The Terran Barbarians have landed! Already they
plunder a dying, helpless planet! And a whisper
rustles through the cold, thin air, across
the rust-red sands: "Give us a leader--and we
will fight! Give us back our ancient glory!"
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1950.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The small room was dark but for the flickering light of a single
ef-lamp that burned on the bare table between the two long rows
of black-hooded figures. The thin dry air was surcharged with the
tenseness of a tautly drawn cord ... a strangler's cord. A sentence of
death had been passed in silence. Now, the executioners balloted, still
in silence, to select from their number a leader.
The High Council of the Maldia was in session. Behind the dark,
enigmatic sable masks and robes lurked all the might and hate of a
proud, ancient and dying culture. The might of a warlike world's
aristocracy. The hate that was the unreasoning, distilled essence of a
doomed world's bitterness....
Beneath the black cowl that shadowed his face young Telis of Lars' eyes
showed fierce pride as member after member pointed silently toward his
end of the table. It seemed that the vote would be overwhelmingly in
his favor, and a tremor of anticipation ran through him. At the far
end of the board he could see his rival candidate's eyes glittering
furiously. The Maldia would not be led by Brand, that much was certain.
The assembled nobles were quite plainly repudiating his leadership for
that of the young Lord of Lars.
Outside the tower room, the icy wind shrieked and gamboled through the
crenels of the ancient fortress like a harbinger of doom. The draughts
set the candle flame to dancing crazily, and long shadows leapt from
wall to wall.
Telis stretched his long legs out under the table. To him, the voting
seemed unnecessarily prolonged and ritualistic, but he knew better than
to voice opposition to customs that had been accepted in the Maldia
since long before the Laurrs, the dictator-kings who took the name of
the very planet for themselves, had driven the society underground.
The young warrior was forced to admit that ritual and trappings were an
important part of the superstitious hold the Maldia had on the great
masses of Laurr. And, with the populace cowed, anything was possible.
Even the Laurr himself would not care to face the unanimous disapproval
of this masked hierarchy. Too many Laurrs, down through the aeons of
the planet's history, had fallen before the blades of Maldia assassins.
Telis watched the glittering eyes that peered out from behind the
peaked mask that hid Prince Brand's handsome face. The mart knew he was
defeated, and rage seemed to surround him like a malign auriole. Brand
would never be satisfied with the deputy command that would be his for
having been second in the balloting. The man wanted full authority,
not command of troops in the field as Telis had had. Brand was far
too concerned with his own safety for that; he wanted command of the
striking force of assassins that would murder the handful of invaders
out in the desert. The victory over a few scientists from another world
would give Brand the renown he craved and at negligible risk, for all
his dark talk about mystery weapons and his pleas for caution.
The only need for caution that Telis could see was the possible
intervention of the Temple or the Laurr. And the Temple knew nothing.
And the Laurr could be handled ... by Telis.
Telis looked around him, wishing the masked nobles would have done with
it. It would not be a safe thing to have the Temple learn that the
Maldia met in Telis' own palace quarters. He noted with satisfaction
that the voting had ended.
The shrieking wind outside died suddenly, leaving a thick silence.
A black figure arose from either side of the table. The one on the
right turned toward Telis, and its voice had a strange and disembodied
timbre in the stillness.
"Telis of Lars," it said, "you lead."
Telis inclined his head in acceptance. Taciturnity was part of the
ancient tradition of the Maldia.
The figure on the left turned toward Brand. "Brand, Prince of Laurr,
you follow."
Brand heaved himself to his feet. "I protest this insult!" he said
thickly. "Why am I to follow him? He is not even of royal birth!"
The robed figure on the left seemed to tense. Its voice sounded
suddenly almost metallic. "You follow," it repeated deliberately.
Brand stood irresolutely, two solid rows of shadowed faces turned
toward him. Then Telis spoke up softly, almost casually.
"A challenge, Brand, to decide?"
"I follow," muttered Brand, sinking into his chair sullenly.
Telis smiled to himself. If ever a coward like Brand should pick up a
flung challenge, surely the Water Goddess would throw down the moons!
Slowly, the hooded men filed from the room, leaving Telis alone. For a
moment Brand paused by the door, and Telis could see that he fingered
his sword hilt under the sable robes. But he stood so, glaring at
Telis, for only a minute. Then he was gone.
From the darkness of the courtyard beneath the tower window came the
sound of a whistle, and Lord Telis relaxed. The bribed guardsman's
signal indicated that the last member of the Maldia had mounted his
sith and was safely away.
* * * * *
Telis felt a stirring of pride. Any victory was a pleasing thing to
him; but tonight's smashing triumph over Brand was a thing the renegade
princeling would long remember! The Maldia had chosen to forget that
he, Telis, came only from the lower nobility.
His position as Captain-General of the Laurr's armies, as well as the
real affection the ruler had for him, had been a large factor in the
selection, Telis knew. The Maldia was certain that the old Laurr was
fond enough of his young Captain-General to overlook the breach of
faith contemplated for the morning....
