Lin Carter - Tower Of The Medusa

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Tower of the Medusa
by Lin Carter
1. THE DEATH DWARVES
It was on Zha the Jungle Planet that the strange little yellow men with three
eyes finally caught up with the Earthman, Kirin.
They came at him in a muddy alleyway behind the Spaceman's Rest. It was a
stormy
night in the Month of Rains. Lightning flared in dark skies where the nine
moons
of Zha were veiled behind a turgid mass of vapors. Rain lashed the red
jungles
that hemmed in the little trading port the starmen had built in a raw
clearing.
It thundered on the sheet-plastic roofs of the equipment huts, the cabins,
the
store sheds, and turned the narrow twisting alleys between these buildings
into
glistening rivers of slick mud.
Out on the landing field, intermittent flares of lightning were mirrored on
the
glossy curving hulls of the merchant ships. They loomed up into the stormy
heavens like tapering steel projectiles. Wind whistled across the jet-baked
tarmac and shook the walls of the control installation that climbed on
stilt-like metal struts into the rainswept darkness.
Kirin was a tall man, lean and sinewy rather than burly. He had a dark,
secretive, mocking face, a sardonic smile and clever, sly black eyes. His
hair
was a curious dark red inherited from his Celtic father, while his Iberian
mother had perhaps contributed the swarthy tone of his skin. He was lithe,
supple, swift; nimble as any acrobat. Women found him devilishly attractive.
Beneath his ironic mask of mockery they sensed a cold, hard core of bitter
loneliness. It posed an irresistible challenge to their femininity: They
would
not be women if they did not long to melt that frozen bitterness. As yet,
none
had succeeded. Kirin had known many women. But he had never known love. Which
was just as well, considering the hazardous career which he pursued.
Kirin was a thief.
There were many like him in these dark, troublous days of the long
Interregnum
between the collapse of the Old Empire and the rise of the New. Man built
many
forms of society during his first three thousand years in space. The
strongest
had been the mighty Carina Empire. For six thousand years it had lasted, and
its
boundaries had included most of the stars in the Carina-Cygnus arm of the
galaxy. At last it crumbled from within, and yielded to the attack of the
Barbarians from the Rim. In flame and thunder it fell, man's greatest
experiment
in government. With it passed much of what is called civilization. Trade and
communications lapsed; commerce ebbed. World was cut off from world.
Technology
broke down and science became a jumble of half-forgotten formulas. Cluster by
cluster, the star worlds slid down into the red murk of barbarism. Magic was
reborn, built on the mysterious, micro-miniaturized instruments of the
legendary
Ancients, whose incredible machines, built to last for eternity, were
sensitized
to mental controls.
With the rebirth of magic, came witchcraft and superstition, and dark
nameless
cults and evil gods. It seemed, to bitter, disillusioned men like Kirin, that
civilization had failed—power lay with the cold, hard, unscrupulous men who
had
courage or strength or cunning enough to seize it. There were many like him
on
the Frontier Worlds—outlaws, adventurers, treasure hunters. Men who went
boldly
forward to take what they wanted.
It was said that things were on the mend. In this one-thousandth year of the
Interregnum it was now two centuries since Calastor broke the lingering
remnants
of the Rim Barbarians and founded the beginnings of the New Empire at
Valdamar.
For two hundred years the sons of Calastor had been busy. A dozen worlds of
the
Inner Stars were now leagued together under the banner of the Empire,
striving
to build civilization anew. From tattered books and aged computers,
half-forgotten sciences were being rediscovered. Men built starships again
for
the first time in a millennium. Commerce between the more settled and
peaceful
worlds had sprung up; lines of communication were being established. Perhaps
the
long decline was over, and a new day was dawning. Perhaps.
Kirin put no faith in dreams. He valued only material things he could see and
handle. Like jewels.
It was because of jewels that he was stuck here on Zha. He had been after the
fabulous Stardrop of Kandahar. There were only seven of them known to man,
and
six were in the crown of the Valdamar Emperor. The seventh was set in the
alabaster brow of an idol on Shuthab in the Dragon Stars. Kirin had been
after
it when he tripped an invisible alarm-ray and had to flee empty-handed with
half
the warriors of a dozen worlds howling at his heels. Then the Star Legions of
the Empire joined the thief hunt, for Shuthab was allied with Valdamar
although
not a member world of the Empire. He had to run fast and far to elude
pursuit;
in fact, he had run all the way to primitive Zha.
