I have no stomach to narrate the monotonous events of the tedious days
that Woola and I spent ferreting our way across the labyrinth of glass,
through the dark and devious ways beyond that led beneath the Valley
Dor and Golden Cliffs to emerge at last upon the flank of the Otz
Mountains just above the Valley of Lost Souls—that pitiful purgatory
peopled by the poor unfortunates who dare not continue their abandoned
pilgrimage to Dor, or return to the various lands of the outer world
from whence they came.
Here the trail of Dejah Thoris’ abductors led along the mountains’
base, across steep and rugged ravines, by the side of appalling
precipices, and sometimes out into the valley, where we found fighting
aplenty with the members of the various tribes that make up the
population of this vale of hopelessness.
But through it all we came at last to where the way led up a narrow
gorge that grew steeper and more impracticable at every step until
before us loomed a mighty fortress buried beneath the side of an
overhanging cliff.
Here was the secret hiding place of Matai Shang, Father of Therns.
Here, surrounded by a handful of the faithful, the hekkador of the
ancient faith, who had once been served by millions of vassals and
dependents, dispensed the spiritual words among the half dozen nations
of Barsoom that still clung tenaciously to their false and discredited
religion.
Darkness was just falling as we came in sight of the seemingly
impregnable walls of this mountain stronghold, and lest we be seen I
drew back with Woola behind a jutting granite promontory, into a clump
of the hardy, purple scrub that thrives upon the barren sides of Otz.
Here we lay until the quick transition from daylight to darkness had
passed. Then I crept out to approach the fortress walls in search of a
way within.
Either through carelessness or over-confidence in the supposed
inaccessibility of their hiding place, the triple-barred gate stood
ajar. Beyond were a handful of guards, laughing and talking over one of
their incomprehensible Barsoomian games.
I saw that none of the guardsmen had been of the party that accompanied
Thurid and Matai Shang; and so, relying entirely upon my disguise, I
walked boldly through the gateway and up to the thern guard.
The men stopped their game and looked up at me, but there was no sign
of suspicion. Similarly they looked at Woola, growling at my heel.
“Kaor!” I said in true Martian greeting, and the warriors arose and
saluted me. “I have but just found my way hither from the Golden
Cliffs,” I continued, “and seek audience with the hekkador, Matai
Shang, Father of Therns. Where may he be found?”
“Follow me,” said one of the guard, and, turning, led me across the
outer courtyard toward a second buttressed wall.
Why the apparent ease with which I seemingly deceived them did not
rouse my suspicions I know not, unless it was that my mind was still so
full of that fleeting glimpse of my beloved princess that there was
room in it for naught else. Be that as it may, the fact is that I
marched buoyantly behind my guide straight into the jaws of death.
Afterward I learned that thern spies had been aware of my coming for
hours before I reached the hidden fortress.
The gate had been purposely left ajar to tempt me on. The guards had
been schooled well in their part of the conspiracy; and I, more like a
schoolboy than a seasoned warrior, ran headlong into the trap.
At the far side of the outer court a narrow door let into the angle
made by one of the buttresses with the wall. Here my guide produced a
key and opened the way within; then, stepping back, he motioned me to
enter.
“Matai Shang is in the temple court beyond,” he said; and as Woola and
I passed through, the fellow closed the door quickly upon us.
The nasty laugh that came to my ears through the heavy planking of the
door after the lock clicked was my first intimation that all was not as
it should be.
I found myself in a small, circular chamber within the buttress. Before
me a door opened, presumably, upon the inner court beyond. For a moment
I hesitated, all my suspicions now suddenly, though tardily, aroused;
then, with a shrug of my shoulders, I opened the door and stepped out
into the glare of torches that lighted the inner court.
Directly opposite me a massive tower rose to a height of three hundred
feet. It was of the strangely beautiful modern Barsoomian style of
architecture, its entire surface hand carved in bold relief with
intricate and fanciful designs. Thirty feet above the courtyard and
overlooking it was a broad balcony, and there, indeed, was Matai Shang,
and with him were Thurid and Phaidor, Thuvia, and Dejah Thoris—the last
two heavily ironed. A handful of thern warriors stood just behind the
little party.
As I entered the enclosure the eyes of those in the balcony were full
upon me.
An ugly smile distorted the cruel lips of Matai Shang. Thurid hurled a
taunt at me and placed a familiar hand upon the shoulder of my
princess. Like a tigress she turned upon him, striking the beast a
heavy blow with the manacles upon her wrist.
He would have struck back had not Matai Shang interfered, and then I
saw that the two men were not over-friendly; for the manner of the
thern was arrogant and domineering as he made it plain to the First
Born that the Princess of Helium was the personal property of the
Father of Therns. And Thurid’s bearing toward the ancient hekkador
savored not at all of liking or respect.
