His eyes were closed now, caked and blackened by the sun. His throat was swollen with the dust; his lips were cracked and bleeding. Mad visions danced against the back of his eyes, in and out of his brain. But he held her tight against him and stumbled on over the sand—on and on and on…
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The Elders
They came to the city again. For hours the search had been on, Masters and Blood-Givers ferreting through every level of the city, into every room. No one could have imagined that they would have ventured into the desert. Then, blind, blackened, bleeding Korul came plodding into the great hall with the girl cradled in his arms. The Masters took her from him; his own people led him away, down into their own levels where he could be given care.
He was strong, but the Masters were duly grateful. He had given blood to Thorana twice in the desert. He was excused from two givings.
As soon as he could stand, a messenger came to him from the Elders. Behind the facade of the Masters’ law—behind the pattern of tradition which made Korul First of their race until some other man should drink his blood in fair combat—it was the Elders who ruled. The Masters knew nothing of them, but in every city two were chosen by the Givers—man and woman. Where they met and worked, deep in the secret vaults under the cities, was known only to a chosen few.
Korul came into the great hall, made in mocking imitation of that Hall of the Masters where the council of the ruling caste held its own deliberations, where the First Master sat in state and the orgy of Spring Nights took place. They lay on forbidden tlornaks, dressed in robes which mocked the Masters’ finery, arrayed in circles around the central dais where their own chief sat.
There were cushions on the dais for Korul. As First of the Blood-Givers it was his right to sit there beside old Turun, First of their council and true First Man of Mur. Pages brought fine food, stolen from the Masters’ own kitchens, and flagons of tulla. Nothing would be done until the ritual of food and drink was finished. The buzz of murmured conversation rose all about him.
Old Turun set down his cup. It was a signal; all through the Hall of the Givers the mutter of talk was quieted.
‘Elders of Mur,’ he said, ‘here at my side sits Korul, son of Thandar, First Man as his father was before him. We have brought him here into our council because there are certain things that we have agreed must be said, through him, to the Blood-givers of Mur.’
He laid a bony hand on the young leader’s shoulder. ‘Have you asked yourself why you are First of the Blood-Givers—why your father was—why some day some other young man of your people will challenge you, and drink your blood, and take your place here? We are an old people. We have built great cities. We carry water from the poles across half the world, and more. We draw heat out of the bowels of our planet, and make it warm our beds and turn the wheels of our machines. Then why—why—must our young men fight among themselves like the very beasts in their cages, why must they lap at each others’ spilled blood like beasts?’ The old voice took a mocking note. ‘Because it is the law, you’ll say. The Masters’ law—not ours. They make beasts of us!’
His arm swept the circuit of the hall. ‘We come from a dozen cities now, where once there were thousands. You know what is happening in those cities. By the law—the old law—the law of the Masters—a man of our people is bled every fiftieth day, and a woman every seventieth. Long ago the Searchers found that would keep the Masters alive, and would not kill us—so it became the law of Mur. The law says that except on two nights, when the waters of the poles are freed, no Blood-Giver may mate with a Master. That was our law—made to keep our race from weakening.
‘But by the gods, Korul, the laws are not obeyed: Our women give their bodies and their blood to the Masters for food and comfort and pleasure which they cannot find in our life. Our children are born with blood like water and spindling, puny legs which will not hold their weight. Even our men give again and again, lusting after their painted women with their soft, perfumed flesh!
‘Once there was force behind the laws the Masters made. Once they had power—weapons—knowledge with which to enforce their rule. But you know — we all know—that power is long gone. We are bound by habit, by tradition—by sand. And the time has come to sweep that sand away.’
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A shout went up from every mouth in the great hall. There was hysteria in it, and an ugly note of hunger. Offer food to the starving and they will eat sand, Korul thought wryly. But Turun’s gaunt arms, upraised above his head, quieted them.
‘There is one other thing, Korul. Tell him, Karak—tell us all.’
