CHAPTER XIII.
TURJUN, THE PANTHAN
The face of Carthoris of Helium gave no token of the emotions that
convulsed him inwardly as he heard from the lips of Hal Vas that Helium
was at war with Dusar, and that fate had thrown him into the service of
the enemy.
That he might utilize this opportunity to the good of Helium scarce
sufficed to outweigh the chagrin he felt that he was not fighting in
the open at the head of his own loyal troops.
To escape the Dusarians might prove an easy matter; and then again it
might not. Should they suspect his loyalty (and the loyalty of an
impressed panthan was always open to suspicion), he might not find an
opportunity to elude their vigilance until after the termination of the
war, which might occur within days, or, again, only after long and
weary years of bloodshed.
He recalled that history recorded wars in which actual military
operations had been carried on without cessation for five or six
hundred years, and even now there were nations upon Barsoom with which
Helium had made no peace within the history of man.
The outlook was not cheering. He could not guess that within a few
hours he would be blessing the fate that had thrown him into the
service of Dusar.
“Ah!” exclaimed Hal Vas. “Here is my father now. Kaor! Vas Kor. Here is
one you will be glad to meet—a doughty panthan—” He hesitated.
“Turjun,” interjected Carthoris, seizing upon the first appellation
that occurred to him.
As he spoke his eyes crossed quickly to the tall warrior who was
entering the room. Where before had he seen that giant figure, that
taciturn countenance, and the livid sword-cut from temple to mouth?
“Vas Kor,” repeated Carthoris mentally. “Vas Kor!” Where had he seen
the man before?
And then the noble spoke, and like a flash it all came back to
Carthoris—the forward servant upon the landing stage at Ptarth that
time that he had been explaining the intricacies of his new compass to
Thuvan Dihn; the lone slave that had guarded his own hangar that night
he had left upon his ill-fated journey for Ptarth—the journey that had
brought him so mysteriously to far Aaanthor.
“Vas Kor,” he repeated aloud, “blessed be your ancestors for this
meeting,” nor did the Dusarian guess the wealth of meaning that lay
beneath that hackneyed phrase with which a Barsoomian acknowledges an
introduction.
“And blessed be yours, Turjun,” replied Vas Kor.
Now came the introduction of Kar Komak to Vas Kor, and as Carthoris
went through the little ceremony there came to him the only explanation
he might make to account for the white skin and auburn hair of the
bowman; for he feared that the truth might not be believed and thus
suspicion be cast upon them both from the beginning.
“Kar Komak,” he explained, “is, as you can see, a thern. He has
wandered far from his icebound southern temples in search of adventure.
I came upon him in the pits of Aaanthor; but though I have known him so
short a time, I can vouch for his bravery and loyalty.”
Since the destruction of the fabric of their false religion by John
Carter, the majority of the therns had gladly accepted the new order of
things, so that it was now no longer uncommon to see them mingling with
the multitudes of red men in any of the great cities of the outer
world, so Vas Kor neither felt nor expressed any great astonishment.
All during the interview Carthoris watched, catlike, for some
indication that Vas Kor recognized in the battered panthan the
erstwhile gorgeous Prince of Helium; but the sleepless nights, the long
days of marching and fighting, the wounds and the dried blood had
evidently sufficed to obliterate the last remnant of his likeness to
his former self; and then Vas Kor had seen him but twice in all his
life. Little wonder that he did not know him.
During the evening Vas Kor announced that on the morrow they should
depart north toward Dusar, picking up recruits at various stations
along the way.
In a great field behind the house a flier lay—a fair-sized
cruiser-transport that would accommodate many men, yet swift and well
armed also. Here Carthoris slept, and Kar Komak, too, with the other
recruits, under guard of the regular Dusarian warriors that manned the
craft.
Toward midnight Vas Kor returned to the vessel from his son’s house,
repairing at once to his cabin. Carthoris, with one of the Dusarians,
was on watch. It was with difficulty that the Heliumite repressed a
cold smile as the noble passed within a foot of him—within a foot of
the long, slim, Heliumitic blade that swung in his harness.
How easy it would have been! How easy to avenge the cowardly trick that
had been played upon him—to avenge Helium and Ptarth and Thuvia!
But his hand moved not toward the dagger’s hilt, for first Vas Kor must
serve a better purpose—he might know where Thuvia of Ptarth lay hidden
now, if it had truly been Dusarians that had spirited her away during
the fight before Aaanthor.
And then, too, there was the instigator of the entire foul plot. HE
must pay the penalty; and who better than Vas Kor could lead the Prince
of Helium to Astok of Dusar?
