Guns of Mars 70
A Martian action-adventure by The Legend Chuck Dixon
CHAPTER 21.1
He drank his fill from the water skin as well as a double portion of raw thoat steak. If he found no water at the end of his quest, if the promised lake was dry as a bone, it would not matter that he gorged himself.
Restored, he began his march toward the lonely peak. It lay dark across a sea of white sand under the hammer of the sun. The surface below his feet was like a mirror, reflecting every blistering ray up at him with a furnace heat. His body was now streaming away the precious water he’d consumed in a sheen of sweat that soaked his loincloth and harness. In addition to the heat, the blinding light threatened to rob him of sight. He wrapped a strip of cloth over his eyes to view the world through gauze.
Only sheer will drove him on. Will and curiosity. He desired more than anything to see this wonderful Eye of Water. Every step carried him closer to what might be a miracle of nature or an empty lie. Or even a relic, robbed of its remarkable properties by the ages.
He stopped to rest, not daring to drop in place. He knew that to take to his knees would mean never rising again. With a bitter laugh, he turned the spigot on the waterskin and held it above his head. A stream of water doused him, cooling his skin as it evaporated in a thick cloud of white vapor. It didn’t matter now. He’d either refill the skin at the fabled pool or die on its arid shore.
It was late in the day as he stumbled on after his lengthening shadow to the base of the mound. The sand was littered with black rocks that he knew to be the remnants of volcanic activity. The face of the conical slope that loomed above was formed by vertical streaks, the trails of molten rock that had run down the sides in molten streams and cooled long ago. It explained why the mountain sat solitary on a featureless plain. Some long-ago eruption created this rent in the earth. The peak that rose above the desert was like scar tissue. The twin pillars that soared above were all that was left of a tremendous slab of granite pushed upwards by massive tectonic forces. Millennia of winds had torn at it and shaped it into its present form.
The bounty man walked about the foot of the slope, examining the face in search of an entrance or some other sign that this was more than just a heap of lifeless rock. He pulled down the band of cloth from his eyes to lie draped about his neck. Once away from the sunward side, he stopped to take a seat atop a slab of pumice worn smooth by time. He was grateful for the shade offered by the mountain, grateful to be out of the glare of the setting sun.
He came too with a start, unaware that he’d drifted off into sleep or slipped into unconsciousness. It was all the same now as he walked as in a dream, compelled forward by a forgotten urge. The sun had set and the dome of rock was just more blackness in a world of black.
His hands ran across an upright section of rock. He was growing weak and needed the support to remain standing. The wall was smooth under his fingers, cold against his fevered flesh. His burdens fell from his shoulders to the cool sand drifted against the rock face. He leaned against the wall, struggling to remain on his feet. His hands ran along the wall, his fingers finding the stone deeply etched. His touch revealed that these features were not a results of nature. Regular rows of figures or patterns were scored into the rock.
Dropping to his knees, the bounty man retrieved the device he used to spark fires. He removed the band of cloth from about his neck and lit the end like a taper. In the wavering light he saw a wall before him covered in rows of runic letters. Each character was the length of his extended hand. The columns of text ran up the wall many times his height to disappear in the gloom high above.
The section he could read was part of an imprecation and a blessing to the god Issus and made mention of the waters of the River Iss and the bounty it offered. He moved further along the wall, reading as much as he could until the last of the rag was consumed by the flames. His hands ran over the smooth surface freeing sand that had become trapped in the engravings. The final passage he was able to discern made mention of the Eye of Water. It welcomed all to its shore to drink of a gift from the gods.
He collapsed then, huddled against the wall until he surrendered to weariness.
Special Note: GUNS OF MARS is now available in a hardcover edition. It is available at Amazon and at NDM Express.
