Author: Kirk Straughen

Chapter 6: An Ancient Custom

Sabris swung his mace. There was savage glee upon his twisted visage. With a sob, Raya hid her face from the Englishman’s certain doom. Through wavering vision Greysteel glimpsed the weapon’s frightful plunge. Wild fear leant him strength, and in a surge of panic he rolled towards his foe.

A spray of sand, not blood, erupted where the weapon struck. Greysteel’s feet lashed out and shattered Sabris’ knee. The man collapsed, his agonized scream drowned out by the cheering throng. Again, they voiced their savage cry as Greysteel snatched up the fallen mace, and with it smashed Sabris’ skull to bloody ruin.

Breathing heavily, the Englishman stood upon trembling legs above his vanquished foe, sickened by the cheering throng. When he killed it was from necessity, not pleasure. These men were criminals, true. But nonetheless, the blatant blood-lust of the crowd revolted him.

Again, Greysteel gazed at the royal box and saw the aloof figure of the Queen. A look of vast relief seemed to pass across her face, one quickly hidden when Parissan turned towards her. Was she glad he lived? The distance was considerable and her countenance in shadow. The only certainty of which he could be sure - that this was but the beginning of his ordeals…

The day passed in a swirl of gore and pain - a progression of raging battles and men falling in crushed and bloody ruin. Then there was the cheering crowd egging on the fighters with wild shouts. The spectators seemed little better than savages, ever eager to see death dealt in all its horrid forms. Existence became a ghastly nightmare, all too real to the exhausted Englishman.

At last the final foe lay lifeless at Greysteel’s feet, his shattered skull oozing brains and blood. The throng roared enthusiastically, a passion Greysteel could not share for, unlike them, he had no love of senseless butchery. Slowly, wearily, he stumbled towards the royal box, knelt, and raised his hands in salutation. Then he stiffly rose, and leaned heavily upon his bloody mace, gasping air into his trembling, sweat-streaked frame.

Raya gazed upon him. Her expression was unreadable - a façade behind which tumultuous and disturbing emotions hotly raged. This man had tried to kill her lover. He deserved to die, and yet every time he had come near to death she had longed for him to live.

Parissan, though, was more open with his feelings - the man’s hatred was written in naked lines upon his handsome face, and the Englishman smiled at his discomfiture.

Probably hopes I’ll die from exhaustion, thought Greysteel. Well, I think I’ll disappoint him, but only just.

The cheering of the throng slowly died away, enabling him to speak: “Your Majesty, as victor I request a boon – a pardon for my crimes and an open door to freedom, if it is within your power to grant me this.”

Parissan leapt to his feet. “Outrageous! Raya, this fellow is a barbarian, an unpredictable savage. He desires you. Let him loose and your life and honour will be in constant peril.”

A vision arose within Raya’s mind - Greysteel carrying her off and doing things to her no respectable maiden would desire. Something of her feelings must have shown, for in the pregnant silence the Prince looked upon her with suspicion.

Furious at Parissan’s interference, a hot interjection rose to Greysteel’s lips. But before he could decry his enemy’s accusation, Mesenna, who had also keenly followed the day’s events, quickly stepped to Raya’s side and spoke with quiet confidence to the Queen.

“Your Majesty, the Prince’s fear for you causes him to exaggerate. I have studied the barbarian and conversed with him at length. I assure you, though of a strange appearance he can be reasoned with. Place him in my care and I’ll tame his unruly ways.”

Raya, too disturbed by her own unruly desires, could only nod in relieved assent. Then, breathing deeply, she mastered her wild thoughts and proclaimed her will to the murmuring crowd. The throng cheered. Parissan scowled. Greysteel grinned at him.

**********

The passing of several days: A gentle breeze swirled through the grove of stately nokona, its cool passage stirring the tree’s extraordinary cylindrical blooms of vivid yellow, which clinked together like delicate woody chimes.

Soft morning light filtered through the puce canopy, and the dappled radiance cast strange, shifting patterns upon the sacred pool, and the vulviform rock that lay in its centre.

Grouped upon the margins of the limpid pond were the city’s nobles. Arrayed in splendid finery were these lords and ladies - the men in their bejewelled kilts, their women attired in garments of pastel light. All had come to witness Raya’s marriage ceremony, which custom demanded take place by the bubbling spring upon this isle of Tusa, one mile from Yann’s northern shore.

Greysteel stood at the fringes of the gaily laughing crowd. He was the outsider, and painfully aware of it. Moodily, he looked about, scanning the scene for a glimpse of Raya.

Why did Mesenna insist I come, he thought. Was it to torment me with the sight of Raya marrying my enemy? No, that sly old fox is up to something, but what?

Again, he looked about, but this time for the sage, and saw him finish conversing with another man. Turning, Mesenna spotted Greysteel, and then threaded his way through the festive crowd and towards his lonely charge.

“What news?” queried Greysteel when the sage drew near, for he saw the man’s brow was furrowed in worried thought.

“Much, and yet little,” replied the savant. “Nothing that would convince the Royal Council - mere hints suggesting the Prince is attempting, through marriage to Raya, to gain knowledge of the force-engines that power our craft. These engines, whose manufacture is a closely guarded secret, give us great advantage over the mercantile fleets and navies of other city-states, and King Thutis, Parissan’s father, is rumoured to have dreams of empire.”

Greysteel‘s face hardened. His voice was edged with anger when he spoke: “It makes sense, then - those words the Prince spoke to the silver disc. The blackguard plans to seduce the secret out of her…”

A melodious chant hushed all present as the dulcet melody drifted softly through the wood. Faint at first was this paean to goddess Ervia, then slowly louder as its wondrous singers approached - fair maidens in robes of pastel light, fragrant blooms entwined in flowing tresses. Raya was the crowning jewel in this vision of ethereal loveliness.

Greysteel gazed upon the Queen, overcome by a sense of helplessness, and an indescribable feeling of loss. Their eyes briefly met, and in his gaze she sensed his longing. Again, the memory of his touch came to her - his searching hands, exploring as she lay helpless in the snare of the quon’s paralysing venom. How innocent, and yet how stirring it had been.

The girl shook her head, as if by doing so she could cast out these unsettling thoughts. She loved the Prince, did she not? Why, then, were thoughts of this barbarian troubling her? Who was he but a strange savage, nothing more?

Parissan was strong, handsome, and courtly in his manners. He was of noble blood. And yet it was the savage who had stood his ground when the quon attacked, with Parissan fleeing to summon aid, or so he claimed. The Prince’s actions were quite sensible of course, but hardly heroic.

She pushed her doubts aside. Nenna, High Priestess waited beside the sacred spring with Parissan next to her. He was magnificently attired and smiling joyously. Every eye was upon Raya, fencing her in with their expectant gaze.

I’m not trapped, she firmly thought as she walked through the parting crowd to the Prince‘s side. I want to go through with this!

The couple knelt before the High Priestess. She placed her hands upon their heads and began uttering the sacred words that would make them one. The singers raised their voices in glorious harmony. Greysteel looked away and leaned dejectedly against a tree.

Mesenna bent near to him and whispered in his ear: “We have one last chance to foil the Prince’s plan. If a man desires a betrothed woman he may, during the marriage ceremony, challenge the groom to a mortal dual.

"It is an ancient custom, nearly forgotten. But if the challenge were issued, then Parissan would have to fight you, or forfeit his claim upon the Queen.”

Greysteel straightened with a jerk. In an instant he knew why Mesenna wanted him present, but strangely found he didn’t care he was being used as an instrument of assassination.

“The ceremony is reaching its conclusion”, warned the sage. “Act now, or not at all. “

Greysteel spun about, a look of consternation upon his face. Without further thought he charged the throng like a wild bull. Men fell cursing; women screamed. Distracted by the commotion, Nenna stopped the ritual. She saw one noble fling himself upon the Englishman. Greysteel’s elbow smashed against his ribs, and sent him crashing to the earth. Another leapt at him, then fell away, jaw broken by a savage blow.

“Guards,” shrilly cried the rising Prince. “Protect the Queen. Kill this madman ere he harms her.”

Parissan’s retainers charged, as did the Queen‘s. The Englishman cursed, and with a burst of frantic speed thrust through the milling crowd to confront the Prince.

“I challenge you,” cried Greysteel, “for the hand of Raya.”

The crowd gasped in astonishment. Parissan cursed. The Queen looked on, not knowing what to think. The grim faced warriors closed in and prepared to strike down this brazen interloper.

Greysteel tensed as Parissan’s retainers surrounded him. Nenna stopped their swinging swords with a vibrant cry. Of all those present only the High Priestess seemed unsurprised at this sudden drama, and the Englishman suspected she had been forewarned of what would happen.

“By our laws this man may challenge the Prince,” she declared in clear and dulcet tones. “And none may interfere on pain of death. My Lord, you must accept the barbarian’s challenge, or forfeit the Queen to him.”

“Then let swords be brought at once,” cried Parissan. “And with naked steel I’ll cure this savage of his foolish impudence.”

I could lose either way, thought Greysteel, with sudden insight. If I win, and Raya truly loves this fellow, then she’ll hate me. If I die, then that’s the end of it as well.

