Chapter 16: The Raging Beast

Although once mighty Ofridia of Tarth and certainly the nations of Earth had outstripped Bylanus’ world in the physical science, the planet of the pink and green suns was supreme in biology. Thus had it needed Portox’ help, a hundred Earth-Tarthian years before, when run-down entropy threatened its very existence. On the other hand, through biology, the science of Bylanus’ world had come a long way in the conquest of death and destroyed human tissue. So it was that with some faint ray of confidence Bylanus brought the two broken bodies to the single large city of his park-like planet. There, tenderly, he left them in the care of specialists at the regeneration station, and began his long vigil.

... sensation and movement.

Hardly anything at first. Bram Forest dreamed of dreaming. The motion was gentle, warm, comfortable.

The glow of life and not the cold breath of death...

With it, with the first stirrings of regeneration, came the shadow of pain. But it was far away and almost impalpable, pain understood rather than felt. And slowly the pain departed. There came a time when Bram Forest realized he was not breathing, was, indeed, immersed in liquid.

He floated, helpless, serene, strangely content.

... Until, with the first signs of impatience, strength flooded through his regenerated limbs.

“In every cell of a living creature’s body,” Orro the bio-technician explained to Bylanus, “there is the potential for complete and perfect regeneration. For, whereas the eye is an organ to see with, in every one of the millions of tiny cells making up the eye is the gene-pattern not merely for the eye but for the rest of the body. Theoretically then, Bylanus, if we are given but a single intact cell of a living--or once-living--organism, we ought to be able to reproduce the organism in its entirety. This is not supernatural. It is not creation of life: we can create nothing. The secret of creation is not ours here at this laboratory. But we have mastered the secret of recreation. Nurtured by the life-giving fluid, their development controlled by their own genes, the two human beings you brought are being made whole again.”

Bylanus nodded. Orro the bio-technician was loquacious and spoke quickly, confidently, with mild pedantic enthusiasm. As for Bylanus, he awaited the regeneration of the man who had worn Portox-saviour’s bracelet. He looked at the bodies in the vat, hanging upside-down, floating head down, rocking gently in the warm, circulating life-fluid. He waited...

Bram Forest took his first breath. The first thing he said was: “Ylia, Ylia...”

Bylanus met them after the vat had been drained and a door had opened for them. He told them what had happened, including the death of Hultax. Then he added:

“As far as I am concerned, there can be no doubt as to your identity. But the bracelet is lost forever and there will be some who doubt your identity.” Abruptly, he seemed to change the subject: “How do you feel?”

“Good as new,” Bram Forest said. He was naked. He was tingling with health and well-being, as if he’d awakened from a long, health-giving sleep. He looked at Ylia, her skin glowing, her hair gleaming, her glorious body a shining promise. Then he frowned. Bylanus’ words took meaning. “You want me to fight the Boar of the Kranuian Wood, is that it?”

“Yes,” Bylanus said.

Bram Forest shrugged. “Coming here was not my idea, although Portox somehow realized it would be so.”

“Slay the Kranuian Boar, proving your identity without question, and all the Golden Apes will be yours to command.”

“Yes, but did Portox really feel I must wreak upon Abaria and the Abarians the same destruction they brought to Ofridia? If I destroy Retoc the Abarian responsible for what happened a hundred years ago, wouldn’t that be enough? I don’t need the Golden Apes for that. I can do it myself. I must do it myself.”

“Tarth,” said Bylanus, “is a world of warring nations. But here on the planet of two suns we live in peace. We are strong but know not the meaning of war. Is that what Portox-saviour wished for your people?”

“Perhaps,” Bram Forest said.

“Then,” Ylia told him, speaking for the first time, “even if you slay Retoc, his legions will not willingly give up their arms.”

Bram Forest nodded slowly. The idea of a Tarth-wide holocaust did not appeal to him, but if all Tarth could be shown the folly of war when its most powerful army went down to defeat before the Golden Apes...

“Thank you,” Bram Forest said humbly to the Golden Ape. He had a vision--almost mystical--of a time in the future, perhaps the near future, when all Tarth knew nothing but the ways of peace. “When we return on the River of Ice we want you to accompany us. I’m ready to meet your boar.”