When the altercation in the balcony had subsided Matai Shang turned
again to me.
“Earth man,” he cried, “you have earned a more ignoble death than now
lies within our weakened power to inflict upon you; but that the death
you die tonight may be doubly bitter, know you that when you have
passed, your widow becomes the wife of Matai Shang, Hekkador of the
Holy Therns, for a Martian year.
“At the end of that time, as you know, she shall be discarded, as is
the law among us, but not, as is usual, to lead a quiet and honored
life as high priestess of some hallowed shrine. Instead, Dejah Thoris,
Princess of Helium, shall become the plaything of my
lieutenants—perhaps of thy most hated enemy, Thurid, the black dator.”
As he ceased speaking he awaited in silence evidently for some outbreak
of rage upon my part—something that would have added to the spice of
his revenge. But I did not give him the satisfaction that he craved.
Instead, I did the one thing of all others that might rouse his anger
and increase his hatred of me; for I knew that if I died Dejah Thoris,
too, would find a way to die before they could heap further tortures or
indignities upon her.
Of all the holy of holies which the thern venerates and worships none
is more revered than the yellow wig which covers his bald pate, and
next thereto comes the circlet of gold and the great diadem, whose
scintillant rays mark the attainment of the Tenth Cycle.
And, knowing this, I removed the wig and circlet from my head, tossing
them carelessly upon the flagging of the court. Then I wiped my feet
upon the yellow tresses; and as a groan of rage arose from the balcony
I spat full upon the holy diadem.
Matai Shang went livid with anger, but upon the lips of Thurid I could
see a grim smile of amusement, for to him these things were not holy;
so, lest he should derive too much amusement from my act, I cried: “And
thus did I with the holies of Issus, Goddess of Life Eternal, ere I
threw Issus herself to the mob that once had worshiped her, to be torn
to pieces in her own temple.”
That put an end to Thurid’s grinning, for he had been high in the favor
of Issus.
“Let us have an end to this blaspheming!” he cried, turning to the
Father of Therns.
Matai Shang rose and, leaning over the edge of the balcony, gave voice
to the weird call that I had heard from the lips of the priests upon
the tiny balcony upon the face of the Golden Cliffs overlooking the
Valley Dor, when, in times past, they called the fearsome white apes
and the hideous plant men to the feast of victims floating down the
broad bosom of the mysterious Iss toward the silian-infested waters of
the Lost Sea of Korus. “Let loose the death!” he cried, and immediately
a dozen doors in the base of the tower swung open, and a dozen grim and
terrible banths sprang into the arena.
This was not the first time that I had faced the ferocious Barsoomian
lion, but never had I been pitted, single-handed, against a full dozen
of them. Even with the assistance of the fierce Woola, there could be
but a single outcome to so unequal a struggle.
For a moment the beasts hesitated beneath the brilliant glare of the
torches; but presently their eyes, becoming accustomed to the light,
fell upon Woola and me, and with bristling manes and deep-throated
roars they advanced, lashing their tawny sides with their powerful
tails.
In the brief interval of life that was left me I shot a last, parting
glance toward my Dejah Thoris. Her beautiful face was set in an
expression of horror; and as my eyes met hers she extended both arms
toward me as, struggling with the guards who now held her, she
endeavored to cast herself from the balcony into the pit beneath, that
she might share my death with me. Then, as the banths were about to
close upon me, she turned and buried her dear face in her arms.
Suddenly my attention was drawn toward Thuvia of Ptarth. The beautiful
girl was leaning far over the edge of the balcony, her eyes bright with
excitement.
In another instant the banths would be upon me, but I could not force
my gaze from the features of the red girl, for I knew that her
expression meant anything but the enjoyment of the grim tragedy that
would so soon be enacted below her; there was some deeper, hidden
meaning which I sought to solve.
For an instant I thought of relying on my earthly muscles and agility
to escape the banths and reach the balcony, which I could easily have
done, but I could not bring myself to desert the faithful Woola and
leave him to die alone beneath the cruel fangs of the hungry banths;
that is not the way upon Barsoom, nor was it ever the way of John
Carter.
Then the secret of Thuvia’s excitement became apparent as from her lips
there issued the purring sound I had heard once before; that time that,
within the Golden Cliffs, she called the fierce banths about her and
led them as a shepherdess might lead her flock of meek and harmless
sheep.
At the first note of that soothing sound the banths halted in their
tracks, and every fierce head went high as the beasts sought the origin
of the familiar call. Presently they discovered the red girl in the
balcony above them, and, turning, roared out their recognition and
their greeting.