Here he had been holed up for the past three months, until the chase and
furor
died down and the Near Stars would be safe for him to venture in again. With
the
last of his funds he had purchased a hut and rental space on the landing
field
for his sleek little speedster. The first month or so had not been so bad. He
had gone hunting with the savage Zhayana, trekking through the red jungles on
the spoor of dragon cat and flying lions and the other exotic beasts of the
Jungle World. The twenty or so other starmen who shared the little trader's
encampment with him asked no questions and bothered him little. They were
used
to mysterious men with shadowy pasts.
But this rude life had long since begun to pall. Kirin was of too active and
inquiring a mind, too restless and footloose, to endure this dull existence
without boredom. By now he was sick of Zha and everything about it—sick of
the
little cluster of prefab huts in the raw little clearing hacked by lasers out
of
the sprawling jungles that covered most of the land surface of Zha—sick of
seeing the same hard faces and hearing the same dreary conversation. Even the
natives no longer intrigued him, the broad-shouldered, bronze-skinned
barbaric
warriors with grim eyes and startling manes of metallic crimson who brought
priceless dragonskins and mountain crystals and superb native scimitars of
ion-steel to trade for power guns and star-man's liquor and energy tools.
And now, on top of it all, the rainy season had come. The perpetual rains
that
lasted weeks on end had confined him to his cramped little hut on the edge of
the clearing and chained him to the companionship of a handful of dull
traders
and exporters. There was nothing to do but drink and gamble and sleep. Kirin
was
sick of it all.
But here, at least, he was safe. No pursuit could follow him here. Zha lay
far
beyond the limits of the New Empire, among the little known and half-explored
wilderness worlds of the frontier. Here beyond the border the monitors of
Valdamar had no authority, and the fanatic priesthood of Shuthab had no
followers. Here he could hide until he was forgotten. All he had to do was
keep
cool, watch his temper, and endure stolidly the stinking mud, the endless
rains,
the vile liquor and the dull company. Another month should do it. If I can
last
another month, he thought.
They were waiting for him in the alley behind the port's only bar, a shed
called
Spaceman's Rest. There were four of them and they came at him without a word,
lunging through the roiling mists, eyes glittering like snakes.
They almost had him in that first half-second, for he was dull-witted from an
evening spent hunched over a rear table nursing a bottle of that fiery purple
brandy the Eophim distill from the wine-apples of Valthomé. When he reached
his
limit he paid his bill, drew the hooded weather cloak about his broad
shoulders,
snapped on the rain-repelling power field, and stepped out into the oily muck
of
the street, shoulders hunched against the cold drizzle. His mind was lax and
befuddled and the last thing in the universe he expected was to be attacked.
But Kirin the thief had not survived this long on the rough Frontier Worlds
without developing hair-trigger senses. As the four shadowy figures lunged at
him through the fog, he sprang back with a grunt of surprise and tossed back
a
fold of his cloak to clear his gun hand. The little power gun appeared out of
nowhere, so swiftly did he draw. They paid it no attention.
Strange little men they were, surely no monitors from Valdamar, and as unlike
the scaly-skinned Reptile Men of Shuthab as could be. They were short,
scarcely
more than four feet tall, built squat and bowlegged, with sallow yellow skins
and three black eyes set triangle-wise in their little ugly faces. They
snarled
and spat at him as they struck.
He fired. A spear of blinding radiance caught one full in the chest and sent
him
reeling away to thud against a wall and slide down into the mud, blackened
and
tattered and reeking of cooked meat. Then his beam accounted for a second of
the
dwarfed assassins. Its head vanished in a flare of light with a sound such as
a
giant might make if he clapped his huge hands once.
Then they were at him like snarling hounds worrying a tiger. They were not
armed
with energy weapons nor with swords, but carried curious little rods of ebony
or
some smooth slick black wood about eighteen inches long, knobbed at both ends.
They were very adept at the use of these strange weapons.
