CHAPTER XII.

TO SAVE DUSAR

Thuvia of Ptarth, battling for more than life against the lust of Jav,

cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward the forest from which had

rumbled the fierce growl. Jav looked, too.

What they saw filled each with apprehension. It was Komal, the

banth-god, rushing wide-jawed upon them!

Which had he chosen for his prey? Or was it to be both?

They had not long to wait, for though the Lotharian attempted to hold

the girl between himself and the terrible fangs, the great beast found

him at last.

Then, shrieking, he attempted to fly toward Lothar, after pushing

Thuvia bodily into the face of the man-eater. But his flight was of

short duration. In a moment Komal was upon him, rending his throat and

chest with demoniacal fury.

The girl reached their side a moment later, but it was with difficulty

that she tore the mad beast from its prey. Still growling and casting

hungry glances back upon Jav, the banth at last permitted itself to be

led away into the wood.

With her giant protector by her side Thuvia set forth to find the

passage through the cliffs, that she might attempt the seemingly

impossible feat of reaching far-distant Ptarth across the more than

seventeen thousand haads of savage Barsoom.

She could not believe that Carthoris had deliberately deserted her, and

so she kept a constant watch for him; but as she bore too far to the

north in her search for the tunnel she passed the Heliumite as he was

returning to Lothar in search of her.

Thuvia of Ptarth was having difficulty in determining the exact status

of the Prince of Helium in her heart. She could not admit even to

herself that she loved him, and yet she had permitted him to apply to

her that term of endearment and possession to which a Barsoomian maid

should turn deaf ears when voiced by other lips than those of her

husband or fiancé—“my princess.”

Kulan Tith, Jeddak of Kaol, to whom she was affianced, commanded her

respect and admiration. Had it been that she had surrendered to her

father’s wishes because of pique that the handsome Heliumite had not

taken advantage of his visits to her father’s court to push the suit

for her hand that she had been quite sure he had contemplated since

that distant day the two had sat together upon the carved seat within

the gorgeous Garden of the Jeddaks that graced the inner courtyard of

the palace of Salensus Oll at Kadabra?

Did she love Kulan Tith? Bravely she tried to believe that she did; but

all the while her eyes wandered through the coming darkness for the

figure of a clean-limbed fighting man—black-haired and grey-eyed. Black

was the hair of Kulan Tith; but his eyes were brown.

It was almost dark when she found the entrance to the tunnel. Safely

she passed through to the hills beyond, and here, under the bright

light of Mars’ two moons, she halted to plan her future action.

Should she wait here in the hope that Carthoris would return in search

of her? Or should she continue her way north-east toward Ptarth? Where,

first, would Carthoris have gone after leaving the valley of Lothar?

Her parched throat and dry tongue gave her the answer—toward Aaanthor

and water. Well, she, too, would go first to Aaanthor, where she might

find more than the water she needed.

With Komal by her side she felt little fear, for he would protect her

from all other savage beasts. Even the great white apes would flee the

mighty banth in terror. Men only need she fear, but she must take this

and many other chances before she could hope to reach her father’s

court again.

When at last Carthoris found her, only to be struck down by the

long-sword of a green man, Thuvia prayed that the same fate might

overtake her.

The sight of the red warriors leaping from their fliers had, for a

moment, filled her with renewed hope—hope that Carthoris of Helium

might be only stunned and that they would rescue him; but when she saw

the Dusarian metal upon their harness, and that they sought only to

escape with her alone from the charging Torquasians, she gave up.

Komal, too, was dead—dead across the body of the Heliumite. She was,

indeed, alone now. There was none to protect her.

The Dusarian warriors dragged her to the deck of the nearest flier. All

about them the green warriors surged in an attempt to wrest her from

the red.

At last those who had not died in the conflict gained the decks of the

two craft. The engines throbbed and purred—the propellers whirred.

Quickly the swift boats shot heavenward.

Thuvia of Ptarth glanced about her. A man stood near, smiling down into

her face. With a gasp of recognition she looked full into his eyes, and

then with a little moan of terror and understanding she buried her face

in her hands and sank to the polished skeel-wood deck. It was Astok,

Prince of Dusar, who bent above her.

Swift were the fliers of Astok of Dusar, and great the need for

reaching his father’s court as quickly as possible, for the fleets of

war of Helium and Ptarth and Kaol were scattered far and wide above

Barsoom. Nor would it go well with Astok of Dusar should any one of

them discover Thuvia of Ptarth a prisoner upon his own vessel.

