Black Legion of Callisto

CHAPTER ONE YARRAK, LORD Of THE KU THAD

It is one of the more remarkable of the verities of life that in many circumstances one man can accomplish that which thousands would find impossible.

I refer to the means by which I achieved the solution of my dilemma.

Through the action of a mysterious force, whose nature was still an inexplicable enigma, I had been transported across the tremendous gulf of space which yawns between the planet of my birth and Callisto, moon of Jupiter.

No sooner had I materialized on the surface of that strange and beautiful world of black and crimson jungles, whose queer skies of golden vapor are lit by enormous moons, than I found myself thrust into the midst of adventures beyond parallel in human history.

Alone and friendless in an alien world of curious peoples and ferocious monsters, that I managed to survive unscathed I owe to a mixture of audacity, chance, and accident, rather than courage or wisdom.

I found a primitive world torn by savage antagonisms, where the hand of every man was lifted in eternal enmity against every other. Three races of sentient beings, each distinctly differing from the other, had I thus far encountered during my wandering adventures across the face of the jungle moon.

Lowest in the scale of civilization was the Yathoon Horde, a primitive nation of warrior clans. The Yathoon are not human beings, are not, in fact, even remotely hominid, but a peculiar species of arthropod.

Like tall, jointed insect-men they seem, their gaunt yet not ungraceful limbs clad in sheaths of gray chitin, their faces mere featureless masks of glistening horny substance adorned with quivering antennae, their eyes somber and expressionless orbs of jeweled blackness, their clacking and metallic voices devoid of inflection. Naked, seemingly sexless, the stalking monstrosities live lives of endless warfare and know nothing of the finer sensibilities: love, paternity, friendship, mercy―all the emotions which adorn the human soul are unknown to them.

At first I feared the uncanny arthropods and found them loathsome. But eventually, during the months of my captivity in which I was not mistreated, I came to understand the poor creatures and to sympathize with their cold, lonely lives. I found them no longer ugly or repellent; their stalking, multi-jointed limbs assumed the functional perfection of a beautifully designed machine, their gaunt skeletal figures the elongated beauty of an attenuated sculpture by Giacometti.

At length I succeeded in making my first friend upon Thanator, which is the name by which the natives of Callisto call their mysterious world. This individual, a chieftain named Koja, to whom I belonged, proved susceptible to the finer emotions once their practical utility was demonstrated to him. I saved his life when the indifference of his fellow warriors would have left him to die, and in so doing I placed him under a certain obligation, for the Yathoon are not without a primitive code of honor and are cognizant of indebtedness (which they call uhorz). Ere long he reciprocated my kindness by releasing me from my involuntary servitude.

And thus, in my new freedom, I encountered the second of the higher races of Thanator, for I chanced to rescue from the attack of a savage dragon-cat, or yathrib, a beautiful girl named Darloona. She was the reigning princess of a walled stone city, Shondakor, whose people, the Ku Thad, had but recently been driven into exile by a bandit army. The Ku Thad are fully human and represent a higher level of civilization than that yet achieved by the poor arthropods. In appearance they resemble an unlikely combination of Southeast Asian and Nordic racial features, with their honey-amber skin, slanted emerald eyes, and curly red-gold manes. Seized by a rival Yathoon chieftain, one Gamchan, and condemned to torment, we were freed by my friend Koja, only to fall into the clutches of yet another race.

This race, the Sky Pirates, as they are called, represent the most advanced civilization on all of Thanator. They dwell in a mountaintop city called Zanadar, whose lofty elevation would render it inaccessible save for their remarkable and ingenious flying ships, which are unlike any form of aerial vehicle ever perfected upon Earth and demonstrate an astonishing level of technological ingenuity. The Sky Pirates differ from the Ku Thad in their papery-white flesh, lank black hair, and Caucasoid features.

The cunning and unscrupulous monarch of the Sky Pirates, Prince Thuton, condemned me to slavery while pretending to befriend Darloona. I won freedom, and found a friend among the Zanadarians in the person of Master Lukor, a gallant and gentlemanly master swordsman who taught me the skills and secrets of his craft. Learning that Thuton was secretly negotiating with Darloona’s deadliest foe, the bandit chief who had overwhelmed her city, Lukor, Koja, and I effected our escape from the City in the Clouds by means of one of the ingenious flying contraptions.

Injured in a gale, the flying machine crashed in a mighty zone of dense jungles called the Grand Kumala. Although we had escaped the wreck without harm, our party was attacked by one of the savage predators of the jungle and the Princess Darloona became separated from us and was taken prisoner by a bandit patrol. Helpless to render aid, we watched from the margin of the jungle as she was borne a prisoner into her own city of Shondakor.

Wandering in the jungles, we eventually encountered her people, the Ku Thad, and joined forces with them.

Although the Ku Thad were able to direct me to the mysterious Gate Between The Worlds, whereby I had first come to this barbaric world, I elected to remain behind, for I realized at last that I was hopelessly in love with the flame-haired beauty of Darloona. I employ the word “hopeless” to describe my suit, and for excellent reason. Not only did it seem impossible that I should ever see her again, but even were such to occur, she would coldly spurn my affections, for the proud, fiery Princess had conceived a misapprehension concerning me, and deemed me a coward, a weakling, and virtually an enemy.