One laid his rod along Kirin's wrist with a flickering stroke like that of a
striking serpent. The blow seemed only to graze his skin but the shock of the
blow numbed him from wrist to shoulder. His power gun fell spinning from
fingers
suddenly strengthless. It clattered and clanged against muddy cobbles and he
was
unarmed.
But not entirely helpless. He was a tall man, lean and hard. He had long
sinewy
arms and tough scarred fists, and he knew how to use them. He had fought for
his
life many times in his far-ranging career of crime, and he knew every trick
of
in-fighting ever invented by human ingenuity—especially the dirty ones. He
kneed
one snarling little dwarf in the gut and knocked the other aside with a
shrewd
blow of the flat of his hand against the side of the throat. The dwarf's neck
broke with an audible snap, like a rotten branch underfoot, and the snarling
thing slid down in the muck.
Two were dead and two were down, and Kirin stood there in the rain panting,
feeling tingles run through his paralyzed arm. It hung there at his side like
dead meat and he wondered if it were broken. He bent to snatch up the power
gun
that had fallen from his benumbed hand. He bent just in time to avoid being
brained by one of the knobbed ebony rods. As it was it slammed against his
temple with stunning force, it sent red flares of bright agony lancing
through
his brain. He staggered, almost fell, lurched to his feet and looked around.
There were more of them coming down the alley. Nine of them!
He ran, and that was the first mistake. He should have ducked back in the
bar,
but there was no time to think. He just let instinct take over, and ran for
his
life. Boots thudding through the slop underfoot, gasping for breath, he
pelted
down the misty street to an intersection. He paused and took a swift,
all-encompassing glance around. His dire forebodings proved true. They were
coming at him from three directions now, and there were about two dozen of
them.
They came loping through the seething fog like hunting-hounds, silent and
deadly, the knobbed batons glistening in their fists.
He turned and ran down the street. The little grading port was not very large,
a
score of huts at the most. At this time of the month it was largely
deserted—a
few men were snoring in their cabins, but most of the others were back in the
Spaceman's Rest, boozing it up. If he were to yell his lungs out they could
not
hear, not with the cold rain sleeting down, drumming on the roofs, and the
bellowing rumble of thunder.
He was alone, and, in a few minutes, he discovered he was trapped.
So he turned and fought. He snapped up a length of fallen pipe from a
tarpaulin-covered pile near a supply shed. He set his broad back up against
the
rear wall of a large store shed and fought them with everything he had. The
long
pipe was heavy. Dull steel glistened wetly down its length. It made a
terrible
weapon. With every blow it killed or maimed. In no time at all, it seemed,
seven
or eight twisted little corpses lay in the rain, crimsoning the mud.
The dwarfed assassins drew back from the swing of the terrible steel weapon
that
now glittered wetly red for half its length. He stood against the wall and
let
the red haze drain from before his eyes and tried to discover the secret of
breathing again. One of the deadly knobbed rods had taken him in the solar
plexus and his lungs were on fire with the lust for air.
He knew it was only a matter of time. He was far away from the cabins now.
There
was nothing on these streets but locked sheds and the landing field that lay
beyond. He could see the hulls of the ships towering into the murky sky. His
own
little cruiser was among them. If he could reach it, he would have an
impregnable fortress to protect him, for the little flying sticks could not
get
through a thirteen-inch hull-plate of ion-bathed steel. If…
Out of the fog a knobbed ebony rod flew. He jerked his head aside but a
little
too late. It smacked the side of his jaw with stunning force. The blow
snapped
his head back and made stars dance before his eyes. He fell and the steel
pipe
rang against the cobbles and rolled out of reach.
Then they came at him again, silent and deadly as panthers. His boot-heel
caught
one full in the belly. The little monster fell backwards in the slop, gagging
and spitting. Three more sprang at his throat. One he slew with a swift
jabbing
blow to the nerve-clump just below the base of the skull behind the ear—a
stroke
with stiffened fingers he had learned years ago from a Ghadorian nerve killer
he
met on Shimar in the Dragon Stars.
But more came at him through the mists. He fought them with everything he
had.
Never had he battled so desperately, not even that time the murderous priests
of
Zodah trapped him in the act of stealing the tiara of their harlot queen. But
the little men with three eyes were the most deadly adversaries he had ever
faced. They fought in utter silence with a grace and skill and economy of
strength that was astonishing.