A wavy blade presented to him by a guard ended further thought. He saw Parissan - now also armed. The High Priestess raised her hand dramatically. “To the victor, the Queen,” she cried. ”And to he who loses – death.”

Her hand swept down, and like savage lions both combatants leapt at one another. Swords crashed in pealing tones. Sparks flew and the crowd fell back from the whirling fighter’ flying blades.

Greysteel threw himself upon Parissan, his sword falling in a savage arc. The Prince blocked the shearing stroke and was driven to one knee. He staggered up and barely parried the Englishman’s lightning thrust. With growing fear he realized he could not match the strength and fighting science of his savage foe.

Sweat was upon the Prince’s brow. Defeat and death in equal measure stared him in the face. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Raya looking on, hands clasped to her heaving breast. A desperate plan formed within Parissan’s cunning mind.

Disengaging from Greysteel’s flashing blade, he leapt away and caught the startled girl about the waist. She screamed in fear and disbelief as he pressed sharp steel against her slender throat.

Chapter 7: Parissan’s Treachery

“Lower your sword, barbarian,” cried Parissan. “The rest of you keep back.”

The nobles cried in outrage at this shocking treachery. Naked hate was upon their faces. Greysteel dropped his point and cursed vehemently.

“Coward,” he cried. How dare you use a woman as your shield! Let her go, and we’ll settle this like men.”

Parissan laughed sardonically. “Honour is for fools. I do what I must to win. Now stand aside, and let my men approach. Hinder any of us, and I’ll cut her throat. When I‘m free I‘ll let her go unharmed.”

An angry silence fell upon the throng as Parissan’s warriors surrounded him with a wall of swords. Helplessly, Greysteel watched them retreat among the trees to the vessels moored upon the isle’s shore.

The last glimpse he had of the weeping girl before she vanished from his sight was more tormenting to him than the cruellest torture. His emotions raged like a violent storm – to kill Parissan, to cleave his skull to the jaws and have the pleasure of seeing him die, and then to comfort Raya – to hold her in his arms and kiss away all her tears. He uttered a livid oath and plunged his sword into the earth as if it was his enemy.

Would Parissan keep his word? This question was on the minds of everyone. They could only wait helplessly and see. Tense moments passed for Greysteel and the silent throng. Then a flicker of rapid movement was briefly seen through the surrounding verdure. It was the swift departure of the fleeing Prince. All dashed madly to the shore and saw the distant boat, now shrunken to a speeding dot. But of the Queen there was no sign.

For a moment all was quiet, like the stillness before the storm. Then the Englishman felt the hot gaze of the mob upon his back. He turned with a challenging and contemptuous snarl. It was as he thought. They muttered angrily among themselves. Some pointed accusing fingers at him, blaming him for what had happened.

Greysteel didn’t care. His temper was now as hot as hellfire. He wanted blood and they wanted blood. He was happy to accommodate them. It showed upon his face and in every insolent line of his challenging stance. With a savage roar the throng charged as one. Men fell beneath Greysteel’s flashing sword, heads severed, limbs hacked away. Six bloody corpses lay at his feet when he fell beneath the mob’s overwhelming weight. Cruel hands dragged him down while others closed remorselessly about his throat…

**********

It was now noon. The bruised and battered Englishman sat within the council chamber. His joints ached from sitting cross-legged on one of the circular cushions that took the place of chairs, and in his ears droned the seemingly endless debate of frantic men.

Greysteel mulled over the morning‘s events. If it hadn’t been for the intervention of Raya’s guards at Mesenna’s command, the throng would have torn him limb from limb. It had been a near thing, and he shuddered at the frightful memory of it - the looming, hate filled faces, the clawing hands that sought his life and the cries of men as warriors waded in and beat down all resistance with the flat of their heavy blades.

Slowly, a semblance of order had been imposed upon the throng and when all was quiet Mesenna explained the reason for Greysteel‘s disruption of the ceremony. There had, however, been some very tense moments when the friends of those the Englishman had killed demanded vengeance. But the sage had pointed out it was a case of self defence, and urged them to devote their thoughts to rescuing the Queen.

His arguments proved effective, and with frantic haste the party had returned to Yann. But despite Mesenna’s warning someone must have talked, for within the hour of their return knowledge of the kidnapping of the Queen had spread through the city like a wildfire, and the entire metropolis had quickly fallen into a state of unbridled panic - wailing crowds milled in the streets below, and several fistfights had even broken out among the councillors. Chaos seemed everywhere.

Raya, Greysteel had discovered, was more than just a Queen: She was the phutar, the embodiment, or soul of the Yannese nation. It was a difficult concept for him to grasp. The girl wasn’t considered divine, but possessed of some inexplicable spirit that was thought the collective identity of her people.

They’re a strange lot, thought Greysteel. Highly civilized, yet also savage. Advanced in some respects, but primitive in others - like a peasant who believes his shadow has been stolen by witchcraft, leaving him at the mercy of its possessor.

The Englishman snorted disgustedly. The councillor next to him was stridently speaking of appeasement - the secret of their force-engines in exchange for the girl. Had these fools learned nothing? Parissan could not be trusted to keep his word.

Greysteel leapt to his feel and struck his hands together in a mighty clap, the explosive sound echoing from the chamber’s frescoed walls. In the stunned silence, he spoke confidently, knowing decisive action must be taken, and that these men were incapable of it.

“Fools,” he boldly cried. “Give your secrets to the Prince, and he’ll crush you with them. Do you think the Queen would wish her people beneath a tyrant’s heel?”

Cries of outrage erupted at this comment. Some cursed him. Others called for his ejection from the council chamber. One man flew at him, swinging savagely. Greysteel ducked the wild blow and brutally knocked him down to bleed upon the tiles. Others leapt upon their feet. Mesenna arose. He thumped his Staff of Authority upon the mosaics and called for silence.

“Let him speak,” cried the sage. “This stranger, not blinded by our beliefs, may see more clearly. That is why I brought him here.”

Silence descended upon the men. Their faces turned towards him, some hopeful, others filled with doubt, a small number with derision. Ignoring these, Greysteel spoke on.

“You must prepare for war,” he explained. “The Prince won’t keep any bargain that is made. You say the Queen is your phutar, and that you must preserve her at all cost. But I say your greater loyalty is to the people, for they shall live on though she may pass away.”

“Would you have us abandon our beloved Queen?” cried another outraged councillor.

“Not at all,” countered Greysteel with more calmness than he felt. “I will disguise myself as a Rhomnoan, and rescue her. In the meantime stall for time by pretending to bargain with the Prince.”

A storm of objections arose - a single man against all of Thadris’ might; the impossibility of his disguise. Again, Mesenna rose to his defence and thumped his staff for silence.

“There is some wisdom in his words,” spoke the savant. “One man may easily penetrate our enemy’s defences, where an army would fail. As for the disguise - I can darken his skin with orra, a drug used to treat albinism. The change will be permanent - he’ll be as black as the rest of you.”

The debate continued for painful hours and Greysteel wrestled all the while with his growing fear for the girl. What was happening to her, alone and at Parissan’s mercy? He pushed these troubling thoughts aside, and tried to focus upon the raucous doubts of yet another naysayer.

At last a majority was arrived at - the thrashed out plan would proceed. Greysteel slouched wearily. The sun, now low on the horizon, cast its wan light through a crescent window and feebly pushed back evening’s encroaching shadows. Still, there was one more thing the Englishman had to do.

“Bring me writing implements and parchment,” he requested. “I have an idea that may aid you in the coming war.”

**********

Two days had passed, and Greysteel now stood before Thadris’ massive gates, his body shaved of all betraying auburn hair, his skin as black as any Martian’s. He was posing as a sapa - a class of itinerate labourer employed in carrying and pulling heavy loads, for there were no draft animals upon this world of Rhomnos.

It was mid morning when he had disembarked from the brightly painted Lethjen* galley that had berthed at the city’s teeming quays, and from there had slowly made his way through the noisy, milling crowds to queue with the others in the shadow of Thadris’ mighty walls.

With grudging admiration Greysteel looked upon those huge bastions - the triple ring of titanic walls that encircled the fortress-city, the massive towers buttressing their dizzy height, and the hoards of warriors in glittering armour that marched upon the ramparts. The city could be taken, true, but its impressive defences would exact a heavy toll on any aggressor, and the Englishman could not help but feel the invader would find the price of victory far too high.

Greysteel was mere yards from the gate when a sudden commotion drew his gaze from the towering walls. His face hardened at the confronting sight before him - a young and helpless woman struggling wildly in the grip of thuggish guards.

The girl, though beautiful, was obviously of the poorer classes, for she was not clothed in the light of zurals, but dressed in a simple tunic of woven cloth. This lack of status and her beauty no doubt made her the choice for the warrior’s sadistic sport.

“Too pretty for a country wench,” commented the villainous hulk who held the writhing girl.

“An assassin, perhaps?” replied the other. “Come to murder some noble lord.”

“Best search her for concealed weapons,” spoke the third as he winked at his leering fellows.

The girl screamed shrilly as her clothes were torn away and wept tears of shame as she was groped unmercifully before the indifferent throng. Greysteel’s temper flared at the terrible sight, and with a visible effort he held himself in check, knowing he must not draw attention to himself.