Aaanthor lies in fifty south latitude, and forty east of Horz, the

deserted seat of ancient Barsoomian culture and learning, while Dusar

lies fifteen degrees north of the equator and twenty degrees east from

Horz.

Great though the distance is, the fliers covered it without a stop.

Long before they had reached their destination Thuvia of Ptarth had

learned several things that cleared up the doubts that had assailed her

mind for many days. Scarce had they risen above Aaanthor than she

recognized one of the crew as a member of the crew of that other flier

that had borne her from her father’s gardens to Aaanthor. The presence

of Astok upon the craft settled the whole question. She had been stolen

by emissaries of the Dusarian prince—Carthoris of Helium had had

nothing to do with it.

Nor did Astok deny the charge when she accused him. He only smiled and

pleaded his love for her.

“I would sooner mate with a white ape!” she cried, when he would have

urged his suit.

Astok glowered sullenly upon her.

“You shall mate with me, Thuvia of Ptarth,” he growled, “or, by your

first ancestor, you shall have your preference—and mate with a white

ape.”

The girl made no reply, nor could he draw her into conversation during

the balance of the journey.

As a matter of fact Astok was a trifle awed by the proportions of the

conflict which his abduction of the Ptarthian princess had induced, nor

was he over comfortable with the weight of responsibility which the

possession of such a prisoner entailed.

His one thought was to get her to Dusar, and there let his father

assume the responsibility. In the meantime he would be as careful as

possible to do nothing to affront her, lest they all might be captured

and he have to account for his treatment of the girl to one of the

great jeddaks whose interest centred in her.

And so at last they came to Dusar, where Astok hid his prisoner in a

secret room high in the east tower of his own palace. He had sworn his

men to silence in the matter of the identity of the girl, for until he

had seen his father, Nutus, Jeddak of Dusar, he dared not let any one

know whom he had brought with him from the south.

But when he appeared in the great audience chamber before the

cruel-lipped man who was his sire, he found his courage oozing, and he

dared not speak of the princess hid within his palace. It occurred to

him to test his father’s sentiments upon the subject, and so he told a

tale of capturing one who claimed to know the whereabouts of Thuvia of

Ptarth.

“And if you command it, Sire,” he said, “I will go and capture

her—fetching her here to Dusar.”

Nutus frowned and shook his head.

“You have done enough already to set Ptarth and Kaol and Helium all

three upon us at once should they learn your part in the theft of the

Ptarth princess. That you succeeded in shifting the guilt upon the

Prince of Helium was fortunate, and a masterly move of strategy; but

were the girl to know the truth and ever return to her father’s court,

all Dusar would have to pay the penalty, and to have her here a

prisoner amongst us would be an admission of guilt from the

consequences of which naught could save us. It would cost me my throne,

Astok, and that I have no mind to lose.

“If we had her here—” the elder man suddenly commenced to muse,

repeating the phrase again and again. “If we had her here, Astok,” he

exclaimed fiercely. “Ah, if we but had her here and none knew that she

was here! Can you not guess, man? The guilt of Dusar might be for ever

buried with her bones,” he concluded in a low, savage whisper.

Astok, Prince of Dusar, shuddered.

Weak he was; yes, and wicked, too; but the suggestion that his father’s

words implied turned him cold with horror.

Cruel to their enemies are the men of Mars; but the word “enemies” is

commonly interpreted to mean men only. Assassination runs riot in the

great Barsoomian cities; yet to murder a woman is a crime so

unthinkable that even the most hardened of the paid assassins would

shrink from you in horror should you suggest such a thing to him.

Nutus was apparently oblivious to his son’s all-too-patent terror at

his suggestion. Presently he continued:

“You say that you know where the girl lies hid, since she was stolen

from your people at Aaanthor. Should she be found by any one of the

three powers, her unsupported story would be sufficient to turn them

all against us.

“There is but one way, Astok,” cried the older man. “You must return at

once to her hiding-place and fetch her hither in all secrecy. And, look

you here! Return not to Dusar without her, upon pain of death!”

Astok, Prince of Dusar, well knew his royal father’s temper. He knew

that in the tyrant’s heart there pulsed no single throb of love for any

creature.

Astok’s mother had been a slave woman. Nutus had never loved her. He

had never loved another. In youth he had tried to find a bride at the

courts of several of his powerful neighbours, but their women would

have none of him.

After a dozen daughters of his own nobility had sought self-destruction

rather than wed him he had given up. And then it had been that he had

legally wed one of his slaves that he might have a son to stand among

the jeds when Nutus died and a new jeddak was chosen.

