precipitous edge during the distraction of the World’ Ship’s weird departure. He looked sadly upon the cautiously approaching men. They were afraid of him; the Devil, and fearful of the King.

“So, this is how it ends,” he murmured, then spoke again in soliloquizing rumination: “Should I bear the cruel insults of the jeering crowd, and the crueller bite of the leaping flames?” He slowly shook his head. “No. I’ll seek a cleaner end than that, and may God forgive my sin.”

Then, eyes focused upon the crimson sphere of Mars, Bacon calmly stepped off into emptiness, and as he made that fatal plunge his last thoughts were for Greysteel, and the unknown wonders he would undoubtedly find upon that distant world.

* Footnote: A reference to Lucian’s The True History, a science fiction story written c. 175 AD in which a ship is carried to the moon by a whirlwind. In this tale, which is a mock travel narrative, Lucian satirises the myths of Homer and other outlandish stories of his age. Being a freethinker, he incurred the displeasure of his contemporaries who accused him of blasphemy.

Chapter 2: Across the Depths of Space

Greysteel moaned and slowly opened his eyes. He lay for a moment upon the thick insulation of the inner hull. His mind was a jumble of tangled thoughts, for he was still disorientated by the blow to the back of his skull, and the rapidity of events that befallen him with such violent and alarming swiftness.

Gradually, his scattered wits ordered themselves. He was within the World Ship - that was clear. But what had happened to him? Where was Master Bacon? Suddenly, the shocking truth dawned upon the Englishman. He sat up and looked wildly about. He was alone.

Grief struck Greysteel like a blow with the realization of his mentor’s noble sacrifice. Unashamedly, he wept bitter tears for long moments at the thought of what his master‘s fate would be. Gradually, he regained some measure of composure, drifted weightless to a small circular window, and looked through the thickness of its crystal pane.

The globe of Earth hung below him. Its blue sphere was steadily receding against the backdrop of the velvet void - a cosmic jewel box of shining stars, their glory untarnished by smothering atmosphere. Nature’s beauty, though, was lost to him at that moment, for grief’s dark cloak hung heavily upon his dejected frame.

Time passed … Slowly, it dawned upon the Englishman that he could not let Bacon’s death be in vain. Resolved to accomplish his teacher’s charge, Greysteel squared his shoulders and began a careful examination of the vessel’s mechanisms. He commenced his inspection with the all-important alchemical loadstone mounted in the centre of the ship, and attuned to the magnetic signature of Mars.

This device - a foot thick rod of amethyst crystal that pierced a silver sphere through its middle - was mounted vertically, touching floor and ceiling of the ship, and braced with copper collars about its ends. Surrounding each pole where it met the hull, were six cylinders of burnished lead. These contained the vessel’s power source - strange elements glimmering with inner fires. From these canisters arched copper rods that connected to the crystal hemispheres upon the outer hull (force lenses, as they were called) and the silver sphere the loadstone penetrated.

Rings of pastel light streamed along the loadstone’s length and impinged upon the force-lenses, which amplified this violet radiance to powerful beams of shimmering force that thrust the craft away from Earth, while simultaneously drawing it unerringly towards its distant destination.

Having satisfied himself that the ship was functioning as it should, Greysteel made a final check of his craft’s supplies - water and preserved food carefully sealed in waxed kegs, and the boxes of art supplies he would use to illustrate his discoveries. Seeing all were perfectly secure in their web of rope netting, he swallowed the Elixir of Morpheus that Bacon had prepared, then strapped himself to the deck and waited for the drug to take effect.

Drowsiness gradually stole upon him. His eyes closed. His heart rate and breathing slowed to almost nothing as the chemicals began to suspend the animation of his metabolism in preparation for the year long voyage that lay ahead. Consciousness departed, and for Greysteel time lost all meaning…

**********

Gradually, awareness returned to the slumbering Englishman. It seemed to him just seconds since he had imbibed that potent draught, but in reality he knew almost an entire year had passed. Greysteel unbuckled himself and carefully stood in the weightless environment.

With the passing months, the air had grown noticeably stale. It reminded Greysteel of Bacon’s warning words - although his life had been at its lowest ebb, still he had used up precious air. Stirring himself to action, the man peered out through another bullseye window, and saw the sphere of Mars steadily swelling before his eyes. Its growing form filled him with an indescribable sense of wonder.

The polar ice caps stood out strongly against the crimson land. The seas were startlingly indigo and the blueness was dazzling against nameless shores of scarlet continents, these laced with the silver tracery of mighty river systems.

A warning chimed. He looked at the loadstone and saw the mechanisms begin to reverse the polarity of the mighty magnet. The repulsive end now pointed at Mars to slow the craft’s headlong plunge. Again, he strapped himself upon the floor. Slowly, deceleration’s leaden weight grew upon his chest; then the weight became a giant treading on him.

The World Ship was decelerating smoothly. But the foulness of the air was growing as was Greysteel’s gnawing worry. He was breathing heavily as the vessel slowly entered Mars’s atmosphere, and the anxious man knew there was but little time.

Deeper and deeper into the thickening air descended the World Ship. It neared the surface - one hundred miles, fifty miles; twenty five miles. At ten thousand feet darkness was encroaching upon Greysteel’s vision. His breathing came in ragged gasps as Death’s grim hand slowly closed about his throat.