Rough and violating hands tore further screams from the writhing girl. Trembling with rage, the Englishman looked away. Not so others who gazed with sadistic pleasure at the sight. At last her brutal tormentors let her go, laughing coarsely as she fled weeping and naked through the city’s brazen gates.

“Next,” cried the brute that had molested her the most.

Greysteel controlled himself as he approached. But something of his suppressed rage must have shown upon his face, for as he stepped forward Thrus, the Sergeant of the Gate, looked him up and down with an arrogant, challenging stare.

“Well, what have we here?” drawled the man, thinking to further amuse himself. “It looks like an animal of burden, if I’m not mistaken.”

The Englishman maintained his outward composure as further insults came thick and fast, but inwardly his hidden rage slowly mounted. The diatribe of foulness reached its climax when Thrus, seeing his insults could not provoke the man, spat full in Greysteel’s face.

Greysteel felled the brute with a single, savage blow, all thoughts of self-control having vanished. Swords rasped from sheaths. Thrus’ two companions fell upon him with cries of furious rage.

A whirling sword struck out. Greysteel ducked his second foe’s slashing blade, but only just. The Englishman darted close and dealt his attacker a savage blow. The man collapsed, ribs cracked by the Englishman’s blocky fist. The third warrior, weapon thrusting, leapt over his companion who writhed upon the flagstones.

Greysteel sidestepped the disembowelling lunge and kicked the fellow’s leg out from under him. With a startled cry his foe fell heavily to the ground as Thrus staggered up and fumbled for his sword. The Englishman saw the danger. He leapt forward, his fist swinging in a savage haymaker that sent the brute crashing senseless to the earth.

A sudden movement caught Greysteel’s eye - the tower guards, alerted by the fray were boiling forth. The crowd scattered like frightened mice before their charge, and the Earthman cursed his fiery temper as they bore down upon him in an avalanche of glittering blades.

*Footnote: Lethja is a small kingdom in the extreme north of Putha, and is renown for the quality of its opalescent glassware, which is much in demand as status symbol among the wealthy.

Chapter 8: Within the City

The guards came rushing at him like a swarm of angry hornets. Greysteel snatched up Thrus’ fallen sword. The odds were overwhelming. Nonetheless, he prepared to die as bravely as he could.

The warriors engulfed him in a ring of swinging steel. Greysteel struck two whirling swords aside. Others came at his unprotected back. A shout rang out and checked the descending blades. Then Lemna, Captain of the Guard, pushed through the crowding, hostile warriors, speaking thus:

“Lower your swords and let the sapa pass. I saw what happened - Thrus provoked the man, and got what he deserved.”

Then, turning to Greysteel, he gruffly ordered: “On your way, and be quick about it.”

Vastly relieved, the Englishman nodded and dropped his sword, acutely aware that his fiery temper had nearly ended all hope of Raya’s rescue.

Lemna, a thoughtful expression upon his craggy face, watched Greysteel pass through the massive outer gate to the second towering inner wall. This was separated from the first by one hundred feet of open space along which moved the colourful, noisy throng:

Merchants from far cities heaped sulphurous oaths upon teams of sapas that drew their wagons, heavily laden with strange pungent spices and other exotic goods. Farming families from the rural districts struggled under their burdens of vegetables and fruit, all borne in wicker baskets precariously balanced upon their heads, while itinerate mendicants of innumerable cults harangued the crowd with their messages of a better life in this world and the next.

The smells, colours, sounds and the smothering press of the vociferous crowd all combined to assault the Englishman in a barrage of strangeness that left his senses reeling. In a daze he passed through the remaining gates to the inner city, oblivious to the man shadowing him, and stumbled to a bubbling fountain, one of several that stood on either side of the final portal.

Sitting heavily, he splashed his face with its cooling water, and reviewed the plans he and Mesenna had made as best they could. He was to contact Sarvon, a Yannese agent, and also the proprietor of the Winsome Maiden, an inn adjacent to the palace precincts, and with the spy’s assistance Greysteel hoped to formulate the next stage of his rescue plan.

Refreshed, the Englishman stood to get his bearings. Although he had memorized a rough map of the enemy city, he wasn’t confident he could locate his objective easily for the metropolis was very different to that of Yann. The place looked like a labyrinth – the narrow streets snaked between crowding tenements of gaudily painted timber and stone, forming a maze of dingy, twisting ways that were utterly confusing.

It was claustrophobic, this teeming city. There were none of the broad tree-shaded boulevards and open parks of Yann. People were hemmed in by towering walls and buildings, packed like fish in a basket, and like fish, the place stank. Obviously, city planning wasn’t a Thadran strongpoint.

Slowly, Greysteel pushed his way through the surging crowds, and at last emerged upon the central market place. Here, he fought through the bedlam of hawking merchants and their animated bartering clientele, and made his torturous way to the northern quarter of the teeming square. Fortunately, the gilded spires of the city’s sprawling palace were his saving guide, for they towered above the confusing chaotic scene in which he was immersed.

At last he found the Winsome Maiden, and with a sense of relief, stepped within the relative quiet of its shadowed interior. A circular feasting chamber was the central feature of the inn, with guestrooms leading off along its walls. The place was crowded with rowdy patrons ogling a nude dancing girl. She disported lewdly for their amusement upon a central stage, and Greysteel could not help but feel that though the maiden was as charming as the inn‘s name suggested, her innocence was highly questionable.

Tearing his eyes from her suggestive gyrations, he weaved his way through the enthusiastically cheering crowd towards the bar and instantly recognised Sarvon by Mesenna’s description of him - a tall, thin man; hawkish of feature, whose large penetrating eyes missed nothing.

“Have you room for a weary traveller?” queried Greysteel as he made the secret gesture.

“For such a one our sleeping mats are always ready,” was Sarvon’s countersign. “Follow me.”

With unhurried ease Sarvon escorted the Englishman to the chamber’s further end, and ushered him within a small nondescript guestroom.

“Rest here,” he said. “I will come again in the quite of evening.”

The door closed. Greysteel was alone. Time passed with leaden steps. The Englishman, having nothing to distract him, began fretting over Raya’s fate in restless and fruitless worry. It wasn’t long before his troubled mind was besieged by a hoard of fearful imaginings that he was forced to wrestle with...

Night gradually descended upon Rhomnos, and her dusky lashes slowly closed to seal up the eye of day. A soft knock awoke Greysteel from his fitful doze. He arose and cautiously opened the door. Sarvon entered the room. Both men pulled up stools, and the Englishman quickly explained the nature of his mission, concluding thus:

“I know what I plan sounds like madness, but will you help?”

Sarvon sat in silence staring at the floor, his mind deep in thought. Greysteel’s anxious gaze was upon his unreadable expression, and as the minutes passed he began to worry that his request would be denied. The Englishman sweated – without this man’s aid he knew had no chance of rescuing the woman he loved. At last the inn keeper stirred and looked upon his anxious companion.

“I know a master mason who is currently supervising repairs to the palace. I will arrange for him to employ you, and thus you can gain entrance without suspicion. Once within …”

The door burst open with a mighty crash, and in rushed shouting warriors, noosed staves in their brawny hands. Both conspirators leapt to their feet. They hefted the stools they had been sitting on and with them clubbed the rushing foe. One guard went down beneath Greysteel’s fearsome blow. Another ran at him, weapon thrusting. He leapt aside and felled the fellow with a braining stroke.

“Remember,” shouted Lemna, Captain of the Guard. ”Take them alive for questioning. “

The hard faced warriors steadily advanced upon the pair. The guards thrust their staffs at the defenders. Greysteel desperately battered aside the weapons, realizing that if the loops closed about his limbs or neck he would be helpless.

Sarvon, too, saw the danger. They were trapped and outnumbered. He knew they had no chance. Quickly, he drew his dagger, bravely plunged it to the hilt within his heart and fell lifeless to the floor. The merciless torturers would learn nothing from him.

Greysteel was shocked by his unexpected suicide. Distracted, he failed to block one thrusting staff. Its noose slipped about his neck, tightened. He dropped the stool and clawed at the choking rope as he sunk gasping to his knees, his vision fading.

Wild fear was upon him – a terrible fear, not so much for himself but for the girl. If he died who would aid her? The terror of this thought gave him strength. He grasped the staff and jerked his assailant off his feet and sent him crashing to the floor. But then another noose fell about his neck and tightened savagely.

Greysteel thrashed about. He turned blue. Death seemed ready to receive him. All seemed lost. Then the pressure eased, and the Englishman gasped air into his heaving lungs as he lay sprawled half dead upon the floor. Lemna stood above the panting man, a gloating look of triumph upon his face.

“Fool,” he smugly cried. “At the gate you fought like a warrior, not a common sapa. My suspicions aroused, I had you followed, and when you sought lodgings with a suspected Yannese agent I was certain that some plot was now afoot.”

Then, turning to his warriors: “Guards, to the dungeons with him. Our torturers will soon rip the truth from this odious spy. “

**********

Greysteel, now stark naked, stood upon a bronze plate in the depths of the King’s torture chamber. An iron chain depended from the shadowed ceiling, and was attached to the heavy collar that chafed his neck. His thighs were burning from constant leaping, and his soles were bleeding from many shallow wounds. The leaden cloak of tiredness lay upon him for he had spent a sleepless night in interminable torment from this strange torture engine.