Guards sprang to drag Thuvia away, but ere they had succeeded she had
hurled a volley of commands at the listening brutes, and as one they
turned and marched back into their dens.
“You need not fear them now, John Carter!” cried Thuvia, before they
could silence her. “Those banths will never harm you now, nor Woola,
either.”
It was all I cared to know. There was naught to keep me from that
balcony now, and with a long, running leap I sprang far aloft until my
hands grasped its lowest sill.
In an instant all was wild confusion. Matai Shang shrank back. Thurid
sprang forward with drawn sword to cut me down.
Again Dejah Thoris wielded her heavy irons and fought him back. Then
Matai Shang grasped her about the waist and dragged her away through a
door leading within the tower.
For an instant Thurid hesitated, and then, as though fearing that the
Father of Therns would escape him with the Princess of Helium, he, too,
dashed from the balcony in their wake.
Phaidor alone retained her presence of mind. Two of the guards she
ordered to bear away Thuvia of Ptarth; the others she commanded to
remain and prevent me from following. Then she turned toward me.
“John Carter,” she cried, “for the last time I offer you the love of
Phaidor, daughter of the Holy Hekkador. Accept and your princess shall
be returned to the court of her grandfather, and you shall live in
peace and happiness. Refuse and the fate that my father has threatened
shall fall upon Dejah Thoris.
“You cannot save her now, for by this time they have reached a place
where even you may not follow. Refuse and naught can save you; for,
though the way to the last stronghold of the Holy Therns was made easy
for you, the way hence hath been made impossible. What say you?”
“You knew my answer, Phaidor,” I replied, “before ever you spoke. Make
way,” I cried to the guards, “for John Carter, Prince of Helium, would
pass!”
With that I leaped over the low baluster that surrounded the balcony,
and with drawn long-sword faced my enemies.
There were three of them; but Phaidor must have guessed what the
outcome of the battle would be, for she turned and fled from the
balcony the moment she saw that I would have none of her proposition.
The three guardsmen did not wait for my attack. Instead, they rushed
me—the three of them simultaneously; and it was that which gave me an
advantage, for they fouled one another in the narrow precincts of the
balcony, so that the foremost of them stumbled full upon my blade at
the first onslaught.
The red stain upon my point roused to its full the old blood-lust of
the fighting man that has ever been so strong within my breast, so that
my blade flew through the air with a swiftness and deadly accuracy that
threw the two remaining therns into wild despair.
When at last the sharp steel found the heart of one of them the other
turned to flee, and, guessing that his steps would lead him along the
way taken by those I sought, I let him keep ever far enough ahead to
think that he was safely escaping my sword.
Through several inner chambers he raced until he came to a spiral
runway. Up this he dashed, I in close pursuit. At the upper end we came
out into a small chamber, the walls of which were blank except for a
single window overlooking the slopes of Otz and the Valley of Lost
Souls beyond.
Here the fellow tore frantically at what appeared to be but a piece of
the blank wall opposite the single window. In an instant I guessed that
it was a secret exit from the room, and so I paused that he might have
an opportunity to negotiate it, for I cared nothing to take the life of
this poor servitor—all I craved was a clear road in pursuit of Dejah
Thoris, my long-lost princess.
But, try as he would, the panel would yield neither to cunning nor
force, so that eventually he gave it up and turned to face me.
“Go thy way, Thern,” I said to him, pointing toward the entrance to the
runway up which we had but just come. “I have no quarrel with you, nor
do I crave your life. Go!”
For answer he sprang upon me with his sword, and so suddenly, at that,
that I was like to have gone down before his first rush. So there was
nothing for it but to give him what he sought, and that as quickly as
might be, that I might not be delayed too long in this chamber while
Matai Shang and Thurid made way with Dejah Thoris and Thuvia of Ptarth.
The fellow was a clever swordsman—resourceful and extremely tricky. In
fact, he seemed never to have heard that there existed such a thing as
a code of honor, for he repeatedly outraged a dozen Barsoomian fighting
customs that an honorable man would rather die than ignore.
He even went so far as to snatch his holy wig from his head and throw
it in my face, so as to blind me for a moment while he thrust at my
unprotected breast.
When he thrust, however, I was not there, for I had fought with therns
before; and while none had ever resorted to precisely that same
expedient, I knew them to be the least honorable and most treacherous
fighters upon Mars, and so was ever on the alert for some new and
devilish subterfuge when I was engaged with one of their race.
But at length he overdid the thing; for, drawing his shortsword, he
hurled it, javelinwise, at my body, at the same instant rushing upon me
with his long-sword. A single sweeping circle of my own blade caught
the flying weapon and hurled it clattering against the far wall, and
then, as I sidestepped my antagonist’s impetuous rush, I let him have
my point full in the stomach as he hurtled by.