Again, the chronometer chimed its warning. Parachutes burst open and ballooned as they caught the air. The ship jerked, throwing Greysteel heavily against his straps. Desperately, he freed himself. Spurred by pricking terror, he crawled towards the hatch. He was fighting for breath. His chest was heaving with every effort. There was a buzzing in his ears and his sight was fading.

Half blind, Greysteel groped for the lever of the lock. He managed to find it and tugged feebly. It didn’t budge. Fear seized him with all its strength. Was this the end? With a silent prayer he threw his weight upon the rod. The lever moved. The hatch swung inward, and refreshing air, pure and cold, rushed over him.

Greysteel collapsed upon the floor, his strength sapped by lack of air and the terror of the moment. For an interminable period he lay in a daze, gently rocked by the swaying craft‘s descent and cushioned by the seductive softness of the padded deck…

A sudden splash took him by surprise. Then flooding liquid drenched him with smothering coldness. Water was poring through the open hatch - Bacon, despite his genius, had miscalculated the vessel’s landing site.

Wild fear was upon Greysteel as he fought to rise above the surging stream. Coughing violently, he struggled up. But the swirling water rose to chest high with alarming swiftness. The craft was rapidly sinking, and he feared he would be trapped within the ship and drowned.

Greysteel pressed his nose to the ceiling and filled his lungs to the utmost from the pocket of air above. With a surge of fear born strength he dived, propelled his aching body through the portal and battled the gushing water that sought to drive him back. Then, after a mighty effort he was free at last. He struggled towards the surface; now fighting his sword’s dragging weight and the shrouding parachutes that sought to entangle him.

Lungs burning, he burst above the water and gulped air into his tortured body. Then, after a brief pause to catch his breath he struck out for the bank of the titanic river into which his hapless craft had been precipitated. With a mighty effort he at last gained the verdant Martian soil.

Crawling up the gently sloping bank, Greysteel wormed his way through the strange and tangled growth festooning this alien shore and, in utter relief, collapsed within the shadows of its arching foliage. He closed his eyes, exhausted to the point of fainting.

Minutes passed and healing time combined with youthful strength and optimism soon aided his recovery. Although now marooned upon this world with little chance of getting home, a sense of grand adventure now possessed him, keeping at bay all melancholy that would have beset a man of lesser spirit. Thus with interest he stood, and looked curiously about.

The further bank of the mighty river was hazy with distance. Nothing of interest could be seen. He turned his attention to the towering plants that shadowed him. They were wrist thick. Their narrow trunks were crimson and banded in brilliant yellow, and from the crowns hung thick masses of strap-like ruby leaves.

Nothing like the plants of Earth, he thought. But I suppose that is to be expected.

Turning, Greysteel forced his way through the crowding growths, and after some time emerged upon a vast plain, which resembled grassland. The landscape his eyes beheld was one of gently undulating hills cloaked not in sward, but crimson fern-like things from whose centres sprays of blue flowers rose, blooms whose bell-like forms nodded in the gentle breeze.

In the distance were mighty herds of strange animals, too far to be clearly seen, and partially obscured by groves of trees - larger versions of the growths from which he had emerged - that dotted the landscape in towering, impressive clumps.

The distant beasts gave Greysteel pause for thought - could they be dangerous? He took stock of his situation: Marooned upon an alien world, armed only with a sword and dagger, and with no prospect of returning home. Despite his earlier optimism the full realization of his perilous fate was suddenly thrust upon him.

Without his supplies, starvation seemed the most immediate threat. With this in mind, Greysteel again turned his attention to the growths from which he had just emerged, and saw they bore heavy clusters of cone-shaped lavender fruit.

A well cast stone felled a bunch for his careful examination. Each fruit, whose skin was smooth and shiny, was about three times the size of a grape. Greysteel eyed the fruit uncertainly, irresolute. Was it poisonous? At last he came to a decision and nervously bit into the thing.

The flesh was firm, slightly nutty in flavour, with a hint of spice to it. A single round black seed lay at the core. Slowly, he ate one, and then paused for an hour before sampling another. There were no discernable ill effects. Satisfied the fruit was palatable; and famished from his ordeals, he consumed the rest with relish.

Having finished his meal, Greysteel set off along the riverbank with renewed confidence. He had found edible food, and water was in abundance. He knew that with determination he would survive.

The Englishman had been travelling for about an hour, observing the strange life-forms flittering amongst the thick verdure hedging in the sparkling waters of the mighty river when, without warning, a piercing scream shattered the Arcadian tranquility of the landscape.

Suddenly, from the dense undergrowth lining the river dashed a young woman in panicked flight, pursued by a gruesome beast of fearful mien. The creature’s hairless, leonine body was covered in knobbly armour of a greyish hue. Its head was serpentine and its gaping maw was edged with dagger teeth.

A deafening roar erupted from its lipless mouth. Greysteel started at the wild cry and froze at this unexpected sight. The girl, who had been looking back at her hideous pursuer, collided with the man. Both fell in a tangled heap, the monstrous risp now but yards away.

Greysteel rolled free of the thrashing woman. He surged upon his feet. To his horror he saw the risp was nearly upon them, and knew he must quickly act to save the girl. The man drew his falchion and dashed swiftly at the beast. He slashed the ugly snout as he swerved aside, barely dodging its hurtling form.

