Chack sneered. “The devils are pretending to be human to catch us off guard, just as the King warned. I say we should kill the monsters now.” There was a rumble of approval from others in the group.
“Listen to me,” Surgenor said urgently, fixing his gaze on the man called Harld. “We are ordinary men, just like you. The fact that we speak the same language proves it. We came to this world in a starship—just as you or your ancestors must have done …”
“Lies!” Chack bellowed. “There is only one language, and all must speak it. Our people have always lived here, and these creatures couldn’t have come from the sky, because the moons and the stars are all controlled by King Garadan. The devils are trying to confuse us—I say we have to finish them now.”
Several of the group started forward, raising their spears, but they drew back when Harld leaped into the centre of the circle. “I am the leader of this hunting party, and I will decide what must be done.”
“We await your decision, great leader,” a third man said sarcastically.
“I …” Harld gazed uncertainly at Surgenor and Targett. “Bind their hands. We will take them to the King.”
Two of the group immediately took cords from their waist pouches, knelt down and tied the captives’ wrists together behind their backs. Surgenor was relieved to find that the paralysing weakness was beginning to leave his limbs, but there was little comfort in the discovery. It appeared that the little colony of shipwreck survivors on Korrill IV had been there long enough, perhaps well over a hundred years, to have forgotten all about their origins and to have degenerated into barbarism. And he did not look forward to meeting Garadan, their so-called king, who seemed to rule through superstition, fear and cruelty.
Several of the men raised Surgenor and Targett to their feet, laughing at the way in which they staggered and swayed on drug-weakened legs, then the entire group moved off down the slope. It was already growing dusk in the narrow valley and the racing varicoloured moons visibly changed position overhead, but Surgenor could not appreciate the eerie beauty of the scene. The green valley which had looked so enticing at first sight was now filled with menace, the promise of death.
“There’s one good thing,” Targett whispered as he stumbled along at Surgenor’s side. “They didn’t take our ultralasers—they mustn’t have recognised them as weapons.”
“I doubt if that’s going to make much difference,” Surgenor replied. “The characters who tied us up knew what they were doing. My hands are numb already.”
“Does that mean we’ve nothing going for us at all?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I took the precaution of wearing a communicorder—so Aesop can see and hear everything that’s happening to us.”
“Are you sure it’s working?” Targett glanced doubtfully at the button-like device on Surgenor’s lapel. “Aesop hasn’t said anything.”
“That’s because he isn’t stupid,” Surgenor said. “How long would we last in this company with a ghost voice? You can take it that Aesop knows what’s going on.”
“I don’t see what difference that makes,” Targett replied gloomily. “He can’t bring the ship down here because of all those damned moons, and he can’t use heavy weaponry from orbit without vaporising us as well.”
“We’ll have to trust Aesop to come up with something—that’s his job.” Surgenor tried to sound optimistic, concealing his unease at having to trust his life to the resourcefulness of a distant and artificial intelligence. It was a situation which had occurred more than once during his years in the Cartographical Service, but he was never going to get used to it.
“Aesop? Who is this Aesop you speak of?” The voice was that of Harld, who had moved closer to Surgenor as they negotiated a bend in the tricky downwards path.
Surgenor decided against trying to explain that Aesop was an intelligent machine. “He is the captain of our starship.”
Harld glanced around, making sure he was not overheard. “Just before he died my father told me a strange story. He said our people had come to this valley in a ship which fell from the sky. He warned me not to repeat the story, because the King would be angry. I thought nothing more of it until I heard you talk of similar things, then I began to wonder …”
“We told you the truth,” Surgenor whispered. “We’re not devils. We are men and we can help your people. We can bring you food and clothing and medicine. You must let us return to our ship.”
Harld shook his head. “I dare not go against King Garadan. He is all-seeing and all-powerful.”
“He is only a man. We can protect you from him.”
“Nobody can do that,” Harld said. “Why, the very moons in the sky do as he bids them.”
“What do you mean?”
Harld glanced up at the narrowing strip of sky. “If the King commands a green moon to cross above us it will do so. His power and his magic extend to the heavens. I dare not challenge him lest he summons the Blood Moon.” As though fearful of having said too much, Harld moved away and rejoined the other hunters.
“What do you make of all that?” Surgenor said to Targett.
“There was the same kind of set-up in some primitive societies back on Earth,” Targett replied. “Priests who learned some astronomy were able to terrorise ordinary folk by appearing to order eclipses to happen.”
“So this King Garadan knows the planet’s moon system pretty well. What’s so impressive about that? Other people must have noticed recurring cycles and patterns of…”
“That’s just it, Dave,” Targett said grimly. “There aren’t any regular cycles. This planet has so many moons, all jostling and tugging at each other—especially the forty-three major ones—that the pattern never repeats. If this King Garadan can predict astronomical events on this planet he must be a genius. I don’t like the sound of him, Dave—and I’ll tell you something I like even less.”
“What’s that?”
“On the way into this system we observed that one of the largest moons had a lot of iron oxides on the surface, giving it a deep red colour. That must be the one they call the Blood Moon—and I’ve got a funny feeling they weren’t just being poetical when they chose that name.”
The village consisted of perhaps fifty small huts made of mud and straw. The mean dwellings were arranged in a double line along the narrow floor of the valley, and men, women and children—most of them looking under-nourished—had gathered to watch the arrival of the two captive devils. As Surgenor and Targett were herded by, the people clustered behind and followed them. In a very short time they reached a much larger building which, in spite of the increasing darkness, glowed with the lustre of polished metal.
“It’s built out of hull plates from a spaceship,” Targett whispered. “That must be where Garadan lives.”
“And he’s coming out to welcome us in person,” Surgenor replied, his eyes intent on the figure of a middle-aged man who was emerging from the metal building. King Garadan was, in contrast to his subjects, dressed in a richly textured robe. He carried a small carved box which seemed to be inlaid with gold and gems. His body looked plump and soft, but there was nothing soft about his eyes. He regarded Surgenor and Targett with cold hostility for a few seconds, then turned to Harld.
“Why did you bring the devils here?” he demanded. “My orders have always been clear. You should have killed them before they had any chance to bring harm to my people.”
Harld took a deep breath. “Sire, they seem more like men than devils.”
“That is part of their devilish trickery.”