IV

He was aware of low chanting rhythms, the blood heating throb of

unknown instruments. He stirred and found himself wallowing in a bed of

incredible depth and softness. Heady scents that twisted his soul with

sweet pain floated across his face, and his wild barbarian heart was

instinctively repelled by the suggestion of sensual, soft decadence.

When he opened his eyes, oscillating lights bathed him in

sense-drunkening sweetness that sickened even as it lured. He turned

his head. A boudoir out of the abyss of a drug dream. Black drapes

littered with flashing jewels. A black floor that seemed to undulate

with sentient life, mosaicked in red veins. Weirdly-plumaged birds with

serpent's heads hissed in a golden cage.

And Alhone stood by his couch and sang to him.

When she spoke, her voice had been unpleasantly whiny and shrill. But

now, singing the dissonant cries of some alien song, it was high and

piercingly sweet like a violin's cry. Small furred breasts rose and

fell gently as she sang. Lithe hips swayed. Her cat's eyes searched his

with a cruel dreaminess, and, for him, there was no malice there.

Small, delicate, fine-limbed monster from an alien hell. At her command

thousands had died horribly during the Red Moon Games. Trampled,

drained of blood, shredded by talons, poisoned by fangs, tortured,

flayed and inflicted with unspeakable indignities worse than pain. Yet

she possessed the sadist's love of beauty, of decadent riches, luxury,

sensual surroundings, and love.

He arose with one fluid motion and faced her. His body had been bathed

and scented with perfumed oils. His trappings were new, the grey

leather of the Anghorians. A long sword swung at his side.

"The Mistmen are yours," he said. "And this has all been a trap to get

me here?"

"Yes. You are mine now, as are all the others. We have ways here to

control the heart and the mind of those who are not quite willing to

accept me. I have employed these methods often."

He inhaled deeply. His chest swelled. And a wave of almost overpowering

ecstasy swept him in a surging tide of passion. How many years he had

waited for this one supreme, delectable moment of revenge!

And now he was alone with her. And there was nothing to stand in his

way. Or was there? She was no fool. She must have protection. He could

see nothing.

His eyes clouded as he looked at her. That haughty body would soon

writhe and scream under his hands. And before she died she would know

the full meaning of torture.

But first he would learn the nature of this mystery. "Where is Mahra?"

he said. "And what is the seventh plain?"

"Our scientists call them plains," she ignored the first question. "But

they are really worlds coexistent with this one. We have explored six

of these worlds. This, Venus, is the sixth. I and my kind came here

from the second."

Moljar blinked. His barbarian mind was quick to accept the strange and

the marvelous. It was not at all unbelievable that these Anghorians

had come not only from another world, but from another dimension of

existence. A coexistent world. It was only unexpected.

"All matter and all chronosophy are one and concomitant," she said.

She swayed toward him. "Our scientists perfected the Matrix which can

synthesize matter to any of these various worlds or plains. It changes

the consistency of the atom, much as a lens magnifies objects to fit

the perspective of your eye."

No longer able to control himself, Moljar stepped to meet her, flexing

his hands and trembling violently. She must not get suspicious until it

was too late. Until he had her between his hands.

"And why do you stay on Venus? Why do you kill us, and ravish this

world?"

"My world was drab, colorless, uninteresting. It was so dull there.

Our civilization destroyed the past which was lawless and exciting. I

came here. And from the Red Moon Games I have gathered about me here

at Anghore all the greatest warriors in the System. It was wise of me,

do you not think so, Moljar? The planets themselves helped me. Terra

and Mars weeded out the best by isolating the half-breeds and mutants.

Then out of these, I select the very best, by a process of elimination

during the Red Moon Games. From the best among the survivors of the

Games I choose the Mistmen. And from the Mistmen I choose you, Moljar,

to rule by my side. The Mistmen can conquer the Universe."

"Many have dreamed of such a conquest," said Moljar.

"This is no dream. We have inexhaustible power on our side. Weapons we

can unleash that would stun the System into passive madness. Defense

they have no conception of. And, if we had to, we could fight from the

vantage of other plains of being, of which the dullards of the Solar

Worlds have no concept, though these countless worlds flourish all

about them. Work by my side, Moljar."

"Why me?" said the half-breed. "I am not of your kind."

"No Anghorian could stand against you with equal weapons, Moljar. The

best of two worlds flows in your veins. Your heart is metal fibre, and

your brain has never known fear. Nor could it ever understand defeat.

There is no other who could stand by your side. And when I tire of the

empire we shall build, and move on to other plains of entertainment,

you may stay and rule. You can be King of a Universe, Moljar."