A frightening roar erupted from the thing. Now he had the brute’s attention. It slewed about, a hissing mass of savage fury. Greysteel ran with all his might for the shelter of a clump of trees. A desperate plan formed in his agile mind as he raced away from the nightmare thing that thundered after him. The shaken girl saw the risp swiftly gaining upon his fleeing form. She gasped in fearful expectation of his grisly end.

Greysteel made a desperate leap. The monster, savage jaws agape, collided with the trees. Its brutal head became wedged in the narrow gap between two boles through which the man had madly flung himself.

Skidding to a halt, Greysteel swiftly doubled back and savagely slashed the writhing monster’s defenceless neck. The thing howled in pain and fury. Green gore drenched the man as the beast, with a surge of strength, tore free of the constricting trees and spun savagely upon its puny foe.

Another desperate leap barely carried Greysteel clear of the snapping jaws. He landed badly, lost his balance and fell. The girl screamed in utter fear as the risp’s gaping maw swung down upon her would be rescuer.

Chapter 3: The Ebon Queen

Greysteel rolled away. The beast staggered suddenly. It collapsed with crushing force upon the ground where he had lain. The Englishman scrambled up and saw the thing’s dark eyes begin to glaze in death. He stumbled back, breathing heavily. His heart was pounding like a drum.

God, he thought, shakily, I’m a lucky man. When the beast tore free it further opened the wound I dealt it, and bled to death. If it weren’t for that I’d be rotting in its belly.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Greysteel turned and saw the girl gazing at him, uncertain of whom or what he was. She was about his own age as best as he could deduce from her strange appearance. Her skin was of darkest ebony. Her hair was spun midnight with strange highlights. They were like mother-of-pearl, dispersed throughout her freely flowing tresses.

Her face was heart shaped. Her eyes were large, expressive, and iridescent with opal hues. She was not attired in any raiment known to him. About the slimness of her throat was a heavy golden collar set with zurals - milky gems from which radiated coral light that draped her shapely form in a flowing robe of shimmering radiance.

Greysteel thought the girl’s beauty alien, though striking nonetheless, and he could not help but stare at her in wonder, for although Bacon had prepared him for the possibility of such a meeting (his invention - the viewer* - had shown Mars to be an Earth-like world), never did he think to behold this vision of exquisite loveliness.

Who is this strange barbarian? thought the girl, aware of his frank admiration of her person. A graceless savage that casts bold eyes upon me, the Queen of Yann, no less!**

Raya returned his gaze with a haughty stare and reproved him sharply in an unknown tongue, her tone imperious.

Angry shouts diverted the man’s attention from the girl. Turning, he saw four warriors rushing towards him with drawn swords. Their weapons were strange – short wavy blades with bell-shaped guards, but clearly deadly nonetheless. Were these men another threat? Greysteel feared it so and called upon reserves of strength for the coming fray. Grimly, he squared his shoulders and raised his bloody sword.

Raya cried a series of sharp commands to the charging men. All bar one lowered their weapons and slowed to a walk. This loan warrior raced to Raya’s side. He slipped a possessive arm about her slender waist, and glared at Greysteel as the cautious guards surrounded him.

Greysteel noted his hostile stance and studied the man - Parissan by name. He was the same colouration as the girl. A tall and handsome fellow was this Prince of Thadris, and powerfully built - an alien Adonis. But one insanely jealous, it was plain to see.

Like the other male Martians (but not so plainly dressed), Parissan was garbed in a kilt of overlapping crimson straps reinforced with golden studs. A broad belt of similar hue cinched his waist, while others crossed chest and back to support his knee-length garment. And where the straps met upon his torso, a palm sized golden sun-disc was affixed. Upon his feet were heavy sandals of scarlet leather that completed his apparel, while about his brows, to mark his rank, was a golden coronet set with flashing gems.

An arrogant looking fellow, thought Greysteel, who disliked him instantly. Yes, he mused. And one who thinks as much of me as I of him.

The girl was now talking to the Prince. Her conversation was animated, and her gestures were theatrical as she pointed at the bloody carcass of the risp. Although the words were meaningless to Greysteel, her mannerisms gave the clue - clearly, she was showering praise upon him for his daring rescue of her from the savage beast.

He was puzzled by her change in attitude, considering her previous haughtiness. What he didn‘t realize was that she was still angry with the possessive Prince - the couple had argued earlier over this, with Raya storming off in a pique, thus unwisely entering this savage wilderness.

This strange barbarian has won Raya’s favour, thought the Prince. Intolerable! I’ll have no rivals, least of all a savage. I must lower him in her eyes. The wretch shall know his place.

Harsh lines furrowed the Prince’s brow as his anger mounted dangerously. His lips thinned further with growing jealousy at Raya‘s admiration of this uncouth savage. Releasing his hold upon the girl, Parissan swaggered up to Greysteel, his handsome visage now marred by spiteful animosity.

Greysteel tensed, as did the guards at his response. Parissan looked him over with a contemptuous, insulting air; then uttered some sneering remark at the Englishman’s expense. The guards grinned. Greysteel bristled, but mindful of the warriors at his back, merely glared impotently at the man.

