The servants of Rhaen chained Rose to the rock midway between the sailor and the head of the bull. Aided by his priests, Rhaen clambered onto the rock and took his stand at the foot of the orichalcum pillar. He bent his head in prayer. While his lips moved, the priests knelt on the pavement with lifted hands and upturned faces. Every eye was fixed on the dome. Whatever was to come, it was evident that it would proceed thence.
Lying on the black altar, doomed to be the first sacrifice to Shamar in the Feast of Years, Rose for a time was dazed and near to fainting. Then her mind cleared, and a mad whirl of tortured thought began. What of Polaris? With the memory of her lover came a stab of grief so keen that it banished all fear of the priests and what they could do. No pain that they could bring to her body could be so terrible as this anguish that made her very soul quail.
Minutes passed. Again she became calm and fell to studying her surroundings. What manner of doom was coming? Fire in some shape, she was sure. She had noticed that the surface of the basalt slab was deeply scored down its center, where she and Brooks were chained, and its substance was crumbled and calcined as if by the passing of a fierce heat many times repeated. She besought her God that before Shamar struck, her senses might leave her, so might she die in peace.
Rhaen prayed on. Above in the dome the brilliant colors played and shifted. Their magnificence hurt the girl's eyes, and she closed them. Would the end never come? Out in the city the din of war swelled louder.
Bel-Ar spoke harshly, bidding Rhaen delay not. The arch-priest quit his mumbled prayer long enough to reply with some show of spirit that the doings of the god could not be hastened.
The truth of the matter was, Rhaen was proceeding slowly, and with a reason. Rhaen was a politician. He had watched through the long weeks the course of war, and he did not find it hard to guess whose would be the ultimate victory. When that time came, what mercy would the king of Ruthar show to those who had given his lady to the tortures of Shamar? He lifted his hands high above his head, finally, and led his priests in a sonorous chant.
As the notes of the song arose, the prismatic colors ceased in the dome. The prisms disappeared. Doors glided back in the golden roof, and an immense circular plate, or lens, of crystal made its appearance. So high was the arch of the dome where the crystal lens was hung, that it was impossible from the floor to judge its size; but it must have been at least thirty feet in diameter. It was set in a metal rim, and the whole was swung into place by chains, the mechanism doubtless operated by servants of Rhaen concealed in the vault of the dome.
Tilted slightly to the east, the crystal hung. Above it a round aperture suddenly appeared in the roof. Through that opening shot a splendid shaft of sunshine that pierced the gloom of the temple-hall like an arrow of light. Blinding in its radiance, it cut downward and struck on the basalt altar, full on the head of the bull.
Immediately arose the stench of burning hair and sizzling flesh. The power of the crystal lens so condensed the light-ray that where it fell its heat was all-consuming. Within half a minute naught was left of the head of the sacred bull save a few cinders and bits of calcined bone and charred tips of the horns.
Where the head had been, the basalt rock glowed ruby-red in the path of that awful lance of fire. Inch by inch, and very slowly, the consuming ray crept along the altar toward the head of the girl.
Rose had been nearly blinded, even through her closed lids, by the flash of light from the dome. Although she could not turn her head to see, she could smell the scorching flesh of the bull, and could guess what was coming.
"Good-by, my love, good-by," she said in her heart. Then He to whom she had prayed made answer, and she fainted.
Louder rose the chant of the priests. The merciless finger of their god moved on. Bel-Ar strained forward in his stone seat and stared at the sacrifice as though fascinated.
Some five feet were yet to be traversed by the ray before it would reach the girl, when a soldier ran up the southern steps of the temple and hurled himself through the kneeling ranks of the priests. Behind him a wild clamor of battle arose in the street.
"Adlaz is lost!" shouted the soldier, as he broke into the open space before the king. "Already is the foe at the very gates of Shamar!"
Without stirring in his seat, hardly removing his eyes from the altar, Bel-Ar gave an order to the captains behind him. The silent files of the palace-guard came from behind the pillars and ranged themselves before the four entrances of the temple.
Across the face of the altar the relentless fire-beam seared its way.
Meanwhile, at the walls of Adlaz the Rutharian army had halted.
Night had found the men of the hills battering at the Mazanion gates. Urged on by the tireless energy of Polaris and the equally indomitable zeal of Oleric—for the red captain had made a promise—the zinds mustered their weary legions for a night of sleepless battle. War-worn by a quarter-year's conflict, the echoes of which would go whispering down their history for centuries to come, the king's battalions did not fail him. Every man in the army knew the terrible stake that was set for the game. None faltered. None complained.
