WE BEGAN our walk across the icy flatland. Our breaths frosted in the air and the wind whipped us with the power of a gale, but we put our heads down and trudged steadily ahead. According to the last reading of the instruments on the flier, we were a few hundred miles north of the magnetic pole. So we continued in that northerly direction along a line of travel that might correspond roughly to 160° longitude. We walked without speaking for what seemed a long time, each of us occupied with his thoughts. I thought of Tuarra, wondering if I would ever see her again. I was remembering our hours together—which seemed so short now, and so far away in another lifetime. I yearned to see her smile flash up at me, to feel the touch of her lips on mine.
The horizon was white and far away, across miles of frozen icecap. Here and there stretches of damp fog crept with silent feet across the snow barrens on which we were the only living things.
The cold ate into us. Our legs were moving now in plodding fashion. Fortunately, a Llarnian compass was standard equipment with each of the hooded jackets, so we were relieved of the danger of walking in a circle. Our course was more or less straight as far as we could determine, northward across the frozen wastes.
How long had we traveled? An hour? Ten hours? We did not know. How far had we walked? We did not know this, either. We moved like robots across the empty white flatlands and in our hearts we knew we were going to die.
After a time Marga stumbled and would have fallen except that I put an arm about her middle and held her up. Her face was very white. A faint coating of frost covered her lips and nostrils. Ghan Karr came up to lend his strength on her other side. “This can’t go on,” he said. “We must go on. To stop is to die.”
“I want to die,” Marga whispered. We staggered through the snow spray tossed into our faces by the arctic gales, past jagged ice carvings shaped by the winds, over stretches of ice so smooth they seemed polished by some giant hand. Ghan Karr fell once, lying quietly without moving, so that I had to drop Marga and go back and lift him to his feet.
“Keep walking. Keep walking!” I told him. He stumbled on with Marga and myself at his heels. He was babbling, singing snatches of a nursery rhyme that was old when Llarn had been a young planet. After a time, Marga joined him.
I was delirious myself, I realized. Ahead of me, locked inside a great ice floe, was a city. I stared at streets, at buildings, at rooftops and tall spires. I giggled; I laughed. I was seeing visions. A city, here in the polar lands? A city locked in ice?
Forgetting the others, I ran up to the massive wall of ice that sheathed the dwellings. The ice was transparent, like clear water frozen solid. I could make out a man standing rigid before a doorway, hand extended toward the latch as if to open it. Beyond him a woman in a fur coat was in mid-stride, balanced to a nicety.
I called to them. I shouted. I waved. Only the echoes of my own voice echoed across the wastes. Then I remembered my grawn. I fumbled off my glove, lifted the weapon in my hand, fired it. The red beam heated the ice to a melting point until it ran down all around the snow where I stood. After a few seconds, there was a tunnel open before me.
I walked into that strange city, stood beside the man about to enter his home. I looked at the woman, saw her face pale and white under a fur cap. They were dead, of course. Dead for uncounted centuries. I had never seen their type of garments before, not even in the ancient history books I had looked at in Kharthol. I turned and stared back through the tunnel. Marga and Ghan Karr lay where they had fallen. I ran to rouse them, to bring them into the warmer air of the ice city.
I shook Ghan Karr to a mumbling wakefulness. He sat up, staring at me like a man demented, “Go away, Uthian. Let me sleep.” He fell over on his face and by sheer force I wrestled him to his feet.
“We’re saved, Ghan Karr. There’s a city!” He began to laugh, looking where I pointed. “I am asleep, after all. My apologies, Prince of Thieves. I thought you were trying to wake me.” He began to stumble toward the great ice sheath behind which he could see buildings now, and people.
I lifted Marga into my arms and carried her at a shuffling trot toward the warmer air not far ahead. She moaned as we went into the tunnel, and her arms came up about my neck. Her eyelashes were frozen to her cheeks, and as she woke, she wept softly.
“I’m dead—and locked in the dark pit of Chorakor!”
“Hush, Marga. You’re as alive as I am.” I put my lips to her eyes, felt the tiny ice flakes moisten and fall away under their heat. Marga opened eyes that glistened tenderly as they regarded my anxious face. I squirmed uncomfortably, not daring to think what she might say. Quickly, to avoid speech, I set her on her booted feet and waved an arm at the city.
“Wha—what is this place, Uthian? A city all in ice? It’s people—oh, I see a man and a woman and . . .”
She turned her pale face toward me. “They’re dead. What killed them—so suddenly?”
My shoulders shrugged. “I do not know, Marga—but I do know that we must find food somewhere, or we too will die.”
“I would not mind dying with you, Uthian,” she said softly, and reached for my hand.
Fortunately, Ghan Karr came out of a building at that moment, waving what looked like a roast of bork steak in his hands. His voice came clearly to us in the warm air. “A food store, you two. Down here—come on. Plenty to eat; frozen stuff that’s been kept in cold storage for Astarra knows how long!”
Marga and I ran into the shop. There were two men and a woman in the store, a man behind one of the counters. Marga sent a swift look about, then turned to me.
“There isn’t much food here. I don’t know what this place is—or what it was—but the people were having a hard time of it. There’s very little to eat on the shelves. Thank the gods there are only three of us.”
The original cover art was painted by the legendary Gray Morrow.
Thief of Llarn is a Sword & Planet classic from Gardner F. Fox. Originally published in 1966, written as an homage to Edgar Rice Burrough’s John Carter of Mars series. Gardner F. Fox takes us to another world, where Alan Morgan, an Earthman, was now a true citizen of the planet Llarn. Through his master swordsmanship and quick wits, he had risked his life at great odds to finally win the beautiful Tuarra, daganna of Kharthol, as his wife.
And he would do it again . . . for now, even more, was at stake. The world of Llarn itself was threatened with a disaster even greater than the atomic war of eons ago, which had dried up the oceans and shredded the land to desert and desolation and peopled it with monstrous mutated beings.
On a curious chess board that crossed the barriers of time, Alan Morgan was moved from adventure to adventure by the powers of a godlike master, and his swift sword was his only means of staving off the enemies of the planet and saving the life of his loved princess.
The original cover art was painted by the legendary Frank Frazetta.
Near Canopus there is a small red sun, around which eleven planets revolve. One of these is Llarn a world which resembles Earth in some ways, but in others is exotically different. There were men and women there, fallen empires, forgotten cities, and roving barbarians striving to rise. And there were the dreaded remnants of a hideous atomic disaster eons past–things that once were men with powers that bordered on the evilly miraculous.
Alan Morgan came to Llarn at the behest of one of these warped man-monsters to act as his envoy on a world-shaking mission. But Alan was no puppet…and the story of his extraordinary adventures on that world of swordplay and wonders is a constantly exciting novel.