Parissan uttered a sardonic laugh and tried to prod Greysteel with his sword. It proved to be an almost fatal error. The Englishman exploded into action. Leaping sideways to avoid the point he dealt one guard a savage kick that sent him crashing to the ground. Parissan cursed and leapt at him, sword swinging. Greysteel dodged the savage stroke and tripped the man who fell stunned upon the earth. In a wild rush the remaining warriors closed upon him.

He sidestepped one and cut him down with a shearing stroke. Raya cried commands. The remaining guard lowered his sword. His companions - those warriors who could - struggled to their feet. Greysteel watched them warily, especially the fuming Prince.

The girl approached. He saw Parissan run forward and try to stop her. She pushed him aside, even more annoyed at his uncouth behaviour, and also ashamed at her petty vengeance - it had cost one guard his life and had almost killed the stranger who had saved her. The Prince glared at Greysteel with murderous rage as Raya placed a soothing hand upon the Englishman’s brawny arm, and ensnared him with her captivating beauty and charming smile.

With sign language she indicated Greysteel should accompany her, for she was desperate to make amends, and was also spurred by curiosity at this strange being’s unknown origins. Again, the Englishman observed the hard faced warriors. They were like hounds waiting to be unleashed, and he was near to exhaustion from the many ordeals that had befallen him with such rapidity.

I’ve little choice, he thought. Best I accompany the girl without resistance. She seems friendly, at least for now.

He smiled at Raya and allowed her to take his hand. At the Queen’s command two warriors picked up the body of their slain companion, and the party set off. The girl walked beside Greysteel, keeping up a monologue in melodious tones, despite the fact it was obvious he didn’t understand a word she said.

Occasionally, Raya glanced sideways at Parissan stalking stonily beside them. His face was hard with anger. Greysteel saw the girl smiling to herself. Obviously, she was lavishing her attentions upon him to vex the arrogant Prince. Her plan, he thought, was succeeding tremendously.

Greysteel grinned broadly at the man. Parissan scowled, and it was the Englishman’s turn to laugh at his expense. The girl was coquettish, more than likely as fickle as the wind. But even so the Englishman felt an undeniable attraction to the vivacity of her spirit.

I’m an idiot, he thought. I know nothing of this girl or her people. I should be thinking of survival, not romance. He shook his head, bemused by his own foolishness.

As the group rounded a copse of towering trees, all froze at the sight of the monstrous form barring further progress. To Greysteel, the trofis resembled an immense six-limbed starfish. Its body was supported by an equal number of massive columnar legs, and the creature’s back was covered in tree-like growths whose leaves were of darkest crimson. The skin (if it could be called that) was squamous in texture - the scales resembling woody plates of an olive hue.

Each of the trofis’ arms ended in a huge mouth with immense spade-like teeth that jutted out from the lower jaw, and to the Englishman’s amazement, he saw it was using them to shovel earth into its gaping maws - the creature was obviously a weird hybrid of plant and animal!

That it was harmless could not be doubted - its movements were slow, ponderous and it ate only soil. Why, then, was stark fear written large upon the countenances of his companions?

Raya cried, pointed. Strange forms leapt out from the growths upon the trofis’ back and bounded swiftly down its limbs towards them. The quon were like grasshoppers the size of men, but clearly not insects for their skin was covered in amber fur. The creatures appeared headless - their upper bodies tapering to long muscular trunks banded with eyes, and upon their backs were manes comprised of lengthy quills.

With frightening swiftness the monsters were upon them. Parissan, seeing the cause hopeless, fled. Greysteel and the other warriors made to draw their swords. It was all too late. The bounding quons arched their trunks. Each tore free a quill and threw their darts with amazing speed and skill.

One struck Greysteel’s arm. He saw his companions were also pierced. They fell. A beast lunged. Its trunk coiled about him like an iron cable. With frightening ease it picked him up, leapt away, and ascended the trofis’ limb in a surge of mighty bounds.

Ahead of him he glimpsed Raya’s limp form as she was borne along by another frightful monster. Was she alive or dead? Fear for her lanced him like a torturer’s bodkin. Then, the girl and her weird captor vanished among the Trofis’ tree-like growths, and he saw no more of them.

*Footnote: Hans Lippershey (c 1570 - 1619) is officially credited with the invention of the telescope. Bacon, however, was familiar with the magnifying properties of lenses, and their potential for observing distant objects.

**Footnote: Unfortunately, Greysteel has unknowingly committed a serious breach of Yannese etiquette. The proper obsolescence must be given to royalty before looking directly at them. Raya, although grateful, is nonetheless insulted by his perceived boorishness.

Chapter 4: Captives of the Quon

In but moments Greysteel’s captor had swiftly followed the other, carrying him into the depths of rank verdure sprouting from the creature’s mighty back. The quon crashed through the undergrowth in leaps and bounds. The whipping branches nearly struck the Earthman senseless.

With unexpected suddenness his captor stopped and flung him to the trofis’ woody integument. Stunned by the heavy fall, and disorientated by his abductor’s bounding flight, Greysteel struggled desperately to order his scattered wits and coordinate his shaken limbs.

Dimly, the man perceived other quons gathering hungrily around limp forms. Then Greysteel’s captor loomed before him and blotted out the scene. The thing’s trunk waved in sinister undulations. It swept down towards him. Upon its end he glimpsed its horrid mouth - a wet sucker ringed with needle teeth.