At an impasse, helpless to rescue the woman I loved from her captivity, I set down an account of my adventures on Thanator, feeling that some narrative of my remarkable discoveries, however crudely composed, should be preserved. This manuscript I placed within the Gate, hoping that it should thus be transported to the far-distant planet of my birth. It was with mixed emotions that I observed it as it disappeared in the weird beam of sparkling force. Whether or not it safely traversed the colossal distances between the worlds, to reach the surface of Earth at last, I shall probably never know.

Shondakor was in the grip of a wandering bandit host known as the Chac Yuul―the Black Legion―who had taken the city by surprise or treachery some months before.

I am at a loss to find any parallel in terrene history for this bandit legion. A large and disciplined force of fighting men, homeless nomads, willing on the one hand to sell their swords as mercenaries in any conflict between opposed cities, and on the other, to seize by force lands or loot, they are uniquely Thanatorian. I suppose the closest parallels could be found in the nomadic warrior clans of seventeenth-century Russia, such as the Don Cossacks. Then again, in certain characteristics the Black Legion resembles the wandering bands of condottieri found in fifteenth-century Italy.

Professional warriors, forswearing homeland and family, banded together under a military commander selected by popular acclaim, they go where they will, living off the land, here attacking a merchant caravan, there seizing a fishing village or a farming hamlet, sometimes laying siege to the castle of some wealthy aristocrat, at other times selling their swords as a mercenary unit in some internecine conflict. What had led them to assault one of the most splendid and brilliant of all the great cities of this world was still an unsolved mystery, but they had seized control of the metropolis in a blitzkrieg attack. Perhaps their warlord, Arkola, wearied of the rude nomadic life of camp and march and yearned to wield power over a kingdom of his own.

The enemy already within the gates, the Princess of Shondakor chose a reckless expedient and led many of her people forth to the freedom of the open plains, rather than attempt the defense of the city, which would have resulted in a massacre. The class of warrior nobility which followed her into self-imposed exile did not unanimously favor her decision, but they venerated their gorgeous and high-spirited princess, the descendant of a thousand kings, and at length were persuaded as to the truth of the old adage, “he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.”

Now bereft of their princess, the leadership of the Ku Thad had devolved upon the stout shoulders of Lord Yarrak, Darloona’s uncle. He was a tall, stately, martial leader with a natural ability for command. When Lukor, Koja, and I were first brought before him and he learned of the various assistances we had rendered to his niece and queen, he welcomed us with great honor and hospitality. And thus for weeks we had lived with the Ku Thad warriors amid the trackless jungles of the Grand Kumala.

These jungles covered literally thousands of square miles and in their density and tracklessness afforded the Shondakorians the most perfect hiding place imaginable. The Black Legion warriors had never pursued the exiled nobles, not caring what became of them so long as they presented no menace.

And indeed they did not. Although the Ku Thad were stalwart and courageous fighting men, and although they hungered to free their captive nation from their bandit overlords, they were too few in number to offer the Chac Yuul a challenge. The Shondakorians totaled no more than two or three thousand, and the Black Legion could summon to arms three times their number. Also, the walls of the city were monumental, and their girth immense. So huge a metropolis was Shondakor that it would take an army of no less than ten thousand warriors to effectively lay siege and block all gates and exits. The irony of our situation lay in this trick of fate, that it had been the ancestors of the Ku Thad who had, with infinite labor and over scores of years, raised those strong walls which now formed an impassable barrier to their own descendants.

Night after night around the council fires we discussed the ways and means whereby we might successfully wrest Shondakor from her conquerors. The great many-colored moons of Thanator gazed down on our fruitless arguments and vain discussions, and the problem remained unsolved when the vaporous golden skies paled with the sudden flare of the Thanatorian dawn.

Overwhelming force of arms might have breached the walls, but our numbers were insufficient.

A surprise attack might well gain us entry through one of the less well-guarded gates, but our very smallness of number made it hard to see how we could manage to overcome so great a force as would then oppose us.

Eventually, I conceived of a desperate plan.

It had one chance in a thousand of success.

I would attempt to enter the gates of Shondakor alone!

Yarrak regarded me with an expression generally reserved for the ravings of a madman.

“Jandar, no one doubts your courage or cunning, but what can one man possibly do against so many?”

“He can do one thing alone, which would be impossible to a number,” I replied. “He can get in.”

“I do not follow your reasoning,” he admitted.

“Simply this. The Black Legion guards would hardly permit two thousand armed warriors to enter the gates without a pitched battle. But one man will enter easily and without opposition. Because they will feel the same as you―what can one man do against them?”

My old friend, Lukor the Swordmaster, instantly realized the truth of my observation.

“And, once within, you will have considerable freedom and an opportunity, at least, to see what can be done towards freeing the Princess!” he suggested.

“Even so,” I nodded.

Lord Yarrak considered the matter in silence. “But why should they admit you at all?” he asked at length.

I shrugged. “Why not? I am not of the Ku Thad race, as my tan skin, yellow hair, and blue eyes freely attest. A Ku Thad seeking entry would arouse suspicions, but I will not. I will present myself in disguise as a wandering mercenary seeking entry into their ranks. The Chac Yuul are not a race, a nation, or a clan, but a free association of fighting men from every corner of Thanator, brought together through a common desire for loot. A solitary warrior should have no great difficulty in gaining access to their host”

Yarrak smiled, his troubled face clearing.