The device was fiendishly cruel and ingenious. It consisted of a bronze square set flush with the stone floor. Its metal surface was perforated with hundreds of tiny holes through which, at unpredictable intervals, needles would be quickly thrust and retracted by cunningly wrought mechanisms concealed beneath the plate.

The torture was both mental and physical - the helpless victim could not rest, but must stand in a state of constant anxiety, ready at any moment to leap to avoid the painful pricks of the stabbing bodkins, and should he faint from agony or weariness, then the metal collar would strangle him.

Again, Greysteel felt the prick of the remorseless needles. Pain lanced through his soles. He leapt and landed heavily, leaving more bloody footprints upon the bronze.

Should he surrender and tell his heartless tormentors what they wished to hear? The temptation to end this futile suffering was immense, for clearly all was lost. Then defiance flared at the memory of the grinning guards who had chained him here. No! It would take more than this to break his spirit. He’d show these dogs he was made of sterner stuff than clay.

His musings were interrupted by a faint sound drifting ghostlike through the gloom. The noise drew near, more distinct now with closing distance - the scuff of sandals upon grimy stone.

The Englishman tensed as a key grated within the massive lock. The heavy door creaked open upon groaning hinges, and Parissan slowly stepped within. Silently, the two men stared at one another; then, with dawning recognition, a cruel smile gradually curved the Prince’s sensuous lips. Turning, Parissan beckoned, and a burly torturer dragged Raya within the gloomy cell.

The Earthman’s face hardened at the sight of the frightened girl, and surging anger drove away all weariness. The Queen’s hands were manacled before her. Gone were the wondrous jewels that clad her in a robe of light. Instead she wore a torn sack-like garment of coarsely woven cloth whose rents left her indecently exposed in many places. Raya stumbled, for heavy fetters also bound her ankles.

Parissan caught the girl. She trembled in his callous hands. The torturer retreated to the door at the Prince’s growled command to wait developments. The Queen appeared unharmed, but for how much longer? Greysteel was beset by terrible fear at that worrying thought. He wanted to scream curses at the man, but realized such behaviour would betray his inner torment to his enemy. He clenched his jaw and stood proudly erect. It was a defiant but empty gesture as he was only too aware.

“Why have you brought me here?” cried Raya as she looked fearfully about. Then her eyes fell upon Greysteel, and she gasped with shock at this unexpected sight. Words trembled upon the fullness of her lips, but the sardonic grin upon Parissan’s face made her hold them back.

The Prince uttered a derisive laugh. “Your hero,” he cried with mocking insolence. “Look how he stands there with the studied defiance of a poor actor. I thought the fool would make some mad attempt to rescue you, and by the gods he has.”

“Perhaps he is a fool,” replied Raya, boldly. “But there is a nobility to his actions that I find sadly lacking in your own “

The Prince turned upon her fiercely. He struck her a savage blow across the cheek. Raya fell heavily. The sight was too much for Greysteel. He cursed furiously. He strained at his bonds like a rabid hound. Parissan uttered his sardonic laugh as he hauled the weeping girl to her feet, jerked her hands above her head, and hooked her fetters to another dangling chain.

“Before, I tolerated your haughtiness,” snarled the Prince to her. Then, with gloating cruelty: “But your usefulness is at an end, for I’ve found your ambassador to be a master of equivocation. Clearly, your Council has no intention of meeting our demands. “

Again the girl cried in terror as Parissan, with clawing hands, tore away her filthy prison rags. She stood before him – nude, vulnerable and trembling in utter fear. Greysteel, mere feet from the terrible scene, gripped the chain and threw his weight upon it in a frenzy of raging violence. But he might as well have been a million miles away, for his frantic efforts to free himself and aid the girl were useless.

Parissan looked upon him with amusement. “You, too, have caused me much trouble, barbarian,” he cried. “You’ve destroyed my carefully thought out plan. Shall I harm you?” Again, he laughed cruelly in a dark parody of mirth. “Ah, I think I’ll torment you by torturing the girl, and thus have the pleasure of seeing you both suffer in different ways.”

Raya sobbed. The Englishman felt sick with wild fear, for he could well imagine what the cruel and ruthless Prince had in mind. Wild thoughts tore through his mind like bolting horses and conjured up terrible images of gleaming knives slicing flesh. Although it seemed useless he felt compelled to plead for mercy for the girl. But the Queen, sensing what he was about to do, cut him off.

“Don’t,” she bravely cried. “He wants to see us grovel, and even if we do it won’t change our fate.” Then, turning to the Prince she spat in his face. “There,” she shouted. “I’ve marked you for what you are, you heap of filth.”

Parissan swore and wiped his face. He looked upon the girl. The height of fury was upon him. He reached for her with clawing hands and then stopped himself as a slow and chilling smile oozed across his face.

“Mere torture is too trivial a thing. What I have planned is far worse, for it will debase you with such horror that the memory will be forever seared upon your mind.”

Raya paled. Greysteel swore. Parissan laughed. He turned to the waiting torturer and spoke in tones to chill the blood:

“Fetch the Brute,” he cried

Chapter 9: The Secret Weapon

The man departed. Dread tension gathered in the cell. The air became pregnant with impending terror. Wild thoughts, like a tiger trapped in a burning cage, ran frantically about in Greysteel’s mind. He gazed at Raya as he tore madly at his bonds. The savage look on the Prince’s face told him more clearly than words that woman he loved was in terrible and unimaginable danger

He wanted to speak, to offer some words of comfort, but was choked by the formless terror clawing at him. The girl gave him a trembling smile of understanding as she tried to compose herself to face the coming horror. Parissan watched both and smirked in cruel amusement.

Suddenly, the door slammed open causing both prisoners to start violently. The torturer had returned leading a blindfolded beast of impressive masculinity by a chain about its neck. It shuffled into the torture chamber, grunting and sniffing the air as if searching for its prey.

An icy hand ran cold fingers of fear down Greysteel’s spine as he gazed in revulsion at the Brute, which was an oruk from the distant jungles of Thubor. The creature’s body was a mass of bulging muscle. Its form was similar in shape to a gorilla’s, but much larger and with a more upright posture. Its head, however, resembled that of a tusked boar. The animal’s skin was completely hairless, pebbly in texture and dark crimson in colour.

Parissan took the lead from the torturer and dismissed him, then chained the Brute to a ring set in the wall.

“My pet,” explained the Prince to his captives. “It hungers for the flesh of women, and in more ways than one as you’ll soon discover.” Then he laughed as he tore the blindfold from its eyes.

The Brute blinked confusedly for a moment and then its yellow eyes alighted on the figure of the girl. The sight of her naked flesh aroused its bestial passions. Raya screamed as the slobbering beast lunged at her. Its chain jerked tight and its grasping hands were checked within inches of her trembling breasts.

The Brute raged in savage anger at the frustration of his lust. Greysteel showered vile oaths upon the Prince. Parissan laughed at his fear and helplessness.

“A few moments more and the Brute will be in a frenzy of utter passion,” he shouted above the creature’s thunderous roars. “Then I’ll release the chain...”

Again, the oruk threw itself forward in a mighty bid to reach the terrified screaming girl. Then the unexpected happened – a weak link in the chain snapped. It whipped back and struck the Prince unconscious.

The Brute stumbled forward. Raya, despite her bonds and terror managed to twist aside. The thing struck her a glancing blow as it lurched passed and crashed against the cursing Englishman. Unbalanced, it grabbed the chain about his neck to right itself. It was at that precise moment the needles of the torture engine stabbed the creature’s feet.

A deafening roar exploded from its throat. Greysteel was showered with vile spittle and assaulted with the foulness of its breath. The Brute jerked convulsively upon the chain that bound him and snapped it like a piece of rotten string.

Again it roared, tossed aside the man and struck the plate with such force that the bronze was dented by its fists. Greysteel, half stunned from the impact of its body and the violence of the fall, shook his head in a desperate effort to clear his double vision. Through a haze of knifing pain he glimpsed the Brute turn upon the Queen.

The Englishman staggered to his feet and managed to fling a loop of chain about the creature’s neck as it reached for Raya. The Bute roared and its hands jerked towards the links about its neck. But before it could lay a hold upon them Greysteel rammed his foot against its spine, leaned back and hauled with all his strength.

Raya looked on in an agony of fear for Greysteel as the Brute spun around, one hand clawing at the crushing chain, the other trying to grab its puny foe. The centrifugal force of its mad whirl lifted the Englishman completely off the ground. He managed to slam his other foot against its back. He pushed out with his legs and pulled with his arms until his body was almost horizontal.

The Brute staggered about the chamber like a drunkard, both hands now pulling at the chain. Greysteel’s muscles trembled. His breath came in ragged gasps and sweat flew from him as water flies from a dog that shakes itself. All his body’s strength fought the power of the beast. The chamber whirled as if he clung to a monstrous top. He grew dizzy. His arms and legs began to weaken. Then, just as he felt he could hang on no longer the creature fell to its knees. Its eyes were bulging and its tongue protruded from its jaws as it crashed face down upon the floor.

Greysteel hung on for several minutes until he felt certain it was dead. Then he unwound the chain from about its neck and staggered towards the Prince whom he saw was starting to regain consciousness.