Greysteel rolled away. A surge of fear thrust him to his feet. Sword drawn, he laid a savage blow upon the beast. It tumbled lifeless, green gore spurting foully.

With wild eyes he saw the other quons about the girl. Their foul suckers were reaching hungrily for her shapely form. He leapt among them, sword swinging and a savage cry upon his lips. One beast fled, leaving its severed trunk twitching at his feet. The others fell back and began plucking quills. Their dim minds were surprised at his attack.

The creatures swiftly flung their darts as Greysteel charged towards them, but this time the quons did not catch him by surprise. He dived. The quills arrowed above his rolling form; then he was upon his feet dealing swift and savage death to the horrid foe.

Another two beasts collapsed in pools of blood; the rest retreated rapidly. He stood panting as he watched their bounding forms vanish among the trees and then shuddered violently - a delayed reaction to this frightening experience.

Concern for the girl steadied his shaking limbs. This was not the time to go to pieces. Quickly, he knelt before her. Raya lay upon her back, unmoving. Yet her eyes were open and bright with life. A quill projected form one rounded shoulder. Envenomed? He guessed correctly it was the cause of her paralysis and that he, being from another world, was not affected by the poison.

Greysteel carefully removed the barb (his own had fallen out in the fray), and felt for other injuries. His hands passed through her ethereal clothing of luminescence and touched the naked skin beneath. Gently, his fingers explored her breasts, the softness of her belly, her thighs and found no other wounds. He was too relieved to notice that the girl was flushed and breathing heavily by the end of his examination.

Again, Greysteel looked about. The other men were dead, their pale corpses drained of blood by those frightful, alien things. With a shudder he turned his face away, gathered the girl in his arms, and departed the charnel scene.

Forcing his way through the tangled verdure, Greysteel, more by luck than skill, emerged upon the limb his foul captors had ascended and found that the trofis, with slothful monotony, was still scooping earth into its gaping maws. As the Englishman began his careful descent, he spotted distant figures running towards him - Parissan leading another group of warriors who had been desperately searching for the missing girl.

Raya stirred in his arms as he leapt to the ground, for the paralysing agent was wearing off. She looked at Greysteel, emotions passing across her face in quick succession - confusion, awe, desire; the last of these quickly hidden as she saw Parissan, now but yards away.

By sign language Raya made it known to Greysteel she desired to stand. Gently, he set her on her feet. The Prince approached. Deliberately ignoring the Englishman, he placed a steadying arm about the swaying girl. The couple walked away conversing in low tones, Parissan convincing Raya to leave the bodies of the slain for their burden would impede swift flight.

Greysteel’s eyes narrowed as he followed in their wake, surrounded by the warriors who eyed him suspiciously. Parissan was genuinely concerned, that was clear to all. But was it the girl, or some other reason that prompted this emotion? The Englishman wasn’t sure.

With the passing of perhaps fifteen minutes they arrived at a clearing by the banks of the mighty river, and here a strange vessel had been moored. The craft resembled a barge about one hundred yards in length and fifty in width. Upon it had been built what Greysteel could only think of as a palace in miniature - a construction of graceful columns and archways, broad verandas and crescent windows. Spires, at each corner of the vessel, completed its architecture, and from these fluttered blue pennants emblazoned with a golden flame.

The whole structure was a pleasing shade of cream, with gold leaf highlighting simple geometrical friezes. All in all, the design embodied great wealth, but without being overpowering - a pleasing testimony to the artistic sophistication of its builders.

To Greysteel, though, the most amazing thing about the vessel was the fact it floated at least two feet above the gently flowing river, supported by a cushion of blue and effervescent radiance*.

The astounded Englishman looked about in wonder as they boarded via a gangplank. Parissan smirked at his bumpkin-like behaviour.

Raya will soon tire of this oaf, thought the Prince. Then, perhaps an accident can be arranged. A pleasing thought at which Parissan broadly smiled.

As they stepped upon the deck, an elderly and distinguished Martian of scholarly mien dropped to one knee before Parissan and the girl, hands upraised in greeting. He uttered some kind of formal salutation, or so Greysteel surmised by his respectful tone. The savant then rose and, with polite curiosity, gazed upon the strangest man he had ever seen.

Raya, who had by now regained her composure, quickly outlined to the savant the circumstances of her meeting with the Englishman. She concluded her account with this command:

“Mesenna, it is my desire to know more of this strange being. I charge you with his care and the teaching to him of our tongue. Please commence the task at once, for I am eager to learn of his origins.”

And so began Greysteel’s education in targan, the language of the surrounding nations in whose environs he now found himself.

**********

In starlit solitude Greysteel slowly paced the lower deck of the royal barge. His soiled clothes had been replaced by those of Yannese wear, and he was beginning to adjust to Martian ways. It was the evening of his seventh day upon Rhomnos (as the Martians called their world) and the Englishman, who was tired of being confined to Mesenna’s stateroom, luxurious though it was, had asked his tutor permission to walk in the cool of night.

Deep in thought, Greysteel meditated upon the fantastic situation into which he had been thrust. Slowly walked the man, head bent, hands clasped behind his back. He was oblivious to heaven’s glory, and the fragrant scent of the papunu trees that clad the river banks, trees whose subtle perfume was wafted to him by the gentile zephyrs of this magic hour.