Then he knew them for what they were—trained killers! Members of the weird
assassin cult of Pelizon across the cluster from Zha.
The Death Dwarves!
Then, somehow, he was out in the open again. He had fought his way through
them
and the street lay open before him. He ran again, knee-high boots slipping on
muddy cobbles, for the space field, and the safety of his ship.
And he almost made it.
A knobbed rod caught him in the back of the skull with staggering force and
he
went down on his face in the mud. This time he knew he could not rise in
time,
to turn and face them again. This was the end. Oddly, the thing that nagged
at
him was not the fact of death, but a question—why? Why were the little men
from
Pelizon after him? He had never been on Pelizon in his life, or near it for
that
matter. And even the fanatics of Shuthab, raving for his blood, could not
purchase the service of the Death Dwarves. They fought only for their dark
gods.
They killed only the foes of those gods. Why, then, kill him?
They were almost on him when a shadowy figure loomed out of the mist to
confront
them. One yellow claw-like hand was at his throat when the mysterious figure
stepped forward and intervened. Even as the little dwarf bent over the fallen
Kirin, three black eyes glinting with malignant fires, the deadly rod poised
for
the death-stroke, a slender ivory wand came flickering through the driving
rain
to brush gently against the dwarf's supple wrist.
It was a light, glancing blow. But it was enough. Suddenly the dwarf sucked
in
his breath like a hissing serpent and snatched back a hand. Kirin could see
the
agony in the three eyes. Scalding agony, as if the hand had suddenly been
dipped
full to the wrist in a beaker of molten lead.
The others fell back before that dancing ivory wand. For a long moment the
stranger held them at bay while he reached down, puffing with exertion, and
hauled the exhausted, groggy Earthman to his feet.
"That way—my ship," Kirin panted. They backed up, the stranger half-dragging
and
half-supporting Kirin as his stumbling legs sagged under his weight.
The dwarves came forward through the mist in an ominous ring, circling them
and
the ship.
Kirin yelled the recognition code and the airlock swung open. He lurched into
it.
"Come on," he grunted.
Then a hail of flying rods hurtled into them. Thudding blows that caught them
and pummeled them mercilessly. The stranger went sprawling on the slick wet
tarmac of the field, out cold with an ugly red bruise above one eye.
Afterwards, Kirin never quite remembered how he managed to drag his unknown
rescuer in after him and seal the doors. Things were dark and confused for
quite
some time thereafter. Then they got darker. In fact, he was out cold.
2. DOCTOR TEMUJIN
He woke to glowing lights and a thrumming vibration. He and the other man lay
in
the lock bay but the lock was sealed and they were safe. He lay there
groggily,
listening for the thud of knobbed blows against the hull, but he heard only
the
drone of the drive.
"All right, what the hell have you done?" he asked of empty air. A mechanical
voice answered from the wall voder.
"Since you were obviously under attack and were in no condition to issue
orders
personally, Prime Directive alpha-1 went into effect," the ship replied in
pleasant, even tones. "I am instructed to protect you and myself on my own
initiative, under such circumstances—"
"I know all that," Kirin growled, lurching unsteadily to his feet. "What did
you
do?"
"I sealed up and lifted off planet into a stable orbit two miles aloft," the
ship answered. "You and your companion are in need of medical attention; the
cabinet is to your—"
"I know where it is," Kirin grunted, heading for it. "Mix drinks. Use your
own
initiative."
While the ship busied itself with that delicate task, Kirin activated the
robot
medical system and dragged his still-nameless rescuer out of the bay to a
more
comfortable position within reach of the cabinet. While extensible metal
instruments probed cuts, swabbed wounds and treated bruises, he took a good
long
look at the stranger and was puzzled not to recognize him.
He was short and fat and bald as an egg, with tufted brows and an enormous
set
of bandit-mustachios that gave his fat-jowled red face a piratical look even
in
repose. It was hard to tell how old he was but old enough, surely, to be
Kirin's
father, except that he wasn't Kirin's father.
The cabinet gave him a whiff of stimulant that woke him up and Kirin saw that
he
had mild twinkling blue eyes. And when he opened his mouth, wincing at the
assorted cuts and bruises that adorned his physiognomy—to say nothing of the
hefty lump above his left eye—Kirin was amused to discover the fellow had an
admirable command of invective.
