“But if they are so powerful and dangerous, why do they need to employ trickery? And why was it so easy for us to capture them if . . ?”
“Silence!” Garadan’s face was pale with anger. “Do you question my divine authority?”
“No, Sire.” Harld glanced at the watchful circle of villagers. “But our food grows scarce and some of our children will die in the coming winter. The strangers said they could give us food and clothing. I thought it would be better if…”
“You presumed to know better than your King!” Garadan stared coldly at the villagers, some of whom had begun to whisper among themselves on hearing Harld speak of food and clothing. They shuffled their feet uneasily and lowered their heads.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Garadan said to them. “The gods grow angry, but not at you. It is Harld who has earned their wrath by bringing the devils here and sowing doubt in your minds.” Garadan glanced down at his ornately carved box. “As a portent of their anger—and of my divine authority—they are sending four white moons. The light from the moons will turn night in the valley into day, to remind you that the gods can see into your innermost thoughts and will punish the unfaithful.
“The moons will appear…” Garadan again glanced into the box he carried. “…now!”
Garadan pointed upwards at the eastern rim of the valley, and there was a gasp from the assembly as the brilliant white disk of a large moon appeared, closely followed by three others. For a minute the valley was brightly illuminated by the four speeding satellites, then they had crossed the visible strip of sky and near-darkness returned. There was a hushed silence.
“The King is all-powerful,” a woman cried in a thin, wailing voice. “We must obey him and kill the devils.”
“That is your only way to appease the gods,” Garadan shouted in a voice which was hoarse with triumph. “Prepare the devils for execution. I have commanded the Blood Moon to appear in a short time—and the devils must die as soon as its light falls on the altar.”
The altar was a flat circular stone close to the entrance of Garadan’s metal palace. It was ringed by flickering torches whose light gleamed irregularly on the massive two-edged sword which waited on a gilded trestle. Surgenor and Targett, bound hand and foot, had been laid down beside each other in the centre of the rock. The entire population of the village was gathered around the altar, watching and waiting.
“At least we now know how Garadan does it,” Surgenor said to his younger companion. “One of his ancestors must have salvaged a small computer from the wreck of their ship, and his family has been using it ever since to overawe all the others with their so-called divine powers. It’s a neat set-up Garadan has here—living in luxury with hundreds of abject slaves.”
“I thought Harld was beginning to get through to them when he mentioned food and clothing,” Targett said. “But you have to hand it to Garadan—he made good use of those four white moons coming along when they did.”
“It’s what he’s going to do when the red moon appears that bothers me.” Surgenor made another futile attempt to loosen his bonds. “How long do you think we’ve got?”
“Who knows? Maybe a couple of hours.”
A dark coldness gathered inside Surgenor as he considered the idea that all of Earth’s vaunted technology was powerless to save them from death at the hands of a pitiful group of primitives. “Hear these words, Aesop,” he said bitterly, addressing himself via his communicorder button to the computer on board his ship. “Where are you? What are you doing up there?”
“There’s nothing Aesop can do,” Targett said, with a gloomy fatalism. “It may be days before he can get the Sarafand down through that screen of satellites, and by that time it will be all over.”
“He must have told the other modules to change course and get here.”
“Yes, but that won’t make any difference either. Even the nearest modules couldn’t possibly reach us until …” Targett’s words were lost in a sudden hubbub of excitement from the crowd.
Surgenor turned his head and saw that the robed figure of Garadan had appeared at the entrance of his palace. Still carrying his carved and bejewelled box, Garadan walked slowly towards the altar and the villagers parted to make way for him. In the flickering light of the torches his face was immobile and inhuman as he reached the edge of the flat rock and stepped up on to it. He raised one hand imperiously and an expectant silence descended over the crowd.
“The Blood Moon answers my command,” Garadan proclaimed in ringing tones. “Soon it will appear above you—to oversee and sanctify the execution of the devil creatures.”
“You won’t get away with this, Garadan,” Surgenor said fiercely, struggling with his bonds. “We’re not alone on this world. Our friends are on their way to us right now…with powerful weapons …”
“The devils are trying even more of their lies and trickery,” Garadan said, glancing down into his box. “But nothing can save them because …” He raised his right hand and pointed upwards at the eastern edge of the strip of sky. “I command the Blood Moon to appear&NOW!”
A dreadful fascination drew Surgenor’s gaze to the rim of the valley. His heart began a frenzied pounding as he waited for the emergence of the first sliver of crimson brightness which would herald the end of his life. And in the midst of all his fears and regrets was one persistent, pounding question: Why had Aesop not even tried to help them?
The silence overhanging the strange scene was absolute. Every eye was fixed on the designated portion of the sky.
Surgenor had endured the suspense for perhaps twenty seconds, perhaps thirty—time had ceased to have any meaning for him—when he began to realise that Garadan’s computer had been slightly out in its prediction. The red satellite was taking longer to show up than expected. The watching villagers must have thought the delay unusual because they began to stir a little.
Garadan put his hand into the carved box, obviously interrogating the computer inside. “The Blood Moon will appear,” he shouted, but now there was an edge of panic in his voice. “I, King Garadan, hav ordered it so.”
More drawn-out seconds dragged by as the sky remained dark, and there was an increasingly restless murmuring from the crowd. Surgenor began to feel a flickering of hope. Something had definitely gone wrong with the computer prediction, and therein lay his and Targett’s chance of salvation.
“The Blood Moon refuses to appear,” he called out. “The gods have turned against Garadan! It is a sign they want us set free.”
“Be silent!” Garadan snarled. “All of you, be silent! I am your king and I command you to …”
“He’s just an ordinary man,” Surgenor cut in, raising his voice against the growing clamour among the watchers. “One who has been tricking you into serving him while your children go cold and hungry. Don’t be fooled any longer. This is your chance to …”
Surgenor’s voice faded as Garadan, with a growl of hatred, dropped his box and ran to the trestle which supported the ceremonial sword. Garadan snatched up the weapon, turned to Surgenor and raised the gleaming blade above his head. The blade had begun its downward sweep when there was a sudden movement near the edge of the altar. A hunting spear swished through the air and hit Garadan full on the chest. He fell backwards, twitched spasmodically, and then was still.
Surgenor recognised Harld’s coppery hair as the hunter leaped up on to the flat rock and held up his hands to quieten the circle of villagers.
“Listen to me,” Harld called out. “I have slain Garadan, and the gods did nothing to save him, which proves he was just an ordinary man—exactly as the strangers said. I believe that they too are ordinary men—not devils—and I also believe they can do much good for all of us.