Karak! The skin along Korul’s nape tightened. The man was Elder in this city—his own. He stood half a head taller than Korul; his shoulders were nearly as broad. By sheer brute force he had driven himself into the Council of the Elders, and Korul knew that a time would come soon when he would try to drink the blood of the First Man.
Karak was on his feet, swaggering to the dais. There was a mutter of anticipation as he turned and looked slowly around over the faces of the Elders, then down at Korul who sat stiffly among his cushions.
‘I am a big man,’ he said boastfully. ‘The women of the Masters like big men. They like to caress muscles like mine. They like me to tell them foolish things. And they tell me their secrets in return.
‘Listen to this, Elders of Mur! There is a woman who has taken my blood many times. She is of a high family. Her mate is second to none but their First Man. What she has told me is true.
‘They have their own Searchers for Truth—or for the kind of truth they want to find. Their Searchers have told them that a man can give blood every tenth day and still live—that a woman of our kind can be bled every twentieth day, and still work well. They have told them another thing—that their race is growing stronger and more numerous, while ours weakens and grows fewer.
‘There will be a new law for the Blood-Givers of Mur to obey. There is a new law. Men will be bled each twentieth day—women each thirtieth. Twice as often as of old they will glut on our blood—and the poison in their veins will flow into ours and make our blood water. Their accursed seed will foul our race. And as we die—as they grow strong—the period will be shortened again, and again, and again!
‘Get on your feet, Korul! Give us the word! Death to the Masters ! Death !’
Their roar echoed from the vaulted roof as Korul rose. He stepped down from the platform and stood among them, Karak and old Turun looking down at him. He waited until the clamor subsided.
‘The plan is ready,’ he told them. ‘We will use it. In every public place of Mur there are secret screens and speakers. In the walls of every city there are panels and lifts that lead to the quarters of the Masters. There are hidden cities beneath the cities, hewn out of the solid rock of Mur, where a race can live for an eternity.
‘I will name a day, and the Blood-Givers of Mur will gather. I will speak the word, and they will hear me. We will seize the Masters and seal them in the hidden cells we have made for them. We will make the laws of Mur, and they will bow to them. Our Searchers will tell them what blood they can have—and they will get no more. Our Searchers will breed strength back into their flabby bodies—breed life into their blood again—and the time will come when Mur is ruled again by one race, one blood!’
Utter stillness answered him; then one mighty roar of rage and protest rose from every throat. Behind him old Turun was screeching at him, words he could not understand. Karak’s bull-bellow roared out above the melee.
‘Men and women of Mur,’ he shouted, ‘are we bloodless cowards to listen to such talk? So we will keep the Masters as our pets for a thousand years or two—or ten? So we will bleed for them whenever they whine prettily, and feed them well, and keep them strong and happy while we work and die? So we will let our Searchers make Masters of them again, strong and crafty as they once were, so that they can grind us back into the Pit? By the gods, we will not!
‘We have had our fill of parasites. We have
had enough of their luxuries. We have heard the last of this blasphemous myth of brotherhood and one-bloodedness that old women and skulluts teach! The Masters will die—to the last—and if there are so-called leaders among us who prefer to let their blood be licked up, by the gods there will be blood-letting among them and we will have men to lead us!’
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Korul felt the blood draining out of his face. He knew that his ears had gone white with rage. With one hand he seized Karak by the shoulder and spun him in his tracks. He felt the giant wince in his grip.
‘Who is First Man here?’ he cried. ‘Who fought Narkul barehanded and tasted his blood? By the gods, Karak, what I do I do—and if you thirst for the honor, come and earn it. I offer it!’
Giant that he was, Karak had never willingly fought any man unless he was cornered. Redfaced, he pulled himself away from Korul’s grip.
‘Your Karak seems modest,’ Korul sneered. ‘He does not want high rank. He wants only to serve his people. Hear this, Elders of Mur—I am First Man, and what I plan the Blood-Givers of Mur will do. Who questions it?’
