The desert tribes of Mars cling to ancient superstitions. When a
warrior dies, his body can only go on to Khles. A grotesque land of
trial by brute strength by which the victorious can move upward through
succeeding plains, and finally into the fairer lands of Perlarh.
So when Moljar's battered consciousness returned somewhat, his cracked
lips whispered it gently, with awe. "Khles ... Khles ... Khles...."
Then he snapped open his burning eyes.
He was on his side on harsh gravel and grey sand. The sea, calm and
glassy again, washed gently at his sandaled feet. He stiffened his
aching legs, and a lassitude went through him, like one might imagine
upon awakening from death. He raised his right hand and the brilliant,
sentient aliveness of the yellow stone caught the filtered Venusian
morning, and momentarily blinded him. He shifted his eyes and saw that
he still gripped Mahra's hand.
Her long smooth body, bruised and lacerated and encrusted with salt,
breathed with a slow, erratic rhythm. Her other arm lay across her high
firm breasts and her slim fingers rested on his forearm.
He turned his head up the beach. It might well have been the
hell-lands of Khles that towered there. The smooth sloping expanse of
gray sand ended sharply in a wall of granite, cracked and hoary with
age. It went straight upward, higher than Moljar could see.
The girl groaned, raised on an elbow. He turned. They looked silently
at each other a moment, before turning their eyes back to the colossal
sea wall. Simultaneously their eyes caught the broad towering gate of
dull black metal.
"Anghore," she whispered.
His hand dug into the sand. His lips were thin lines of dark wire. "It
is magic," he said. "Even the gods are prejudiced against half-breeds,
or I'd say they lent their strength to ours."
"Only evil gods would guide us to this place," she said.
"We have our gods who are not known exactly for benevolence. Lumphoor.
Ghyx."
Moljar climbed stiffly to his feet and lifted Mahra. They stretched
sore, wrenched muscles. They ate the ample meat from the many types of
shells strewing the beach, and all the time they had been eyeing the
giant, formidable barrier. Then, with silent accord, they walked up to
it and stood dwarfed before it.
"You can leave me here," said Moljar. "I have pledged. I must return to
kill Alhone. But you are free."
"In this jungle? Free for death! I'll stick a while longer, half-breed."
Her hand crept into his as he raised the yellow ring-key. A faint
humming, a hollow metallic clang, and the gates slid to either side
into their granite walls.
They stepped through into a massive cavern. A cold maw of twilight,
green haze and smooth arching walls veined with ruby red and gold.
Mahra cried out softly, and Moljar cursed as the two giant furred male
Anghorians ran toward them.
Each wore a long straight sword and a slender dagger at his side. Their
pink cat-faces masked cold, sadistic evil. Alien. One reached out a
paw-like hand at Mahra. His almost lipless mouth slid open, and the
incongruous whining speech mewed its travesty of human tones.
"This woman has not been called. She does not belong here." He turned
to his fellow. "Take her to the Matrix. Ghils is experimenting with
the seventh plain. She will be useful there."
"You are to come with me," he said, turning to Moljar.
The half-breed's hand rested on his dagger. He had fallen instinctively
into a half-crouch. "How did you know I was coming here?"
"You will learn many things about Anghore. You have much to learn."
"I'm stubborn about my subjects, and my instructors," growled Moljar.
And, as the other Anghorian stepped toward Mahra, Moljar leaped at his
throat.
As his left hand clutched the corded body, his right hand whipped the
cat man's dagger free. It rested harshly now against the furred man's
broad silken chest.
"Do not touch the girl," he warned in the small pointed ear.
The other catman said evenly, "A dangerous act. But excusable. You have
not yet learned the formalities of Anghore." He moved in a blinding
blur of speed. Mahra gasped, as his body streaked across her vision
like a flash of light.
* * * * *
Moljar went back. The catman thudded against him. His head cracked
against the stone wall, and the red tint of the glowing stones deepened
to a more personal crimson. He cursed harshly. These catmen could move!
Shaking the dimness from his head, he tried to grip the Anghorian's
writhing body. His dagger raised and fell, but only found hard stone.
He blinked, trying to clear his eyes of fog, and his own blood.
He heard Mahra's savage, despairing yells, and caught a glance of her
struggling in the other catman's corded arms. He heaved upward. The
catman flew off him like a filthy conscience. Moljar flattened against
the wall, his dagger crossed before him.
And when the catman leaped again, the half-breed was prepared. His
clearing vision focused this time on its feral darting movements, and
he met that pink snarling face with a long right slash. The pink face
crunched, smeared. The big body sheared around, buckled, plunged down.
It twitched, and its paws swept about searching for Moljar. Moljar
kicked the face until the body stopped moving.
The other Anghorian released the girl. He drew his sword and eased
toward Moljar.
* * * * *
A voice said with cruel, morbid interest, "Bring the half-breed to me
alive, Akare. Or you will accompany the girl to the seventh plain."