Parissan staggered to his feet, dazed and bleeding from a gash across his temple. His disbelieving eyes fell upon the grim faced Englishman. He opened his mouth, but his call for help was cut off as the enraged Earthman leapt upon him and flung one brawny arm about the Prince’s throat in a crushing stranglehold. Parissan clawed at Greysteel‘s constricting arm. His eyes bulged, he gasped for breath - death seemed frighteningly near. Then the fearful pressure eased, and his captor spoke:

“Parissan,” hissed Greysteel, dangerously. “If you wish to live obey my orders or I’ll break your neck with pleasure. Now, summon your man and have him free the Queen.”

“Vashan take you,” croaked the Prince.

Again, Greysteel choked the man. Parissan struggled violently as he sought to fill his tortured lungs, but to no avail. The world faded towards eternal darkness. Then, as death crept in, the frightful pressure eased a little.

“Don‘t try my patience,” snarled Greysteel to the Prince who hung limply in his arms, sobbing air. “Call the torturer or I‘ll send you to the grave.”

A curse hovered on Parissan’s lips. Then he thought better of it, and with simmering anger called the man.

The torturer entered, took in the scene - the oruk’s corpse stretched out upon the floor; the grim faced Prince and the feral look upon his captor’s face.

“Stay your blade and free the girl,” cried Parissan. Oh, how bitter was the taste of those submissive words upon his tongue.

The key turned. Raya’s chains fell away. She sank limply upon the floor, weak with relief that Greysteel was safe and her terrible ordeal was over. With trembling hands the Queen supported her body and looked upon the monster that had come so close to defiling her with its abominable embrace.

Then, fear flamed to deadly rage. With tigerish swiftness she snatched the torturer’s sword, cut him down, and then leapt at Parissan, glittering point extended for the killing thrust, a vile oath spewing from her lips.

Greysteel jerked the Prince aside. Parissan cried in pain as hard steel sliced a shallow cut across his ribs.

“Enough,” shouted Greysteel. “We need him as a hostage to escape this place. Unlock the collar about my neck, and use your fetters to restrain him.”

Raya raised her sword. She was breathing heavily. A wild look was in her eyes. Greysteel tensed, prepared for further violence. Parissan, despite his bravery cowered at the sight of her. Slowly, reason replaced unthinking rage. She lowered her weapon, and fetched the chains, placing them with undisguised pleasure upon the silent, grim faced Prince.

“We must act swiftly, spoke Raya as she quickly worked at freeing Greysteel from his bonds. “Having failed to gain my kingdom by subtlety, and finding threats against my person of no avail, Parissan’s father, King Thutis, has launched a surprise attack against my realm.”

The collar fell away and Greysteel flung the Prince upon the floor. Man and girl then quickly made rough loincloths from her prison rags, Raya continuing her explanation as they worked:

“Apparently, they have recently perfected secret weapons. The Prince bragged to me of them, even gave me a demonstration hoping to convince me of the futility of resistance. When set alight, a substance called fire crystals can somehow hurl iron spheres over great distances from a hollow cylinder called a gron*.

“Large stockpiles of the chemical have been stored in these dungeons. If we set alight the fire crystals the explosion will destroy the palace above. A disaster at home will seriously disrupt Thutis’ plans.”

Upon hearing these words Parissan tried to cry for help. But Greysteel kicked him in the ribs and silenced him and before he could recover. Raya then gagged him with a length of sundered cloth.

The Earthman grinned as the girl handed him Parissan’s dagger. “Your plan is sound. Lead on and let us fire this vermin’s nest and bring it tumbling down.”

Both left the cell, Raya leading the way, Greysteel prodding Parissan ahead of him with his dagger. Through deserted and branching corridors they moved, continuing on passed gloomy cells in which moldered the dusty bones of long dead men - the fallen enemies of ancient dynasties, long forgot.

At last Raya raised her hand. They stopped, now deep beneath the ground.

“Around this corner,” whispered the girl “Is the guarded entrance to a vast cavern in which I saw the weapon’s demonstration. The Prince’s life will be the key that unlocks the door.”

Greysteel nodded and spoke with quiet fierceness to Parissan: “Your life hangs by a thread. Obey the dictates of our will or perish.” Then he removed the gag and pushed the Prince around the corner, dagger pressed against his pulsing throat, Raya following close behind.

The guards started at this confronting sight, hesitated. Parissan, though cruel, was no coward. He cried out these unexpected words:

“My commands you must obey,” he shouted. “Attack these enemies without care for me.”

Swords rasped from sheaths. The warriors leapt forward with ringing cries. A venomous curse burst from Greysteel’s lips. He flung Parissan amongst the charging foe for he was not so callous as to kill a defenseless man.

Two men went down beneath the Prince’s tumbling form. Another pair vaulted the fallen to engage man and girl with ringing blades. The clash of razor steel rang out. One man fell beneath Raya’s flashing blade, another to Greysteel’s gutting stroke as he ducked the fellow’s whirling sword and plunged his dagger home.

Then the remaining warriors lurched erect, and with wild shouts flung themselves upon the foe. Greysteel snatched up a fallen sword. He blocked one shearing stroke with his dagger, then countered swiftly with the other weapon. Blades struck, men cursed, blood flowed in gory streams as the wild melee surged about the antechamber.

Greysteel cleaved his opponent’s skull. Raya fell back under the vicious onslaught of another warrior. She slipped upon the bloody stones and tumbled to the floor. The girl lay stunned. Her grinning foe stood above her. She screamed as his sword swung down in a vicious arc.

The Earthman, threw himself against the man, and ran him through when he fell upon the floor. Quickly turning, he gazed upon the Queen. The falling sword had missed the girl, but only just. She rose from the floor shakily, breasts, belly and thighs marked with many superficial cuts from the murderous fray.

He caught her swooning form, held her close; blood, red and emerald freely mixing. In silence they clung to one another, each in sharp awareness of the other’s presence. The Queen’s breath came in panting gasps, and Greysteel wondered if it was the aftermath of battle, or something like his own emotions that stirred her heaving breasts.

Their eyes met, hers widening in surprise. Did she see in Greysteel’s gaze a reflection of her own desire? She stepped away and shook her head as if to free her mind of some disturbing thought.

“Madness,” murmured the Queen as she surveyed the butchered corpses, and then gasped. “Parissan,” she cried. “He has escaped during the distraction of the fight.”

Frantically, both searched the bloody corpses for the key. Raya found it, unlocked the heavy door and flung it wide. They quickly stepped within a vast and shadowed space whose gloom was pressed back by wan light from glowing sphere tipped poles set here and there upon the rocky floor.

“This way,” cried the girl as she sprinted for a distant shadow cloaked mass that lay ahead of them.

Greysteel followed at a run, ignoring the stabbing pain in his injured feet. He saw with closing distance huge stacks of kegs stretching back into darkness. He judged there must be many tons of the fire crystals stored within the mighty cavern, and though these people were his enemies, he shuddered at the thought of what would happen when the explosives were detonated.

In but a moment both had reached their goal. Raya shattered one barrel with her sword. Its continents spilt upon the floor, glittering faintly in the dim light like crimson sand.

“Help me with this other keg,” gasped the Queen as she broke its lid. “We’ll lay a trail of fire crystals as far as we can before igniting it.”

Both struggled with the heavy cask. They worked in silence as they laid the deadly trail along the floor and out the door, neither willing to think what would happen if their makeshift fuse was of insufficient length. The last grain fell - one hundred yards from its slumbering brothers locked within their barrels.

With grim determination Greysteel struck sword against sword. Sparks fell. The crystals flared. Red flames snaked back along the crimson trail in a spluttering hiss of swirling smoke.

Down the dusty corridors sprinted man and girl in frantic flight from the impending cataclysm. Up narrow stairs they ran, hearts pounding, breathing in ragged gasps. Ahead of them light and freedom glowed. Bright hope spurred them to greater effort. Through the portal leapt the pair, glowing optimism crushed by the sight of fierce warriors who fell upon them at Parissan‘s sharp command.

*Footnote: The gron is a mythical beast said to kill by spitting boulders at its quarry. A natural choice of name for a cannon.

Chapter 10: An Inferno Rivaling Abaddon

The ground shuddered violently as the guards rushed towards Greysteel and the girl. “The earth trembles,” cried one fearfully as he tumbled to the floor with the rest.

A fearful vision arose within the Earthman’s mind: Deep beneath the palace the burning trail had reached its dreadful end. Flame erupted - a thundering crimson glare, sun bright. The cave had become an inferno rivaling Abaddon. Then, in terrible sympathy the chain reaction of exploding kegs began.

Again, the earth jumped as the pent up fury within its depths reached a violent climax that sought escape. Fragments fell from the ceiling as Raya helped Greysteel to his feet and shouted at the fallen warriors:

“We have unleashed the demons of Vashan. Flee while you can.” Then both sprinted passed the startled men before their passage could be barred.

“Kill them, you fools,” shouted Parissan above the cries of terror now echoing from every quarter of the palace. “If we die, then so shall …”

The entire building heaved. A column tumbled and shattered in a spray of flying stone. Courage deserted the frightened guards. They ran. Parissan cursed. He struggled up and was nearly trampled by a terrified mob that swept down upon him from another doorway. Then a tongue of flame, a burning spur to retreat, erupted from the dungeon‘s egress, and the Prince also fled in ignominious haste.