Faintly out of the night there came to Carthoris’s ears the purring of
a distant motor. He scanned the heavens.
Yes, there it was far in the north, dimly outlined against the dark
void of space that stretched illimitably beyond it, the faint
suggestion of a flier passing, unlighted, through the Barsoomian night.
Carthoris, knowing not whether the craft might be friend or foe of
Dusar, gave no sign that he had seen, but turned his eyes in another
direction, leaving the matter to the Dusarian who stood watch with him.
Presently the fellow discovered the oncoming craft, and sounded the low
alarm which brought the balance of the watch and an officer from their
sleeping silks and furs upon the deck near by.
The cruiser-transport lay without lights, and, resting as she was upon
the ground, must have been entirely invisible to the oncoming flier,
which all presently recognized as a small craft.
It soon became evident that the stranger intended making a landing, for
she was now spiraling slowly above them, dropping lower and lower in
each graceful curve.
“It is the _Thuria_,” whispered one of the Dusarian warriors. “I would
know her in the blackness of the pits among ten thousand other craft.”
“Right you are!” exclaimed Vas Kor, who had come on deck. And then he
hailed:
“Kaor, _Thuria_!”
“Kaor!” came presently from above after a brief silence. Then: “What
ship?”
“Cruiser-transport Kalksus, Vas Kor of Dusar.”
“Good!” came from above. “Is there safe landing alongside?”
“Yes, close in to starboard. Wait, we will show our lights,” and a
moment later the smaller craft settled close beside the Kalksus, and
the lights of the latter were immediately extinguished once more.
Several figures could be seen slipping over the side of the _Thuria_
and advancing toward the Kalksus. Ever suspicious, the Dusarians stood
ready to receive the visitors as friends or foes as closer inspection
might prove them. Carthoris stood quite near the rail, ready to take
sides with the new-comers should chance have it that they were
Heliumites playing a bold stroke of strategy upon this lone Dusarian
ship. He had led like parties himself, and knew that such a contingency
was quite possible.
But the face of the first man to cross the rail undeceived him with a
shock that was not at all unpleasurable—it was the face of Astok,
Prince of Dusar.
Scarce noticing the others upon the deck of the Kalksus, Astok strode
forward to accept Vas Kor’s greeting, then he summoned the noble below.
The warriors and officers returned to their sleeping silks and furs,
and once more the deck was deserted except for the Dusarian warrior and
Turjun, the panthan, who stood guard.
The latter walked quietly to and fro. The former leaned across the
rail, wishing for the hour that would bring him relief. He did not see
his companion approach the lights of the cabin of Vas Kor. He did not
see him stoop with ear close pressed to a tiny ventilator.
“May the white apes take us all,” cried Astok ruefully, “if we are not
in as ugly a snarl as you have ever seen! Nutus thinks that we have her
in hiding far away from Dusar. He has bidden me bring her here.”
He paused. No man should have heard from his lips the thing he was
trying to tell. It should have been for ever the secret of Nutus and
Astok, for upon it rested the safety of a throne. With that knowledge
any man could wrest from the Jeddak of Dusar whatever he listed.
But Astok was afraid, and he wanted from this older man the suggestion
of an alternative. He went on.
“I am to kill her,” he whispered, looking fearfully around. “Nutus
merely wishes to see the body that he may know his commands have been
executed. I am now supposed to be gone to the spot where we have her
hidden that I may fetch her in secrecy to Dusar. None is to know that
she has ever been in the keeping of a Dusarian. I do not need to tell
you what would befall Dusar should Ptarth and Helium and Kaol ever
learn the truth.”
The jaws of the listener at the ventilator clicked together with a
vicious snap. Before he had but guessed at the identity of the subject
of this conversation. Now he knew. And they were to kill her! His
muscular fingers clenched until the nails bit into the palms.
“And you wish me to go with you while you fetch her to Dusar,” Vas Kor
was saying. “Where is she?”
Astok bent close and whispered into the other’s ear. The suggestion of
a smile crossed the cruel features of Vas Kor. He realized the power
that lay within his grasp. He should be a jed at least.
“And how may I help you, my Prince?” asked the older man suavely.
“I cannot kill her,” said Astok. “Issus! I cannot do it! When she turns
those eyes upon me my heart becomes water.”
Vas Kor’s eyes narrowed.
“And you wish—” He paused, the interrogation unfinished, yet complete.
Astok nodded.
“_You_ do not love her,” he said.
“But I love my life—though I am only a lesser noble,” he concluded
meaningly.