Ylia held him. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Bram Forest,” she said tremulously. “Now that I’ve found you, I don’t want you to be hurt--ever again.”

Bram Forest responded: “Don’t worry, Ylia. If Portox hadn’t known I’d be more than a match for the boar, he never would have established its conquest as proof of my identity.”

“But ... but don’t you see, you’ve been regenerated, as Bylanus said. You may not be as strong as you were.”

Bram Forest looked at Bylanus, who shrugged. Bylanus lifted them when Bram Forest nodded. The park-like terrain flashed by. A dark forest loomed. The Kranuian Wood...

Close at hand, an animal screamed.

“How do I look, Prokliam?” Volna asked her seneschal.

He bowed before her. “You are lovely, O My Queen.”

Volna smiled. She wore the royal purple of Nadia in a gown which fell, clinging as if sentient and voluptuous, to the wonderful curves of her body. “I’m not your Queen yet,” she said, laughing.

“A mere formality, My Queen.”

“I am Volna, Virgin Princess of Nadia, sister to Bontarc the King.”

“Huh!” snorted the old man. “That is your official title. But what do titles matter? When this day ends you will rule all Tarth side by side with Retoc the Abarian.”

Yes, Volna thought. With Retoc the Abarian. But how long would that alliance last? Would either of them be content to share power with the other? Wouldn’t there come a day when she would give the nod to Prokliam and the legions would march against those of Abaria chanting, “All power to Volna! All power to Volna the Beautiful!” The thought of power, power over strong men, over leaders of nations, made her giddy with desire.

All the royal blood of Tarth was gathered in Nadia City now, for the funeral games. She knew Retoc’s plan: her spies had confirmed it. Retoc’s legions would slay the rulers of the multiple nations and clans of Tarth and one by one, stunned, leaderless, the small nations would flock to the banners of Abaria and Nadia. If, then, Retoc had in mind to betray her and claim all power for himself, her own legions would be rested and ready. And Bontarc? she thought. What of Bontarc, her brother?

As if he could read her thoughts, Prokliam said, “I have arranged the lists for the dueling which will end the games, majesty. Bontarc, as you know, expects a duel to the first blood with some competent whip-swordsman.” Prokliam licked his thin, dry lips. “He will be confronted, instead by a duel to the death with Retoc, the best swordsman of all Tarth. To flee would mean cowardice. The army would then be loyal to you, majesty. To remain and fight would mean only one thing.”

“Death,” said Volna softly.

She could hear the legions. The legions seemed to chant in her ears: “All power to Volna the Beautiful!”

She thought of the day’s funeral games. Games for the memory of Jlomec the Prince, indeed. They were games for her, for Volna. They would be a party celebrating the rise to power of Volna, Virgin Princess of Nadia. But of course neither Nadia nor Bontarc its rightful ruler knew that yet. And when they did, Retoc and his legions would make sure they could do nothing about it.

The Games would be a feast. Volna’s feast...

All power to Volna.

The Kranuian Boar came screaming from the forest.

Its small, close-set eyes found Bram at once. If it had seen Bylanus and Ylia, it ignored them. Four hundred pounds of muscle and sinew, it made, stomping and pawing, for Bram.

He side-stepped nimbly, saw the massive head go down, felt one of the wicked tusks brush his thigh with fire. He stumbled and almost fell. If he fell, he would not rise again. The boar would finish him first.

“Bram Forest!” Ylia screamed.

He got up and grasped the tusks. He was dragged along, furrowing the ground. The huge head snorted close to his own. The boar’s breath almost made him gag. Then, before the boar could smash him into a tree-trunk, he let go and rolled over and over and quickly stood up.

The boar did not wait for him to regain his breath, but came charging at once. This time Bram Forest waited until the last possible instant before the tusks would impale him. Then he leaped, twisting around in air. It was a prodigious leap and brought a word of exclamation even to Bylanus’ lips. He landed on the hard-muscled back of the boar and at once clamped his knees firmly against its sinewy flanks as if he had been trained all his life for this job.