“This way,” cried Raya above the din. “We must get to the King’s private water gate. My craft is there.”

Grimly, Greysteel followed. In an ornamental mirror to the fore he caught a terrifying glimpse of the hellish carnage that lay behind - the collapsing roof crushing men and women to bloody ruin; the fissured tiles through which leapt tongues of crimson fire. And to his ears came the sickening shrieks of those who fell within these widening canyons as weakened foundations collapsed to the seared and shattered cavern that lay beneath.

Raya stumbled; Greysteel steadied her. Onward they fled, hand in hand, dodging panicked crowds who, in mad confusion, surged wildly about. Smoke thickened the air in choking swirls as the palace began to burn. Utter bedlam reigned.

At last they reached the tiny water gate only to find it locked. Black despair gripped the panting couple who knew retreat was blocked by roaring flames. Then a mighty convulsion shook the building and collapsed the gate in a fall of groaning metal and crashing stone that nearly crushed Greysteel and the girl.

Over the fallen portal stumbled the fleeing pair. Raya, with immeasurable relief, saw her tiny craft floating above the choppy waters of the walled canal, waters that had been stirred to violence by the tumultuous heaving of the earth.

Both leapt upon the narrow deck of her vessel. Greysteel cast off the mooring line. He gasped as he saw a wall of wind fanned flame sweeping down upon them. Then the engine whined to life at Raya’s touch, and their craft sped away from the advancing conflagration.

At a frightful pace their vessel rushed along the narrow channel. The waterway cleft the city as it arrowed towards the metropolis’ mighty walls, and as they sped along its length Raya prayed that the tower guards, seeing the burning palace, had opened the other water gates in preparation for the royal family should they flee this way.

The towering walls drew near. Raya smiled with vast relief. The way was open, and through the gaping portals dashed their craft. An alarm rang out. Greysteel cursed - their identity had been discerned. The ponderous gates began their inward swing, but luck was with them and, by the narrowest of margins, they slipped through the closing valve of the outer wall and emerged upon the river, a flight of whistling arrows hastening them on their way.

Looking back, Greysteel witnessed the terrible end. The palace shook under the lashings of a final titanic blast. It collapsed within the cavern in a roaring avalanche of shattered stone. And from this flame licked crater a plume of churning smoke, dark and dreadful, climbed the sky while burning fragments fell all about the city starting other raging fires.

He shuddered and turned away, wracked by guilt at the destruction they had caused.

**********

Several hours had passed in a blur of frantic flight. The fugitives, now many miles from the stricken city, rested quietly in their craft waiting for its overheated force-engines to cool.

The vessel was slender - its chemmis* hull was sixty feet in length, with a beam of twenty five inches at its widest point. From port and starboard projected structures resembling outriggers. Each bore a force-engine at either end upon its underside. Forward were the vessel’s control levers, while aft were its steering mechanisms and water tight storage compartments.

Raya’s vessel was now concealed by tall spiral reeds festooning the banks of a narrow tributary, one of many that joined the major waterways of commerce. On all sides, the stream was overarched by forest. Strange, these trees - their hexagonal trunks glittered with myriad microscopic gems - amethysts and topaz, emeralds and rubies, garnets and sapphires. It was a weird and unearthly sight, this jeweled forest, but one quite natural as Raya had explained to the amazed Englishman:

The ground of this region was saturated with minerals and the plants, like those of Earth, drew elements from the soil, but in this case excreted the excess upon their boles to crystallize.

Like fantastic columns, the giant trees rose to impressive heights, and from the gemmy boles arching branches sprang with crimson fan-shaped leaves adorning their stretching limbs. All was quiet, the silence broken only by the burbling of the gently flowing stream.

Greysteel watched Raya from the corner of his eye. The girl was now attired in a delicate robe; he, in a simple loincloth, one of a number stored aboard the craft, along with balms they had used to tend their minor injuries. She was looking much better now, and Greysteel could only marvel at what a good bath in the stream, food in the form of blue berries from the strange reeds, and several hours sleep had done for both of them.

Sunbeams streamed through the forest canopy and their gentle shafts graced her loveliness with golden light as she combed her cataract of ebon hair. The man sighed softly, the sound lost in the awkward silence that had arisen with passing danger and the reassertion of Royal protocols.

The girl caught his subtle gaze and stirred uneasily. They were completely alone, and she sensed something of his feelings that were betrayed by his surreptitious observation of her wondrous form.

That both had feelings for each other Raya could no longer deny. But was it love, lust, or mere infatuation? Recent events had shaken her confidence that she could judge such matters wisely. Angry at her own foolishness, she decided the matter must be clarified.

“You’ve risked much to save me, and suffered greatly. As Queen,” she said, with meaningful emphasis. “I shall reward you with the only thing I can - state honors for your valiant efforts.”

Greysteel met her eyes with a steady gaze as he quietly spoke. “Your majesty is both kind and generous, but it is not the desire for reward that made me come, as I think you surely know.”

“Oh, do not speak to me of love,” cried Raya, angrily. “After my debacle with Parissan, how can I be sure that you desire me for who I am, not my throne or the secrets that it holds?”

“I see,” he replied sadly, stung by the sharpness of her unkind words. “Well, I shall say this once, and then no more: love is above such things - it does not see the superficial. The color of a person’s skin means nothing to it; nor their station. Love, rather, sees through to the soul, is drawn to that soul. My feelings are noble, not shameful to myself; least of all to you. “

And with that he sadly turned his head away.

The silence stretched: Greysteel, in a morose mood, gazed unseeing at the forest. The girl, a thoughtful expression upon her face, toyed with a strand of hair, eyes downcast. Again, Raya stirred and raised her eyes, then suddenly screamed as dark shapes leapt from concealing verdure and fell savagely upon the unsuspecting pair.

A hard body slammed into Greysteel - all slashing claws and gnashing fangs. Man and monster rolled about, the desperate Earthman fending off its tearing hands, it’s snapping jaws. With a savage head butt Greysteel smashed its bestial face. The thing fell away, screaming shrilly, blood gushing from its shattered maw. Another leapt at him, talons striking at his throat. Greysteel rolled aside, turned and fractured its skull with a brutal kick.

Again Raya screamed. The man staggered up. He saw three assailants fall on her, clawed hands ripping at her clothes. With a cry of rage he leapt upon them. Two heads he smashed together, the third’s ribs were shattered by his knee. Then an unexpected blow from behind sent him spinning into the depths of utter darkness.

**********

Greysteel groaned and slowly opened his eyes. A dull ache suffused his head. He tried to move, but found his limbs were bound by rough cords. He was alive, but what of Raya? A tide of fear washed over him. In a panic he sat up and looked wildly about. The girl lay next to him, restrained with tough vines as was he.

Her breasts rose and fell in steady breath through the tattered remnants of her apparel. She appeared unharmed despite her brutal captors handling of her. Greysteel sighed with vast relief, and then grew grim as he strained against his bonds, remembering the savagery of the frightful creatures that had captured them.

They were alone for the moment, but their brutal captors could not be far away, of that he could be sure. Again, he looked about, but this time more carefully, searching for a means of severing the vines, and an avenue of escape should a way be found to free the girl.

Both were in a cave, that was clear, but it was a cavern like none he had ever seen before. The hollow must have been about two hundred feet in width, fifty at its highest point and perhaps as many in depth. But it was not these mundane dimensions that were the marvel.

Amethyst crystals, some as long as his forearm, covered walls, floor and ceiling in massed profusion, their hexagonal forms glowing softly in the sunlight that streamed unhindered from the outer world. A strange unearthly realm, this cavern: the air seemed infused with violet. Deep purple shadows pooled between the glittering forests of semiprecious gems that formed this mighty geode.

The Queen moaned softly and the sound quickly drew Greysteel’s worried gaze. Raya opened her eyes and looked fearfully about. “Gurgoos,” cried the girl. “May the gods have mercy on us. We’ve been captured by those horrid things.”

“What are our captors? Can we reason with them?”

The girl laughed. Greysteel went cold, for hysteria tinged her voice. “They’ll eat us alive when they‘re ready. How can you reason with the hunger of a savage beast?”

Raya was no coward, true. But most of us have some secret fear that can unnerve us to the point of utter terror. A clean death by swords she could face, but at the thought of these brutes tearing her asunder, she found that all courage had deserted her.

Suddenly, Raya shuddered. A moan of unbridled terror escaped her lips, her fear wide eyes now locked upon dark shapes that shambled forth from the purple shadows, crimson eyes gleaming sinisterly in the gloom.

*Footnote: A very light and porous timber from which Yannese craft are constructed. The wood is treated with urthon (a special lacquer) that soaks into and reacts chemically with the timber, forming an extremely hard and impervious outer shell.

Chapter 11: A Rain of Iron

The pack approached - three brutes in all who had survived the wild fray, their vile forms now delineated in the streaming light. Like chimpanzees they were in form and gait, but twice the size. Their hairless bodies were covered in scaly olive skin, their heads more lizard like than simian - a horrid sight.

One huge brute was in the lead. The creature’s baneful eyes fixed upon the trembling girl. Its lipless mouth gaped wide in a drooling grin. Its forked tongue slithered forth between its yellow fangs. A hissing sound bubbled up from its fetid throat.

