Lankar of Callisto
- Автор: Картер Лин Спрэг
- Серия: Callisto #6
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «Lankar of Callisto». Краткое содержание книги:
...in the mysterious and treacherous domain of the insidious Mind Wizards. Searching for him is a fearless armada of his loyal friends, and a stranger who knows him better than anyone on Callisto. The stranger, Lankar, is none other than Lin Carter, accidentally transported through the Gate Between the Worlds to the land of the Thanatorians. Aware of Jandar's plight, Lankar joins the search beyond the world's edge and suddenly finds himself battling for his own existence against the most nightmarish creatures on the planet - the gruesome flesh robots of Kuur and the fiendish Mind Wizards of Callisto themselves...
The city was built largely of stone and brick, and most of the buildings were of one or two storeys, three at most, which were covered either with plaster or whitewash, it was hard to tell which. They were generally painted a pale shade of gold, with roofs of red tile. Most of the buildings we passed on our way to the heart of the metropolis were constructed in something of the Mediterranean style, which is to say, the structures faced inward on tiled courts and private gardens, with a railing around the gallery of the second storey. But everything was gay and barbaric, with gorgeous carpets hung from balconies and banners unfolding from the tops of spires, and veiled palanquins borne through the streets by slaves in livery.
Stone bridges arched above the streets between the third storeys. Circular windows, closed with greenpainted shutters or barred with iron grilles, broke the smooth monotony of walls. And somehow he whole scene reminded me inescapably of the walled stone city in Roy Krenkel’s cover-painting for King Kull, the original of which hangs framed in my home.
I rode through the streets of ancient Shondakor in gold and purple, under tawny afternoon skies, dreamily, smiling to myself, thinking that if only Roy were here beside me, his pencil would be flying over his sketch pad at this moment.
The palace was a rambling, many-tiered, immense structure of such complexity that I could not at first look take it all in, and am left with only the haziest impression of its external appearance. I got the impression that it had been added to over years and generations and centuries in a haphazard fashion, new wings tacked on as needed, and so forth. This may not be too far wide of the mark, actually.
We passed through guard-post after guard-post; left our steeds in an outer courtyard, and marched through what seemed miles of corridor and stairways before reaching the throne room. Bozo waddled gamely at my side, sneaking wary looks at flapping tapestries andbead curtains and frowning stone faces cut into the entablature over archways. More than ever he reminded me of my dog McGurk, who entertains much the same suspicions of anything above his head, like chandeliers, or marble busts atop bookcases.
The throne room itself was built on Babylonian proportions and looked like something out of a Cecil B. De Mille movie. We ascended a very broad stone staircase of at least a hundred steps, each level lined by motionless guards in glittering armor ranked to either side. At the top spread a broad tier, carpeted in crimson, which bore two huge stone chairs whose backs were sculpted with curious heraldic emblems. Only one of these thrones was occupied, the other stood empty.
The woman in the first throne―I knew her at once―was Darloona, warrior princess of the Ku Thad. She could be no other, with that magnificent, rippling mane of glorious red gold hair, that flawless creamy cameo of a face, full-upped, passionate, with strong cheekbones, and superb eyes of liquid emerald under arched, winging brows. I must confess I drew in my breath at the very sight of her; she was an incredible beauty―spirited, majestic, proud and fiery as a thoroughbred. With her flaming red hair and vivacious eyes, she reminded me a little of Maureen O’Hara … but a Maureen O’Hara raised to the nth degree.
She was, quite simply, one of the most gorgeously beautiful women I have ever seen. Every inch a woman; and every inch a queen!
About her throne a group of courtiers and officials stood in a cluster. Foremost among these was a tall, slender old man with wise, smiling eyes. His gaunt form was wrapped in a narrow robe of lavender silk. I guessed him at a glance to be a councillor to the throne, and I was soon proven correct, for he was none other than Zastro, the wise man of the Ku Thad.
Others stood near him. One, from his massive shoulders, bowed legs and truculent visage I took to be the exgladiator, Ergon, from descriptions given in Jandar’s manuscripts. Beside him stood a towering warrior with arms folded upon his mighty chest, his grim eyes studying me from a strong-boned, impassive face. This impressive figure turned out to be Zantor of Zanadar, the captain of the sky-ship Xaxar, who had been lucky enough to bring back his own ship, at least, from the ill-fated first expedition to shadowy Kuur. The identity of the others I did not know.
The military courier who had ridden ahead to apprise the queen of my coming was, all the while I looked about, introducing me and explaining my presence here, and that of my odd companions, the boy and the monster othode. When he was finished, the Princess turned her great eyes upon me with a warm smile of greeting. Royalty is something new in my experience, although I was very slightly acquainted with the Crown Prince of Japan, then attending the same university as I, and I have met a baron in my time, and a knight or two. The protocol of the Shondakorian court was a subject upon which I was completely uninformed, but I assumed correctly enough that such ignorance was only to be expected of a visitor from a distant world and any errors in regal etiquette would be forgiven me. So, deciding that a simple, dignified bow should do the trick, I rapidly ran through my memory similar scenes from all the Errol Flynn movies I could recall, and attempted the polite obeisance and, from the murmur which arose from the clustered courtiers, in which I thought I heard the note of approval, I gathered I had pulled it off competently.
The Princess had been staring at me with wonder in her eyes―at the color of my skin, my eyes, my hair. Now she did me, as I later learned, a very great honor by rising to her feet and stepping forward, extending her hand, which I kissed. Then she surprised me by addressing me in English!
“Please be welcome, sir, to our realm in my husband’s name.”
I was taken aback at being addressed in my native tongue. Her grammar was quite correct, if her pronunciation was a trifle unorthodox. Fumbling for an appropriate response, I murmured an awkward reply which I have since forgotten.
She nodded regally, resuming her throne. The old man in the lavender robe interrogated the courier and then addressed a rapid stream of questions to Captain Barin, who all this while had knelt a step or two lower down than I, with little Taran, all eyes, beside him. Bozo sat by my feet, pressing his furry shoulder against my knee, peering around with solemn, wary gaze. The Princess, I noticed,. looked pale, weary, a trifle distraught, although composed and regal on the surface. One slim hand fidgeted with the bejeweled tassel of her girdle―I have neglected to mention that she wore breast-plates of intricately-worked silvery metal, a jewel-studded girdle about her slim waist, and gauzy overskirts which did not conceal the slim grace of her long legs. That and silver-gilt sandals and a flashing tiara of many jewels unfamiliar to me completed her costume. She looked like the heroine of a Leigh Brackett novel, I must confess; but the air of serene and majestic poise she wore like a cloak lent her the dignity of an empress.
As the exchange of question and answer seemed interminable, I noticed she paled and bit her lip. There were small lines of strain or fatigue about her magnificent eyes. From time to time she seemed to forget herself, and when this occurred, her head would droop wearily and she would heave a deep sigh. At such times her sad gaze would stray to the empty throne beside her.
I knew the cause of her sorrow. It was that the throne was empty. For the second throne was―must have been―the seat of Jandar of Callisto, her husband and Prince, missing now for months, lost on the far side of the planet.
When the interrogations turned to me, my slight acquaintance with the universal language of Thanator was soon discovered too inadequate to the task; neither did my hosts have enough English to conduct the session appropriately. It became obvious that we should have to adjourn to other, less formal quarters, to converse slowly and haltingly in both tongues until we could piece together the answers to all the questions that needed answering.