“You shall be a greater noble—a noble of the first rank!” exclaimed
Astok.
“I would be a jed,” said Vas Kor bluntly.
Astok hesitated.
“A jed must die before there can be another jed,” he pleaded.
“Jeds have died before,” snapped Vas Kor. “It would doubtless be not
difficult for you to find a jed you do not love, Astok—there are many
who do not love you.”
Already Vas Kor was commencing to presume upon his power over the young
prince. Astok was quick to note and appreciate the subtle change in his
lieutenant. A cunning scheme entered his weak and wicked brain.
“As you say, Vas Kor!” he exclaimed. “You shall be a jed when the thing
is done,” and then, to himself: “Nor will it then be difficult for me
to find a jed I do not love.”
“When shall we return to Dusar?” asked the noble.
“At once,” replied Astok. “Let us get under way now—there is naught to
keep you here?”
“I had intended sailing on the morrow, picking up such recruits as the
various Dwars of the Roads might have collected for me, as we returned
to Dusar.”
“Let the recruits wait,” said Astok. “Or, better still, come you to
Dusar upon the _Thuria_, leaving the Kalksus to follow and pick up the
recruits.”
“Yes,” acquiesced Vas Kor; “that is the better plan. Come; I am ready,”
and he rose to accompany Astok to the latter’s flier.
The listener at the ventilator came to his feet slowly, like an old
man. His face was drawn and pinched and very white beneath the light
copper of his skin. She was to die! And he helpless to avert the
tragedy. He did not even know where she was imprisoned.
The two men were ascending from the cabin to the deck. Turjun, the
panthan, crept close to the companionway, his sinuous fingers closing
tightly upon the hilt of his dagger. Could he despatch them both before
he was overpowered? He smiled. He could slay an entire utan of her
enemies in his present state of mind.
They were almost abreast of him now. Astok was speaking.
“Bring a couple of your men along, Vas Kor,” he said. “We are
short-handed upon the _Thuria_, so quickly did we depart.”
The panthan’s fingers dropped from the dagger’s hilt. His quick mind
had grasped here a chance for succouring Thuvia of Ptarth. He might be
chosen as one to accompany the assassins, and once he had learned where
the captive lay he could dispatch Astok and Vas Kor as well as now. To
kill them before he knew where Thuvia was hid was simply to leave her
to death at the hands of others; for sooner or later Nutus would learn
her whereabouts, and Nutus, Jeddak of Dusar, could not afford to let
her live.
Turjun put himself in the path of Vas Kor that he might not be
overlooked. The noble aroused the men sleeping upon the deck, but
always before him the strange panthan whom he had recruited that same
day found means for keeping himself to the fore.
Vas Kor turned to his lieutenant, giving instruction for the bringing
of the Kalksus to Dusar, and the gathering up of the recruits; then he
signed to two warriors who stood close behind the padwar.
“You two accompany us to the _Thuria_,” he said, “and put yourselves at
the disposal of her dwar.”
It was dark upon the deck of the Kalksus, so Vas Kor had not a good
look at the faces of the two he chose; but that was of no moment, for
they were but common warriors to assist with the ordinary duties upon a
flier, and to fight if need be.
One of the two was Kar Komak, the bowman. The other was not Carthoris.
The Heliumite was mad with disappointment. He snatched his dagger from
his harness; but already Astok had left the deck of the Kalksus, and he
knew that before he could overtake him, should he dispatch Vas Kor, he
would be killed by the Dusarian warriors, who now were thick upon the
deck. With either one of the two alive Thuvia was in as great danger as
though both lived—it must be both!
As Vas Kor descended to the ground Carthoris boldly followed him, nor
did any attempt to halt him, thinking, doubtless, that he was one of
the party.
After him came Kar Komak and the Dusarian warrior who had been detailed
to duty upon the _Thuria_. Carthoris walked close to the left side of
the latter. Now they came to the dense shadow under the side of the
_Thuria_. It was very dark there, so that they had to grope for the
ladder.
Kar Komak preceded the Dusarian. The latter reached upward for the
swinging rounds, and as he did so steel fingers closed upon his
windpipe and a steel blade pierced the very centre of his heart.
Turjun, the panthan, was the last to clamber over the rail of the
_Thuria_, drawing the rope ladder in after him.
A moment later the flier was rising rapidly, headed for the north.
At the rail Kar Komak turned to speak to the warrior who had been
detailed to accompany him. His eyes went wide as they rested upon the
face of the young man whom he had met beside the granite cliffs that
guard mysterious Lothar. How had he come in place of the Dusarian?