The gurgoos drew nearer and nearer. Raya sobbed in fear, trembled. Her mind was blank with utter terror. Greysteel fought madly against his bonds - a fruitless exercise.

Calm yourself, and think, thought the desperate man. Its brains you need, not brawn.

Again he looked about and saw something he had missed before - a broken crystal next to him, its jagged edges razor sharp. Quickly, he rolled against the fractured stub and frantically rubbed the vines upon it. They parted as the beasts, sensing his plan, rushed forward.

Greysteel surged to his feet. A bladelike shard of crystal was in his hand and a wild shout was upon his lips. The girl cried out. The snarling gurgoos hurled themselves towards the man. He swung his makeshift knife in a savage arc.

Its glittering edge slashed the leader’s throat. Blood spurted in a gory stream as it collapsed. The second tripped upon the corpse, went down. Greysteel stabbed it in the back as the third sprang at him wildly. It missed as he sidestepped. He knifed its side as it hurtled passed and saw it tumble next to Raya.

The gurgoo staggered up. The thing was dying and was determined to have its vengeance before the end. Its savage gaze alighted upon the helpless girl. With a wild cry it fell upon her. Raya screamed as it seized her in a crushing grip and lowered its gaping jaws towards her throat.

Greysteel leapt upon the beast and knocked it sideways. His weapon stabbed in frenzied blows. The gurgoo howled. The echoes of its frenzied cries crashed to and fro upon the walls as man and beast madly rolled about. The thing thrashed. Blood spurted from its mouth. It died with a final convulsive shudder and a gurgling cry.

Greysteel lay upon the beast, breathing heavily from his frenetic efforts. Slowly, strength returned and he roused himself to free the girl. She looked upon him blankly as he cut her bonds, obviously in shock from the harrowing ordeal that had nearly claimed her life.

Poor thing, he thought as he gathered her limp form in his arms and staggered from the cave, hoping that no other danger would present itself. He realized that this was a forlorn wish indeed.

**********

Six merchant galleys glided across the glass smooth sea. Afternoon sunlight gleamed from their ornate brass work and their dripping oars. The small fleet moved with stately grace as they drew ever nearer to the rearing Yannese fortresses that guarded the island’s narrow fjord.

King Thutis, his identity concealed by an artful disguise, stood upon the rear vessel’s stern castle, his hawk like gaze fixed on the six patrolling Yannese craft that slid to and fro before the isle’s mighty bastions. They glided a foot above the water, their clean sharp lines marking them as ships of war. The vessels resembled levitating oar-less galleys, a graceful contrast to Thutis’ bulky merchantmen.

The King smiled to himself at that thought, for his own craft were more than they appeared to be. True, his foe’s ships were faster, more maneuverable. But both sides were armed with similar weapons - huge crossbows, and other engines of destruction that could hurl stone shot to a distance of one hundred and fifty yards at most.

Ah, but now things were vastly different, that he knew.

Thutis’ eyes shifted and fell upon large crates, eight in all, that lined each side of the ship’s broad waist. Again, the King smiled a self-satisfied smile, for he knew these innocent looking boxes contained no harmless goods of trade, but new weapons more deadly and of greater range than anything seen before.

The King reviewed his plan - one of daring and deception: armed with these concealed weapons and flying false colors, his craft would approach the fortresses in the guise of harmless Nudorese* merchantmen. But when in range the flimsy boxes would be cast aside, and then his grons would destroy the massive bastions before the defenders could raise the mighty chain to bar the entrance of the narrow fjord. The way thus opened, the main fleet would then arrive, and the invasion could begin in earnest.

“My lord, we draw near our target“, spoke the stocky captain. “See, the patrolling craft have signaled for us to proceed. They have been completely fooled by our seeming harmlessness.”

Thutis grinned and slapped his captain on the back - their cunning ruse seemed certain of success. Then a flash of light caught the sovereign’s eye. Turning, he glanced and then stared in disbelief at the speeding form his startled eyes beheld. The King quickly shouted orders. He cursed profusely for he saw at once his ploy had been exposed.

Raya, a look of utter resolve upon her face, gripped the controls of her tiny craft as it arrowed by the line of merchantmen. Her eyes were fixed determinedly upon the narrow entrance of the fjord. From her vessel’s pole flew the royal standard, and beneath it streamed a signal flag meaning “raise the chain forthwith.”

An explosion shook the air. Water spurted in a geyser, dreadfully near. Greysteel swore. “They’re firing upon us. Your right - those vessels are Thutis‘ships.”

The girl swung her craft evasively, too busy to reply. Another roaring blast rolled across the water, closely followed by an eruption of drenching spray as the second shot fell close to port. Thutis cursed his gunners. Other signal flags were raised at the King’s command, and all his ships opened fire in a thundering cannonade.

Iron projectiles whined above the fleeing pair in smoking paths. Water in spurting fountains gushed on every side as a storm of booming echoes from the cliffs smote upon their ears. Several Yannese craft were struck by lucky shots. They sank in a ruin of debris, their levitation engines torn asunder by hammering iron. Other Yannese vessels, undeterred by the frightful weapons, bravely closed with Thutis’ ships.

Catapults upon the fortress ramparts were released. Set free, their straining arms snapped up and hurled out a rain of weighty stones. But the arching spheres fell short of Thutis’ craft by many yards.

The King, his face livid with hellish rage, saw the enemy swiftly bearing down upon his vessels to block the way. The great bronze chain had begin its rise, pulled taut by its massive counterweights He knew that in but moments Raya’s craft would pass to safety beneath this cursed barrier.

Again grons thundered at his command, vomiting forth swirling smoke and a rain of smoldering iron. Two more Yannese craft were sunk. Then the defenders, now in range, launched their own attack. Ballista thrummed. Hollow spheres arched the narrowing gap, smashed against the foremost merchantman and splattered its timbers with a sticky substance that erupted instantly into roaring flames.

Men screamed. Kegs of fire crystals were set alight. The stricken ship vanished in a vast explosion. A ringing cheer went up from the men upon the towering ramparts, and then a groan of cruel dismay when they saw the storm of debris had raked friend and foe alike.

White knuckled, Greysteel clung to handholds upon the deck as their craft was buffeted by the massive shockwave. His formula for Greek fire had worked - perhaps too well! A fragment of whirling debris struck their boat and smashed one levitation engine. Raya cried out as she fought to control the slewing vessel, but without success. It struck the surface of the sea, lost momentum and careered towards the looming cliffs.

“We’re going to hit,” cried the man as he grasped Raya about her waist, and leapt from the hurtling boat as it sped towards destruction.

Both struck the water with stunning force and plunged beneath the lake as their craft smashed against jagged rocks and exploded into spinning fragments. Greysteel fought off encroaching unconsciousness as his battered body sank within the gloomy depths.

A surge of fear ran through him - the girl had been torn free from his grasp by the hammering impact as they had struck the water. Frantically, he looked about. All was grey green, cliff shadowed. Strange fan-shaped growths choked the scene with their waving orange forms.

Then, with vast relief he saw her struggling feebly towards the surface. Oh, but such short lived joy - a black sphere covered in myriad tentacles shot up from among the swaying plants, its scaly limbs ensnaring her with their slimy grasp.

*Footnote: Nudor lies in the far east of Putha. It is ruled by secretive Priest-kings, and is infamous for its bizarre religion – every woman, upon the day of her betrothal, is required to engage in coition with an image of the supreme god, Kor, the statue being provided with a large phallus for that purpose. This strange ritual is thought to ensure the birth of manly sons.

Chapter 12: Besieged

As the gruesome creature’s tentacles latched upon the Queen, Greysteel struck out towards the struggling girl. With rapid strokes his well knit form cleaved the depths, the crystal shard from his belt now between his teeth.

In but moments he was mere feet from the nauseous beast and saw with alarm Raya was nearly spent, for the girl had failed to inhale deeply before the water had closed above her head.

From the corner of darkening vision Raya saw Greysteel fall upon the cephon and glimpsed its many limbs ensnare him. Crushing tentacles coiled about his arms and legs. He rained stabbing blows upon the thing. Its thrashing limbs churned the water in spasms of tormenting agony. There was a sudden easing of pressure about the Queen’s legs. The girl kicked free with the dregs of strength. She arrowed towards the surface, broke through and gasped for air.

A thunder of grons crashed upon Raya’s ears. The mighty fortresses were now the targets of Thutis’ burning ire. Stone fragments rained about her as iron balls slammed against defensive masonry and shrouded the battlements in swirls of choking dust.

Raya floated on her back, slowly regaining her strength. And where lay her thoughts as she beheld the terrible sight of her fortresses destruction? She looked about and saw she was alone. Fear struck Raya like a blow at this ominous sign.

Had Greysteel been dragged down into the lightless depths by the cephon? The Queen’s full lips quivered at that dreadful thought as tears gathered in her eyes, and regret lay upon her soul with all its mountainous weight. Then Greysteel’s head burst above the surface, and with a sobbing cry she reached for him with beckoning arms.

Greysteel held her close and stroked her hair as he murmured words of comfort to the tremulous girl. Then he spied a boat gliding rapidly towards them from the fortress water gate.