“I must confess myself reluctantly persuaded to the strength of your plan,” he said, “although I still question whether one man behind the city walls can aid our plans in any way.”

“One agent within the walls can do more than no agent within the walls, my lord,” Lukor pointedly observed.

Yarrak laughed and admitted the truth of that statement.

“I shall wear the simple leather tunic of a common warrior,” I said, “and bear unmarked steel. The most they can do is turn me away. But if they do not, then I have a fighting chance of winning a place in their army, and, in time, perhaps of affording the Princess some opportunity of escape.”

“You will need a covering story, to account for yourself,” mused Lord Yarrak, falling in with my plan. “You could say you had been a mercenary swordsman m the service of Soraba, which is a city of the north. The Chac Yuul have not been in the north for ten years, so you will run no danger of having the details of your account brought into question.”

“My lord, Jandar may find some difficulty because of his unusual coloring,” spoke up wise old Zastro, a sage elder of the Ku Thad who had been listening to our discussion.

“I shall tell them simply that I am a traveler from a far distant land,” I said, “which is nothing more than the truth.”

They smiled at this, for of course they knew my story, and my remark, although true, was something of an understatement. For my homeland was three hundred and eighty-seven million, nine hundred and thirty thousand miles away―“far distant” indeed!

“I do not think you should go into this danger alone, Jandar,” said Koja in his solemn way. The gallant old Swordmaster nodded in vigorous assent.

“I could not agree with friend Koja more,” he said. “Together, the two of us―”

“The three of us―” added Koja.

“Thanks, but I think one man has a better chance of getting in, than three,” I said firmly.

“But―”

“I am young enough, and a fair-enough swordsman, to pass myself off as a landless, penniless mercenary,” I pointed out. “But you, Lukor, area master in the art of fence, and a most distinguished gentleman in your appearance, taste, and manner. It would be hard going to convince the suspicious Chac Yuul that any gentleman of your evident sophistication and sense of honor is a wandering sell-sword rogue. And, Koja, when have the noble chieftains of the Yathoon clans enlisted with the Black Legion bandits? No, friends, I thank you. But this adventure is mine alone.”

There were several further arguments to be thrashed out, but in the end it was decided to my satisfaction. I would leave at dawn.

CHAPTER TWO TO THE GATES Of SHONDAKOR

The dawns of Callisto―or Thanator, as I should accustom myself to thinking of this jungle world―are a unique experience. They have to be seen to be believed.

Thanator, the fifth moon of Jupiter, literally has no sun. In common with the rest of the twelve moons of the giant planet, it is so very distant from the central luminary of our solar system that the sun seems but the brightest of the stars visible in its skies.

By all rights, I suppose that the surface of Callisto should be a cold and airless waste of dead, frozen stone, drenched in perpetual gloom, illuminated only by the dim reflected glory of the Jove-light, for that mightiest of the planets bulks enormous in its skies. The above description doubtless tallies with the sober and considered pronouncements of terrene science.*

But in fact, Callisto enjoys a gravity only fractionally less than that of my home world; and however impossible it may be, according to the currently accepted dogmas of science, Thanator is a warm and even tropic world, teeming with fecund life.

The skies of this jungle moon are composed of breathable vapors whose composition seems to me identical with that of Earth’s own atmosphere (if this were not so, then how could I breathe it and continue to live?) with just one rather peculiar difference.

And that difference is the sky itself.

For high in the stratosphere of the Thanatorian atmosphere a layer of strange golden mist may be seen. Indeed, the skies of jungle-clad Thanator are not azure, but a glowing amber!

Dawn on Thanator is a sudden, sourceless brightening of this dome of golden vapor, which changes from complete darkness to a full and noonlike brilliance in just a matter of minutes.

This peculiar illuminative effect extends uniformly across the entire dome of the heavens, and it does not “rise” in the east and “set” in the west. I have never found a satisfactory answer to this phenomenon, but many are the mysteries of Thanator, and this is but one more.

All night we had traveled north through the Kumala, until shortly before dawn we were some distance north of Shondakor. Here I bade my comrades an affectionate farewell. From this point I must go forward alone in the face of whatever perils the unknown future held for me.

I traversed the plains to the shores of the river Ajand, forded the river, and came to a stone-paved highway which Lord Yarrak had called to my attention; from thence I turned south and rode for Shondakor. Since my story would have it that I came from Soraba, which is on the southern shore of the inland sea of Corund Laj, it would not do were I to approach the city from any direction but the north. I rode steadily, while the golden sky flushed suddenly with brilliance above me and bathed all of the level plains round about with noontime light.

My steed was a thaptor, a beast used by the natives of Callisto in place of the horse, which is unknown upon this world. In fact, mammals of any description are exceedingly rare upon Thanator, I have noticed.

Thaptors are wingless, four-legged avians. They resembled nothing so much as an unlikely hybrid of bird and horse, and whenever I see one I am irresistibly reminded of old Earth legends of the hippogriff,° for the thaptor might well have modeled for this fabulous creature. It is about the size of a large horse, but has clawed bird-feet, is clad in feathers, which rise in a manelike ruff just behind its head. Its beaked head and staring eyes bear a marked resemblance to the parrot.

