They called him a god and worshipped him.
He neither ate nor drank, nor breathed the
wild free air, yet he was mighty beyond
belief. But grief bowed those superbly-muscled
shoulders, for he knew he was human.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1946.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Tyr stood on the warm white sands and stretched. The hot yellow rays of
the sun played across his ribbed chest and the muscles in his long legs
and thick arms. Tyr smiled. It was good to be alive, even if he was a
god.
He wondered when they would come to worship him again, sending the
bittersweet keening of the _suota_-horns out across the silver deserts
and blue lakes of Lyallar. He hoped it would be soon, for he had,
despite himself, grown to like sitting on the ruby throne. From where
he stood, looking across the groined vastness of the Lord Chamber,
he could see the upturned faces of his people. Even the rat-face of
Otho he liked at moments like those, for the wondrously beautiful face
of Fay smiled red-lipped at him. Tyr gave many gifts to Fay from the
treasures that the Lyallar heaped upon him. And always it seemed she
was eager for more, her brown eyes flickering like those of a greedy
child.
Tyr spread his arms, feeling millions of tiny nerve-ends in his skin
open to drink in the energy pouring from the titanic orb of fire in
the heavens that was sun to the planet Lyallar. Tyr ate no food, and
breathed no air. All that he needed for his existence he got from the
sun.
As the energy flooded into him, making him tingle in every fibre of his
being, Tyr felt again the effect of that energy on his brain. It was
as though the power he fed on was so great that it opened the deeper
spaces of his mind so that any problem was no problem at all--while the
moment lasted.
He had found the stone tower in a moment like that. Seen it at first
miles away, standing lone and stark on the silver sand. Built of
brownish rock, round as the bole of a tree, it was something new to him
who had explored all the strange places of this planet. Tyr had run to
it, testing his swift feet. He could have distanced a dozen cheetahs,
one after another, could Tyr. He was more than swift. He was inhuman.
The lock was easy to break with all that energy flooding him. He merely
took it in his big hands and his muscles writhed and bulged, and the
flaky red metal of the lock snapped. With the flat of a hand he pushed
open the door and went within. It was dim and cool inside, and at first
Tyr did not like it.
There were queer objects all about him, some of glass, some of metal.
Here were curves and cones and vibrating rods of the thickness of
a man's little finger. And books! Even the libraries of the Trylla
contained no books such as these. He lifted one down and browsed, and
found that his mind was understanding it, knowing what those terms and
symbols meant, without thinking. His mind frightened Tyr at times. It
was almost not a part of him. It was as though all the men and women
who had been his forebears had left a little something of themselves in
his makeup, so that their knowledge and experience could guide their
descendant.
Many hours Tyr spent in that odd place. It was a change from the
deserts and the ruby throne. Gradually, through the years, he found
that he was amassing an education from the books and the glass and
metal objects--
_Suu-ohhh-taaaa!_
* * * * *
The clarion notes rang sweet and clear. They brought Tyr erect, the
peculiar ring chained to his neck bouncing on his chest. He looked
toward the dim horizon, where stood Yawarta, city of the ruby throne.
This was the call to the god of the Lyallar. Tyr ran easily, like a
perfect machine that never tired. Across the white sands, and through
the eerie forest in which all the trees resembled frost-flakes,
silver-white in the sun. Deep in the heart of the forest lay an azure
pool, its blueness contrasting startlingly with the silver of the
forest.
The towers of Yawarta were slim and dark beyond the grassy fields. Like
drops of blood on a satin pillow they brooded, reminding the Tryllan
race that they were slaves to the _ardth_ who dwelt far beyond the
nearest star.
A girl was standing before a golden door set flush with the hillside.
"Fay!"
"Speak not, on your life!" she whimpered.
They stood silent, breathing softly. Tyr heard the voices then, harsh
voices, where the Tryllans spoke in musical syllables.
"The _ardth_! They have returned?"
"Yes. They swear to kill you, Tyr. They are hunting you now, along the
tunnels to the door."
Tyr bent and swung the girl high on his chest, grinning. "They will
never catch Tyr."
Tyr began to run. His legs blurred with the speed of his motion. He
stepped out along the grassy slope, and down it, and then was running
free on the plains. He heard Fay's gasp as she grew aware of his pace.