"None of which is so important as keeping my pledge," said Moljar. He

clutched at her slim, throbbing throat, but again he had forgotten the

extra-system origin of these non-humans. Her body was an unspringing

coil. She landed lightly ten feet away. A high piercing shriek of

frenzied rage and frustration sputtered from her pink, snarling face.

"Savage!" she finally said as he came toward her. "You have gone too

far!"

"Not far enough yet," said Moljar. He leaped after her. She eluded him

as he dodged after her doggedly. She sprang this way and that like a

forest cat. And finally she stopped and her fingers briefly touched the

wall. Panels slid noiselessly apart.

"You asked about the girl," she spat. "Look!"

Moljar froze. There was a square there revealed. A mass of electronic

equipment. Parts were vaguely familiar, but over-all arrangement

completely beyond the grasp of his barbaric desert mind. Within a

column of light, stood Mahra, looking at him. Fine glowing filaments

imprisoned her.

Somehow, through the weirdly glowing strands that would send her into

some hellish land only Alhone could name, she managed a wan smile.

Beyond the glowing filaments, grey-furred catmen moved dials and

studied gauges and charts.

"Wait!" cried Alhone's grotesque mewing face. "Turn off the matrix

power. Do not send the girl yet. Moljar wishes to accompany her to

hell!"

V

The three catmen complied without comment. They apparently were highly

specialized brains, incapable of normal reaction. Their faces reflected

mechanical minds, specially bred, unemotional. Moljar's narrowed eyes

followed the motions of one as he turned dials. The light faded from

around the girl. The filaments faded to a rusty brown. Mahra's eyes

turned, looked directly into Alhone's. A shiver went through Moljar at

the strange glow that emanated from them.

Clanking of steel spun him around. The Anghorians whom Alhone had

summoned were crashing into the small room, and Moljar sprang to meet

them. His sword whipped free, darted, an invisible arc. He killed the

first one who came within reach before the Anghorian's sword could

move, his straight blade splitting the pink skull.

He saw one raise a peculiar looking device like an electro-gun, though

smaller. He heard Alhone's shrill cry, "Swords only! I would watch him

fight once again. Before he goes away."

Others joined the Anghorians. Martians. Terrans. Half-breeds. Their

eyes were dull, and they fought without heart.

Moljar sidestepped a thrust, even as he parried one slash, and slipped

under a third. His black eyes glittered like a basilisk's and his lips

froze in the Martian tribal smile without mercy.

His sword darted past a blade that sought to parry. It sheathed a foot

of its length in a Martian's belly. He gasped agonizedly and went to

his knees. And another, a Terran, swept past him, lunging savagely,

raining blow on blow so furiously that Moljar countered only with

superhuman effort. He retreated warily before the cursing, sweating,

yammering warriors, coolly parrying thrusts and strokes and watching

for his chances to kill. When possible he kept articles of furniture

between him and his attackers, while his sword circled, fluid light.

They were dying one by one. Moljar sensed something wrong. Why? Surely

Alhone had seen enough of this final exhibition. Soon it would be too

much. Already only two of her Guards remained. And they were wary, not

aggressive, playing for time. They were waiting for Alhone's order to

employ their energy weapons. But as he charged in, flailing, slashing,

she was withholding that order. Why?

Moljar parried one wild catman's blade easily and, on the rebound,

felt his sword crunch, saw the catman fall to the side with his neck

cut half through. But move though he might, he was too late to defend

himself completely against the second and remaining Guard. He parried

slightly, the sword struck a glancing blow across his head, and bit

deep into his shoulder. A red mist gathered over his eyes. He lifted

his blade like heavy metal, very slowly it seemed, saw it sink as

slowly into the Terran's skull. It stuck there. Moljar, through a

welter of sweat and blood, tried to withdraw it as the dead man sank

down to his knees. But his weight pulled the sword, gently, it seemed,

from Moljar's nerveless fingers.

He turned and lurched toward the Matrix. The scientists were standing

in shocked frozen stances. The filaments about Mahra's body were still

cold. Her strangely bright eyes remained fixed on Alhone's. Moljar

staggered around, shaking his head, fighting the whirling darkness that

threatened to choke out the light.

The Princess Alhone's eyes were wide, staring, as though hypnotized.

Her body was leaning forward in a taut arc. Her hands were spread

outward as though attempting to ward off some invisible power. Her

mouth was open, twisting, but only faint unintelligent gibberish

spattered out. But there was still a mad fanatic fire as she sprang at

him, her taloned paws outspread, slashing at his face. He scooped up a

long sword as she screamed.

"The Matrix! Turn it on and go. Send the girl to hell alone!"

He swung her arms aside, agony lancing his bleeding shoulder. As she

twisted off balance, he wrapped one arm about her, and swung her off

her feet, just as another detail of Guards hurtled toward him.

