Enchantress of Venus
Copyright© 2024 by Leigh Brackett
Chapter 4
The street was empty. Nothing showed, nothing stirred anywhere. Stark leaned over and pulled the girl to her feet, drawing her in under the shelter of the thatched eaves.
“Now then,” he said. “Suppose you stop crying and tell me what this is all about.”
Presently, between gulps and hiccoughs, he got the story out of her.
“I am Zareth,” she said. “Malthor’s daughter. He’s afraid of you, because of what you did to him on the ship, so he ordered me to watch for you in the square, when you would come out of the tavern. Then I was to follow you, and...”
She broke off, and Stark patted her shoulder. “Go on.”
But a new thought had occurred to her. “If I do, will you promise not to beat me, or...” She looked at his gun and shivered.
“I promise.”
She studied his face, what she could see of it in the darkness, and then seemed to lose some of her fear.
“I was to stop you. I was to say what I’ve already said, about being Malthor’s daughter and the rest of it, and then I was to say that he wanted me to lead you into an ambush while pretending to help you escape, but that I couldn’t do it, and would help you to escape anyhow because I hated Malthor and the whole business about the Lost Ones. So you would believe me, and follow me, and I would lead you into the ambush.”
She shook her head and began to cry again, quietly this time, and there was nothing of the woman about her at all now. She was just a child, very miserable and afraid. Stark was glad he had branded Malthor.
“But I can’t lead you into the ambush. I do hate Malthor, even if he is my father, because he beats me. And the Lost Ones...” She paused. “Sometimes I hear them at night, chanting way out there beyond the mist. It is a very terrible sound.”
“It is,” said Stark. “I’ve heard it. Who are the Lost Ones, Zareth?”
“I can’t tell you that,” said Zareth. “It’s forbidden even to speak of them. And anyway,” she finished honestly, “I don’t even know. People disappear, that’s all. Not our own people of Shuruun, at least not very often. But strangers like you—and I’m sure my father goes off into the swamps to hunt among the tribes there, and I’m sure he comes back from some of his voyages with nothing in his hold but men from some captured ship. Why, or what for, I don’t know. Except I’ve heard the chanting.”
“They live out there in the gulf, do they, the Lost Ones?”
“They must. There are many islands there.”
“And what of the Lhari, the Lords of Shuruun? Don’t they know what’s going on? Or are they part of it?”
She shuddered, and said, “It’s not for us to question the Lhari, nor even to wonder what they do. Those who have are gone from Shuruun, nobody knows where.”
Stark nodded. He was silent for a moment, thinking. Then Zareth’s little hand touched his shoulder.
“Go,” she said. “Lose yourself in the swamps. You’re strong, and there’s something about you different from other men. You may live to find your way through.”
“No. I have something to do before I leave Shuruun.” He took Zareth’s damp fair head between his hands and kissed her on the forehead. “You’re a sweet child, Zareth, and a brave one. Tell Malthor that you did exactly as he told you, and it was not your fault I wouldn’t follow you.”
“He will beat me anyway,” said Zareth philosophically, “but perhaps not quite so hard.”
“He’ll have no reason to beat you at all, if you tell him the truth—that I would not go with you because my mind was set on going to the castle of the Lhari.”
There was a long, long silence, while Zareth’s eyes widened slowly in horror, and the rain beat on the thatch, and fog and thunder rolled together across Shuruun.
“To the castle,” she whispered. “Oh, no! Go into the swamps, or let Malthor take you—but don’t go to the castle!” She took hold of his arm, her fingers biting into his flesh with the urgency of her plea. “You’re a stranger, you don’t know ... Please, don’t go up there!”
“Why not?” asked Stark. “Are the Lhari demons? Do they devour men?” He loosened her hands gently. “You’d better go now. Tell your father where I am, if he wishes to come after me.”
Zareth backed away slowly, out into the rain, staring at him as though she looked at someone standing on the brink of hell, not dead, but worse than dead. Wonder showed in her face, and through it a great yearning pity. She tried once to speak, and then shook her head and turned away, breaking into a run as though she could not endure to look upon Stark any longer. In a second she was gone.
Stark looked after her for a moment, strangely touched. Then he stepped out into the rain again, heading upward along the steep path that led to the castle of the Lords of Shuruun.
The mist was blinding. Stark had to feel his way, and as he climbed higher, above the level of the town, he was lost in the sullen redness. A hot wind blew, and each flare of lighting turned the crimson fog to a hellish purple. The night was full of a vast hissing where the rain poured into the gulf. He stopped once to hide his gun in a cleft between the rocks.
At length he stumbled against a carven pillar of black stone and found the gate that hung from it, a massive thing sheathed in metal. It was barred, and the pounding of his fists upon it made little sound.
Then he saw the gong, a huge disc of beaten gold beside the gate. Stark picked up the hammer that lay there, and set the deep voice of the gong rolling out between the thunder-bolts.
A barred slit opened and a man’s eyes looked out at him. Stark dropped the hammer.
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