HEROES OF MARS
A Pulp Empire Anthology
Edited by Nicholas Ahlhelm
A Metahuman Press Book
Cedar Rapids, IA
Smashwords Edition copyright © 2012 Nicholas Ahlhelm.
Divided Loyalties © copyright 2012 Geoff Gander.
The Tyrants of Mars © copyright 2012 Evan Dicken.
The Mermaids of Mars © copyright 2012 Travis Hiltz.
Exodus From Mars © copyright 2012 J. M. Stewart.
The Dregs of Mars © copyright 2012 Mark Brandon Allen.
A Fighting Manual of Mars © copyright 1995, 2006 Teel James Glenn.
Table of Contents
Divided Loyalties by Geoff Gander
The Tyrants of Mars by Evan Dicken
The Mermaids of Mars by Travis Hiltz
Exodus From Mars by J.M. Stewart
The Dregs of Mars by Mark Brandon Allen
A Fighting Manual of Mars by Teel James Glenn
DIVIDED LOYALTIES
A faint cry, like an animal in agony, interrupted Kor Tharak’s thoughts. It’s close. His hand flew to his sword. He listened. The constant, gentle rustle of blowing sand and salt reached his ears. Banths were known to inhabit the barren flats, and those formidable predators could make all sorts of sounds.
He took a cautious step forward, scanning his surroundings. No movement.
The cry sounded again—a man calling for help—and it came from over a rise that lay a quarter mile away. Kor dashed ahead, leaping over sucker-bushes and large rocks, slowing only when he reached the loose, rocky slope of the rise itself. It was much steeper up close, and he picked his way upwards. A misstep could cause a rockfall.
At the top of the ridge lay the charred remains of a flyer bearing the royal emblem of his home city of Sarakaas, in the midst of a field of twisted flyer components, smashed crates, and spilled food. Wisps of black smoke rose from the wreck. Kor pulled a viewing prism from his harness pouch and scanned the site at maximum magnification. Blast holes dotted the flyer’s fuselage. Not trained marksmen. A pair of legs stuck out from behind an upturned basket on the ground.
Kor sprinted to the wreckage. Coarse salt and sand crunched underfoot, and dust devils stirred in the breeze. The scents of burnt flesh and smoke mingled. Kor looked inside the flyer. Two half-charred, bullet-riddled bodies lay on the bloodied deck. One of them still clutched a radium pistol.
He turned to the prone figure he had seen earlier. The man’s harness bore the markings of guard captain. The wound in his stomach bled freely, but he was still breathing.
He flinched at the sound of Kor’s approach, and opened one eye. His cracked lips twitched. “Are you a man of Sarakaas, or another bandit?” he rasped.
Kor knelt by the man’s side. “I am Kor Tharak, a son of Sarakaas like you.”
A small smile played across the man’s worn features. “An honour to meet the one who fought to protect our jed.”
Memories of the last battle flooded back. Sarakaas had been defeated by its ancient rival, Belphor. Kor, the last surviving captain in the jed’s personal guard, was escorting his wounded ruler from the battlefield. Soldiers from Belphor had ambushed them before they could reach safety. Kor was an excellent swordsman and had fought valiantly, but he could not save the jed. By the time he had brought the jed’s body back to Sarakaas, the city was in an uproar. The jed’s only son, Prince Baral Tavas, had failed to return from battle. Claiming that the royal house had fallen, Tol Faran, the jed’s general, appointed himself regent. Things got worse after that.
Kor nodded in thanks, then looked back at the flyer. “What was your mission?”
“The prince did not fall in battle,” the man whispered. “He suspected that Tol Faran would try to seize the throne if the jed fell. Once he knew it to be true he planned to sneak away to regroup.” He groaned, clutching his midsection. “We were shot down by green men—the Zarquad. Too many to fight.”
“Where is the prince now?” asked Kor, grasping the other man’s forearm.
The other man shook his head, his face twisted in sorrow. “I did not see.”
“You have done your duty honourably,” said Kor. “What is your name, so that I may remember you?”
“Harad Kodar,” the man said, “My cousin served under you at the last battle.”
“Maran Kodar! I remember him well. Sarakaas is doubly indebted to your family.”