Assault on assault was directed at the gates, but still the southern doors of Adlaz remained unshaken. Riders had made the round of the city and had reported that the other three gateways had been walled up with stone masonry that it would be a work of days to dislodge—and they had only seventeen hours to reach the temple of Shamar. Oleric, who knew, said that the sacrifice of the Feast of Years would begin at noon of the next day, and not one moment sooner.
Fanaer, Ruthar's most dreaded antagonist, was manning his last barricade. As soon as he had drawn his shattered army within the gates before the advance of his foemen, the captain ordered great rocks, which had been brought to the top of the walls in preparation for his purpose, cast down until they formed a jagged but powerful defense before the gates. That was to keep back the amalocs.
Vainly the infantry of Ruthar charged over that irregular wall. Did any of them reach the gates, their battle-axes were but puny weapons against the bronze and steel of the doors. In vain they tried to carry in and place the melinite with which Zenas supplied them. Fanaer showered them with stones and blazing timbers. Three times men carrying the deadly cakes of explosive were stricken so that the melinite blew up and tore them to shreds.
All night long the attack was maintained. All the night Polaris raged helplessly before that stubborn barrier of stone. In the morning light he counseled with Oleric, Zenas, and Zoar.
"If you could but clear a way for my beasts!" groaned Zoar. "Then I would send them against the gates, though it killed them—which might well happen, for those gates are heavy enough to challenge even the strength of an amaloc."
Zenas sprang up and beat himself on the forehead.
"Doddering fool that I am!" he cried. "Here we have wasted men and time, and because my wits were sleeping in my boot-heels. Get your amalocs ready, Zoar."
While Oleric sent one more assault against the gates, the geologist directed his engineers, under the cover of the attack, to mine, not the gates, but the pile of stones itself, with the melinite. Four big charges of the explosive they placed in Fanaer's barricade, and Zenas, with a tap of his finger on the battery, blew the barrier against the wall.
Hardly had the stones quit falling when an amaloc rushed the gateway. Zoar spoke truly when he said those gates were strong. Fearful as was the impetus of the beast's charge, and though it cracked the great steel plates which protected its head with the impact, it did not shatter the gates. It withdrew from the onset somewhat sick and groggy—if that word may be applied to the mental condition of the amaloc. Zoar sent in another.
Four of the monsters were launched successively against the portals before the gates crashed down. The last shock was so fearful that the beast which delivered it fell just beyond the gateway and died with a broken skull in the midst of the ruin it had made.
Through the gap and into the Mazanion avenue, almost under the lee of the falling mammoth, flashed Polaris, mounted and in full armor. Hard behind him rode Oleric. Ahead of them the wide street was choked with Maeronican soldiery, and the son of the snows would have charged without pause; for the time that was left him was reduced to minutes now. Taking of the gates had not been quick or easy, and Shamar was high in the heavens.
But the red captain caught at his bridle-rein.
"Hold, friend and king; you will peril your life needlessly," he shouted. "Leave this desperate scum to Zoar, and follow where he leads. Ah! here he comes! Now see them scatter!"
Oleric threw back his head and laughed. But Polaris, with that sun riding high above him, was in no mood for laughter.
In through the rifted gateway thrust Ixstus. The giant amaloc was in his full panoply of war. On his head he bore proudly his master, Zoar the aged, and in the turret behind Zoar rode the Goddess Glorian—Glorian coming to the end to take what gift fate had in store.
Under the swaying tusks of Ixstus terror shouted aloud in the street. Behind him, his sons and grandsons were pushing in through the gap in the wall. Bel-Ar's battered soldiers had had enough and full measure of Ixstus and his family. They did not wait now for the first screaming trumpet-call, but cast down their arms and scampered away—anywhere, so that they might put strong walls between themselves and the tribe of Ixstus.
Then the general Fanaer rode forward and surrendered his sword to Oleric. He was a small, thin man, this famous warrior, with a twisted nose between pale-blue eyes, and curling, yellow beard.
"I have fought you my best for the king, my master," he said. "But you have taken Adlaz, and my work is done." He glanced curiously at Polaris. "Haste you, king of Ruthar," he said, not unkindly. "They are doing sacrifice in Shamar's temple."