They were quiet now, Karak, all of them. There was fear in their faces. Then, at his back, the tired old voice of Turu spoke: ‘I question you, Korul, son of Thandar. I am First of these Elders as you are of the people. We are the people, Korul. The rest—they are mattaks, rushing after the first blustering bully to catch their fancy! They will fawn on Karak as well as you—and you know it. And if Karak is afraid to let your blood, then the Elders will do it for him and lead the people of Mur to mastery over your stripped bones!
‘We want men over us, who will wipe the scourge of blood-giving off this world for all time. By the gods, if Thandar lived he would do it!’
Enheartened, Karak sprang to the dais again. His eyes were small with hate, and red as coals.
‘I have given you one piece of news from the Masters’ councils,’ he cried. ‘I can give you another. Who in all Mur does not know the story of what happened in the desert on Spring Night? Who does not know how our leader, Korul met the painted witch Thorana under the stars and let her suck his blood—not once, but twice? A man will do foolish things on Spring Night, you tell me; let it be. But do you know. Elders of Mur, that by special decree of the First Master this Korul will give blood to no one but Thorana from this day on?’
With one blow Korul sent the mocking giant sprawling on the floor. ‘Listen!’ he cried. ‘I cozen no women! I lap no Master’s feet! They will die—but they will die when I give the word! Go to your cities—rally them—and when the time comes you will hear my word and blood-giving will end on Mur!’
He strode out of the hall. They parted to let him through As the curtains fell behind him, he heard the buzz and gabble rise again, with Karak’s bellow above it all.
There was a man to be watched—a man, it might be, to be feared.
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Thorana
Komi’s brain was whirling as he left the Council of the Elders. Was it true, what Karak had said? Thorana—only to Thorana? A picture of her shimmered in his mind—as he had seen her on Spring Night, in the Hall of the Masters, aloof and alone and beautiful—as she had been in the desert, soft and slender needing his strength, needing him.
A man—any man—could find a hundred sweet delights in the intimacies of giving blood to Thorana. But he was not any man; he was Korul, son of Thandar, First of the Blood-Givers. And the Masters—all the Masters—were to die!
Through the centuries the lower levels of the city had been honeycombed with passages and secret lifts which gave the Elders access to every public place, and to many less public. One led directly from the Hall of the Elders to the quarters allotted to the First Man. Chewing the black cud of his thoughts, Korul flung open the panel and was halfway across the room before he saw Thorana standing beside his table.
‘What is that?’ she demanded. ‘Where does it go?’
He dared not let her probe. ‘What brings a woman of the Masters to this place?’ he countered savagely. ‘Surely there is nothing to amuse you here in the cattle-pens of my people. The smell of poverty must be too strong for your delicate nostrils.’
Her green eyes grew darker and the color showed in her skin. Like Korul she used the ancient, formal tongue prescribed between Master and Giver. ‘It was aot curiosity that brought me here,’ she said, ‘though I have never been in the lower city. I have not forgotten what you did in the desert, Korul. I wanted to thank you, and be sure that you are able again to give blood.”
So Karak had the truth! It was his blood she wanted, like any scarlet-mouthed slut among them!
‘When a Master is in need, our blood is his,’ he snapped. ‘That is the law, and I obeyed it. It seems that we Givers are blessed with more than our bodies need.’ He stared at her insolently, eyeing the soft body under her robe. ‘Tell me, Thorana—are you of the Masters in poor health? I have heard that we will be bled more, and oftener, for your benefit.’
That gave her something to think about. The temper went out of her eyes and left her softer and somehow more appealing. ‘You must have been listening to the dust-gods, Korul. But—it is true. After Autumn Night, when the waters come again, my father will give you the new law.’
He thought she hesitated. Certainly she was slipping out of the formal address. ‘There will be no more mingling of the races when the ice melts, Korul. I—we feel it is not seemly.’
‘No!’ he jeered. ‘It might destroy the famous beauty of the Masters. It might put blood of their own into their veins, and grow them legs like the beasts they breed here in the Under-City!’
