incantation.
The globe grew milky. Motile shadows writhed within it, and fuzzy images flew hither and yon.
A face appeared; less a face than a contorted mask of pain, a horrific caricature of a face he knew.
âFerne!â he called, dismayed.
The answer was a moan. Flecks of bloody foam dribbled from the lips.
âFerne!â This time he shouted at the top of his lungs. âFerne, where are you?"
The face of his sister changed. The eyes opened, a glimmer of desperate hope in them.
âWho ...?"
âIncarnadine, your brother. Where are you, Ferne? Tell me! Who has done this to you?"
Her face tightened again, the eyes became tiny wrinkled slits. She screamed hideously.
He shouted her name again, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.
âIn the name of the gods, Ferne, speak to me! Tell me where you are!"
She spoke in Haplan, the traditional tongue of the Haplodites; her milk tongue, and Incarnadine's. âIn Hell. In deepest ... darkest ... Hell.â She screamed again.
âThey're hurting me. Inky.â Her voice was like a child's. âTell them to stop."
âSteady on, woman. I will come and help thee."
âPlease.â The voice was a rasp. âHelp me."
âI swear on my life. The gods strike me dead an I fail thee."
There was a long, ragged breath, then coughing.
This now in English: âHurry, Inky dear. Hurry."
The globe grew milky again, and the image faded. Soon the crystal cleared.
He lowered his arms. He staggered to an easy chair and collapsed into it.
He was a long time recovering. When he had composed himself, he got up and moved purposefully toward the door of the study, but stopped in midstride. He turned, pondered, then made a motion toward the bank of instruments, but again came to a halt.
What to do?
So many things. He needed help. Trent, it seems, had problems of his own. But Trent would have to fend for himself. There was no time for him, at least for now.
Who, then? Deems was gone, poor, dear, dead brother. Victim of his own venality.
Dorcas? A good heart, but not much talent. As for the other relatives...
No, he must avail himself of the resources of the castle, human and otherwise. But whoâ?
He had the answer. He would be taking a risk in relying on one so young and inexperienced, but raw talent was the requirement here....
At that moment the quaking began. He looked off, sensing, judging the magnitude of the disturbance. The effects were minimized here, protective spells shielding this section of the castle. He checked his guesses on the banks of measuring instruments.
When it had passed, he nodded his head.
âOn schedule. I wonder if they know they're bound to destroy themselves as well."
He moved toward the door.
âProbably do, the insane bastards."
Â
Â
Â
New Barsoom
Â
Across a wide dusty plain, Gene rode for his life.
His mount was a voort (which Gene privately called a âthoat"), a six-legged cross between a camel and a knock-kneed llama. The sun was high and hot, but hotter still were Gene's pursuers, mounted ape-men bestride huge beasts that resembled Brahma bulls. They were riding hell-bent for leather and closing fast.
Gene called them ape-men, but didn't really know what animal stock they had been created from. They were likely some hybrid breed. Humanoid, exorbitantly muscular, their skin color a cadaverous blue, the hrunt were real mean sorts. The Umoi had created them for heavy labor, reserving the yalim for domestic and other semiskilled tasks.
The ape-men's mounts were generally faster than voort though not as surefooted in hilly country. But these were the lowlands, hruntan lands.
Gene skirted a shallow depression, then came upon another one, this one wider, which he thought better to cut across than ride around. The hrunt disagreed, and, as it turned out, made the wiser decision. Slowed by rough ground, Gene's mount scrambled out of the depression a bare six lengths ahead of the
The globe grew milky. Motile shadows writhed within it, and fuzzy images flew hither and yon.
A face appeared; less a face than a contorted mask of pain, a horrific caricature of a face he knew.
âFerne!â he called, dismayed.
The answer was a moan. Flecks of bloody foam dribbled from the lips.
âFerne!â This time he shouted at the top of his lungs. âFerne, where are you?"
The face of his sister changed. The eyes opened, a glimmer of desperate hope in them.
âWho ...?"
âIncarnadine, your brother. Where are you, Ferne? Tell me! Who has done this to you?"
Her face tightened again, the eyes became tiny wrinkled slits. She screamed hideously.
He shouted her name again, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.
âIn the name of the gods, Ferne, speak to me! Tell me where you are!"
She spoke in Haplan, the traditional tongue of the Haplodites; her milk tongue, and Incarnadine's. âIn Hell. In deepest ... darkest ... Hell.â She screamed again.
âThey're hurting me. Inky.â Her voice was like a child's. âTell them to stop."
âSteady on, woman. I will come and help thee."
âPlease.â The voice was a rasp. âHelp me."
âI swear on my life. The gods strike me dead an I fail thee."
There was a long, ragged breath, then coughing.
This now in English: âHurry, Inky dear. Hurry."
The globe grew milky again, and the image faded. Soon the crystal cleared.
He lowered his arms. He staggered to an easy chair and collapsed into it.
He was a long time recovering. When he had composed himself, he got up and moved purposefully toward the door of the study, but stopped in midstride. He turned, pondered, then made a motion toward the bank of instruments, but again came to a halt.
What to do?
So many things. He needed help. Trent, it seems, had problems of his own. But Trent would have to fend for himself. There was no time for him, at least for now.
Who, then? Deems was gone, poor, dear, dead brother. Victim of his own venality.
Dorcas? A good heart, but not much talent. As for the other relatives...
No, he must avail himself of the resources of the castle, human and otherwise. But whoâ?
He had the answer. He would be taking a risk in relying on one so young and inexperienced, but raw talent was the requirement here....
At that moment the quaking began. He looked off, sensing, judging the magnitude of the disturbance. The effects were minimized here, protective spells shielding this section of the castle. He checked his guesses on the banks of measuring instruments.
When it had passed, he nodded his head.
âOn schedule. I wonder if they know they're bound to destroy themselves as well."
He moved toward the door.
âProbably do, the insane bastards."
Â
Â
Â
New Barsoom
Â
Across a wide dusty plain, Gene rode for his life.
His mount was a voort (which Gene privately called a âthoat"), a six-legged cross between a camel and a knock-kneed llama. The sun was high and hot, but hotter still were Gene's pursuers, mounted ape-men bestride huge beasts that resembled Brahma bulls. They were riding hell-bent for leather and closing fast.
Gene called them ape-men, but didn't really know what animal stock they had been created from. They were likely some hybrid breed. Humanoid, exorbitantly muscular, their skin color a cadaverous blue, the hrunt were real mean sorts. The Umoi had created them for heavy labor, reserving the yalim for domestic and other semiskilled tasks.
The ape-men's mounts were generally faster than voort though not as surefooted in hilly country. But these were the lowlands, hruntan lands.
Gene skirted a shallow depression, then came upon another one, this one wider, which he thought better to cut across than ride around. The hrunt disagreed, and, as it turned out, made the wiser decision. Slowed by rough ground, Gene's mount scrambled out of the depression a bare six lengths ahead of the
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