She buried her head against his shoulder to breathe, and her yellow
hair whipped and stung his face as the wind tossed it.
For four hours Tyr ran, not needing to breathe. When he swung the girl
down, he was as composed as though he had moved ten feet. Fay stared up
at him with warm brown eyes.
"Truly you are a god, Tyr. Only a god could run without effort."
"No god. Only--only--"
He halted. He had no word to describe himself. Neither did the Trylla,
except "god." So god he had become, unwillingly; yet he was dimly aware
that he was unique among men, that he stood alone.
"We are far from the Old Ones, the _ardth_, here," he said. "It would
be easy to dwell here on the deserts until they have left."
Fay stirred restlessly, saying, "I do not want to stay on the deserts.
They are bare places. No people, no laughter."
"I don't blame you. There must be something I can do."
He rubbed his hands on the soft white fur that clasped his hips. A hot
anger was beating up inside him, making his nostrils flare. The Old
Ones! They had come back to Lyallar, where Tyr ruled! The masters of
planets and the far reaches of space had come back. He was one, and the
_ardth_ were many. Individually, nothing could ever defeat him. But one
against a race! He shook his head.
"You could fight them, Tyr. You are a god. What can the Old Ones do to
you? There is no way of killing you. Sometimes an assassin has tried,
while you sat on the ruby throne. But no one has ever succeeded."
That was true. Yet he did not tell her that his own uncanny speed saved
him. There was no sense in testing fate, by letting a weapon strike
him. He had a subtle knowledge that he might be immune to certain types
of missiles, but he was not sure.
"You could walk into Yawarta and slay them all, Tyr," the girl said
softly, watching him carefully with her brown eyes. "Then we could go
back to the old days. You could give me that emerald necklace I want."
Tyr wondered at the greed in the brown eyes. It disturbed him. But it
did not disturb him as much as the thoughts of the Old Ones. Thought
of them brought a yearning for battle that rose red and mist-like
inside his great chest. How to tell of that hotness within him, where
his guts ought to be, but were not, that made his heart pump with fury?
Yet, despite his rage, he was alert and careful as a stalking cat. He
could not tell this to Fay; she wanted him to walk unarmed into Yawarta
and blast the _ardth_ with some sort of supernatural power.
He walked around on the white sand, brooding at his moving feet. He
looked into his mind for the words, stumbling and halting.
"Fay, the Trylla have made of me a god. Now I know I am no god. I am
not such a god as the legends of the Tryllan cults tell of, at any
rate. I am only a man. A human being, who is something of a freak."
There was a patient smile on the girl's red mouth. She shook her head
and the soft yellow hair tumbled around her bare shoulders.
"We have spoken of this before, Tyr. Always you say that you are not a
god, and then you turn around and do what only a god can do."
* * * * *
Tyr sighed. "Maybe I am a god. Maybe I expect a god to be too much. But
that is not exactly the point. It is this: the Trylla call me god, no
matter what I call myself. Therefore I must act like a god, for their
sake."
Fay nodded, brown eyes fastened on him.
Tyr said slowly, "A god would not let oppressors molest his people,
would he, Fay?"
"That is just what I have said. You must go into Yawarta and slay and
slay--"
"No. No, I do not think that is what a god would do."
Fay frowned slightly. She kicked at a lump of sand and watched it fly
apart. She ran a finger into her thick yellow hair and twirled it.
"Of course you may be right," she said tartly. "I am not versed in the
way of gods."
"Nor am I," scowled Tyr. "But, in the heart of me, something says there
is another way. That, if I can convince the _ardth_ that I could defeat
them, smash them in some way--then what would be the triumph of a god."
"That might take a long time. I would like very much to have that
emerald necklace. Otho said it was worn by Queen Yatha-sath two
thousand years ago. Please, Tyr?"
She came close to him, perfumed warmth and soft white skin. Her mouth
was very red. But Tyr looked away, frowning.
"The Old Ones derive their powers from a thing called science," he
said slowly. "It says so in a book in the Tower. If I could learn that
science, I might defeat them with their own weapons. But that would
take a long time. Many years."
* * * * *
He stared up into the sun and smiled gently, feeling its hot rays lave
his chest and arms and thighs. Like bubbles of air surging up through
water, he felt the dormant strength of his muscles. He had strength. A
strong man can fight with his hands and with his legs. He would fight.