Telis doffed his robes and dressed himself with care. Always fastidious
about his appearance, he knew that this night his dress must be
impeccable. The Laurr of Laurr was very particular about such things.
With a last hitch at his jewelled harness, Telis stationed himself
before the polished onyx mirror. The image that gazed calmly back at
him from its dark surface was sufficiently imposing, he reflected, even
for the Laurr of Laurr. He was tall and well-knit; the war harness,
bright with gems, hung low on his hips; his long legs were bare, and
his chest covered only by the crossed straps that supported his weapons.
The black sith-leather was studded with battle-decorations. It would be
well, Telis reasoned, to remind the Laurr of his many services to the
throne. Tacitly, perhaps, but nonetheless firmly.
All the gems won in the Guski campaigns and in the last Water War
were there, as was the golden cross of the Laurr's own Knighthood ...
presented to Telis by the hand whose blessing he planned to seek this
very night.
Glancing at his chronometer, Telis turned away from the mirror. Through
the high, narrow window of his palace quarters, the light of the
nearer moon streamed in golden glory, shaming the feeble light of the
ef-lamp. Telis stepped to the window, his gaze seeking the low hills
beyond the still, shallow waters of the Grand Canal. The beauty of the
night caught at his breast, for, even as he watched, the great orb of
the farther moon was rising sedately to add its light to the already
fulsome glory of her racing sister.
Below and across the palace grounds, the flickering lights of the city
spread like a web of living beads in the moonlight.
As always, Telis felt a rush of pride as he contemplated the beauty
of his world. A great sadness filled him then, for he knew that such
beauty could not last much longer. Soon now, the sun would rise on a
planet of death....
Telis shuddered and turned away. The beauty of the night faded, leaving
only reality. And reality was stark and deadly on Laurr. The water was
vanishing, and the great plains that had once been green and fertile
were now oxidized wastelands. Lars, far to the north, was deserted now,
for the canal had silted up and life had become unbearable. And now
the great deserts of iron oxide stood at the very shores of the Grand
Canal, and what did flow down from the pole was barely enough to keep
the watercourse free of red silt.
Aeons ago, before the great Wars that had almost wrecked the planet,
the ancients had seen the drought coming. They had known that the air
and the water would steadily unite with Laurr's thirsty iron, leaving
the planet barren and desiccated beyond belief.
They had tried to plan for that day and had built the great waterways
as part of their conservation program. Other projects had been started;
mysterious power plants far out in the deserts with walls of foot-thick
pund had been built. But somehow, nothing good had come from these
mysterious Temples. The first of the Ten Great Water Wars had begun
even then, and the warring people of the planet had demanded weapons
from these strange plants.
For many generations the engineer-priests had refused the pleas and
demands, but, as the steadily diminishing water supplies had caused war
after war after war, they relented.
From the pund-lined Temples had come a steady flow of ghastly weapons.
Weapons that left Laurr's cities shattered piles of rubbish to be
covered by the drifting sands. Weapons that had destroyed forever the
once flourishing culture that might have saved the world from its
inexorable doom.
The secrets of the past were forgotten ... or covered with legendary
dross. But the wars went on and on and on.
Telis knew, staring out across the rusty sands, that Laurr was doomed
to a quick death. It would not come in his lifetime ... but soon ...
soon....
And then the Tellurians had come! To gloat and exploit. To steal the
iron of the deserts and drain away the last of the planet's resources
to their wantonly wealthy world! Even the Laurr of Laurr had given them
safe-conduct ... on the basis that their expedition proved some of the
Temple's favored dogma concerning the origin of the race!
Weakness! thought Telis savagely. It fills us as life slips away from
our planet. But it would not be so! The ancient, dreaded Maldia would
see to that! If Laurr must die, then at least she could die upright and
untrammeled by ghoulish invaders!
In sudden fury, Telis snatched up his cloak and strode from the room.
The jewelled glyph of the Water Goddess, Mother of Laurr, gleamed
fiercely for a moment on the hilt of his short-sword in the feeble
light as Telis sought the long winding ramp that led to the lower
levels and the audience chamber of the Laurr of Laurr.
Along endless corridors, ef-lit and lined with rigid guardsmen, Lord
Telis of Lars made his way. Underfoot, the ever-present drift of
reddish sand gritted as he walked.
Turning into the main passageway that led to the inner courtyard,
Telis heard the sound of his name ... softly spoken, but demanding.
Stopping, he looked about him. A dark-robed figure beckoned to him from
the shadow of a huge stone buttress. It was Gorla, First Cycle Priest
of the Temple, and Telis' long standing friend at court. His eyes were
sombre in his round, good-humored face.
"I have met you just in time. You are on your way to see the Laurr,
friend Telis?"
Telis nodded. "Of course. I am already keeping him waiting. I'll see
you in the morning, friend Gorla." He made a move to slip by the young
Priest and be on his way.
"A moment, Telis!" Gorla's voice was suddenly sharp. "You are about to
ask the Laurr to break his word to the outlanders, are you not?"