THE raiding party flew rapidly away, its victims dangling helplessly in the nets. “I have heard of this Sarkis the Torturer,” Jerry said. “An outlaw, I believe. But what can he want with us?”
“He wants fighting men, and victims for sacrifice. This raid will provide both.”
“How both?”
“The captives will be put to the test. Those who can use a sword and are willing to join the outlaws and worship the Sun God will be spared. The others will be reserved for sacrifice. But why do you ask all these questions?” He glanced sharply at Jerry for a moment, then exclaimed: “Ah, I see the reason now! You are a white man in disguise. Who are you?”
Jerry looked down at his chest, and saw what had betrayed him. Two of the strips of jembal applied by Nisha to the scratches she had made on his body had been rubbed off in the scuffle. And along the edges of the scratches his unstained white skin showed. “Since you know this much, I may as well tell you all,” he said. “I am Jerry Morgan of the planet Earth, which you call Dhu Gong. I got into trouble in the palace, and had to leave hurriedly in this disguise.”
“I have heard of you,” said the big man, a look of admiration in his eyes, “and of your duel with Arsad, Rad of Dhoor. Since you slew the best swordsman in all Kalsivar, I do not think you will have difficulty qualifying for the service of Sarkis—that is, if you care to join the outlaws.”
“I hadn’t thought of it,” Jerry told him, “but it might not be a bad idea. I’m an outlaw, myself, sentenced to be flayed alive and sprinkled with fire powder, whatever that is.”
“Fire powder is a material we use to light fires with,” said the giant. “It is made from baridium, the same substance used in manufacturing our lights, and ignites when wet.”
“Odd stuff,” replied Jerry, “and scarcely a comfortable thing to have sprinkled on one. But tell me, who are you, and how did you happen to be doing a slave’s work?”
“I am Yewd, the fisherman,” said the giant, “and was accused of stealing a boat. I was innocent, but an enemy brought false witness, and the seven judges sentenced me to work a year on the excavations with the band of felons you saw me with.”
“Then I presume that you have no cause to love the government.”
“You are a man of sound judgment and rare discrimination,” laughed Yewd. “In a nation where justice is a mockery, on what side should any real man fight? But unfortunately, I have not the skill with the sword which is likely to save me from becoming a sacrifice to the Sun God.”
“Perhaps I can find a way to save you from that fate,” said Jerry. “And I hope you will be willing to forget that I am Jerry Morgan, and remember that I am Gudo, the slave.”
“That I will,” said Yewd, heartily. “But what are you going to do about those white streaks?”
“I’ll fix them easily enough,” Jerry told him. He took the bottle of brown liquid from his pouch and stained all the white lines. “How does it look?”
“A perfect match, Gudo,” said Yewd. “That is great stuff if you want to change your complexion. At present I am satisfied with mine.”
His disguise completed once more, Jerry looked down at the landscape beneath them. It was a vast rolling desert of ochre-yellow sand, sparsely dotted by patches of thorny creepers with large red flowers. “Wherever they are taking us,” he told his companion, “it must be a long way into the desert.”
“The Torturer and his outlaws have many secret lairs,” said Yewd, “and some of them must be in the desert. But gawrs require much water, and I’ll wager that this time we are being taken to one of the wild marshes of the district.”
“Gawrs?”
“Yes. The creatures that are carrying us. Have you noticed their webbed feet? They swim as well as fly.”
It soon became evident that Yewd’s prediction was correct, for the flock sailed over a sheer precipice which edged what had evidently once been the shore of an ancient ocean. Now it was a sloping sandy beach which led down to a marsh, in which a number of small lakes reflected the slanting rays of the afternoon sun. Around the shores of several of these lakes were the portable fur huts of a large armed encampment, dimly seen through a haze of smoke from the thousands of cooking fires.
The lakes were dotted with swimming gawrs with their wings chained down to prevent their flying away. Armed sentinels were posted on the bluffs and in a wide circle all about the camp. And a score of them constantly soared high overhead, keeping watch.