The Englishman was now fluent in targan. His lessons had rapidly progressed with the aid remjeb - a marvellous drug that enhanced memory tremendously, and enabled any person to quickly absorb vast amounts of information.

Mesenna had also proved to be an excellent teacher, and fortunately Greysteel had taken an instant liking to the man, possessed as he was of a quiet dignity, much like Bacon, his former mentor, and yet so strangely different in outward form.

Both men had passed many hours slowly learning from each other - Greysteel of Mars; Mesenna of Earth and the manner of Greysteel’s arrival upon this world, a fact that did not unduly surprise the sage, for the savant had long suspected life existed upon Sol’s third sphere or Aanthu as it was known to him.

But of all the marvellous things Greysteel had discovered; strangely, the following was uppermost in his mind as he made his lonely circuit of the palatial craft - that Raya, whose name meant ‘flame‘, was Queen of Yann, a city of unparalleled splendour built upon a rugged island in the middle of the landlocked Sea of Immus, which was the confluence of four mighty river systems, and hub of the aquatic trade routes of the Puthan continent.

The Yannese, it transpired, were astute merchants, and the city-state fabulously wealthy - the envy of many surrounding nations that sought alliance through marriage of one noble or another to the city’s beautiful Queen.

Parissan of Thadris, a neighboring kingdom, was Raya’s most recent and ardent suitor, the others having been displeasing to her. The Prince had been wooing Raya for quite some time, and this pleasure cruise of theirs was a kind of trial marriage, at the end of which the Queen would know her heart’s decision.

Mesenna thinks there is a very good chance she’ll marry him, mused Greysteel, frowning deeply at the thought. The Prince was certainly a handsome fellow, and Raya seemed impressed by his courtly airs, much to the Englishman’s confusing chagrin.

Greysteel stopped pacing, and started brooding at the thought of Raya’s coming nuptials to the Prince. He had grave suspicions about the man. Was it personal - jealousy, perhaps? No, it wasn’t that, he was sure. Beneath Parissan’s façade of charm lurked something vicious that the young Queen, blinded by infatuation, had overlooked.

For seven days he had seen Raya only in his dreams, some of those hardly innocent. No doubt the Prince was keeping her so occupied she could not summon him.

I must do something, he thought, desperately. It is an affront to Heaven that such a dastard should possess her loveliness.

A disturbing vision arose within the Englishman’s troubled mind – Parissan and the naked, writhing girl who was being defiled by his embrace. The thought unleashed a torrent of raw emotion - a swirling rage that drowned all reason in its flood. With a guttural cry Greysteel grasped a nearby trellis that was thick with scented blooms. Quickly, he began his swift ascent to the forbidden deck, high above, his mind fixed upon Raya‘s loveliness. What he hoped to accomplish by this madness he did not know, for he was like a man possessed.

With predatory stealth, Greysteel hauled himself across the rail of the upper deck. All was shadowed silence. A single guard stood silhouetted by heaven’s star gemmed radiance. The Earthman grinned savagely – like a wolf bearing its fangs. The bored warrior appeared distracted - entranced by the mating dance of swarms of shunum* that played upon the midnight air in vivid flashes of living emerald flame.

A flicker of movement caught the warrior’s eye. He was not as preoccupied as he appeared. He spun about, sword rasping from its sheath. An iron fist crashed against his jaw. The guard’s weapon fell with an alarming clatter. But his desperate cry for help was silenced by Greysteel’s throttling hands. Both men staggered about the deck, each one’s fingers locked about the other’s throat.

The brawlers scuffing feet kicked the sword. It spun towards the edge. With a surge of strength the guard broke Greysteel’s stranglehold and lunged for his teetering weapon.

Greysteel leapt upon his foe and struck him senseless with a hammering fist. The sword slid free and tumbled into the river’s ebon depths. The Englishmen slumped upon the senseless man, breathing in ragged gasps. He wiped the sweat from his brow. His brush with death had sobered him and he realized the depth of his stupidity.

Raya had treated him remarkably well, all things considered, and now he’d assaulted one of her guards so he could invade her apartments. What in God’s name had he been thinking. Quickly, Greysteel looked about. No one seemed to have heard the scuffle. He breathed a sigh of relief, but then stiffened as a nearby door opened with alarming suddenness.

* Footnote: The energy is generated by the craft’s force-engines, which consist of a hollow hemisphere of urzil mounted upon a heem base. In the centre of the circular base is a disc of carefully cut opusa crystal affixed to a copper rod. To activate the force-engine, the copper rod is drawn up by other mechanisms so its crystal disc comes into contact with the heem base. When these two substances touch, a form of radiation is released, the force becoming repulsive when it passes through the urzil hemisphere. Opusa crystals are piezoelectric in nature, whereas both urzil and heem are alloys - mixtures of other elements unique to Mars.

Chapter 5: The Game of Blood

Quickly, Greysteel dragged the unconscious warrior behind a man-size decorative urn. Heart pounding, he peered cautiously around its gilded form, and spied Parissan stealthily exiting Raya’s cabin. The Prince looked furtively about, and then crept along the deck to slink behind an ornamental tower. He quickly vanished within its cloak of shadow.