Harad smiled. “Then I would ask one thing of you, Kor Tharak. Grant me a warrior’s death.”
Kor bowed, and helped Harad gently to his feet. He placed his pistol in the guard’s trembling hand, and closed his hand around the grip. Harad swayed as he nodded gratefully. “Quickly,” he urged.
Kor drew his sword in a fluid motion and slashed Harad’s neck. Blood gushed as his severed head tumbled to the ground, followed by his body. Kor retrieved his pistol and arranged Harad’s corpse into a position of repose. He placed a small knife in Harad’s hand. “Rest now, warrior, for you fell armed in battle,” Kor whispered. He stood for a long moment in silence.
He turned to the crash site. Blood splattered the sand on the other side of the wreck, and several long drag marks led away for some distance before disappearing. Someone had been captured alive, but not without a fight. The abductors had made no effort to hide their tracks, which led south towards rocky hills. Kor trotted in their wake, his heart soaring. His family had served as royal guards for fifteen generations; pledging loyalty to a regent had been unthinkable. Tol Faran, recognising Kor’s military service, had let him choose between death and exile. But if the prince lives, and has a plan to regain his throne...
Kor reached the hills at sunset. Several thin, black plumes of smoke rose from unseen fires behind the next slope. The wind shifted, carrying the sounds of harsh voices and the faint jingling of harnesses, as well as the tang of strange herbs that made Kor’s nostrils itch. He crept closer, peering over the slope’s crest. The rays of the setting sun cast the tumbled ruins of a long-dead city into sharp relief. In growing shadows, campfires burned like stars.
Kor drew his radium pistol, and advanced slowly. Noises travelled farther at night, and green men had exceptional hearing. He crept down the slope, careful of loose rocks. His path took him through a field of spongy moss, where he jogged to close the remaining distance. By the time he reached the far end of the field, the nearest part of the ruins lay only a few dozen feet ahead.
He hid behind a section of broken wall, peering through a hole in the masonry. A fire pit burned twenty feet away, around which half a dozen green men sat, passing several bottles around as they talked.
“A good day,” said one.
“It would be better if there had been more loot,” grumbled a second, who had only three arms.
“You’re just angry because you didn’t earn a larger share, Tavak,” said the first.
Tavak stiffened. “Your shot brought down the flyer, but I killed one of the crew.”
“Yes,” said the first, “But the honour goes to Vul. He dines with the jeddak.”
Kor perked up at those words. He scanned the many fires scattered around the ruins. What honour? Which tent would be the jeddak’s? If the prince was alive, he would be there.
A thoat brayed in the darkness behind him. The warriors tensed. Tavak stood unsteadily and cocked his head. Everyone remained still while he peered into the darkness. After a long moment he shrugged, and plopped back down.
Kor released his breath softly, and crept towards the source of the noise. The campfire was a pinprick of light behind him as he wandered deeper into the blackness, guided only by the occasional grunt. His searching hands met nothing but cool night air for several long moments, until they brushed against a waist-high wall made of huge slabs of broken stone. Snorting and rustling sounds came from the other side. The corral. Kor squinted into the gloom. The thoats were nipping at whatever moss they could find on the ground, while others paced about.
Further along the wall the rough stone gave way to a length of smooth, cold steel. A gate. He unlatched and braced it open with a chunk of fallen masonry, and entered the corral. Some of the man-sized beasts escaped as soon as he got out of the way, while others stamped their eight legs in uncertainty. Though some snorted in irritation at his prodding, Kor drove them all towards the campfire.
His efforts were rewarded by shouts of alarm. Tavak’s slurred voice rang out clearly in the night air. “Get those thoats under control! I’ll tell the jeddak.” The green man’s form was silhouetted against the fire as he jerked upright and staggered into the darkness. Kor ran in pursuit, staying far enough behind to avoid detection.
Tavak lurched ahead, cursing, until he reached a larger campfire whose flickering shadows danced on a bright blue tent large enough to house a dozen thoats. Harsh laughter rang out clearly from behind the tent flaps. A pair of guards crouched by the fire, roasting meat on spits. The sharp aroma of spiced banth made Kor’s mouth water. He dashed into a relatively intact building, and crouched by a window to watch the proceedings.