At sight of the returning raiding party, a great shout went up from the camp. Then a number of warriors caught up their spears and hurried to an open space among the huts, where they formed a large ring. One of the raiders dropped to the center of this ring until the net rested on the ground, while the gawr hovered overhead.
Two soldiers, who had detached themselves from the ring, came forward and ordered the three captives out of the net. One by one the gawrs descended, hovered and flew away, until all the nets had been emptied.
The captured men were a motley group, consisting of white, brown, and black men. But the spearmen who surrounded them were equally diversified as to color, and more so as to their clothing and ornaments. Jerry noticed, however, that they had one thing in common. Hanging suspended on the chest of each was a clear crystal disk about six inches in diameter.
The Earthman nudged his giant companion. “What are those disks for?”
“Symbols of their religion,” Yewd replied, “and magic instruments with which they light their fires in the daytime. They are worshipers of Sarkis, the Sun God. At night they must use fire powder like the rest of us.”
Magic instruments—and for lighting fires. Jerry instantly recognized them for large magnifying glasses, but he said nothing to his companion. He noticed a stir in the crowd behind the spearman, and heard cries of:
“Way for His Holy Majesty! Shield your eyes from the blinding glory of Sarkis, Lord of the Day and Vil of the Worlds.”
A path opened up in the crowd of warriors, all of whom instantly raised their hands before their eyes to salute a most repulsive-looking thing. It was on a divan that topped a gilded platform, borne on the backs of a score of slaves. The thing was obviously a man, large and muscular. But his face was concealed by a most hideous mask of burnished gold, fastened to a headpiece on which a thick mat of golden threads formed a bristling, leonine mane.
The sharp hooked nose of the mask was covered with red lacquer, and the lips were blue against a background of yellow fangs. From behind the oval slits in the black-ringed eye sockets a pair of glittering eyes looked forth. The garments were of royal peacock blue, and those parts of the body which would normally have been exposed—torso, legs, arms, and hands—were covered with a finely woven golden mesh. He wore a richly jeweled, gold-hilted sword and dagger. And on his chest there hung a large crystal disk, fully twelve inches in diameter.
At a sign from the masked figure on the divan, the slaves lowered the platform to the ground and stood with folded arms on either side of it.
The Torturer rose, and standing in front of his divan, spoke in weird, sepulchral tones that echoed hollowly in the golden confines of his mask.
“The sacrifice comes first,” he said. “Then we will make trial of the prisoners.”
At this, a number of the spearmen herded the prisoners back to a spot at the left of the divan. Then a lane opened in the lines opposite it, and through this came a hundred slaves, staggering under the weight of a large metal platform on which five broad steps had been built. On each step reclined a man, bound in place by chains tightly drawn around neck, waist, and ankles. Suspended above them on two poles by means of short shafts, which allowed it to be turned in any direction, was a tremendous crystal disk.
This disk, as the slaves lowered their burden to the ground, had its edge turned toward the sun. But as soon as the platform had been placed in position, the Torturer raised his hand, and at this signal two men in yellow robes sprang up beside the poles and swung the disk around, manipulating it until they had focused the sun’s rays in a brilliant spot of blue-white light, on the floor of the platform just in front of the lowest step.
This done, the masked figure raised both hands. Instantly the surrounding multitude began a slow, eerie chant which reminded Jerry of a dirge. The metal floor of the platform had already become red-hot at the point where the light focused.
With an expression of horror on his features the man on the lowest step watched the oncoming spot. As it drew close to him, his skin was seen to redden from the heat it radiated. Suddenly he shrieked, as the white-hot light touched his side. The chanting grew louder, and in a moment more the agonized shrieking ceased, as the concentrated sun rays burned through a vital spot.
The brilliant, blinding spot traveled onward. One after another the remaining men shrieked and were silent. The chanting ceased. The smoking platform with its grisly burdens was carried away.
