Under the Moons of Mars (23 page)

The thoat-rider she had spared was standing over her.

“They’ll be sending soldiers soon,” he said without taking his eyes off the edge of the arena. “Go!”

Carthoris hauled her up by the ribs, and the two of them staggered together for the safety of the gate.

“Are they safe?” Tara gasped between breaths.

“They have made it out of the gateway, at least,” Carthoris said. “If you hurry, we might not even die.”

Tara could have hit him; instead, she ran faster.

Behind them came the cry of a wounded man.

Die with honor,
Tara thought, with a pang of loss that was worse than the wound.

But her legs had not given out on her entirely; she ran against her brother with one blood-slicked foot, and then ahead of them was the gate, and the tunnel to the street, and then, if they lived, the fliers home.

The streets were full of panic, but not of swords, and they made good time, Tara slipping once or twice as her bloody heel skidded on the pavement.

By the time they reached the flier platform, the battle was struck in earnest. The Kaldanes had sent troops to reinforce the platform. Thuvia was farthest ahead, darting toward one of the fliers. The jetan-men in black and orange had fallen back, and were fighting side by side against the monstrous bodies of Kaldane troops, and from the side of the platform that was flush against the city, reinforcements were already coming.

Djor had hung back, and when he saw them coming, he reached for Tara to help ease her brother’s burden.

“Help Thuvia!” Djor called, and Carthoris disappeared into the melee.

Tara grimaced. “Then put me somewhere, and give me a sword.”

“I’ll put you at my back,” he said, “and we’ll see if we can take some of the fight out of them.”

A shortsword appeared in her hand, and she braced herself as best she could.

“And if we die today,” said Djor, “know that it did me good to be your friend again.”

Tara could think of nothing to say—she could not say “Die with honor,” not to him—and instead she only raised her sword and prepared to fight.

One of the Kaldanes caught sight of her and began the charge along the edges of the platform, skirting the battle to reach her faster.

Warrior challenges the Chief,
she thought.

Then there was the roar of engines, and the screams of the Kaldanes from below, and Tara looked up and saw a flier descending, bearing the crest of Dejah Thoris, come to take them home.

As soon as Tara was home and out from under the doctor’s stitches, she sent for her husband, Gahan.

“Tell him nothing of what has happened,” she told the messenger. “Let it wait until I can tell it.”

That night, she lay on a chaise in her quarters, with Carthoris and Thuvia and Djor beside her.

Djor was his old self, open and easy, and Carthoris as he always was, and Tara thought it would have been worth the danger just to have Djor as her friend again. (To have a brother back was something that needed no words.)

“Their blades might be trying harder to kill you,” Carthoris pointed out. “You’ve triumphed over them so many times it has made them angry.”

“I can triumph over you, too,” she said. “I am advised not to stand; that doesn’t mean I cannot fight.”

A messenger interrupted—Gahan had arrived.

Thuvia smiled and stood. “I will greet him,” she said. “Do not test yourself. Your will is greater than your need.”

“It would never be the reverse,” Carthoris said, and Djor nodded once in agreement.

Tara had no ready answer for the praise of a brother and a near-brother.

Behind them the sun was setting, and the warm light of the Barsoom sun bathed the room around them in just the way she’d grown up with.

Though she would have to leave Helium soon and return to her husband’s city, this was the way she would always consider the light to be most beautiful.

Some things, maybe, did not have to change after all.

“Tara?” Carthoris cut in. “Is everything all right? How do you feel?”

She smiled and said, “At home.”

I
’d guess you, like what seems to be most of the world these days, have read about John Carter, and his adventures and whatnot on the red planet we call Mars and the locals there call Barsoom. But I bet you’ve never read nothing about one Lamentation of Wordly Sin Jones, who was right there by J. C.’s side for more than a sixth of the time by my calculation but don’t get a mention at all in any of the write-ups. Not even under the name by which Carter knew me, which wasn’t the full moniker my god-fearin’ parents dished up but the shorter, easier to get your mouth around Lam Jones.

See? I bet you’re castin’ your mind back through all those books and not remembering any Lam Jones, which is a downright insult, being as I was there, as I said, some eighteen percent of the time, only to get left out when Carter got back to Earth and decided to tell his tales to that nephew of his.

