It
was an easy climb. Once a pair of Groaci heads appeared over the balcony rail
above, but they drew back quickly. The wall was deeply carved, and the stout
vines provided ample hand-and foot-holds. It was less than ten minutes before
Retief swung down and dropped the last few feet into a mass of unpruned
shrubbery from which he emerged in an avenue of marble mansions like abandoned
funeral homes. The two pale moons of Sulinore came from behind a cloud and
shone down ghostly white. Something small and dark flitted overhead, emitting
thin cries. Far away, a mournful wail sounded. Retief set off at a brisk walk,
his footsteps echoing hollowly on the worn mosaics that paved the way.
Ahead,
a lofty obelisk reared up. The inscription, nearly effaced by time, seemed to
commemorate a battle fought with giants. At the next corner, the carved heads
of ogres peered blindly down at him from an ornate cornice. He passed a
fountain, dry and silent, where finned and tailed maidens of stone disported
themselves amid marble waves. The dank wind blew dead leaves along the street.
As Retief paused, a sound as of small feet pattered for a moment, then fell
silent.
"Come
on out," Retief called. "There's some news you ought to hear."
There
was a ghostly laughter—or perhaps it was only the wind, searching among the
fluted columns of a temple. Retief went on. Rounding an abrupt angle, he caught
a glimpse of movement—a darting shape that disappeared into a gaping doorway.
He followed, found himself in a hall, open to the sky. From its walls, giant
frescoed figures stared down with empty eyes.
"I
need a guide," Retief called. "Any volunteers?"
"Tears
... tears ... tears," the echoes rolled back from every side.
"There's
a small matter of an invasion to deal with right now."
"Now
... now ... now ..." the sound faded and died, and as if the word were a
signal, a creak sounded from the high doors through which Retief had entered.
He
spun in time to see them clash shut with a dull
boom
that echoed and
re-echoed. He went to them, found them jammed tight, immovable. He turned back
to the interior of the roofless room. A wide passage was visible at the rear. Skirting
a black pool that reflected a shattered moon, he entered the passage, emerged
after twenty paces on a terrace above a flight of wide, shallow steps. Below a
dark and wild-grown park spread out, a wilderness of untrimmed shrubs and
lofty, black-leaved trees.
He
descended to the foot-high sward; soft rustlings from the shadows retreated as
he advanced along a weed-obscured path winding among the buttressed trunks of
patriarchal trees. Carved faces leered at him from the shadows. The eerie
shapes of stone monsters gleamed through the unpruned foliage. He emerged onto
a broad mall along the center of which a double rank of what appeared to be
painted statues of heroic size were drawn up along an aisle that led away into
the night. Near at hand, a small collonaded shrine was almost hidden among the
low-sweeping boughs of a giant conifer. Silently, Retief approached the
building from the side.
Through
a latticed opening, faint moonlight fell on the vine-entwined effigy of an
oversized Sulinorian in the armor of an ancient warrior. In the darkness behind
the graven hero, something moved minutely. Retief tossed a pebble through the
window, flattened himself against the wall by the doorway. A moment later, a
head poked cautiously from the entry—and Retief's hand clamped on the slender
Sulinorian neck.
"Pardon
my interrupting the game," he said. "But it's time we had a
talk."
"The
price of entrance into the Sacred Grove of Heroes is death, Terran!" the
tenor voice of the alien shrilled.
"So
I understand," Retief said holding his catch at arm's length to avoid the
wildly kicking feet. "However, my little intrusion is nothing compared
with what the Groaci have scheduled. Maybe you'd better listen to what I have
to say before you carry out the sentence."
"Tomorrow
is nothing; the past is all," the Sulinorian declaimed. "Why struggle
against Destiny, outworlder?"
"We
can give destiny a run for her money if you'll spread the word that I need a
few hundred able-bodied Sulinorians to distract the Groaci patrols long enough
for me to get through to the Terry Embassy—"
"Offer
your final devotions to your gods, man of Terra," the Sulinorian cut in.
"Your fate is sealed."
"You're
consistent, I'll concede that," Retief said. "it looks as though I'll
have to look a little farther for a public-spirited citizen." He released
the native, who jerked his varicolored toga straight and faced him defiantly.
"Not
so, Terran!" The local folded his knobby arms. "Never will you leave
these hallowed precincts!"
Rustlings
sounded behind Retief. He turned. From every shadowed clump of shrubbery, a
Sulinorian emerged; light winked from the foot long stilettos in their hands.
Silently, the ring of aliens closed in. Retief backed to the shrine, unlimbered
the blast rifle, swung it to cover the throng which halted, facing him.
"Welcome
to the party," he said. "Now that we've got a quorum, maybe we'll get
somewhere."
"You
outrage the glorious past, Terran," a wizened Sulinorian quavered, staring
up at Retief. "You heap outrage on outrage!"
"The
outrage the Groaci are planning is the one I'm concerned with," Retief
said. "You people don't seem to care much, but from the Terry viewpoint,
it might set an unfortunate precedent for other budding empire-builders."
"Terry,
gone are the days when we of Sulinore were mighty warriors. If now it falls our
lot to die, we face our fate in dignity."
"There's
nothing dignified about being scragged by the Groaci, or strung up by the heels
by a platoon of Blugs," Retief cut in. "I hear they have a curious
sense of humor when it comes to dealing with anyone who's proved his
inferiority by getting conquered by them."