He turned sharply to Fay and asked, "What is the Barrow that the Trylla
often mention? Where is it?"
"The Barrow is the pride of the Trylla. Without it there would be no
hope."
"Yes, yes. I know. But what _is_ it?"
"It is the hidden place where all the wartime secrets of the race are
stored. When the last invasion of the Old Ones took place, nearly a
hundred years ago, all the accumulated knowledge of the conquered
Tryllans was locked away lest the Old Ones destroy it."
"Could you find the Barrow?"
Fay shuddered. Tyr looked at her, saw her fingers move through her
yellow hair, watched with gentle smile as white teeth nibbled at red
lip. He put out his big hands and held her arms.
"It is for the Trylla that I ask."
"I--I know. I can find the Barrow." Her chin lifted defiantly. "Of what
use are old legends if they make those who hear them weaklings and
cowards? Better to--to die bravely than to hole up like the _tabbug_ at
the first cry of the hunting-cat!"
Tyr grinned at her, wondering if she believed in her own words. She was
so lovely, so childishly greedy for pretty things, so--he frowned at
the idea--so unconsciously selfish, wrapped in her own interests, that
abstract terms like bravery and cowardice seemed alien to her tongue.
Her brown eyes flirted up at him from under their long lashes, and
caught his warm grin.
She muttered sullenly, "The Barrow is five days' journey from the
Desert of the Dead, and that lies two days' travelling from here."
"So near?"
"Much of the journey is across terrible deserts, and the rest is over
insurmountable mountain barriers. The Barrow is atop the tallest
mountain on all the planet."
"That makes it so much harder for the Old Ones to find it," Tyr said.
"The Old Ones can fly. The Trylla must walk. Our monorails run only
in the cities. Oh, Tyr, the only way you can win is to go into the
chambers of Yawarta and destroy the leading _ardth_. You can do it no
other way!"
"If Harl the Ancient still lives," Tyr dreamed, "he could help me
fight. He was the greatest of the Tryllan warriors. There are rumors he
does live, in the Barrow. That is why I must find it. I need Harl."
The girl nibbled at her red mouth sullenly, saying, "I don't see why
you don't do as I say. In that way, you'd get to power faster. We
wouldn't have to share the glory with Harl."
"The _ardth_ aren't bowling pins to fall at the sway of an arm, Fay.
They are dangerous men. Wise men with enough savagery in their blood to
make them vicious."
Tyr knew he could never hope to walk into the secret chambers of the
_ardth_ alive. He knew his limitations. He was human, after a fashion.
He bled when cut, and he ached when bruised. And the _ardth_--
The _ardth_ were a strange race. They were nomads who swept across the
trails of the stars in great vessels that spanned a bridge of space
from planet to planet. Never happy for long, they were eaten by a
cancerous unrest that drove them on and on, to the outermost rims of
the galaxies, hunting always.
They had home planets, too, but they were seldom at home. Instead
they chose to lock themselves in ships of metal and fling themselves
out between the suns. Instead of green grass and trees, their windows
looked on blackness relieved only by twinkling dots that were stars,
and steadily glowing pinpricks that were unexplored planets.
Five hundred years ago they had come to Lyallar. The Tryllans, then a
great race, had fought them bitterly and had driven them off. Three
hundred years later, they came again; this time they came for war.
That war lasted seventy-two years and, at its end, the Tryllans were
a broken race. And that time the Old Ones stayed, or, rather, their
cities stayed--and the Glow.
* * * * *
No one really knew what the Glow was. It made the Old Ones powerful,
and was as closely guarded by them as was the Barrow by the Trylla.
Without the Glow, the _ardth_ were naught. They hid the Glow deep in
their biggest city, that they named Mart.
"If we could go to Mart and find this Glow," said Tyr abruptly, out of
his deep thought.
Fay laughed bitterly, "The Barrow one can find by rolling downhill,
compared to finding the Glow and using it."
Tyr grunted. It was hard, being a god.
Sometimes he wished he were like other men, for then he would have no
people to protect, no Old Ones to battle for a race that looked to him
for guidance. Often he had thought that the Old Ones might be gods, but
he knew that none of them could do what he could do.