The guards sprang from their seats when they saw Tavak. They crossed their spears, barring his path. Tavak shoved, cursing. One of the guards knocked him to the ground with a short club. Tavak lay there, shouting, when a tall green man emerged from the tent. His harness bore many jewels, and the golden plate on his chest was larger than Kor’s dining platter. He wore a heavy golden torque, and a red silk cape draped his upper shoulders. He glared at the scene before him.
Tavak scrambled to his knees and bowed. “Jeddak, the thoats are loose, but we’re recapturing them.”
The jeddak struck Tavak. “And how did they get out? Raiders probably let them loose.” He turned to the guards. “Stay here and guard my tent.” The jeddak stalked away with Tavak in tow. The guards, muttering, picked up their spits of meat and returned to their seats.
The sounds of footsteps dwindled. Kor crept towards the building’s shattered doorway. As he stepped outside the guards jumped to their feet, spears at the ready.
I’ve faced these odds before.
Kor aimed at the closest guard and pulled the trigger. The shot hit the green man in his chest with a loud crack. He convulsed at the impact and collapsed onto the broken paving stones. The remaining guard leapt forward.
Kor deflected the spear thrust. Steel clanged. His arm shuddered at the force of the blow. The fingers of his sword hand tingled as he pointed his pistol at the green warrior.
The green man slammed his forearm into Kor’s hand as he pulled the trigger. The crack of the shot echoed in the night air.
The green man drove the shaft of his spear across Kor’s chest. He gasped as he fell onto his back, winded. The warrior’s tusks framed a wicked grin as he drove his spear downwards. Kor rolled sideways, wincing as a thin line of white fire erupted across his back.
Kor rolled into a standing position. The green man drew a sword, raising it in salute. “Who are you, so that I may recount your deeds after you are dead?”
“Kor Tharak.”
“I am Vul Koroth, champion of the Jeddak of Zarquad,” replied Vul, as he lunged.
Kor feinted to the right. Vul twisted to meet the attack, and Kor spun sideways, slashing his sword across the green man’s thigh. Blood spurted from the deep gash. Vul clutched his wound with his lower hands, and delivered a chop with his sword.
Kor ducked the blow and sliced Vul’s midsection. As his opponent sank to the ground, gasping, Kor threw the tent flap aside and entered, sword at the ready. The dim red light of a single fire pit outlined the huddled form of a bound red man. Kor cut his bonds. Though the man’s harness had been taken from him, his face was recognisable.
“My lord prince, we must make haste,” said Kor.
Prince Baral struggled to his feet. He had been tightly bound, and his skin bore many bruises and welts from his captivity. Kor draped the other man’s arm across his shoulders and led him outside.
Vul lay sprawled in the midst of a spreading pool of blood on the cracked paving stones. He raised his head. “Tharak,” he hissed, “Take my blade. He will need it.”
Kor picked up the weapon. “I thank you.”
“Go,” said Vul. “If you stay to finish me they will catch you. Better that I should face the jeddak’s wrath, than gain a warrior’s death.”
Kor stumbled away with Baral. Faint cries and shouts of anger echoed in the night air, growing louder.
“How will we escape?” asked Baral with a croak.
“I will steal a thoat. We can be far away before they can pick up our trail.”
“We must go to Belphor.”
Kor tripped on an upturned paving stone, and scrambled to regain his footing. Baral groaned at the jolt. Why does he want to go there?
Kor found a mostly-intact house, and lay Baral down on a low stone table. He gathered a handful of dust. Once outside, he backed away from the house, letting the dust rain down over their footprints.
Running footsteps, as well as the heavier tread of a thoat, echoed down the street. He climbed a low building and lay prone on its flat roof.
The footsteps grew louder, now mixed with angry muttering. Kor listened, counting the voices. Four warriors on foot and one rider. Long odds. “They can’t have gone far,” growled one of them.
The footsteps were soon drowned out by the heavy trod of the thoat’s hooves. Kor froze. The rider’s head was above the roofline. If the green man looked sideways, he would be seen.
The thoat reared up, grunting. The rider cursed, jerking the reins as he drew his sword and peered down the street behind him.
Kor drew his knife and sprang, landing squarely onto the rider’s chest. Both men fell to the ground, with Kor landing on top of his opponent. The rider was winded; his arms cast about for his sword. Kor placed his hand over the rider’s mouth and drove his knife into his chest. The warrior convulsed, then went limp.