A quick sign, and Kar Komak turned once more to find the _Thuria_’s
dwar that he might report himself for duty. Behind him followed the
panthan.
Carthoris blessed the chance that had caused Vas Kor to choose the
bowman of all others, for had it been another Dusarian there would have
been questions to answer as to the whereabouts of the warrior who lay
so quietly in the field beyond the residence of Hal Vas, Dwar of the
Southern Road; and Carthoris had no answer to that question other than
his sword point, which alone was scarce adequate to convince the entire
crew of the _Thuria_.
The journey to Dusar seemed interminable to the impatient Carthoris,
though as a matter of fact it was quickly accomplished. Some time
before they reached their destination they met and spoke with another
Dusarian war flier. From it they learned that a great battle was soon
to be fought south-east of Dusar.
The combined navies of Dusar, Ptarth and Kaol had been intercepted in
their advance toward Helium by the mighty Heliumitic navy—the most
formidable upon Barsoom, not alone in numbers and armament, but in the
training and courage of its officers and warriors, and the zitidaric
proportions of many of its monster battleships.
Not for many a day had there been the promise of such a battle. Four
jeddaks were in direct command of their own fleets—Kulan Tith of Kaol,
Thuvan Dihn of Ptarth, and Nutus of Dusar upon one side; while upon the
other was Tardos Mors, Jeddak of Helium. With the latter was John
Carter, Warlord of Mars.
From the far north another force was moving south across the barrier
cliffs—the new navy of Talu, Jeddak of Okar, coming in response to the
call from the warlord. Upon the decks of the sullen ships of war
black-bearded yellow men looked over eagerly toward the south. Gorgeous
were they in their splendid cloaks of orluk and apt. Fierce, formidable
fighters from the hothouse cities of the frozen north.
And from the distant south, from the sea of Omean and the cliffs of
gold, from the temples of the therns and the garden of Issus, other
thousands sailed into the north at the call of the great man they all
had learned to respect, and, respecting, love. Pacing the flagship of
this mighty fleet, second only to the navy of Helium, was the ebon
Xodar, Jeddak of the First Born, his heart beating strong in
anticipation of the coming moment when he should hurl his savage crews
and the weight of his mighty ships upon the enemies of the warlord.
But would these allies reach the theatre of war in time to be of avail
to Helium? Or, would Helium need them?
Carthoris, with the other members of the crew of the _Thuria_, heard
the gossip and the rumours. None knew of the two fleets, the one from
the south and the other from the north, that were coming to support the
ships of Helium, and all of Dusar were convinced that nothing now could
save the ancient power of Helium from being wiped for ever from the
upper air of Barsoom.
Carthoris, too, loyal son of Helium that he was, felt that even his
beloved navy might not be able to cope successfully with the combined
forces of three great powers.
Now the _Thuria_ touched the landing stage above the palace of Astok.
Hurriedly the prince and Vas Kor disembarked and entered the drop that
would carry them to the lower levels of the palace.
Close beside it was another drop that was utilized by common warriors.
Carthoris touched Kar Komak upon the arm.
“Come!” he whispered. “You are my only friend among a nation of
enemies. Will you stand by me?”
“To the death,” replied Kar Komak.
The two approached the drop. A slave operated it.
“Where are your passes?” he asked.
Carthoris fumbled in his pocket pouch as though in search of them, at
the same time entering the cage. Kar Komak followed him, closing the
door. The slave did not start the cage downward. Every second counted.
They must reach the lower level as soon as possible after Astok and Vas
Kor if they would know whither the two went.
Carthoris turned suddenly upon the slave, hurling him to the opposite
side of the cage.
“Bind and gag him, Kar Komak!” he cried.
Then he grasped the control lever, and as the cage shot downward at
sickening speed, the bowman grappled with the slave. Carthoris could
not leave the control to assist his companion, for should they touch
the lowest level at the speed at which they were going, all would be
dashed to instant death.
Below him he could now see the top of Astok’s cage in the parallel
shaft, and he reduced the speed of his to that of the other. The slave
commenced to scream.
“Silence him!” cried Carthoris.
A moment later a limp form crumpled to the floor of the cage.
“He is silenced,” said Kar Komak.
Carthoris brought the cage to a sudden stop at one of the higher levels
of the palace. Opening the door, he grasped the still form of the slave
and pushed it out upon the floor. Then he banged the gate and resumed
the downward drop.
Once more he sighted the top of the cage that held Astok and Vas Kor.
An instant later it had stopped, and as he brought his car to a halt,
he saw the two men disappear through one of the exits of the corridor
beyond.