The Gods Of Mars (18 page)

It was at once a sight to make one shudder and to cheer; but in a brief
second we were engaged once more in our own battle with only the
unquenchable battle cry of the women to remind us that they still
fought—“Rise slaves!” “Rise slaves!”

Only a single thin rank of men now stood between us and Issus. Her
face was blue with terror. Foam flecked her lips. She seemed too
paralysed with fear to move. Only the youth and I fought now. The
others all had fallen, and I was like to have gone down too from a
nasty long-sword cut had not a hand reached out from behind my
adversary and clutched his elbow as the blade was falling upon me. The
youth sprang to my side and ran his sword through the fellow before he
could recover to deliver another blow.

I should have died even then but for that as my sword was tight wedged
in the breastbone of a Dator of the First Born. As the fellow went
down I snatched his sword from him and over his prostrate body looked
into the eyes of the one whose quick hand had saved me from the first
cut of his sword—it was Phaidor, daughter of Matai Shang.

“Fly, my Prince!” she cried. “It is useless to fight them longer. All
within the arena are dead. All who charged the throne are dead but you
and this youth. Only among the seats are there left any of your
fighting-men, and they and the slave women are fast being cut down.
Listen! You can scarce hear the battle-cry of the women now for nearly
all are dead. For each one of you there are ten thousand blacks within
the domains of the First Born. Break for the open and the sea of
Korus. With your mighty sword arm you may yet win to the Golden Cliffs
and the templed gardens of the Holy Therns. There tell your story to
Matai Shang, my father. He will keep you, and together you may find a
way to rescue me. Fly while there is yet a bare chance for flight.”

But that was not my mission, nor could I see much to be preferred in
the cruel hospitality of the Holy Therns to that of the First Born.

“Down with Issus!” I shouted, and together the boy and I took up the
fight once more. Two blacks went down with our swords in their vitals,
and we stood face to face with Issus. As my sword went up to end her
horrid career her paralysis left her, and with an ear-piercing shriek
she turned to flee. Directly behind her a black gulf suddenly yawned
in the flooring of the dais. She sprang for the opening with the youth
and I close at her heels. Her scattered guard rallied at her cry and
rushed for us. A blow fell upon the head of the youth. He staggered
and would have fallen, but I caught him in my left arm and turned to
face an infuriated mob of religious fanatics crazed by the affront I
had put upon their goddess, just as Issus disappeared into the black
depths beneath me.

For an instant I stood there before they fell upon me, but the first
rush of them forced me back a step or two. My foot felt for the floor
but found only empty space. I had backed into the pit which had
received Issus. For a second I toppled there upon the brink. Then I
too with the boy still tightly clutched in my arms pitched backward
into the black abyss.

We struck a polished chute, the opening above us closed as magically as
it had opened, and we shot down, unharmed, into a dimly lighted
apartment far below the arena.

As I rose to my feet the first thing I saw was the malignant
countenance of Issus glaring at me through the heavy bars of a grated
door at one side of the chamber.

“Rash mortal!” she shrilled. “You shall pay the awful penalty for your
blasphemy in this secret cell. Here you shall lie alone and in
darkness with the carcass of your accomplice festering in its
rottenness by your side, until crazed by loneliness and hunger you feed
upon the crawling maggots that were once a man.”

That was all. In another instant she was gone, and the dim light which
had filled the cell faded into Cimmerian blackness.

“Pleasant old lady,” said a voice at my side.

“Who speaks?” I asked.

“‘Tis I, your companion, who has had the honour this day of fighting
shoulder to shoulder with the greatest warrior that ever wore metal
upon Barsoom.”

“I thank God that you are not dead,” I said. “I feared for that nasty
cut upon your head.”

“It but stunned me,” he replied. “A mere scratch.”

“Maybe it were as well had it been final,” I said. “We seem to be in a
pretty fix here with a splendid chance of dying of starvation and
thirst.”