The two yellow-robed men advanced so they faced both the masked figure on the platform and the sun.
“Thus, O Sarkis, Lord of the Day and Vil of the Worlds, do thy humble servants greet thee at thy rising, hail thee at thy meridian, and speed thee at thy setting, in accordance with the ancient custom,” they said, raising their hands before their eyes.
The Torturer dismissed them with a gesture. “Now we will examine the prisoners,” he announced, seating himself once more upon the divan.
Four men, bareheaded and naked to the waist, emerged from behind the platform. They stepped in front of the divan and saluted. Two were white, one wearing an orange cincture trimmed with black, and the other a plain black cincture. The third and fourth men were brown-skinned and wore the gray of slaves. A short, squat black man, also wearing the gray of a slave, now approached the man in orange and black, and held out to him a sheaf containing a dozen swords. The fellow selected one, and Jerry saw that its sides, instead of being saw-edged, were smooth and dull, while its point was tipped by a small oval bulb. The black passed similar swords to the other three men.
In the meantime, one of the captives, a brown slave, was marched up in front of the Torturer. He saluted, and took a sword from the black.
The Torturer leaned forward and looked at him appraisingly.
“We have here swordsmen of the first, second, third, and fourth grades,” he said. “If you would avoid the sacrificial altar you must defeat at least a fourth-grade swordsman. This will make you a common warrior, and you need go no farther. But if you are ambitious and would be an officer, a barb, then you must defeat our swordsman of the third grade. Defeat the swordsman of the second grade, and you will be made a jen. And if you can best our swordsman of the first grade, you will be made a jendus. Defeat at any stage will render you a victim for the sacrifice. Which swordsman do you choose to fight first?”
“I choose the swordsman of the fourth grade, may it please Your Holy Majesty.”
And as soon as the two contestants had crossed their weapons Jerry saw that there was good reason for the slave’s diffidence. His antagonist had him at the second thrust, marking him over the heart with a spot of red pigment which squeezed out of the bulb on the end of the sword.
“To the sacrifice pens,” ordered Sarkis, in his hollow, sepulchral tones, “and bring the next prisoner.”
Man after man was brought forward. Some were unable to defeat the swordsman of the lowest grade, and so went to the sacrifice pens. Most of those who won the first duel were satisfied to stop there and enlist in the army of Sarkis as common soldiers. But there were a few who aspired to higher honors. One of these became a barb, and stopped there. Another aspired to be a jen, but was defeated by the swordsman of the second grade.
When the fourth-grade swordsman had fought ten duels, he was replaced by another. The swordsmen of the upper grades had so little fencing to do that it was unnecessary to relieve them. Some fifty-odd men had fought, and a sixth swordsman of the fourth grade was testing, when Yewd, who stood just in front of Jerry, was called.
“Farewell, Gudo, my friend,” he whispered. “If it were to be a spear or javelin, I would have a chance. But with a sword I am all but helpless.”
A shout went up from the crowd at sight of Yewd’s giant thews, but as soon as he had a sword in his hand, his unfamiliarity with that weapon was instantly apparent. His brown-skinned opponent grinned, played with him for a moment, and then marked him twice on the chest.
Jerry’s turn was next. The surrounding warriors hooted him as derisively as they had Yewd. But when he selected a weapon, tested its balance, and whipped it about with the ease and grace of a practiced swordsman, they grew silent.
The swordsman of the fourth rank advanced with weapon in readiness, but Jerry held up his hand. “Wait. I would not waste the time of His Holy Majesty.”
“What is this, slave?” asked the masked figure on the throne.
“With Your Majesty’s permission, I will engage only the swordsman of the first grade. I have seen the fencing of these others, and they would furnish but poor sport for me. But none has yet tried the mettle of this jendus.”
“Why, this is bold talk,” said Sarkis. “But braggarts who cannot make good their boasting do not long survive among us. Have at him, then.”