The thaptors are unruly and restive and have never been completely domesticated, which makes riding one of them partake of the element of an adventure. Indeed, a mounted Thanatorian warrior habitually carries, strapped to his saddle, a small wooden club called an olo wherewith to crack his mount soundly atop the head should it seek to dislodge him from his place, or strive to crane its neck around and bite out a portion of his leg. This last habit of the thaptor makes me puzzle that the Thanatorians seem never to have invented the riding boot.

In their jungle home, the Ku Thad have little use for thaptors, but retain a few whereby their messengers can travel more rapidly than on foot. Thus it was that Yarrak was able to lend me a mount: it would have aroused needless suspicions in the breasts of the Black Legion had I arrived before their gates unmounted, claiming to have traversed the many miles of road from Soraba on foot.

After an hour of hard riding I came within sight of Shondakor.

The great city of the Ku Thad rose amidst the Plains of Haratha, on the eastern shore of the river. It was a splendid metropolis. The massive ramparts of its mighty wall encircled the city; tall spires rose in the brilliant morning light, and I could see the domes of palaces and mansions. All was built of stone, and the outer walls were faced with plaster that gleamed pale golden―hence its appellation, the “Golden City.”

As I rode down to the gates of the walled stone city, I could not help feeling like some heroic warrior in a Sword and Sorcery novel. I’m sure I straightened my back, threw out my shoulders, and let my hand rest on the pommel of my sword in a swashbuckling manner.

Somewhat to my surprise, the gates were open and a number of farmers were passing through, leading carts and wagons filled with bags of grain, sides of meat, sacks of vegetables, and the like. This, I soon realized, was market day and the farmers from the surrounding countryside were bringing their goods to the bazaar. Ahead of me, as I joined the line filing through the gates, I saw warriors of the Chac Yuul negligently waving the peasants through the portals. Wheels creaked, dust swirled, and the heavy wagons clattered over the stone pavement. They were drawn by a species of draft animals unfamiliar to me―a heavy, lumbering beast with a thick short tail and a massive head, beaked, and horned, which looked like some ungainly cross between rhinoceros and triceratops.

I observed with a touch of wry humor that evidently life must go on, even in a conquered city which lay in the grip of its enemies. Farmers must sell their produce at market, housewives must purchase them, and men must eat, the rise and fall of dynasties notwithstanding.

I joined the end of the line and rode slowly towards the moment of decision. Would I be permitted to enter the city of the Chac Yuul, or would I be challenged?

As I approached the gates I felt the eyes of the guards upon me. One of them, a flat-faced, Mongollike little warrior with bandy legs and long, apelike arms, gestured me to a halt.

“You, there! Where do you think you are going?”

I looked down at him from the height of my saddle.

“Since this path leads only within the city, you should be able to figure out the answer to that question yourself,” I replied calmly. Some urge of inner deviltry inspired the mocking insolence of my manner. I do not know whether or not it was wise, but it aroused a chorus of laughter from the bowlegged guard’s comrades. His swarthy cheeks flushed and his eyes went cold.

“Get down off that thaptor,” he snarled.

“Certainly. But I will still be taller than you, even when dismounted,” I smiled. He flushed again, and again the hooting mockery of his comrades stung him. He turned on them.

“You―Calcan! Fetch the komad,” he snarled. Then, displaying a vicious little hooked dagger, he said in a cold, level warning voice: “The next one of you horeb to laugh will kiss this.”

They fell silent.

A horeb is a repulsive, wriggling rodent, a scavenger of loathsome habits, not the least of which is that it feeds off rotting garbage.

I waited, standing quietly, ready for anything. My hands swung easily at my sides, only a fingerbreadth from the pommel of sword and dagger. The bandy-legged little guard eyed me with cold malevolence and spat into the road dust eloquently.

“What’s the trouble here?” a deep voice boomed.

A burly-shouldered, hulking Black Legion warrior strode through the gates, to look over our little tableau.

“It’s this fellow here, Captain Bluto,” the bandy-legged little guard who had challenged me at the gate whined, cocking a thumb in my general direction. “He wants to get in the city, but he wears weapons, which is against the rule.”

Bluto looked me up and down with a squinting eye. He was truly enormous, one of the tallest men I have ever seen, And he literally towered over the other Chac Yuul guardsmen, who tended to shortness on the average. And he looked to be every bit as tough and as strong as he was big. I felt an inward qualm.

Then I caught the look in the little bandy-legged guard’s eye. It was a smirk. I could read his thought clearly: let’s see you crack wise in front of Bluto, he was thinking. I straightened my shoulders. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“So you want to get in the city,” Bluto grunted. He rubbed a black-stubbled jaw with one hand the size of a ham. Truly he was an enormous specimen of manhood, although, I suspected, an abnormal specimen. I thought I detected in his underslung, prognathous jaw and the swollen muscles of his broad shoulders, deep chest, and heavy legs the signs of a glandular malfunction.

“That’s right,” I agreed. “Why all this? If a bunch of mere peasants can troop in, who is to stop a trained and experienced fighting man?”

Bluto grinned nastily, and a hot eager glint came into his eyes. Instantly I had him pegged for a bully. Most big men I have known were extraordinarily gentle; it was as if with their unusual size and strength went an obligation not to swagger it before less burly men than themselves. Not so with Bluto, I guessed. He delighted in crushing a man smaller than himself.