A glastic panel snapped up in the wall, exposing two tumblers of an amber
fluid.
Ice cubes tinkled enticingly therein as a pressor beam wafted the two
containers
within reach.
"Lacking specific directives, but cognizant of your tastes in alcoholic
beverages, I took the liberty of mixing—" the ship began.
"Dry up!" Kirin snapped. Then as the stranger ogled him, he grinned. "Not
you—my
loudmouth robot ship. Here, wrap yourself around a little of this." He handed
the other a tumbler and watched as the level of the amber fluid descended
swiftly.
"Ah!" his companion remarked after a bit. "Although forbidden by my vows,
save
for medicinal purposes, that hit the spot!" A more comfortable expression
settled over the fat red face and the blue eyes twinkled jovially.
"If this mechanical Aesculapius is quite finished ministering to my bodily
needs, I might remark that your yonder pneumo looks a mite more comfortable
than
this deck . . ." said the stranger tentatively. Kirin helped the fat little
man
to his feet and guided him to one of the two pneumatic chairs in the cabin
before the curved control console where lights twinkled softly. The little
man
settled back with a sigh, shrugging out of his weather cloak. Which reminded
Kirin he was still wearing his own. In fact, the repellor field was still on
and
laboring valiantly to repel air-born moisture, of which there was none. He
snapped the field off and tossed the cloak aside: the ship would hang it up.
"Excellent, excellent!" the little man puffed, nodding about. Kirin was
unsure
as to whether the remark concerned the ship or the drink. Then the other
settled
the question by remarking, "For a thief, friend Kirin, you travel in style
and
comfort. Yes, indeed!"
Kirin was suddenly cold and alert. If the fat, smiling little man noticed the
sudden chill in the atmosphere he did not show it.
"You seem to have the advantage of me, sir," Kirin said. He lounged in the
pneumatic chair, his hand a hair's-breadth from a hidden energy gun clipped
under the console.
"Of course, how stupid of me! Temujin, Doctor Temujin," the fat man huffed
and
wheezed, making a sketchy little bow which looked absurd when performed from
a
sitting position. "I wonder if this admirable mechanism of yours could
possibly—ah—?" he hinted, tapping his empty tumbler suggestively, tufted
brows
elevated inquiringly.
"Sure. Ship! Two more of the same."
Doctor Temujin fixed him with a shrewd, twinkling little eye.
"You will be wondering how I know you, sir."
"Something of that nature had crossed my mind," Kirin admitted. "Together with
a
few other questions…" Temujin nodded, accepting another drink.
"Those ugly little monsters were Death Dwarves from Pelizon," the little man
puffed. He dipped into the tumbler and drank thirstily. When he came up for
air,
he said, "They came to Zha to slay you; I came to save your life. Alas, I was
almost too late for the appointment… and I believe, sir, you ended up by
saving
mine."
Kirin's cold eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Since I have never had occasion to
visit Pelizon, I fail to understand how I have earned the enmity of the Death
Dwarves," he said slowly. "And for that matter, I am a bit puzzled as to how
you
knew of my danger or why you concerned yourself with it."
The other drained the tumbler and set it down with a little grunt of
satisfaction. He settled back in his pneumatic chair, folded his hands
comfortably over his fat middle, and beamed at Kirin with twinkling eyes that
flashed under tufted brows.
"You are the most notorious and celebrated jewel thief in the Near Stars," he
said mildly. It was a statement, not a question. "It was Kirin of Tellus who
stole the Nine Diamonds of Pharvis from the dragon-guarded citadel beside the
Flaming Sea. It was you who carried off the tiara of the harlot Queen of
Zodah,
a trifle composed of eleven thousand matched fire-rubies, worth an emperor's
ransom. That one was not so easy. You left eleven corpses behind you, but you
were unharmed. And once, on Mnom the Dark World, you laughingly boasted you
could steal the Twin Moons of Urnadon out of the skies, if somebody was
willing
to pay you a good enough price for them. Am I correct?"
"Very," Kirin said softly. He was relaxed but wary. The little fat man
grinned
suddenly, plump cheeks wobbling.