Kor grabbed the thoat’s reins before the beast could bolt. He led it down the side-street to Baral’s hiding place. Fresh sounds of pursuit drew near as he secured the prince into the saddle. He mounted behind Baral and goaded the thoat into a trot northwards, keeping to the side-streets. Angry shouts echoed across the ruins as Kor guided his thoat into rocky territory to make his trail harder to follow, and angled west, towards Belphor.
The sun was well above the horizon when Kor first spotted the spires of Belphor. The tireless thoat had kept a brisk pace all night. Kor pushed the beast all day, and Baral was awake by the time they stopped in a ravine at sunset. Kor tethered the thoat and left it to graze on a patch of moss, and then built a small fire. The prince leaned against a large rock, regarding his rescuer.
“For you to have freed me you must be a skilled warrior, but you wear an unmarked harness. Are you a panthan?” He raised an eyebrow.
Kor suppressed a grimace. “It pleases me that you admire my skill, my lord prince, but I do not fight for pay. I am Kor Tharak; I was a captain in your father’s army. I was with him when he fell.”
Baral Tavas smiled. “A loyal man. I am doubly blessed.”
Kor sat across the fire from him. The prince was not an imposing man. He was short and wiry, whose high forehead and delicate features reminded Kor of the ancient statues of graceful men and women he had seen in the various ruins he had visited. Yet, if the evidence he had seen at the crash site was true, Baral Tavas had not been easy to capture.
The prince laughed softly. “You wonder how I could be a warrior, and, judging from your startled reaction earlier, what business I have in Belphor.”
Kor nodded, stunned.
“I would free my city, but Tol Faran is a veteran general who has the loyalty of many key officers. Even if I had money to hire panthans, I would not. I must go to the only other power in the region, and broker a deal that will return my throne to me.”
“Will they listen to you?”
“I can only hope,” Baral Tavas said. “Even so, I must have loyal men behind me—now and after I regain the throne.” He gave Kor an appraising look. “If we succeed, and you continue to serve me as you already have, I shall make you a general.”
Kor blinked. No one in his family had ever held such a rank. He would be admitted to the inner court.
“Though I am still weakened,” Baral Tavas continued, interrupting Kor’s thoughts, “we must move on in a few hours. Each day strengthens Tol Faran’s grip.”
Each man took a turn on watch, and they resumed their journey to Belphor before the sun had fully risen. By day’s end they reached the gates. When the prince announced himself the two men were escorted to the jed’s palace immediately.
Thul Gavrin, the Jed of Belphor, towered over his court, and his height was matched by his well-muscled bulk. Although Thul Gavrin shambled rather than walked, Kor had seen how quickly the jed could move in battle. The ruler of Belphor leaned back on his throne in the audience chamber, studying the two men being presented to him. He rubbed his scarred jaw in thought.
“I assume you are not here for idle chatter, Baral Tavas, but because you want something from me, or because you wish to avenge your father’s death. You have that right.”
“I have come seeking your aid,” said the prince. “Tol Faran sits on the throne of Sarakaas, and has told my people that I am dead. He would have made good on that lie had I not come here.”
“I know these things,” said Thul Gavrin. “I also know that your presence here, with only one servant, means that Tol Faran’s grip on your throne is secure. You need an army to dislodge him. That you should come to me speaks well of your courage. But my help comes at a price.”
Kor bristled. He cast a sidelong glance to Baral Tavas. The prince’s face was expressionless. “It seems we have much to discuss,” he said.
Thul Gavrin grinned. “Excellent. We will work out the details while we dine. Your man has freedom of the city.”
Baral Tavas dismissed Kor with a wave as Thul Gavrin rose and led his guest into an adjoining room. Two massive bronze doors shut with a resonating clang. A young man approached Kor, bowed low, and led him through a warren of passageways to a small, tasteful apartment that he would share with the prince during their stay in the city. The servant pressed a metal badge bearing the jed’s seal into Kor’s hand – a sign of his favour. After the servant left Kor walked to the balcony and surveyed the empty courtyard and gardens below. Shouts in the distance betrayed the presence of troops drilling.