Clear to the hilt my weapon passed through his body, and with a
frightful shriek he sank to the floor, dead.
Halting only for the brief instant that was required to wrench my sword
from the carcass of my late antagonist, I sprang across the chamber to
the blank wall beyond, through which the thern had attempted to pass.
Here I sought for the secret of its lock, but all to no avail.
In despair I tried to force the thing, but the cold, unyielding stone
might well have laughed at my futile, puny endeavors. In fact, I could
have sworn that I caught the faint suggestion of taunting laughter from
beyond the baffling panel.
In disgust I desisted from my useless efforts and stepped to the
chamber’s single window.
The slopes of Otz and the distant Valley of Lost Souls held nothing to
compel my interest then; but, towering far above me, the tower’s carved
wall riveted my keenest attention.
Somewhere within that massive pile was Dejah Thoris. Above me I could
see windows. There, possibly, lay the only way by which I could reach
her. The risk was great, but not too great when the fate of a world’s
most wondrous woman was at stake.
I glanced below. A hundred feet beneath lay jagged granite boulders at
the brink of a frightful chasm upon which the tower abutted; and if not
upon the boulders, then at the chasm’s bottom, lay death, should a foot
slip but once, or clutching fingers loose their hold for the fraction
of an instant.
But there was no other way and with a shrug, which I must admit was
half shudder, I stepped to the window’s outer sill and began my
perilous ascent.
To my dismay I found that, unlike the ornamentation upon most
Heliumetic structures, the edges of the carvings were quite generally
rounded, so that at best my every hold was most precarious.
Fifty feet above me commenced a series of projecting cylindrical stones
some six inches in diameter. These apparently circled the tower at
six-foot intervals, in bands six feet apart; and as each stone cylinder
protruded some four or five inches beyond the surface of the other
ornamentation, they presented a comparatively easy mode of ascent could
I but reach them.
Laboriously I climbed toward them by way of some windows which lay
below them, for I hoped that I might find ingress to the tower through
one of these, and thence an easier avenue along which to prosecute my
search.
At times so slight was my hold upon the rounded surfaces of the
carving’s edges that a sneeze, a cough, or even a slight gust of wind
would have dislodged me and sent me hurtling to the depths below.
But finally I reached a point where my fingers could just clutch the
sill of the lowest window, and I was on the point of breathing a sigh
of relief when the sound of voices came to me from above through the
open window.
“He can never solve the secret of that lock.” The voice was Matai
Shang’s. “Let us proceed to the hangar above that we may be far to the
south before he finds another way—should that be possible.”
“All things seem possible to that vile calot,” replied another voice,
which I recognized as Thurid’s.
“Then let us haste,” said Matai Shang. “But to be doubly sure, I will
leave two who shall patrol this runway. Later they may follow us upon
another flier—overtaking us at Kaol.”
My upstretched fingers never reached the window’s sill. At the first
sound of the voices I drew back my hand and clung there to my perilous
perch, flattened against the perpendicular wall, scarce daring to
breathe.
What a horrible position, indeed, in which to be discovered by Thurid!
He had but to lean from the window to push me with his sword’s point
into eternity.
Presently the sound of the voices became fainter, and once again I took
up my hazardous ascent, now more difficult, since more circuitous, for
I must climb so as to avoid the windows.
Matai Shang’s reference to the hangar and the fliers indicated that my
destination lay nothing short of the roof of the tower, and toward this
seemingly distant goal I set my face.
The most difficult and dangerous part of the journey was accomplished
at last, and it was with relief that I felt my fingers close about the
lowest of the stone cylinders.
It is true that these projections were too far apart to make the
balance of the ascent anything of a sinecure, but I at least had always
within my reach a point of safety to which I might cling in case of
accident.
Some ten feet below the roof, the wall inclined slightly inward
possibly a foot in the last ten feet, and here the climbing was indeed
immeasurably easier, so that my fingers soon clutched the eaves.
As I drew my eyes above the level of the tower’s top I saw a flier all
but ready to rise.
Upon her deck were Matai Shang, Phaidor, Dejah Thoris, Thuvia of
Ptarth, and a few thern warriors, while near her was Thurid in the act
of clambering aboard.
He was not ten paces from me, facing in the opposite direction; and
what cruel freak of fate should have caused him to turn about just as
my eyes topped the roof’s edge I may not even guess.
But turn he did; and when his eyes met mine his wicked face lighted
with a malignant smile as he leaped toward me, where I was hastening to
scramble to the secure footing of the roof.
Dejah Thoris must have seen me at the same instant, for she screamed a
useless warning just as Thurid’s foot, swinging in a mighty kick,
landed full in my face.
Like a felled ox, I reeled and tumbled backward over the tower’s side.