Slowly Astok withdrew from the presence of his father. With white face

and shaking limbs he made his way to his own palace. As he crossed the

courtyard his glance chanced to wander to the great east tower looming

high against the azure of the sky.

At sight of it beads of sweat broke out upon his brow.

Issus! No other hand than his could be trusted to do the horrid thing.

With his own fingers he must crush the life from that perfect throat,

or plunge the silent blade into the red, red heart.

Her heart! The heart that he had hoped would brim with love for him!

But had it done so? He recalled the haughty contempt with which his

protestations of love had been received. He went cold and then hot to

the memory of it. His compunctions cooled as the self-satisfaction of a

near revenge crowded out the finer instincts that had for a moment

asserted themselves—the good that he had inherited from the slave woman

was once again submerged in the bad blood that had come down to him

from his royal sire; as, in the end, it always was.

A cold smile supplanted the terror that had dilated his eyes. He turned

his steps toward the tower. He would see her before he set out upon the

journey that was to blind his father to the fact that the girl was

already in Dusar.

Quietly he passed in through the secret way, ascending a spiral runway

to the apartment in which the Princess of Ptarth was immured.

As he entered the room he saw the girl leaning upon the sill of the

east casement, gazing out across the roof tops of Dusar toward distant

Ptarth. He hated Ptarth. The thought of it filled him with rage. Why

not finish her now and have it done with?

At the sound of his step she turned quickly toward him. Ah, how

beautiful she was! His sudden determination faded beneath the glorious

light of her wondrous beauty. He would wait until he had returned from

his little journey of deception—maybe there might be some other way

then. Some other hand to strike the blow—with that face, with those

eyes before him, he could never do it. Of that he was positive. He had

always gloried in the cruelty of his nature, but, Issus! he was not

that cruel. No, another must be found—one whom he could trust.

He was still looking at her as she stood there before him meeting his

gaze steadily and unafraid. He felt the hot passion of his love

mounting higher and higher.

Why not sue once more? If she would relent, all might yet be well. Even

if his father could not be persuaded, they could fly to Ptarth, laying

all the blame of the knavery and intrigue that had thrown four great

nations into war, upon the shoulders of Nutus. And who was there that

would doubt the justice of the charge?

“Thuvia,” he said, “I come once again, for the last time, to lay my

heart at your feet. Ptarth and Kaol and Dusar are battling with Helium

because of you. Wed me, Thuvia, and all may yet be as it should be.”

The girl shook her head.

“Wait!” he commanded, before she could speak. “Know the truth before

you speak words that may seal, not only your own fate, but that of the

thousands of warriors who battle because of you.

“Refuse to wed me willingly, and Dusar would be laid waste should ever

the truth be known to Ptarth and Kaol and Helium. They would raze our

cities, leaving not one stone upon another. They would scatter our

peoples across the face of Barsoom from the frozen north to the frozen

south, hunting them down and slaying them, until this great nation

remained only as a hated memory in the minds of men.

“But while they are exterminating the Dusarians, countless thousands of

their own warriors must perish—and all because of the stubbornness of a

single woman who would not wed the prince who loves her.

“Refuse, Thuvia of Ptarth, and there remains but a single

alternative—no man must ever know your fate. Only a handful of loyal

servitors besides my royal father and myself know that you were stolen

from the gardens of Thuvan Dihn by Astok, Prince of Dusar, or that

to-day you be imprisoned in my palace.

“Refuse, Thuvia of Ptarth, and you must die to save Dusar—there is no

other way. Nutus, the jeddak, has so decreed. I have spoken.”

For a long moment the girl let her level gaze rest full upon the face

of Astok of Dusar. Then she spoke, and though the words were few, the

unimpassioned tone carried unfathomable depths of cold contempt.

“Better all that you have threatened,” she said, “than you.”

Then she turned her back upon him and went to stand once more before

the east window, gazing with sad eyes toward distant Ptarth.

Astok wheeled and left the room, returning after a short interval of

time with food and drink.

“Here,” he said, “is sustenance until I return again. The next to enter

this apartment will be your executioner. Commend yourself to your

ancestors, Thuvia of Ptarth, for within a few days you shall be with

them.”

Then he was gone.

Half an hour later he was interviewing an officer high in the navy of

Dusar.

“Whither went Vas Kor?” he asked. “He is not at his palace.”

“South, to the great waterway that skirts Torquas,” replied the other.

“His son, Hal Vas, is Dwar of the Road there, and thither has Vas Kor

gone to enlist recruits among the workers on the farms.”

“Good,” said Astok, and a half-hour more found him rising above Dusar

in his swiftest flier.