Would the prince agree to Thul Gavrin’s terms? Surely he must realise that the jed would make Sarakaas subservient to Belphor. Baral Tavas must have a plan. Everything will become clear when he returns.
Kor awoke at dawn; Baral Tavas had not yet returned.
He left the apartment to wander the streets. The plazas and parks were largely empty; most of the people he met scurried about their tasks along raised pathways on each side of the streets, while the middle section was used by the warriors. Though most of the soldiers trotted by on foot, columns of cavalry on thoats sped by on occasion.
A young woman approached, carrying a bundle of new sword sheaths and holsters. “I see we’re mustering again,” said Kor, “Business must be good for you.”
The woman nodded. “We received the orders early this morning. We’ve doubled our workforce to meet the demand.” She walked away briskly.
A deep hum rattled Kor’s bones. He turned towards the source of the disturbance. Up the street, soldiers cleared the way for a small, black hovercar. Sarakaas had few vehicles, and, from what he had seen so far, Belphor was similarly lacking. It was good to know that Belphor had not held anything back in the last war. The hovercar whizzed by. Its occupants—four older men wearing the harnesses of generals—were deep in conversation.
Kor stepped onto a side street clustered with shops. Baskets of bright red and purple melons bracketed the doorways, and strips of cured meat hung from strings overhead. A wine-seller had set up a stall in the far corner, and was handing cups to a pair of soldiers. Kor slipped through the crowd to stand behind them.
“…and so we’re getting ready,” said the soldier to the left.
“We got the orders this morning, too,” said his companion. “It’s strange that we’re going back so soon.” He took a long sip of wine.
The first soldier shrugged. “Who cares? All I know is that yesterday the jed seemed happy with our victory, and today he wants to attack again.”
An attack? What did Baral Tavas agree to?
The wine-seller waved at Kor. “Sir, do you want any? I’ve got a fresh barrel in this morning.”
Kor blinked. “No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough.” I have to find out what happened.
As he strode back to the apartment, he replayed the audience with Thul Gavrin in his mind. The jed would ask for nothing less than complete subservience, and Baral Tavas would rule in name only.
How would Sarakaas fare under under Tol Faran? Kor had served under him many times. The general never played games with his troops and commanded fairly, but he cared little about how many men had to be sacrificed to meet his objectives. As regent, Tol Faran would protect Sarakaas with everything he had, but Kor feared there would be nothing left afterwards.
Kor returned to the apartment. Baral Tavas lay sprawled on a pile of cushions, snoring. He smelled of wine.
What had he agreed to? There would be a written agreement. The prince’s hands were empty, and by his position he had collapsed soon after returning. Kor shifted the cushions, nudging the sleeping man’s hand. One of his fingers was blackened by ink. Kor felt around the prince’s hands, reaching deeper into the pile. His fingers brushed a folded piece of parchment.
Baral Tavas snorted, grimacing. Kor froze. The prince shifted, mumbled, and sagged back into the cushions. Kor retrieved the parchment. It bore the royal seal of Sarakaas.
“By the order of Baral Tavas, Jed of Sarakaas, every household must surrender one of their number to our ally, the honourable Jed of Belphor. Any who refuse to obey this order, whether through defiance or inaction, shall be stripped of their titles and face execution or exile for life.”
The paper fell from Kor’s nerveless fingers as his breath caught. Tol Faran would resist Belphor and destroy the city. Baral Tavas would rule, and destroy the people.
Kor placed the document in a case and headed to the nearest thoat stable. The chief handler, an older, battle-scarred man, hobbled over. “Good day, my lord! Going on an outing?”
Kor nodded. “I’m going hunting. Banths.”
The handler nodded in approval. “A good time to do it. They’re likely digesting their prey from last night.”
“Give me your finest, and saddle him.”
“I will. Help yourself to provisions,” said the handler, pointing to a bin. Kor filled a pair of saddlebags with packets of dried meat, herbs, and several metal bottles of water.
The handler returned with a sleek, blue-coated riding thoat. Its shoulders were level with Kor’s own, and its orange eyes glittered. Its eight hooves clacked on the floor with impatience as it pulled on the reins. “He’s got an independent streak,” said the older man, “But he’s fast, and he’s tangled with banths before.”