That had gone home! As Korul well knew, legs like Thor-ana’s would bring her nothing but ridicule among her own flabby, bloodless kind. She’d covered them close enough on Spring Night, until she thought there was no one sober enough to watch! Her ear-tips were crimson with shame—or rage.
But when she answered, it was very softly. ‘I have a request.’ Now it was coming! ‘You are feeling faint? The reek place makes you ill? A little blood for your health’s sake—is that your request, Thorana?’
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Her head was beat, hiding her eyes. She drew the fold of her robe away from her legs. Korul felt the pulse pounding in his neck as he stared. Gods! These weren’t the pedestals of muscle on which the women of the Blood-Givers carried their chunky bodies. They were slim, smooth, the muscles swelling cunningly over the slender bones. This Thorana—she was like the women in the paintings of long ago which one of the Searchers had shown him!
‘My—legs—Korul.’ He could barely hear her. ‘Only you among the Blood-Givers know how I am—deformed. Very few of my own people know.’ Her head came up defiantly. ‘We Masters protect our monsters, Korul! What is your custom? The Pit, perhaps, where I can amuse the children and old men? Or do you slaughter your unfortunates because they are different from you?’
Korul gaped at her. ‘What are you talking about? What I know is in my head. Here, between these ears. If any man wants to spill it out, he must break the head open first—and assure you, Thorana, it is a hard head to crack. Ask those who have tried—if you can teach dry bones to talk.’
She shivered and let the crimson silk fall down again over her legs. ‘Is it true, Korul, that a man—a Giver—must kill you and drink your blood if he is to become First Man of your race?’
‘A man— Giver or Master—proves that he is a man when he can drink my blood. It’s not an old custom, Thorana. Your own kind made it law. You need a strong breed here in the Under-City, if you’re to be fed and kept in comfort all your days. And the First Man of the Blood-Givers must be strongest of all if he’s to breed strength in his sons.’
The girl came toward him. She moved gracefully, like a wisp of mist along the rock-slopes of the gorges. ‘I want to know things like that, Korul. I want to see your people, how they live, what they do here in the depths. I want to know the thoughts they think when they are alone, and the dreams that come to them. br />
‘Will you show them to me, Korul? You will find me grateful.’
Grateful! The word grated in his ears. He seemed to hear Karak’s mocking voice, raised over the clamor in the Hall of the Elders. She would be grateful!
‘How do you plan to show this gratitude, Thorana?’
She hesitated. Her eyes turned away from him. ‘My father—he has said that hereafter you will give blood only to me.’
Korul felt his neck swelling. The arrogance!
‘A privilege indeed,’ he sneered. ‘I am sure any man of the Givers would be proud to be at Thorana’s call day and night for the rest of his life! For there would be nights, wouldn’t there, Thorana? Nights when the warm blood would flow on and on and on in the perfumed darkness—when you would feel real life beating for the first time in your shriveled veins, as it drained out of the drugged, stupid clod in the cushions at your side! You must have great confidence in my strength, Thorana, to believe we could enjoy such moments often.’
Every bit of colour had gone out of her face. She stood stiff and straight, taller than any woman he had ever seen.
‘Keep your insolence to yourself!’ she cried. ‘You may keep your savage’s blood. I need none of it.”
‘No blood?’ he mocked, ‘Have you forgotten the desert?’
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She stared him down. ‘I remember. I am no brute beast like you, but I have blood of my own, and it’s good blood. Once in a year I may need you—twice at the most, and maybe never. You see, Korul, I can read history as well as you. I know that we were once one race, with bodies and legs and blood like yours. We Masters have our own traditions of strength in our First Men, though we do not suck blood to prove it.
‘I am proud to be a throwback to those old ones—proud to have blood and legs. But I think pride must be a stranger to your kind.’
What kind of woman was this—one moment stiff with arrogance and the ingrown ignorance of her domineering breed, the next like this, soft, human? What was she after?