"Tell them to get out," he said. "Or I'll kill you."

She knew he would anyway, but she preferred less immediacy. He lifted

his other arm, thrust the dripping sword point against her breast. She

coughed something from her straining throat, and the Guards retreated

hastily. The panel closed behind them.

"Tell your scientists--" he began, and stopped as her mewing laughter

interrupted him.

He looked into the Matrix. The filaments were glowing purple. But the

scientists were gone! He dragged Alhone's writhing body after him into

the mass of equipment. A gigantic maze of meaningless tubes, wires,

bulbs, dials, buttons and switches and coils. He cursed blindly. He

could not turn off the Matrix!

"Mahra! Mahra!" Her body was faintly stirring beyond the now singing

and vibrating filaments.

Between peals of piercing whistling laughter, Alhone was shrieking,

"She will go to the seventh plain! The she-devil!"

Moljar could destroy the Matrix, but only a burning cataclysm could

result from such an act. At least, even in the seventh plain, she would

be alive for awhile, and perhaps he could bring her back.

Mahra was on her knees, now on her feet, swaying. She turned. Moljar

flinched. Those eyes. They blazed, and held. She had gone mad. With

a savage roar of pent up blind hot rage, Moljar clutched Alhone's

neck and began squeezing it slowly. All his suppressed hate, his

frustration, the years and perils of his long, long quest, his longing

for revenge, was in the terrible strength of his fingers ... but,

without any logical reason, a thought entered his mind, restrained his

hands ... a faint far sound, but one of screaming urgency....

_Don't, Moljar. Let her live._

* * * * *

He sobbed in frustrated rage. It was deviltry. He tried again to

squeeze that throbbing neck, but his fingers remained frozen. Then the

mental voice in his brain repeated, _Let her live, Moljar. This is

Mahra. Let her live. She knows the Matrix. Mahra...._

He staggered back, blinking, shaking his head. He dropped Alhone. Her

body thudded on the crimsoned floor. She raised up stiffly, her eyes

staring widely, her arms trembling. She walked stonily to the Matrix

and turned a dial. The Matrix's shrill humming, now almost beyond his

auditory range, died slowly as the glow of the filaments faded.

Alhone adjusted some other part of the complex panel. The filamented

threads lifted slowly until Mahra could crawl beneath them. She ran

sobbing, and Moljar took her easily into the folds of his red dripping

arms.

Alhone had turned. She looked at Mahra with that indescribable hatred

burning a raw-edged flame in her eyes.

"So you mutants, some of you anyway, are telepathic. That is why the

Normals fear you so. I am helpless here. Now. There is nothing for

me to do but escape." Her hands spun dials as she talked. "I go to

whatever plain waits my pleasure. I am tired of this one." She looked

at Moljar through veiled eyes. "I have seen all I can see here."

While the filament threads dropped down, she ran beneath them. They

began to glow, rapidly now, for the last time.

"I won't let her escape me now," said Moljar. "Even if we have to die

with her." He hurled his heavy long sword directly into the blazing

heart of the Matrix.

There was a crackling, then a thunderous growing roar of stupendous

unleashed power. A blinding, glaring explosion sent Mahra and Moljar

hurtling backward. Stunned, they staggered to their feet, supporting

each other, groped for the panel out of the room.

A globe of burning white energy was expanding rapidly, eating up wall

and metal and air with thirsting ferocity.

It devoured its own base and plummeted downward through the towering

heights of Anghore. Burning, blasting, eating, destroying. It ate

straight down into the bowels of the Venus beneath the Mountains of

Maghrone.

Through the trembling, smoking chaos, the tottering ruins of Anghore,

Moljar and Mahra blindly fought their way. The towering gateway was

blasted as though by a tremendous electronic charge; they ran through

the cavern and over the twisted gates and far up the beach of grey sand

before they finally paused, panting, and looked back.

Anghore was a smoke-belching crater. A thundering volcano of burning

energy.

They stood breast to breast, looking at each other. Half-breed and

mutant. Outcasts. Scourged. Excluded and estranged. The hated and

feared. Her eyes half-closed beneath his. Her lips parted slightly, and

her body was soft.

"No wonder the Terran Normals are so fearful of you mutants," said

Moljar. "The rumors are true. You can control minds!"

She nodded, eyes still almost closed. "Some of us can, sometimes. It

isn't easy."

"Then why do you not rule them? If you can."

"If we feel like it, maybe we shall. Some day. When the time is right.

Besides, we only want to rule those who deserve to be ruled."

His arms tightened. She submitted with a strange, eager smile to the

pressure of his muscles. "Well," he said softly. "Is the time right?

And do I deserve the honor?"

Against his, her lips answered.