"Kill
this alien at once, isn't it?" a scratchy-voiced Sulinorian in the front
rank called. "After, everybody die nicely, as scheduled."
"Enough
talk," the elderly Sulinorian declared.
"Let
the disturber of the sleep of heroes suffer the penalty!"
The
Sulinorians eyed the gun in Retief's hands, shuffled their feet. No one
advanced.
"Maybe
you'd better call the penalty off," Retief suggested. "Then you can divert
your righteous indignation into doing something about the invasion."
"Hmmmm."
The elderly spokesman beckoned to a couple of his fellows; they put their heads
together.
"We
have decided," the oldster stated as the conference ended, "that the
matter must be referred to the Old Ones for decision." He raised a
trembling hand. "Not that we fear to fall under your murderous weapon,
Terran—but it is a death which lacks elegance." He waved a hand and an
avenue opened up through the dense ranks of armed locals.
"Terran,
I give you temporary safe-conduct and the honor of confrontation with the
Ancient Lords of Sulinore, who will themselves dispose of this case. Come, if
you fear not!"
"Fair
enough," Retief said. "When you want fast action, there's nothing
like going direct to the top brass. Where do we find them?"
"Behold
the Lords of Sulinore!" the ancient piped feebly. The locals made sweeping
bows to the ranks of still figures about them. Retief inclined his head
respectfully .
"They
cut an impressive figure," he said. "I'll be interested to see how
they go about dealing with the problem at hand."
"Simplicity
itself," the old Sulinorian said. "One waft of the sacred incense,
and a faint shadow of their vanished vitality will energize them. Then will
they hear our pleas and hand down justice in the ancient way."
Retief
walked slowly along the row of motionless effigies, noting the worn trappings,
the realistically scarred limbs and fierce visages, the tarnished armor of the
ancient warriors. In spite of their size and varied forms, all bore some
resemblance to the shrunken Sulinorians who followed, silent and awed.
"Once
the races of Sulinore were many," the ancient said as he noticed Reliefs
questing gaze. "And mighty was their prowess.
"There
stands Zobriale the Intense, Requiter of Wrongs. Beyond, we see proud
Valingrave, victor at Har and Jungulon and Spagetwraithe. Here—" he
indicated the modest crypt "—behold the shrine of Bozdune the Restial,
known also as Bozdune the Baresark, of ferocious memory. And there—" he
pointed to a four-legged barrel-chested creature with a typical Sulinorian
torso and head "—stand the mortal remains of Great Tussore, he who
single-handed vanquished the hordes of Doss, on a world so distant that even
now the sunlight of his day of battle has not yet reached the face of
Sulinore!"
"He
looks like a tough boy," Retief commented. "Too bad he's not still
around. He might take a dim view of the way things are going."
"Did
I not say Mighty Tussore would give his judgment? Aye, and Cranius the August,
and Maglodore the Swift, and Belgesion, and Vare, and High Pranthippo, King of
Kings—"
"A
most august assemblage," Retief conceded. "But they seem a rather
taciturn group."
"You
jape at the Lords of Sulinore, Terran?" The oldster drew himself up, made
an imperious gesture. A pair of locals nearly as old as himself came forward,
bearing a large case which they placed on the grass, opening the lid. Inside
was a cylindrical tank fitted with valve and a coil of flexible plastic tubing.
The dodderer lifted the nozzle of the hose, advanced to the pedestal on which
the centauroid stood.
"Awaken,
Great Tussore!" he cried in his cracked voice. "Rouse from thy long
dreams to render judgment on one who comes unbidden to the Place of
Heroes!" He raised the hose and waved it under the flared nostrils. Retief
heard a faint hiss of escaping gas.
"Give
us of thy ancient wisdom, as in days of old, O Tussore," the old fellow
exhorted. He shoved the hose closer. "Almost is the sacred effluvium
exhausted," he muttered. "I'll bet a pretty some of these backsliders
have been tapping it on the sly."
Suddenly
one pointed ear of the statue twitched. The flared nostrils quivered. The
eyelids fluttered. As Retief watched the lips parted.
"Glop,"
the mighty figure said, and fell silent. "Drat it, what a time for the
tank to run out," someone beside Retief muttered.
"How
does he work it?" Retief inquired softly as the Keeper of the Sacred Fumes
waved the hose agitatedly, vainly invoking the unmoving demigod.
"We
work nothing, interloper," the Sulinorian said sullenly. "A good shot
of sacred gas, and their metabolism starts ticking over fast enough to start
them talking, that's all."
Abruptly
Tussore stirred again. "The devil take the blackguards," a deep voice
suddenly rumbled from his chest. "Where's my greaves? Where's my fetlock
powder? Where's my confounded mace? Blast that butter-fingered squire ..."
"Great
Tussore, wake from thy dreams!" The hosewielder redoubled his efforts.
"Hear me! Even now there stands in our midst a stranger who violates the
honored rest of the Lords of Sulinore with his presence!"
"Oh
... it's you, Therion," Tussore mumbled. His eyes were open now, bleary
and dull. "You look terrible. Been a long time, I guess. And it's not the
stranger who disturbs my rest—it's you, with your infernal babbling!" He
reached, plucked the hose from the oldster's hand, jammed it under his nose,
drew a deep breath. "Ahhhh! That's what the doctor ordered."