Suspicions aroused, Greysteel quietly followed. He felt certain Parissan was up to no good. If he could prove it Raya might, out of gratitude, forgive his stupidity. It was his only hope. Gaining the tower, he cautiously peered around its side, and spied his rival. The Prince was crouching in the shadows, whispering into a palm sized disc of softly glowing silver metal, the light thereof throwing his face into topography of strange relief.

“The plan goes well.” Parissan spoke in a whisper, barely audible.

Amazed, the Englishman listened intently and heard the disc reply in a tinny, indistinct voice. Again, Parissan spoke:

“Yes, I’m sure she will … Don’t worry, the secret will soon be ours…”

Was it magic? Greysteel dismissed the thought. Bacon would have named it science. He inched a little closer to better hear. A floorboard creaked as he placed his weight upon it - a thunderous sound in the quietness of the night.

The Prince spun about. He glimpsed a shadowy figure duck behind the tower. With a curse he hurled the device overboard and rushed his foe, dagger drawn. Greysteel heard his pounding steps. With a sinking feeling he knew he'd been discovered. There was no time to flee, no place to run. He was unarmed, and the river in these parts swarmed with fearsome, ravenous life.

Greysteel grimly stood his ground. Parissan fell upon him with the savagery of a beast. The Englishman caught his foe by the wrist, jarring the dagger to a halt. With a feral snarl the Prince jerked up his knee. Greysteel twisted, caught the painful blow upon his thigh. Then he punched his foe and flung him to the deck.

The Prince, whose dagger had spun away, grabbed Greysteel’s leg as he tried to kick him in the head. With a surge of strength Parissan was on his feet, jerking up the captured limb. The Englishman crashed upon the boards. Like a cat the Prince leapt upon the man, hands reaching for his throat. Greysteel struck a savage blow. Blood spurted from Parissan’s broken nose. Both men fiercely grappled, each hungering for the other’s blood as they rolled across the deck.

A shout rang out. Running feet shook the boards. Strong arms hauled apart the struggling men and held them with imprisoning hands. Raya appeared, surrounded by other brawny, hard-faced bodyguards.

“Thank the gods … you arrived in time,” gasped the Prince. “I found this savage skulking …”

“He lies!” cried Greysteel, savagely. “Fair lady, Parissan plots against you. I heard …”

“My love,” smoothly interjected the cunning Prince as he wiped away the blood. “The barbarian is clearly besotted by your beauty, a fact you have alluded to. No doubt he came to kidnap you, perhaps even worse…”

Greysteel, already in a fighting rage, exploded at this base suggestion. With a surge of wild strength he flung away his captors and hurled himself upon Parissan, hands locking about his adversary’s throat.

Raya screamed as the guards leapt to Parissan’s aid. Strong hands grasped the Englishman - his arms, his hair. The cursing guards hauled him off the gasping Prince. Dimly, Parissan saw Greysteel go berserk. The Englishman lunged back against his captors, driving all three painfully against the wrought iron balustrade.

One guard’s grip was weakened. With a wild cry Greysteel tore free his arm and gouged the eyes of his second foe. The two remaining warriors rained savage blows upon him. With disbelief Raya saw the savage hurl himself upon these men. All three crashed to the deck as Parissan staggered up. Then the Prince struck Greysteel from behind - a cunning blow that sent him plunging into dark oblivion.

**********

Greysteel lay in chains. Dawn light filtered through the bars of the brig’s only window - a bright contrast to his dark and gloomy thoughts. For the umpteenth time he wondered at his own foolishness. What had prompted him to be so rash?

At last he had to admit the truth, at least to himself. The Prince’s words were true. He was indeed besotted by the Queen and jealous of Parissan. His only consolation was that his suspicions of the man were based on fact, not just envy. But now it was too late - the cunning Prince had thrown doubt upon him, and anything he said would be dismissed as evil lies born of debased covertness.

His dismal thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door. Greysteel looked up and saw Mesenna quickly entering. The sage laid a finger against his lips, enjoining the wondering man to silence as he carefully closed the panel.

“Well,” he whispered. “Last night was certainly dramatic. Would you care to explain yourself?”

Abashed, the Englishman quickly outlined the night’s events, and concluded thus:

“I’ve been an utter fool. I should have let reason rule my actions, and gone to you with my suspicions.”

“A man who knows he is a fool is at least wiser than one who doesn’t,” replied Mesenna, wryly. “I believe you, William. That speaking disc you described - our agents have heard rumours of it. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Just because Yann and Thadris will soon be united by a royal marriage doesn’t stop us from spying on them. Intrigue is a favourite pastime of the ruling class, it always has been.”

Greysteel brightened. “Then the Queen will believe me, for I knew nothing of such a thing …”

Mesenna’s glum look stopped his tongue.

“Raya is young, headstrong and impressionable,” explained the sage. “It is a case of your word against that of Parissan’s, whom she favours. There is no evidence - that disc would be somewhere on the river bottom and unfindable. The Prince has turned Raya against you with his subtle tongue. I’m afraid Parissan has convinced her to condemn you to The Game of Blood - a standard punishment meted out to violent criminals.”

Greysteel surged to his feet, chains rattling, more angry than afraid. “Pity I didn’t kill him, then.” he hotly cried.

