"On Venus, I have but to speak to make any being free."
"Try telling the Mistmen that," said Moljar boldly. "They'll soon be
here."
"I've never, in all the places I have been, seen quite such a
magnificent fool as you, Moljar. Anyway, our communications are cut
off. If a man could get through to Anghore, bring back a force ...
my scientists in Anghore have been perfecting a new vibro-generator
as a weapon. Perhaps it is completed now. The Mistmen have never
been attacked. They surprise, throw up detectors and shut off
communications, and disappear before any reinforcements can arrive."
Moljar's fingers quivered for her slim throat. But his voice seemed
calm. "Could one get through their detectors to Anghore?"
"You perhaps could. If you can, Moljar, I'll make you a Guard of
Anghore."
Stolid as was the half-breed's neural circuit, the sudden statement
momentarily shocked him. It was rumored that Alhone chose certain
fighters to go to Anghore. But that he, a contemptible half-breed
should be promised a position as Alhone's personal guard....
"Why me?" he was saying.
"In these games I have seen the best fighters of three worlds. But I
have never seen anyone fight as you fought tonight."
A series of thunderous explosions rocked the stadium. A brilliant
pyrotechnic display glittered fantastically through the thick cloud
layers above Venus Port. The Mistmen were storming the city with
customary thorough and savage efficiency. The crying of a helpless city
in pain rose and fell in an aimless pattern of terror.
* * * * *
Moljar noted the energy guns held in the hands of the Anghorians
surrounding their Princess. This was not the time. One aggressive move
from him, and he would be annihilated on the spot. If he accepted her
proposition, got through to Anghore and was rewarded as she promised,
then he would surely eventually be placed in a fool-proof position to
kill her. Time meant nothing. He had worked and waited many years. Many
more would not matter--if they led to the fulfilment of his pledge.
Only her death mattered. Revenge. Her pelt, well cured and soft,
presented to his tribesmen.
The Mistmen were sweeping toward the Colosseum. The roar of their
advance increased rapidly. He must decide.
Anghore. Over this outlaw world of blood-lust and savagery, ruled
Alhone. Thousands of his kind who had migrated here had been slain
under her sanction. But who, or what, was Alhone? What and where was
Anghore? Out of the numerous strange and unexplored lands of Venus she
might have come. No one knew. There was only a name. Anghore. Anghore
that lay somewhere across the Sea of Mort.
A few claimed to have seen Anghore--from a distance. A jumble of towers
spearing into the mist higher than the mountain peaks. Only Princess
Alhone and her ferocious minions knew of it. And no one talked with
them.
Alhone ruled slave followers with weapons of basic energies as strange
in origin as Alhone herself. Followers who, in return for their
unquestioning, dogged devotion, held positions of great personal power.
In their rich trappings, they ruled over private little spheres of
influence, answering only to Alhone.
Who was Alhone?--Where was Anghore?--What would he become should he
accept this offer? None of these things mattered. Sometime, somewhere,
he would have the opportunity to strip that soft furred hide from her
quivering body--and no personal price he might pay would be too dear.
"Well, Moljar," she was saying. "Doesn't my offer interest you?"
He controlled himself well as he nodded. "I'll go to Anghore, wherever
it is."
Her round pink face crinkled. "You are so certain, barbarian. Few have
crossed the Sea of Mort. It is well-named."
"I will go to Anghore," he repeated.
"Then you should hurry. The Mistmen are outside the stadium now, and
I'm sure they would like to find us here. At the other end of the
stadium, above the catacombs, is the gyro-scout. For emergencies in the
games," she laughed. "It has seldom been used. Take it. Its directional
beam is already set for Anghore. It will take you directly there. If
you have the key."
Moljar flexed his shoulders. His eyes were narrow, suspicious. No one
ordinarily could break through the Mistmen's detector bands. Then how
could _he_? He shrugged. At least he would be free for a while.
Alhone removed the gleaming yellow stone from one of her semi-webbed
fingers. She dropped it to him. "This will open the gyro to you. It
will function only under this stone's influence. It will also, if you
reach my castle, open the gates into Anghore. You shall be rewarded,
Moljar--bountifully."
His eyes fastened on her throat. "Yes," he said. "I depend on it." He
slipped the vibrant, throbbing yellow stone on his smallest finger. He
stepped back and then a tremendous blast of energy surged against him.
The blue field which enveloped the Anghorians was beginning to fade. A
stabbing pain lanced up his spine, up into his brain, to explode there
in a flash of wrenching agony. He stumbled, went down.
The blue field blurred, swirled, deepened in color. It became a vortex
of violently churning silver shot with fire. A nauseous weakness spread
through him. The Anghorians, the stadium, the whirling blue fires, all
faded.
* * * * *
He opened his eyes slowly. It was raining. A few fat warm drops were
spattering down, then a curtain of water spilled from the stadium wall.
Shamefully he climbed to his feet, shook his head, looked about warily
for Mistmen.
If he had blanked out it had only been for a few seconds. The blue
field was gone. And with it, Alhone and her sycophants. Instinctively,
he jerked his hand up. The yellow ring-key was gone. He bellowed
bitterly. And a laugh answered. Gasdon!
He turned. The Martian outlaw had one arm around the struggling Terran
girl. She was biting and striking and cursing, but with no effect.
She writhed helplessly under his arm. There was a yellow flash on the
outlaw's other hand as it raised, clutching an alloy bar. Gasdon had
taken the key!
The half-breed swept a defense bar from a gladiator's stiff dead
hand. Gasdon laughed fearless scorn, threw the girl from him, and met
Moljar's rush with his own bar upraised. They crashed together with
a dull clang, parted, struck again. They circled warily, feinting,
parrying, thrusting....