_On the Plains of Ofrid_
Jlomec the Nadian guided his air car across the grassy plains of Ofrid
but a scant few feet above the tops of the waving grasses.
It was a fine day and the Nadian was taking full advantage of it. One
of a race of proud and noble fighting men, Jlomec was an exception to
the rule in that he was a dreamer rather than a fighter, a thinker
rather than a doer, a poet rather than a military strategist.
Thus, his mind dwelt upon the historic incident of the previous days
when, standing beside his brother, Bontarc, he had watched the gray
tower of Portox the Ofridian explode into a fine cloud of dust.
And it was characteristic of the gentle Jlomec that his mind was more
occupied with the romantic aspect of the incident than the violent. He
thought of the poem, the bit of doggerel carved in the foundation
stone of the tower. For a century all Tarthans had puzzled over the
verse put there by Portox so long ago:
An ape, a boar, a stallion,
A land beyond the stars,
A virgin's feast, a raging beast,
A prison without bars.
Had it any meaning? Jlomec wondered. A thousand different
interpretations had been put upon the verse over the years, but no one
knew for sure.
That it had something to do with the slaughter of the Ofridians,
Jlomec was sure. But what?
As he ruminated thus, Jlomec's attention was caught by moving figures
some ten jeks to the south. He knew this to be the location of one of
the great wells that dotted the Plains of Ofrid.
In the times before the great massacre, these wells had been located
in the hearts of the fine Ofridian cities of which the Abarians stood
in great envy. These wells gushed endlessly of cool crystal water
which kept the fabulous hanging gardens of Ofrid multicolored and
beautiful.
But all that was in the past. The Ofridians had been slain to a man
and their cities leveled until not a stone stood upon a stone. Now
lonely grasses grew where once glittered the results of Portox's great
scientific genius. Now there were only round steel doors in the ground
to mark the locations of the great Ofridian wells.
These thoughts occupied Jlomec's mind as he turned his car and coursed
it in the direction of the well. The figures came clearly into view,
causing Jlomec to frown in puzzlement.
What manner of people were these? There were a half dozen of them--two
men, three females, and one babe-in-arms. Jlomec got the impression
that--though they were erect and finely formed--that they were of
short stature.
But now he realized he had got this impression only by their
comparison to the seventh figure by the well. He knew at a glance that
this seventh was an Abarian warrior, exceptionally tall and wearing
the look of grim cruelty so characteristic of his race.
Jlomec paid the Abarian scant heed however, so engrossed was he in
studying the strange half-dozen. Their skins were richly browned and
they wore almost no clothing.
Who could they be? Jlomec wondered, and from whence had they come?
Mightily intrigued, he moved forward until he came within earshot of
the party. Then, for reason of the words he heard spoken, he halted
his air car and frowned.
* * * * *
The Abarian, he recognized as the famed Retoc himself. A fierce stad
pawed the ground nearby indicating how the tall, sneering commander of
the Abarians had arrived at this spot. Retoc was known to roam the
Plains of Ofrid at times, still savoring the destruction he and his
sire, Harnod, had accomplished; pleasuring himself with memories of
bodies piled high, of bloody swords and helpless cries of the dying.
Or was it for some other reason that Retoc roamed the plains? Was it a
nameless fear that drove him there? Did the accusing face of Portox
the Ofridian genius still hang balefully in his memory? Had Portox
acquainted the Abarian devil with knowledge that he alone carried in
his guilty heart? And did that knowledge generate a fear that Retoc
the Abarian could not rid himself of?
At any rate, he now stood between the brown people and the Ofridian
well, enjoying a useless cruelty as was his custom.
The leader of the group extended his hands in supplication and said,
"We only ask water, sire. A small thing, but long have we waited to
quench our thirst."
Retoc said, "What manner of people are you?"
"Harmless ones. See? We are unarmed and peaceful."
"That does not answer my question. Tell me who you are and from whence
you came. Then we will see whether my fancy dictates that you shall
have water from this well."
Indignation and rage dimmed Jlomec's better judgment. He had glided in
beyond range of Retoc's vision and now he leaped from his car and drew
his wandlike whip-sword. "Is there no drop of common decency or
compassion left in you, Retoc, that you do this thing to helpless
people?"
The Abarian whirled with alarm not knowing what force might be arrayed
against him. But when he saw the lone Jlomec, his composure returned
and his self-assurance again took charge. Had the newcomer been
Bontarc, the dreamy Jlomec's skillful brother, Retoc the Abarian would
have conducted himself differently. But as it was, he sneered at the
gentle Nadian and asked, "What business of this is yours, Jlomec?"
"Injustice is everyone's business. These people, whoever they are, ask
only to drink." Jlomec's eyes blazed. "And drink they shall, Abarian!"
* * * * *
Retoc's handsome eyes glowed. No doubt as to the outcome of this
contest. He drew his own sword and whipped its supple length through
the air. "Since you choose to champion this scum, let's get on with
it."
Had Jlomec's indignation not been of a quality to blind him to
consequences, he would have perhaps hesitated. But hot with this
injustice, he whipped his own sword and leaped at Retoc.
The latter, with a grim smile of confidence, parried the thrust with
ease and manipulated his own whip-sword with a skill which few
fighting men on the planet Tarth could have equalled.
The weapons were strange ones by Earth standards and would have
probably been considered impractical. They were a good six feet in
length with the supple resiliency of a fly casting rod. The trick of
using them effectively lay in controlling the sway and whip of the
long thin blades by skillful use of the wrist. An expert Tarthan
swordsman could parry a thrust with a lightning whip of his blade, arc
the singing steel in the opposite direction and perhaps bring his
opponent down with a thrust that would enter between his shoulder
blades, the sword still arced to describe half a circle.
* * * * *
In essence, this favorite weapon of the Tarthans was a combination of
whip and sword and combat was a matter of thrusting at angles far
wider than could be achieved with a stiff blade. A good Tarthan
swordsman would have been an excellent billiard player on Earth for
his knowledge of workable angles was of necessity supreme.
Retoc the Abarian was a master at this swordplay. Enjoying himself
hugely because there was little risk, he toyed with the less skillful
Nadian. He did not intend to kill Jlomec, fearing the wrath of
Bontarc. He meant only to teach the stupid Nadian a lesson he would
not forget.
But as his blade sang and stung, its needle point darting in like the
fangs of a snake's head, and as Jlomec's clumsy blade sought
desperately to parry, Retoc's blood lust rose to the fore. The joy of
dealing death to the helpless was upon him and with a swift thrust he
allowed his blade to enter Jlomec's unprotected back just above the
kidney, to streak upward through his body and pierce his heart.
Frightened at what he had done he jerked the blade free. Its entwined
force whirled Jlomec in a complete circle from which he fell limply,
dead before he hit the ground.
Retoc stood scowling at the fallen Nadian, his dripping blade rising
and falling gently in the breeze as he held it extended. The Abarian's
eyes darted to the group of brown-skinned folk, his anger centering
upon them as he nimbly switched the blame for this foul murder from
his own shoulders to theirs. If they had not been at the well--
He was ready to extend his slaughter in their direction, to wipe out
the lot of them, when he paused, his scowl deepening. There was fear
and awe upon their faces but they were not regarding either Retoc or
his fallen adversary.
Their eyes were turned in another direction and Retoc sent his own
glance after theirs. His eyes held upon what he saw. A naked man. But
such a man as he had never before seen on all the planet Tarth.