“Where are we?”

“Beneath the arena,” I replied. “We tumbled down the shaft that
swallowed Issus as she was almost at our mercy.”

He laughed a low laugh of pleasure and relief, and then reaching out
through the inky blackness he sought my shoulder and pulled my ear
close to his mouth.

“Nothing could be better,” he whispered. “There are secrets within the
secrets of Issus of which Issus herself does not dream.”

“What do you mean?”

“I laboured with the other slaves a year since in the remodelling of
these subterranean galleries, and at that time we found below these an
ancient system of corridors and chambers that had been sealed up for
ages. The blacks in charge of the work explored them, taking several
of us along to do whatever work there might be occasion for. I know
the entire system perfectly.

“There are miles of corridors honeycombing the ground beneath the
gardens and the temple itself, and there is one passage that leads down
to and connects with the lower regions that open on the water shaft
that gives passage to Omean.

“If we can reach the submarine undetected we may yet make the sea in
which there are many islands where the blacks never go. There we may
live for a time, and who knows what may transpire to aid us to escape?”

He had spoken all in a low whisper, evidently fearing spying ears even
here, and so I answered him in the same subdued tone.

“Lead back to Shador, my friend,” I whispered. “Xodar, the black, is
there. We were to attempt our escape together, so I cannot desert him.”

“No,” said the boy, “one cannot desert a friend. It were better to be
recaptured ourselves than that.”

Then he commenced groping his way about the floor of the dark chamber
searching for the trap that led to the corridors beneath. At length he
summoned me by a low, “S-s-t,” and I crept toward the sound of his
voice to find him kneeling on the brink of an opening in the floor.

“There is a drop here of about ten feet,” he whispered. “Hang by your
hands and you will alight safely on a level floor of soft sand.”

Very quietly I lowered myself from the inky cell above into the inky
pit below. So utterly dark was it that we could not see our hands at
an inch from our noses. Never, I think, have I known such complete
absence of light as existed in the pits of Issus.

For an instant I hung in mid air. There is a strange sensation
connected with an experience of that nature which is quite difficult to
describe. When the feet tread empty air and the distance below is
shrouded in darkness there is a feeling akin to panic at the thought of
releasing the hold and taking the plunge into unknown depths.

Although the boy had told me that it was but ten feet to the floor
below I experienced the same thrills as though I were hanging above a
bottomless pit. Then I released my hold and dropped—four feet to a
soft cushion of sand.

The boy followed me.

“Raise me to your shoulders,” he said, “and I will replace the trap.”

This done he took me by the hand, leading me very slowly, with much
feeling about and frequent halts to assure himself that he did not
stray into wrong passageways.

Presently we commenced the descent of a very steep incline.

“It will not be long,” he said, “before we shall have light. At the
lower levels we meet the same strata of phosphorescent rock that
illuminates Omean.”

Never shall I forget that trip through the pits of Issus. While it was
devoid of important incidents yet it was filled for me with a strange
charm of excitement and adventure which I think I must have hinged
principally on the unguessable antiquity of these long-forgotten
corridors. The things which the Stygian darkness hid from my objective
eye could not have been half so wonderful as the pictures which my
imagination wrought as it conjured to life again the ancient peoples of
this dying world and set them once more to the labours, the intrigues,
the mysteries and the cruelties which they had practised to make their
last stand against the swarming hordes of the dead sea bottoms that had
driven them step by step to the uttermost pinnacle of the world where
they were now intrenched behind an impenetrable barrier of superstition.

In addition to the green men there had been three principal races upon
Barsoom. The blacks, the whites, and a race of yellow men. As the
waters of the planet dried and the seas receded, all other resources
dwindled until life upon the planet became a constant battle for
survival.