"I am no monitor, if that's what you're thinking! Space, no! In fact, I—uh—in
my
secular days before I joined the Order, I was, ahem, a bit of a thief myself
over on Onaldus and Nar." The doctor sighed nostalgically. "Ah, lad, those
were
the days…"
"Keep going," Kirin said.
"Hem! Well then. I came to Zha not only to keep those vile little monsters
from
scragging you, but to make you a proposition. I want you to steal something
for
me. A treasure. A jewel, in fact. It is very well and cunningly guarded, and
the
task requires a man of your calibre and adeptness. The jewel is on the planet
Pelizon, where it is watched and guarded by the Death Dwarves, who regard it
as
a holy object. Somehow the cunning devils learned of our—of my—intent, and,
to
forestall it, planned to assassinate you so the jewel could not be stolen. I
came to Zha to protect you from them. Unfortunately, I came by a freighter. I
bought passage with the trader Baphomer. He has a slow ship and I was almost
too
late…"
Kirin digested this in silence. On the surface, at least, it made sense. But
underneath, lay large unanswered questions.
"Temujin… Doctor Temujin, I believe you said. Doctor of what? And where
exactly
are you from?"
Temujin pursed his lips unhappily.
"I was rather hoping you would not ask that question," he wheezed, "but I am
permitted to answer it. I am a doctor of the Minor Thaumaturgies and I am
from
Trevelon."
Trevelon? Curiouser and curiouser! Kirin had heard of that distant mysterious
world. The "Planet of Philosophers," they called it in the Near Stars. But
Kirin
knew the grey sages of Trevelon were reputed to be more magicians than
philosophers. They of Trevelon were masters of the lesser magics and meddled
not
at all with the doings of the worlds about them. They did not encourage
visits
and they never visited other worlds themselves. How odd, then, that the
Master
Mages of Trevelon should become embroiled in thievery, secret treasures and
murder…
"Thaumaturgy," he grunted. "Then you are yourself a magician?"
Temujin preened his piratical mustachios and nodded.
"Aye, but the least and lowest of the mages," he confessed. "A few small
talents, nothing more…"
Kirin said, "Well, if you people know my reputation you must also know that I
am
a lone wolf. I work on my own; I never accept assignments."
Temujin nodded unhappily.
"Exactly what I told the Elder Brothers," he puffed. "But they pointed out
that
you should be badly in need of funds by now and probably spoiling for some
action after three months of rotting in the jungles of Zha. They instructed
me
to give you this—" He undipped a fat purse from his waistband and tossed it
over
to Kirin, who caught it and pulled the drawstring. A pool of glittering fire
poured out into his cupped palm. He sucked in his breath just a little.
Pyroliths! The fabulous pyroliths of Chandala were rare and precious… and
there
were enough of the self-luminous firestones in that bag to purchase a
princedom!
"—And this," Temujin wheezed, handing over a sheaf of thick parchment, folded
many times. The crisp paper crackled as Kirin opened the sheets and leafed
through them curiously.
"The jewel we are after is called the Medusa," Temujin wheezed, settling
back.
"It is concealed within a structure called the Iron Tower which lies amidst
the
barren wastes of the uplands, guarded by a maze of traps and deadfalls. We
have,
over centuries, and at frightful labor, obtained very precise and complete
blueprints of the Tower. As you can see from those drawings, there is one
safe
route through the obstacles and hazards. It is clearly marked in red. There
will
be no danger. No danger at all…"
Kirin had to admit that everything looked to be in order. If the blueprints
were
correct, it should be child's play to penetrate the magical defenses of the
Iron
Tower and steal the Medusa for the philosophers of Trevelon. The price was
munificent and the project sounded exciting. But there were still a few
unanswered questions that bothered him.
If it was so simple and easy, why did the Master Mages hire his services for
so
princely a fee, instead of performing the theft themselves? And for that
matter,
what was the Medusa anyway, and why did the Mages want it?
The softly modulated voice of the ship interrupted his thoughts.
"I have been under attack for the past 12.03 seconds," the ship observed
calmly.
Kirin jumped, spilled his drink, snarled a curse, and rapped: "What kind of
an
attack?"
"Energy weapons," the ship murmured. "Two spaceships are in orbit with me. My
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