“So, he’s a fighting man, is he?” he chuckled coarsely. And he began striding around me, looking me up and down with mock admiration. Then he looked a trifle disgruntled. His broad humor would have been more appropriate if I had been a lesser man myself, but I am considered rather tall and I believe I may truthfully state that the past months of action and adventure I had come through amidst the thousand perils of this jungle world had developed my musculature to a superb degree.

“In this city there are no fighting men but warriors of the Chac Yuul,” he growled. I nodded amicably.

“So I have been given to understand. It is for that reason that I am here―to join forces with the Black Legion,” I said.

He gave a belch of crude laughter. “The Black Legion! So, you think you are worthy to stand and fight by our side, eh? A little fellow like you?”

His men chuckled, but their humor was forced. For, in all truth, I must have looked rather prepossessing to men of their dwarfed stature, even when standing beside Bluto.

He slapped his arms and thumped his chest. “You think men like me need you to defend them?” he demanded, obviously working himself up into a fighting rage. Doubtless the poor lout’s single pleasure lay in showing off his prowess before his warriors.

“I may not be as tall a man as yourself,” I said with a cool, level glance, “but I have a long arm,” and here I indicated the rapier that swung at my side.

“Give it to him, Komad,” the bandy-legged little guard leered. “Show him how a Chac Yuul swordsman deals with braggarts!”

Bluto was breathing heavily now, his dark face flushed, his brows congested. “You want to fight Bluto? You want to see what it takes to measure up to a Black Legion warrior?”

“I would prefer to save my fighting for the enemies of the Chac Yuul,” I said. “To whom should I apply for enlistment?” And I made as if to step past him. He let loose with a bull-like roar and, reaching out, seized me by the upper arm and swung me about so that I faced him again.

“Stand still little man, when Bluto is talking to you―uhh!”

That gasp with which his bellow ended is easily explained. I dislike being handled, so I broke his hold with a karate chop that must have numbed him from elbow to wrist.

With an inarticulate roar, he struck me across the face!

I staggered―more shaken by surprise and astonishment than actually hurt by the clumsy blow.

My foot slipped and I went down on one knee.

A deathly silence had fallen over the thronged guards.

I felt my heart sink within me. Not that this noisy braggart worried me, for I was well aware that my skills with the sword were superior to anything this oafish bully could bring against me. But it had been my hope to enter the city of Shondakor without attracting any attention to myself. And nothing was more likely to bring me to the attention of the Lords of the Black Legion than a display of superb swordsmanship before their very gates, by one who pretended to be nothing more than just another ordinary mercenary!

Those hopes were dashed now, for it was unlikely that I would be able to get past this Bluto without a fight.

Cursing the luck, I rose to my feet again and brushed the road dust from my garments while my mind raced furiously, striving to think of a way out of this dilemma.

CHAPTER THREE I WIN A FIGHT AND MAKE A FRIEND

There was no way to avoid the conflict, for a blow had been given and heated words had been exchanged.

Bluto stood there before me, legs spread, one hand hanging by the pommel of his sword. He was breathing heavily, his coarse features flushed, his little piglike eyes gleaming with fury.

“Draw your steel, man,” he growled. “Let Bluto see what sort of a man you are and what your guts are made of.”

I kept my hand well away from my blade, and with some difficulty I retained a calm smile.

A flash of excitement lit his little glinting eyes. I think he thought he faced a coward, and the bully within him heated to excitement at the thought. But this, also, was not the way out―for a coward would not be welcome in the ranks of the Black Legion.

Suddenly an inspiration occurred to me. I relaxed, breathing easily. For there was after all one mode of combat in which I could display superior prowess without arousing suspicion in those who were soon to be my superior officers.

“Well? What are you waiting for, you horeb?” he snarled.

I smiled and stood calmly, letting all see that I was at my ease.

“I presume even a band of ruffians such as yourselves has some conception of warriors’ honor, and that a man struck in the face has the: right to defend himself without charge of treason, riot, or insurrection,” I remarked.

Bluto nodded, grunting. “Draw steel,” he growled. “No man will speak against you. This is between the two of us.”

“Very well,” I said evenly. “If this is between we two alone, then it is a duel, and, being such, is under the code of honor. As the challenged, I have the right to choose weapons, and, as I refer not to sully my steel with the vile gore of a bully and a coward, I choose―fists!”

Balling a fist, I swung a firm right and caught him in the pit of the stomach with every ounce of strength in arm, shoulder, and back. He was not anticipating such a blow, and the muscles of his abdomen were slack. Thus my balled fist struck his middle with an audible smack, like a butcher’s mallet smacking a side of meat. My fist sank into his guts a good two inches.

His mouth drooped slackly; his face went sallow; he swayed, the heavy sword dropping from loose fingers to clang against the stony pave. He regarded me with a look of blank astonishment in his little piglike eyes.

Then I followed with a right to the jaw that must have broken a tooth or two. He bounced backwards, lifted a couple of inches off the ground by the impact of my blow, and fell with his back in the dust with a terrific thump and clatter of accouterments. And he did not get up again. He was out cold.