“Rescue is at hand,” he said, pointing towards the nearing craft that braved the roaring grons and the all-pervading rain of shattered stone.

The Queen nodded and laid her head upon his shoulder. Was it exhaustion, or something more that made her cling to him despite the stares of her approaching countrymen?

**********

The dark shadows of war had cast a somber mood upon the grim faced councilors. The distant thunder of grons was a constant and forbidding reminder of the city’s dire plight and their utter helplessness before the frightening weapons of their enemies. In this unsettling atmosphere they reviewed their desperate situation.

The grons had spat forth their iron destruction throughout the night - a fierce and unrelenting storm against the sturdy fortresses. The stone was strong, but iron stronger still, and now the morning sun found Yann’s bastions a smoldering ruin of pounded rubble and shattered timbers.

Thutis’ main fleet had arrived at sunset in all its crushing might. From the four compass points had come groups of ships, small in number so none might suspect the King’s invasion plans. But gathered together they formed an armada, now five hundred strong.

At sunrise great barges had landed near the ruined fortresses and disgorged their warriors who swarmed like ants upon the crumbled bastions, seeking the hidden ways to the city. Their progress had been barely checked by Yannese reinforcements. As these desperate battles raged, other Thadrin craft dared sail up the fjord, only to be sunk by hidden catapults along the way.

It was fierce and bloody fighting all around - upon the sea other Yannese craft, heretofore hidden in secret ports on the island's other side had, since last night, engaged the Thadrins in furious and desperate battle. It was a valiant but futile exercise, for Thutis’ long range weapons destroyed most ere their catapults were in range.

Some Yannese captains, seeing the frightful destruction being wrought upon their fellows, had come in at utmost speed and hurled their craft upon the foe with such rapidity they were impossible to hit. Both ships, though, vanished in a frightful explosion when they struck and to the others, less brave or perhaps more sensible, it seemed little was gained by such suicide, and so they hung back, harassing the fleet like a pack of curs teasing lions …

Mesenna, his face lined with countless worries, sat before the Council. With tired, bloodshot eyes he gazed upon the latest reports, and in dejected tones summed up the disaster that had befallen them:

“The tide of battle turns against us. Our weapons are no match for Thutis’ destructive might. Grons have been put ashore. Our troops fall back under their slaughtering barrage. By sea Thutis ships advance through the fjord, slowly but surely destroying our other forts along the way. The end will soon be upon all of us.”

A babble of consternation arose from the other councilors at this grim news. Raya raised her hand for silence. The strident voices slowly died away. She turned to Greysteel, her eyes shadowed by despair. Then hope arose within them as she spoke with eagerness.

“You gave us this thing called Greek fire*. Have you knowledge of other weapons that can wrest victory from defeat?”

“Perhaps with time I could divine the secrets of Thutis weapons,” he answered, somberly. “But of that we have woefully little, it would seem …”

The Queen slumped upon her cushion, a study in dejection. “My poor people”, she murmured as she turned her face away to hide her welling tears. A shroud of hopelessness settled upon all those present. The quiet was absolute.

Greysteel gazed upon Raya. Her anguish cut him like a knife. How he wanted to take her in his arms, to comfort her. But the barrier of royalty and circumstance stood between them both - an insurmountable wall he couldn’t climb. And so he quietly sat, a dozen futile schemes storming through his groping mind. Then, when all seemed lost, an idea was born, and thus he spoke:

“I have a plan,” he quietly said …

**********

Parissan stood rigidly upon the flagship’s deck, trying not to quail before his sire’s volcanic diatribe. The Prince’s finery was in tatters and his face begrimed with soot - a sorry sight indeed. He had barely escaped the destruction of the palace, then the greater conflagration that had swept the city, and now he was wondering if it mightn’t have been better if he’d perished in the raging flames.

“You fool,” concluded the King, shouting above the thundering grons. “Our capital is in almost total ruin and if that wasn’t bad enough you let the Queen escape. Blundering imbecile,” he rasped as he drew his glittering sword. “Tell me why I shouldn’t slay you here and now. “

Thutis swung up his blade, Parissan blanched, tongue frozen by the dreadful sight. The Prince was saved by admiral Dar’s warning cry: “My lord, the enemy is upon us. Our weapons have no effect.”

The King cursed, turned. He saw a Yannese craft bearing down upon them, surrounded by a sparking, bluish radiance. The grons belched forth their iron death. In smoking paths the hurtling spheres arched towards the craft and then mysteriously, began to swerve aside.

From within the rushing vessel Greysteel grinned: his plan was working as he hoped it would. The iron missiles were being deflected by modified repulsion engines mounted upon the hull and bow of the speeding craft.

Up the fjord he had sailed, drenching the enemy with Greek fire along the way and cut a burning swathe through the fleet with utter impunity. Now he sought to end the war by capturing the King.

“They’re going to board us“, cried Dar as he saw the attacker begin to slow. “All hands prepare …”

The repulsion field winked out. Both ships shuddered as they struck. Men were thrown about. A drawbridge from the attacking craft swung down and impaled the enemy’s deck with the steel spike on its underside. Across its swaying length raging mariners madly dashed, Greysteel in the lead.

Warriors collided in a brawling knot - the clash of arms, the screams of friend and foe alike, a wild melee of desperate fighting men. Greysteel spotted Parissan and saw the King, no longer in disguise, by his side. He also saw Thutis’ other ships rushing swiftly to their sovereign’s aid.

The Earthman blocked one mighty slash and split his foe with a brutal counterstroke. “Forward,” he cried, smiting all about with hacking blows. “To the King before they fall upon us from behind.”

Men fell back before his whirling steel in dismay. Through the breach surged Greysteel’s desperate, howling followers, dealing violent death to all who stood their ground.

In the stern castle Thutis cursed, leapt to the waist among his men, and with swinging sword smote those falling back. “Hold the line, you cowards, or I’ll see you in Vashan.”

Too late! The wall of shields was sundered by the smashing charge of Yannese marines. Greysteel leapt forward and engaged the King. Parissan, out of fear, fought his way to his hard pressed sire’s side. The battle surged about the trio - a wild fray of screams and gushing gore that increased its desperate tempo, for by now many Thadrin ships were closing rapidly upon them.

With a cry of wild triumph Thutis attacked his foe. Greysteel blocked the savage stroke; then shattered his attacker’s knee with a vicious kick. The King fell in to Parissan’s path. The Prince tripped and sprawled upon his cursing sire.

With a wild blow Greysteel clove Parissan’s skull in twain, then pressed his bloody steel to Thutis’ throat. A ringing cheer went up from the Yannese fighters, a groan from the approaching Thadrins whose startled eyes beheld the crushing scene.

“Yield, or share your son’s dark fate,” Greysteel growled.

With wild and panting oaths Thutis cursed the man.

Greysteel grimly pressed home his sword, drew blood. Sanity prevailed - the King yielded and gave the bitter order. Swords clattered to the deck at his dispiriting command. A victorious shout of triumph exploded from the Yannese fighters.

**********

Raya stood stiffly before Greysteel, a cold and stony expression upon her face. He regarded her in morose silence - the gulf between them was greater now than ever before, and the Englishman silently cursed fate’s perversity that had won him honors in battle but had lost him the woman he loved.

The strength of Thadris was broken - Parissan was dead, and Thutis lay in chains. The kingship had passed to admiral Dar, his younger brother, for Thadrin law negated Thutis‘ sovereignty because of his defeat. Dar, more placid than his older sibling, had been happy to sign the peace treaty, and then departed homeward with the fleet to tend his ruined city’s suffering populace.

Never before had Yannese might been so strong - their ships fleet as ever, now invincible thanks to Greysteel’s innovation. Great honors had been bestowed upon him - wealth and the adoration of the grateful populace. But what were these things when compared to his great loss? By killing Parissan, Raya had become his by right of conquest, and now she would have nothing to do with him.

Again, the troubled man looked upon the girl. Though Queen she was now his chattel in accordance with ancient custom. He could take her like a rutting beast and none would raise their hand against him. But that was not Greysteel’s way, for he desired a willing wife that would return his passion in equal measure, not a ravished slave. Clearly, there was only one thing he could do.

“All claims upon you I forever relinquish,” he calmly said, his steady voice not betraying his inner turmoil. “You are free to go where and when you will and to marry whom you please.”

Then, turning, Greysteel quickly strode from the room to its balcony, and leaned dejectedly upon the ornate balustrade. Quietly, he scanned the star gemmed heavens and saw Earth’s blue jewel glimmering in the dusky firmament. Never before had he felt such loneliness as he gazed upon the poignant sight of home, now forever beyond his reach.

Raya’s hand gently touched his own, breaking through the shroud of his despairing thoughts. “Perhaps I’m fickle, and headstrong, too,” she quietly said. “But no woman desires to be a slave. You have proved you truly love me by giving me my freedom …”

She dropped her eyes, wanting to continue, but fearful of rejection after the way she’d treated him.

Greysteel, infused by wondrous joy gently drew her to him. They kissed beneath the moons of Mars, each finding in the other a love mightier than empires, and more precious than the wealth of Kings.

*Footnote: Greek fire was an incendiary used by the Byzantine Greeks to set fire to enemy ships. In our reality the secret formula has been lost, and is a matter of conjecture.

THE END