Mesenna raised a hand. “Stem your anger, and listen carefully to my advice. Our laws allow the Queen, if it is within her power, to grant a boon to those who survive the games, which will commence upon our return. If you live, ask her to pardon you. Meanwhile, I shall keep close watch on Parissan. Hopefully, I can discover the nature of this unknown plot, and also evidence that will convince the Queen.”

The door suddenly opened, ending further discourse. “Time to go,” whispered the guard whom Mesenna had bribed with several golden nem.* “My replacement will be here any moment. “

Mesenna nodded and quickly left without a further word. The cell door closed, leaving Greysteel with much to think about.

**********

The condemned men waited in a line upon the white sands of the arena as the murmur of the expectant crowd washed over them. The sun beat down from a vault of cloudless sapphire upon the Englishman who stood among them. Its vibrant colour reminded him of the waters rolling upon the shores of Yann as they had approached it earlier in the day, and for a moment Greysteel recalled his first sight of the island-kingdom….

Mist was rising off the inland sea as they drew near the island, he in chains upon the deck. The land grew larger, rising out of the fog - a mesa-like landmass whose entire shore was an unscaleable escarpment. Rugged cliffs loomed above them, these cleft by a narrow fjord whose entrance was strongly guarded by fortresses of impressive might.

The ship passed between these mountainous towers whose sheer massiveness Greysteel could not help but marvel at, and then slowly traversed the mile long passage that opened into a spacious bay, thick with the ships of many nations, though none floating above the water as their own was wont to do.

They approached the docks thickening with colourful cheering crowds, for the mighty fortresses that guarded the entrance to the fjord had announced the arrival of the royal barge with the thunderous sound of brazen gongs, which echoed through the narrow passage. The barge docked. The Queen alighted - a vision of loveliness, quickly swept from Greysteel’s despairing gaze.

Then the guards seized him roughly, and he was led away through the broad tree-lined avenues of the spacious cliff-ringed city. They marched past stately buildings - stepped octagons three stories in height, abutting like terrace houses. Their alabaster edifices were trimmed with shining gold, and their broad terrace gardens overflowed with scented, floral shrubs.

After about fifteen minutes Greysteel and his guard arrived at the soaring palace - three octagonal towers arranged in a triangle, each story (seven in all) linked to the same level of the adjoining structures by gracefully arching bridges. Here, too, were verdant terraces, their exotic flowers filling the air with subtle fragrances. Rainbows played in the spray of bubbling fountains, and marble statues of great artistry could be seen peeking through the luxurious foliage - a bright contrast to the gloomy palace dungeon into which he had been thrown...

The brazen cry of a gong sounded and drew Greysteel’s mind to the present. Raya had taken her seat in the royal box with Parissan by her side. The Queen‘s visage was stony, unreadable. She would not meet his sombre gaze as he knelt in salutation with the other fighters, but whether her aversion was born from hatred or guilt the Englishman did not know. Parissan, though, returned his stare with a sardonic smile as he placed a possessive hand upon her arm.

“Let the contest begin, and fate scribe her lines as she may,” cried the girl. The crowd cheered, oblivious to the hint of sorrow in her voice.

The Master of the Arena pointed at Greysteel, then another man. The fighters pared off as instructed and moved to the centre of the field. Greysteel focused upon his opponent. Both men, like the rest, were dressed in loincloths and armed with two-handed maces of heavy bronze - spiked spheres mounted on long hafts - brutal weapons suiting this bloody sport.

The Englishman confidently approached his foe. The fellow’s clumsy stance suggested he was not versed in the use of weapons, and naked fear was upon his ugly face.

Poor devil, thought Greysteel. I’ll finish him quickly. It’s the least that I can do.

He lunged with a wild yell, mace swinging in a mighty blow. Nimbly, his wily opponent leapt aside. The stroke missed, overbalancing the Englishman. He crashed to the sand and his weapon flew out of reach.

With a cry of triumph Sabris leapt, mace arcing in a savage stroke Greysteel knew he couldn’t block. Too late he saw his foe’s clumsiness was but a cunning ruse.

The crowd roared, sensing blood. Raya tensed. She stifled her cry of fear. Parissan leaned forward expectantly, oblivious to her distress.

Desperately, Greysteel rolled. The mace crashed fiercely upon the sand where he had lain. Weapon raised, his opponent dashed at him as he quickly came upon his feet.

Greysteel dodged the savage blow and flung the sand he had grasped in Sabris’ gloating face. His foe cursed, dropped the mace and stumbled away, hands clawing at his gritty eyes.

An approving cheer went up from the wild throng as Greysteel pursued and slammed one fist into his enemy’s kidney. With a howl of pain and fury Sabris spun, swinging wildly. The lucky blow connected and sent Greysteel sprawling to the sand.

Then Sabris, who had recovered something of his sight, found his mace. Again, the crowd roared in savage delight as he stood triumphantly above the fallen Englishman, and prepared to land the fatal, crushing blow.

*Footnote: Shunum are insect-like creatures resembling dragonflies, but with bioluminescent wings. They mate at night, the males performing intricate aerial dances, their glowing wings attracting females who mate with the brightest and most vigorous performer.

**Footnote: Yannese coinage. Anse: Triangular bronze coin. 16 Anse = one Esne. Esne: Square silver coin. 25 Esne = one Nem. Nem: Hexagonal gold coin.

Flame of Rhomnos (Part 2)