The Man the Sun-Gods Made

The clarion notes rang sweet and clear. They brought Tyr erect, the peculiar ring chained to his neck bouncing on his chest. He looked toward the dim horizon, where stood Yawarta, city of the ruby throne.

This was the call to the god of the Lyallar. Tyr ran easily, like a perfect machine that never tired. Across the white sands, and through the eerie forest in which all the trees resembled frost-flakes, silver-white in the sun. Deep in the heart of the forest lay an azure pool, its blueness contrasting startlingly with the silver of the forest.

The towers of Yawarta were slim and dark beyond the grassy fields. Like drops of blood on a satin pillow they brooded, reminding the Tryllan race that they were slaves to the ardth who dwelt far beyond the nearest star.

A girl was standing before a golden door set flush with the hillside.

"Fay!"

"Speak not, on your life!" she whimpered.

They stood silent, breathing softly. Tyr heard the voices then, harsh voices, where the Tryllans spoke in musical syllables.

"The ardth! They have returned?"

"Yes. They swear to kill you, Tyr. They are hunting you now, along the tunnels to the door."

Tyr bent and swung the girl high on his chest, grinning. "They will never catch Tyr."

Tyr began to run. His legs blurred with the speed of his motion. He stepped out along the grassy slope, and down it, and then was running free on the plains. He heard Fay's gasp as she grew aware of his pace. She buried her head against his shoulder to breathe, and her yellow hair whipped and stung his face as the wind tossed it.

For four hours Tyr ran, not needing to breathe. When he swung the girl down, he was as composed as though he had moved ten feet. Fay stared up at him with warm brown eyes.

"Truly you are a god, Tyr. Only a god could run without effort."

"No god. Only--only--"

He halted. He had no word to describe himself. Neither did the Trylla, except "god." So god he had become, unwillingly; yet he was dimly aware that he was unique among men, that he stood alone.

"We are far from the Old Ones, the ardth, here," he said. "It would be easy to dwell here on the deserts until they have left."

Fay stirred restlessly, saying, "I do not want to stay on the deserts. They are bare places. No people, no laughter."

"I don't blame you. There must be something I can do."

He rubbed his hands on the soft white fur that clasped his hips. A hot anger was beating up inside him, making his nostrils flare. The Old Ones! They had come back to Lyallar, where Tyr ruled! The masters of planets and the far reaches of space had come back. He was one, and the ardth were many. Individually, nothing could ever defeat him. But one against a race! He shook his head.

"You could fight them, Tyr. You are a god. What can the Old Ones do to you? There is no way of killing you. Sometimes an assassin has tried, while you sat on the ruby throne. But no one has ever succeeded."

That was true. Yet he did not tell her that his own uncanny speed saved him. There was no sense in testing fate, by letting a weapon strike him. He had a subtle knowledge that he might be immune to certain types of missiles, but he was not sure.

"You could walk into Yawarta and slay them all, Tyr," the girl said softly, watching him carefully with her brown eyes. "Then we could go back to the old days. You could give me that emerald necklace I want."

Tyr wondered at the greed in the brown eyes. It disturbed him. But it did not disturb him as much as the thoughts of the Old Ones. Thought of them brought a yearning for battle that rose red and mist-like inside his great chest. How to tell of that hotness within him, where his guts ought to be, but were not, that made his heart pump with fury? Yet, despite his rage, he was alert and careful as a stalking cat. He could not tell this to Fay; she wanted him to walk unarmed into Yawarta and blast the ardth with some sort of supernatural power.

He walked around on the white sand, brooding at his moving feet. He looked into his mind for the words, stumbling and halting.

"Fay, the Trylla have made of me a god. Now I know I am no god. I am not such a god as the legends of the Tryllan cults tell of, at any rate. I am only a man. A human being, who is something of a freak."

There was a patient smile on the girl's red mouth. She shook her head and the soft yellow hair tumbled around her bare shoulders.

"We have spoken of this before, Tyr. Always you say that you are not a god, and then you turn around and do what only a god can do."

Tyr sighed. "Maybe I am a god. Maybe I expect a god to be too much. But that is not exactly the point. It is this: the Trylla call me god, no matter what I call myself. Therefore I must act like a god, for their sake."

Fay nodded, brown eyes fastened on him.