The Chessmen of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs (best reads of all time .TXT) 📕

“He is well,” replied Turan, glibly, “and he sent greetings to his friends in Manator.”

“Good!” exclaimed the keeper, “and now in what game would you enter?”

“I would play for the Heliumetic princess, Tara,” replied Turan.

“But man, she is to be the stake of a game for slaves and criminals,” cried the keeper. “You would not volunteer for such a game!”

“But I would,” replied Turan. “I saw her when she was brought into the city and even then I vowed to possess her.”

“But you will have to share her with the survivors even if your color wins,” objected the other.

“They may be brought to reason,” insisted Turan.

“And you will chance incurring the wrath of O-Tar, who has no love for this savage barbarian,” explained the keeper.

“And I win her O-Tar will be rid of her,” said Turan.

The keeper of The Towers of Jetan shook his head. “You are rash,” he said. “I would that I might dissuade the friend of my friend O-Zar from such madness.”

“Would you favor the friend of O-Zar?” asked Turan.

“Gladly!” exclaimed the other. “What may I do for him?”

“Make me chief of the Black and give me for my pieces all slaves from Gathol, for I understand that those be excellent warriors,” replied the panthan.

“It is a strange request,” said the keeper, “but for my friend O-Zar I would do even more, though of course⁠—” he hesitated⁠—“it is customary for one who would be chief to make some slight payment.”

“Certainly,” Turan hastened to assure him; “I had not forgotten that. I was about to ask you what the customary amount is.”

“For the friend of my friend it shall be nominal,” replied the keeper, naming a figure that Gahan, accustomed to the high price of wealthy Gathol, thought ridiculously low.

“Tell me,” he said, handing the money to the keeper, “when the game for the Heliumite is to be played.”

“It is the second in order of the day’s games; and now if you will come with me you may select your pieces.”

Turan followed the keeper to a large court which lay between the towers and the jetan field, where hundreds of warriors were assembled. Already chiefs for the games of the day were selecting their pieces and assigning them to positions, though for the principal games these matters had been arranged for weeks before. The keeper led Turan to a part of the courtyard where the majority of the slaves were assembled.

“Take your choice of those not assigned,” said the keeper, “and when you have your quota conduct them to the field. Your place will be assigned you by an officer there, and there you will remain with your pieces until the second game is called. I wish you luck, U-Kal, though from what I have heard you will be more lucky to lose than to win the slave from Helium.”

After the fellow had departed Turan approached the slaves. “I seek the best swordsmen for the second game,” he announced. “Men from Gathol I wish, for I have heard that these be noble fighters.”

A slave rose and approached him. “It is all the same in which game we die,” he said. “I would fight for you as a panthan in the second game.”

Another came. “I am not from Gathol,” he said. “I am from Helium, and I would fight for the honor of a princess of Helium.”

“Good!” exclaimed Turan. “Art a swordsman of repute in Helium?”

“I was a dwar under the great Warlord, and I have fought at his side in a score of battles from The Golden Cliffs to The Carrion Caves. My name is Val Dor. Who knows Helium, knows my prowess.”

The name was well known to Gahan, who had heard the man spoken of on his last visit to Helium, and his mysterious disappearance discussed as well as his renown as a fighter.

“How could I know aught of Helium?” asked Turan; “but if you be such a fighter as you say no position could suit you better than that of Flier. What say you?”

The man’s eyes denoted sudden surprise. He looked keenly at Turan, his eyes running quickly over the other’s harness. Then he stepped quite close so that his words might not be overheard.

“Methinks you may know more of Helium than of Manator,” he whispered.

“What mean you, fellow?” demanded Turan, seeking to cudgel his brains for the source of this man’s knowledge, guess, or inspiration.

“I mean,” replied Val Dor, “that you are not of Manator and that if you wish to hide the fact it is well that you speak not to a Manatorian as you did just speak to me of⁠—Fliers! There be no Fliers in Manator and no piece in their game of Jetan bearing that name. Instead they call him who stands next to the Chief or Princess, Odwar. The piece has the same moves and power that the Flier has in the game as played outside Manator. Remember this then and remember, too, that if you have a secret it be safe in the keeping of Val Dor of Helium.”

Turan made no reply but turned to the task of selecting the remainder of his pieces. Val Dor, the Heliumite, and Floran, the volunteer from Gathol, were of great assistance to him, since one or the other of them knew most of the slaves from whom his selection was to be made. The pieces all chosen, Turan led them to the place beside the playing field where they were to wait their turn, and here he passed the word around that they were to fight for more than the stake he offered for the princess should they win. This stake they accepted, so that Turan was sure of possessing Tara if his side was victorious, but he knew that these men would fight even more valorously for chivalry than for money, nor was it difficult to enlist the interest even of the