Let me tell you how I first met up with Captain John Carter . . . but I s’pose I’m getting ahead of myself. As I was saying, Lam Jones is what I been known by since I was going on fourteen, except for a period in the Union Army when I was called Private Jones and then Corporal Jones and finally Quartermaster-Sergeant Jones, but as soon as the war was done with, not so long after my nineteenth birthday, I got back to being plain old Lam Jones again.

Me fighting for the North probably was the first thing that put Carter off me, him being a rebel and all. Or maybe like a lot of hot-blooded, rip-roaring cavalry types, he just hated quartermasters. There must have been a dozen or more occasions when I had to face down some shouting colonel or major who wanted something that I either just didn’t have in the stores, or couldn’t give them without a paper signed by the appropriate officer, not just any jumped up Brigadier-General. Why, sometimes what they wanted had to be approved by General Meigs himself, and it was a marvel to me that these officers couldn’t understand a simple procedure and put their request through the proper channels in an approved fashion.

Gold! Like a lot of folks around then, I was mad for the yellow metal, and I’d set my sights on getting a whole lot more of it than the three Miss Liberty coins I had in my poke. That’s why I went west as soon as I could, and sure enough I struck it lucky right away in Arizona, when I met a fellow called Nine-Tenths Noah, an old-time miner, who reckoned he knew a prime spot for a strike, only he needed a partner and a stake on account of him being a vagrant drunk.

To cut a long story down to size, we did well in our gold-diggings. Despite Nine-Tenths Noah being a soak of the first degree, being pretty much permanently pickled (as the nine-tenths referred), he knew his business and he provided the brains of the operation, while I provided the stake and then the digging power. I guess I ain’t mentioned that short as I am from foot to crown, I am nearly as wide as tall, and all of it muscle. Some folks even tried calling me The Block, on account of my physique, back in the regiment, until I showed ’em I was against it.

Anyways, that was much later. Back on Earth, Old Noah’s nose had led us right, and I was digging out a lot of gold. All through the winter of 1866 we kept at it, and it was only when spring had started to come over and the snow melt begun that we realized that we were down to the final nasty-looking hunk of salt beef, there was but one sack of flour left, and Noah was having to dive headfirst into his puncheon of snakebite whiskey to dip his cup. We’d left it kind of late to resupply, which might surprise you what with me being a former quartermaster and all. It was the gold that did it. As long as more of it kept coming out of the mine, neither of us could bear to stop.

The nearest town was four days away, walking. I don’t hold much with riding, being as I said, more square than rectangular in shape. I had to shorten stirrups so high as to provoke ridicule, and there weren’t many horses that liked my weight none, either. So leading three mules, I left Noah behind to guard the mine, on account of him being incapable of walking any considerable distance. There was even a chance he might sober up while I was gone. He couldn’t ever ration his drinking and there was only six gallons left.

Only I never did make it back in the nine days I’d reckoned, which was four to walk out, a day’s business and four days back. In fact, I hardly got a mile from the mine.

I wasn’t thinking about Indians, or much else neither, ’cept the slap-up meal I was going to have in town, when I just about tripped over the legs of a fellow, lying straight across the narrow path that was the only way out of the eastern end of the canyon. I jumped back into my lead mule, who protested at this kind of unexpected treatment. It let out a bray that echoed down the canyon walls and that didn’t help me none as I was scrabbling to get my Colt out, it having slipped down a piece and the hammer getting stuck under my waistband.

With the gun in my hand I steadied a little, maybe also because the fellow wasn’t moving at all. His bare legs were across the trail, but the top half of him were stuck in a little cave mouth I’d never noticed before, in the almost sheer canyon side. I called out to him, but he never moved. So I bent down and dragged him out, and had to jump back again as a huge snake come out with him, sounding its damn rattle as it lunged at me. I fired at once, and blasted it in half, the gunshot and the snake rattlin’ and writhing about, making my lead mule decide to push past me and take off, with the others at its heels.

I was knocked back by the mules, and had a bad dance with the front half of that rattler, who still wasn’t done till I stomped on its head, put my full weight on it, and screwed my heel around a few times.

After I’d calmed down a piece, I turned the Indian over. He was naked, save for a breechclout, and his head was pretty swole, with six or mebbe seven snakebites across of his face and down his neck. I was a mite surprised that an Apache had stuck his head into that little cave, but I s’pose anyone can get caught out by a rattler if it’s sitting quiet.