The fine art of fisticuffs, I should perhaps note here, is all but unknown on Thanator. It is not that pugilism is despised as an ungentlemanly mode of combat. It is, simply, that it has yet to be invented. And a man who knows how to use his fists is never without a weapon on this world.

Thus my conquest of their bully must have seemed almost magical in the eyes of the other guards. They gaped in amazement as I dusted my fingers together, and stepped across the prone Bluto, and led my steed through the gates of the city.

Not a man among them raised his voice in protest. And thus, at last, I entered the city of my princess.

The quiet voice of a tall, gentlemanly young man accosted me as I passed the gates.

“That was indeed well done, stranger,” he smiled. “I believe I heard you express a desire to join the Chac Yuul. If that still holds true, permit me to guide you to the man to whom you should speak. For, in my estimate, the Black Legion has a place within its ranks for any warrior who can lay out the likes of Bluto with his bare hands!”

I laughed. “In my country, friend, we have a saying, which holds true, it seems, even in Shondakor. 'The bigger they are, the harder they fall.' ”

He was amused by my quotation and offered me his hand. “I am Valkar of Ganatol, a komor of the third cohort,” he said.

A komor is a chieftain, the leader of a cohort of warriors, which meant that my new-found friend was an officer of some importance in the Black Legion. I looked him over and liked what I saw. He was tall and trimly built, with dark skin, black hair, and green eyes―an odd combination I had not before come across during my adventures on Thanator; doubtless a half-breed, although he had the bearing of a noble or at least a gentleman of good family. His features were regular without being handsome to the point of prettiness, and he had a strong jaw, a good smile, and frank eyes. I liked him on sight.

I have discovered that I possess the unusual ability to measure a man’s qualities almost on first meeting, and I can make up my mind on a man’s honor and trustworthiness in moments after meeting him. This rare ability has saved my life ere now, and I have come to trust it. Hence I extended my hand to Valkar and we were friends from that moment to this, and will be friends, I trust, until Death, the great Dissolver of Companionships, comes between us at the end.

“I thank you for your friendly words,” I said, clasping his hand in a firm grip. “My name is Jandar.”

He eyed my blond hair, tan skin, and blue eyes with frank curiosity.

“Never have I seen a man with your coloring,” he admitted. “May I ask of what nation you are a citizen?”

“The United States of America, a far-distant land,” I said, and this was no more than the truth, as my country was at that moment distant by some nearly four hundred million miles, which I believe qualifies as “far.”

Valkar repeated the name, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar sounds. Then he shook his head. “It must be on the other side of Thanator, for never have I heard of it before, nor met a man from there.”

“That is quite understandable,” I said. “For it is my belief that I am the first of my people to travel in these lands.” This also, of course, was no more than the truth.

My new friend guided me through the streets of Shondakor to the citadel of the Black Legion. And as we conversed I took the opportunity to familiarize myself with the city. While Shondakor had been conquered by the Chac Yuul some months before, their new rulers seemed to reign with a light hand over the people of the city, for I saw citizens going about their business, opening their shops, conversing in the forum, purchasing goods in the bazaar, with a freedom of movement that denoted that the occupation of alien troops had imposed few limitations upon the natives.

The city was large and impressive, the buildings imposing and splendid edifices. Broad avenues lined with flowering trees were busy with traffic. Chariots clattered by, drawn by matched teams of finely bred thaptors. Wealthy merchants and their women went by in veiled palanquins supported on the shoulders of husky slaves. Urchins played and squabbled shrilly in the mouths of alleys, tattered and noisome beggars whined from doorways, Chac Yuul warriors spent their off-duty hours lounging in wineshops. The daily life of the city obviously went forward undisturbed, despite the change of dynasty.

The commandant of recruits―I shall not bore my readers, if any, with the title of this officer in the original Thanatorian―was a busy man, and since the komor Valkar vouched for me, I was signed tip and sworn in without delay or undue questioning. I gave my most recent place of service as the city of Soraba on the shores of Corund Laj, and gave as the reason for my leaving the service of the Quraan of Soraba a quite natural disgruntlement at the preference given to nobles of family connection over common-born warriors of superior command and combat ability, such as myself. This may have seemed a trifle immodest of me, but I guessed that among a bandit horde such as the Chac Yuul the usual gentlemanly code of self-depreciation, common to the other fighting men of Thanator, would be absent and that a man would be taken more or less at his own estimate.

This seemed to have been an accurate guess on my part. At any rate, within the hour I was a full-fledged warrior of the Black Legion, assigned, at my own request, to the cohort that lay under the command of my new friend, Valkar of Ganatol.

And thus I had accomplished the first part of my plan, and had managed to enter the city and join the forces of my enemy.

As for the remainder of my plan, only time would tell if luck and accident would conspire to permit me the opportunity of rescuing the woman to whom I had given my heart.

CHAPTER FOUR I JOIN THE BLACK LEGION

And it was thus that I, Jandar of Callisto, entered upon my new career as a lowly warrior in the Black Legion, under the command of my newest friend, Valkar of Ganatol.

The third cohort, over which my friend was commander, was housed in a crude barracks along the southern side of a broad square or plaza which was called the Forum of Zeltadar. I later learned that the forum derived its name from the king of some remote era, an ancestor of Darloona’s dynasty.

The common warriors, myself among them, slept in one enormous room upon flat, hard pallets which, during the hours of daylight, were rolled up and hung out of the way on hooks riveted to the wooden walls of the building.