The various races had made war upon one another for ages, and the three
higher types had easily bested the green savages of the water places of
the world, but now that the receding seas necessitated constant
abandonment of their fortified cities and forced upon them a more or
less nomadic life in which they became separated into smaller
communities they soon fell prey to the fierce hordes of green men. The
result was a partial amalgamation of the blacks, whites and yellows,
the result of which is shown in the present splendid race of red men.

I had always supposed that all traces of the original races had
disappeared from the face of Mars, yet within the past four days I had
found both whites and blacks in great multitudes. Could it be possible
that in some far-off corner of the planet there still existed a remnant
of the ancient race of yellow men?

My reveries were broken in upon by a low exclamation from the boy.

“At last, the lighted way,” he cried, and looking up I beheld at a long
distance before us a dim radiance.

As we advanced the light increased until presently we emerged into
well-lighted passageways. From then on our progress was rapid until we
came suddenly to the end of a corridor that let directly upon the ledge
surrounding the pool of the submarine.

The craft lay at her moorings with uncovered hatch. Raising his finger
to his lips and then tapping his sword in a significant manner, the
youth crept noiselessly toward the vessel. I was close at his heels.

Silently we dropped to the deserted deck, and on hands and knees
crawled toward the hatchway. A stealthy glance below revealed no guard
in sight, and so with the quickness and the soundlessness of cats we
dropped together into the main cabin of the submarine. Even here was
no sign of life. Quickly we covered and secured the hatch.

Then the boy stepped into the pilot house, touched a button and the
boat sank amid swirling waters toward the bottom of the shaft. Even
then there was no scurrying of feet as we had expected, and while the
boy remained to direct the boat I slid from cabin to cabin in futile
search for some member of the crew. The craft was entirely deserted.
Such good fortune seemed almost unbelievable.

When I returned to the pilot house to report the good news to my
companion he handed me a paper.

“This may explain the absence of the crew,” he said.

It was a radio-aerial message to the commander of the submarine:

“The slaves have risen. Come with what men you have and those that you
can gather on the way. Too late to get aid from Omean. They are
massacring all within the amphitheatre. Issus is threatened. Haste.

“ZITHAD”

“Zithad is Dator of the guards of Issus,” explained the youth. “We
gave them a bad scare—one that they will not soon forget.”

“Let us hope that it is but the beginning of the end of Issus,” I said.

“Only our first ancestor knows,” he replied.

We reached the submarine pool in Omean without incident. Here we
debated the wisdom of sinking the craft before leaving her, but finally
decided that it would add nothing to our chances for escape. There
were plenty of blacks on Omean to thwart us were we apprehended;
however many more might come from the temples and gardens of Issus
would not in any decrease our chances.

We were now in a quandary as to how to pass the guards who patrolled
the island about the pool. At last I hit upon a plan.

“What is the name or title of the officer in charge of these guards?” I
asked the boy.

“A fellow named Torith was on duty when we entered this morning,” he
replied.

“Good. And what is the name of the commander of the submarine?”

“Yersted.”

I found a dispatch blank in the cabin and wrote the following order:

“Dator Torith: Return these two slaves at once to Shador.

“YERSTED”

“That will be the simpler way to return,” I said, smiling, as I handed
the forged order to the boy. “Come, we shall see now how well it
works.”

“But our swords!” he exclaimed. “What shall we say to explain them?”

“Since we cannot explain them we shall have to leave them behind us,” I
replied.

“Is it not the extreme of rashness to thus put ourselves again,
unarmed, in the power of the First Born?”

“It is the only way,” I answered. “You may trust me to find a way out
of the prison of Shador, and I think, once out, that we shall find no
great difficulty in arming ourselves once more in a country which
abounds so plentifully in armed men.”

“As you say,” he replied with a smile and shrug. “I could not follow
another leader who inspired greater confidence than you. Come, let us
put your ruse to the test.”

Boldly we emerged from the hatchway of the craft, leaving our swords
behind us, and strode to the main exit which led to the sentry’s post
and the office of the Dator of the guard.