We customarily arose at dawn, and upon those days when guard duty was not assigned to our cohort, we trained in the great Forum under the sharp eye of our commander, Valkar. And I soon came to understand that there is much, oh very much more to being a soldier than merely the ability to wield a sword.

In brief, we marched. We drilled. We practiced maneuvers, some of them quite sophisticated. I began to discover a healthy respect for the martial prowess of the Chac Yuul; they were as well-trained a body of fighting men as any I had ever encountered, on this world of Thanator or on my own Earth, and they were under an iron discipline that never faltered.

And I began to realize why the folk of Thanator spoke of them in fear and trembling. They must have been the most splendid body of warriors on all this planet.

In the days that followed my entering the third cohort, I learned many tricks of warfare that I had never previously had reason to study.

For example, I mastered the technique of sword fighting while mounted on thaptor-back, which is a very different art from dueling on foot.

I became practised in the various tactics of using a Thanatorian weapon called the longspear, which, insofar as I know, is unique to the Thanatorians; at least, I have never heard of any such weapon ever being used by an earthly army. The longspear is just that, a long slender shaft of wood, measuring about twenty feet from heft to tip, ending in a steel claw or hook. The Thanatorian warriors use it on foot to dismount thaptormen in battle.

As well, Valkar and his lieutenants trained us in the use of the short throwing javelin which I had seen used ere this, in the lasso, a favorite weapon of the Thanatorians and in whose use they are amazingly adept, and with the hand axe and the war bow as well. I found myself tackling my meals with a ferocious appetite and slept each night the deep slumber of the bone-weary.

Valkar was an excellent officer: firm but restrained, utterly fair, and a man of his word. Each warrior under his command was given to know exactly what limits were set over his actions, beyond which he would stray at peril of punishment. The rules―which, incidentally, were original with Valkar himself, and were not the general orders obeyed throughout the rest of the Legion, as I later learned―were very precise. The women of the city were not to be molested, neither were the homes of the Shondakorians to be entered, on penalty of twenty lashes. Fighting with other warriors, drunkenness, and leaving the barracks during the night were punishable by ten lashes. To be caught sleeping on sentry duty was rewarded with death.

While most of my fellow warriors in the cohort of Valkar were an unruly lot, mere surly oafs for the most part, even the most brutish of them responded favorably to the just discipline of their commander. No man was ever punished on whim, and every man who was punished was made aware of the exact reasons for his culpability. Valkar explained that the Shondakorian citizens vastly outnumbered the occupying forces, and that while the presence of the Black Legion was tolerated, any abuse of the native women, or robbery of a native home, might well touch off the tinderbox and rouse the citizens to resistance. As well, he pointed out that a man who became drunk or who fell asleep on guard duty might well be responsible for the death of his comrades and the defeat of the Legion, were foes to creep past his post. The men came to reward Valkar with a grudging respect and, eventually, with a doglike devotion that was a testimonial to Valkar’s ability to lead and to command.

Although Valkar and I were good friends, he gave me to understand that it would be detrimental to discipline were he to be seen to have a favorite among his own troops, hence I saw little of him in private during this early period of my service under his command. I, of course, understood the very good reasons for this, and my estimate of him grew. But we never met without a friendly word or look or smile and I was well aware that he kept a close eye on my progress. Indeed, ere long, once I had gained a certain proficiency in the martial arts, I was awarded a minor role in the training of the less intelligent and more awkward warriors, and from this I soon rose to the rank of squad leader, a rank equivalent to that of a second lieutenant.

As a minor officer, I had a semiprivate room near the front of the barracks, which I shared with five or six other men of similar rank, and I ate in the officers’ mess, in which Valkar himself dined. He found occasion to compliment me on my rise in the ranks, and we occasionally exchanged a friendly word.

Once my own training was over, and once the squadron under my command had completed their training in the finer arts of war, my duties slackened off. We were on duty one full day and off duty the next, which gave me frequent opportunities to explore the byways of the city and to discern something of its structure.

The fifteen men under my command were a brutal and oafish lot, but, bearing in mind the methods of command I had observed Valkar to use with such excellent results, I took to treating my men with utter fairness and utter firmness. I believe I won their respect quite early, when my authority was questioned and I was challenged by a hulking bully or two, whom I promptly and soundly whipped with the same sort of pugilistic display which had lowered Bluto in the dust. This small trial-by-combat was performed in privacy, and my superior officers never learned of it. If they had, the men I had fought and beaten would have been whipped until they were unconscious, a fact of which the men themselves were fully cognizant, and I believe they came to respect me all the more for the fact that I was willing to settle with them on my own without invoking the superior authority of the hierarchy of command.

At any rate, the general appearance and performance of my squadron was of an obviously superior degree, which earned us the commendation of our commander, and I found myself elevated to a full lieutenantcy and put in charge of two additional squadrons as well as my original command.

Weeks had passed, however, and I was nowhere nearer to finding the Princess Darloona than on the day I had entered the city.

I consoled myself grimly with the fact that at least I had a career in the military service if I desired it!

My new rank threw me quite often into close proximity with Valkar, for which I was grateful. For among the warriors of my command, or even among my fellow officers, I had found none of my own sort with whom to establish friendly intimacy. I think that Valkar, too, felt the loneliness of command, for his fellow komors were a brutal lot, given to gaming and drinking rather than to intelligent conversation. Hence he now rather frequently paid me the compliment of asking me to dine at his table, and not infrequently we went down into the city together on our off-duty days. I came to know him quite well, and, if anything, my respect and trust of him grew.

It was so obvious that he was of a finer sort than his fellow commanders, that I puzzled myself over the mystery of why a well-bred gentleman of good family such as he could have desired a place in the Chac Yuul for by now I had learned that he had joined the Black Legion only a few months before my arrival. His rise through the ranks had been the mirror image of my own, for while the Chac Yuul are a band of coarse ruffians for the most part, the senior commanders of the host have a keen eye for a gifted and intelligent commander, be he of whatever race, and do not hesitate to promote such a man whenever they find one. But, all this notwithstanding, he seemed very out of place in their ranks, and more than once I mused curiously over the mystery he represented.

In all honesty, it never once occurred to me that his presence here might be accounted to much the same reason as that which had motivated my own.

The mystery deepened one evening some weeks after my rise to command. As our off-duty day had fallen on the same time, Valkar suggested we attend the theater together, and I readily agreed.

Dressed in our best, the medallions of our rank pinned to our leathern tunics, we found a box in a lower tier of the King Gamelion, a theater of supreme prominence in Shondakor; indeed, the Gamelion was virtually a national shrine of the arts, and its position was not unlike that of the Comedie Francaise in Paris, or the National Theatre of Great Britain. The highest families of Shondakor attend its performance of the national classics, and although most of the warrior nobility of the realm had fled into exile with Darloona and Lord Yarrak, her uncle, there were of course certain nobles or aristocrats unable to leave due to age, illness, or infirmity. Hence the cream of that which remained of Shondakorian society attended the Gamelion, as well as the upper crust of the Chac Yuul command, who were themselves now the dominant social class.

The play that night was unknown to me, a verse tragedy called Parkand and Ylidore by the renowned poet, Sorasto, of an earlier generation. My acquaintance with Thanatorian literature was rudimentary, hence I was all the more eager to repair that lack, and greeted Valkar’s suggestion with enthusiasm.

I found the play an admirable work, not unlike some of the lesser dramas of Shakespeare, although the stilted dramatic vocabulary of an earlier epoch was somewhat difficult to follow.

Halfway during the first act, a stir went over the audience, and people turned to whisper to their companions, while casting a curious gaze at one of the boxes above. I turned to look, nudging Valkar, and froze with astonishment.

For there sat Darloona―my lost, loved Darloona!

She was pale but composed, and gorgeous in a gown of creamy lace with gems blazing at her throat. Accompanying her was a dark-faced, sardonic young man I had not seen before. He had a hard, mean look to his eyes, which were quick and cold and clever, and a thin-lipped mouth I did not like. His skin had the swarthiness of a pure-bred Chac Yuul, but his hair was sleek and black, inherited (I later learned) from his mother, a Zanadarian. He wore the most splendid uniform imaginable. It was a blaze of glittering decorations and gilt.

I paled, gasped, and bit my lip, glancing at my companion to see if he had noticed my sudden start.

To my utter amazement I saw that Valkar, too, had paled, going white to the lips, and that a strange emotion flamed in his grim cold eyes as he stared aloft at the Princess and her unknown escort.

The mystery deepened! And it was soon to deepen even more.

Busy with my thoughts, my mind a turmoil, I fear I paid scant attention to the remainder of the drama that evening, and to this hour I do not know whether the Masked Prince disclosed his identity to the magician Zarakandus in time to prevent Ylidore from marrying the wealthy merchant who had betrayed her intimacy with the landless warrior to the choleric baron into whose hands at all costs the mysterious letter must be prevented from falling.

But I suspect my own inattention went unnoticed, for Valkar himself seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts that evening.

After the theater we repaired to a better-class wineshop in the neighborhood to share a bottle. And there occurred an accident that only served to increase my curiosity regarding my friend. For the mystery of his background took a wholly new twist.

A serving girl by accident stumbled, spilling a goblet of wine on Valkar, splashing his face.

It was a trivial accident and he laughed aside the girl’s apologies, wiping the wine from his face with his scarf.

The accident would have gone unnoticed, had it not been for one small detail. I chanced to notice the kerchief as Valkar replaced it within his tunic: a smudge of dark tan substance discolored it.

Glancing at my friend, I noticed that the side of his face from which he had wiped the spilled wine now showed clear golden amber where before it had been dark tan.

A moment later, Valkar excused himself and left our booth to seek the sanitary facilities. Upon his return a moment later, the patch of clear golden skin was no longer evident.

I was intrigued, but kept my silence and made no comment, nor did I presume upon our friendship to pass a perhaps embarrassing question.

But I began to wonder why Valkar held a command in the Black Legion in disguise!

For he was no outcast half-breed as he had claimed.

The swarthy skin, which indicated Chac Yuul blood, and the black hair, which suggested Zanadarian parentage, had gone curiously with the emerald eyes of Shondakorian ancestry.

Now I suspected that beneath the false coloring of skin and hair, Valkar of Ganatol was a full-blooded Shondakorian.

But why the masquerade?

Who was Valkar?