Like an arrow from a bow, Polaris shot forward, spurring his horse. Oleric galloped after him. Behind them thundered Ixstus, shaking the pavement with his tread. Nor, strive as the fleet horses might, could they more than barely keep ahead of the amaloc. A race with death had begun.
Lest harm befall, the zind Maxtan led a squadron of his mounted hillsmen in the wake of the speeding riders. Gray Jastla rode in the front rank.
Before Polaris's galloping steed leaped and barked the great dog Rombar, who was more fleet of foot than any horse. To keep him out of harm's way in the battles, Rombar had been chained in hateful captivity for months. When the Mazanion gates were down and the amalocs cleared the street, the man who had charge of Rombar slipped his leash and let him go.
They rode madly through the splendid grounds of the temple, where the sacred bulls fled bellowing before the approach of Ixstus. At the foot of the long stairway, Polaris and Oleric threw themselves from their steeds, and, drawing their swords, dashed up the marble steps. But Zoar with a word of command, set Ixstus to the ascent, and the amaloc distanced the running men.
Scarce two feet of Shamar's black altar separated the head of Rose Emer from the fiery danger, and the rock where she lay was almost blistering hot, when Ixstus, with a scream of triumph, burst through the ranks of the guard at the southern door and strode into the lofty shrine. As the beast paused, blinking and stretching out an inquiring trunk in the direction of the puzzling shaft of light, two armored men ran around his ponderous bulk and leaped onto the altar.
Rhaen would have given the word then to close the dome and stop the ray; but the strain of his anxiety had been too much for the aged priest. As he opened his mouth to shout, his knees loosened, and he fell in a swoon at the base of the orichalcum pillar.
With four strokes of his sword, Polaris severed the golden chains and swept the senseless form of Rose from the altar. Oleric the Red did the like service for Brooks. Now might the finger of Shamar move on unheeded.
Polaris knelt with his love in his arms. As he bent over her, Oleric shouted in warning. The son of the snows leaped to his feet in time to catch on his sword the blade of Bel-Ar, the king.
Once again Ruthar and Ad, personified in their two rulers, were face to face.
From the four doorways came the devoted men of the palace-guard. Bel-Ar, who had fallen back a pace, lifted his hand.
"There is that between this man and me which only death may take away," he said. "Let none interfere—unless the slave is afraid to fight." He fixed his burning eyes on Polaris. At that last remark Oleric the Red laughed loudly.
Under other circumstances, Janess might have been minded to let Bel-Ar go free. Whatever were his faults, the Maeronican king was a brave man, one who did not bow down and weep when misfortune overtook him. But Polaris had just seen his dear lady chained to the horror of the sacrificial stone because of this man, and his fell religion and relentless practices against strangers. Minos, Memene, Everson, the company of theMinnetonka, the fallen of the hosts of Ruthar and of Ad—for all those deaths Bel-Ar was responsible. Surely his doors were haunted by many ghosts!
With no word in answer to the king's taunt, Polaris swung his sword, and the fight began. Bel-Ar pressed in with a shower of blows, seeking to bear his adversary down by the sheer weight and fury of his attack. He was a powerful man, perhaps the strongest warrior in all his broad lands, as he had boasted—but he had met a stronger now.
With the skill in fence that had been taught him by Jastla, the son of the snows guarded himself against those lightning blows, letting Bel-Ar weary himself until an opening should come—as his patience had told him it always would, no matter how hardy the fighter.
Jastla himself stood by the altar and watched his pupil fight. For Maxtan and his cavalry had reached the temple. On one side of the altar stood the men of Ruthar and Ixstus. On the other were ranged the gleaming bronze lines of Bel-Ar's guard.
Harder and harder the Maeronican pressed the fight. His blade swung like a circle of flame. Warily Polaris fended. Came a clash and a clang of falling steel, and a cry of dismay from the Rutharians. Under the stout bronze of Bel-Ar their champion's sword had snapped short off at the hilt.
With a yell of exultation, Bel-Ar sprang in to make an end. And those who watched the fray were bound by honor not to interfere. Oleric groaned, and Jastla tugged at his white beard and ground his teeth in dismay. Then he sent up a roaring shout:
"Well thrown! Oh, well thrown!"
Under the vengeful sweep of the singing blade Polaris had leaped and caught the Maeronican around the middle. The blow of the sword fell harmless. But Polaris swung Bel-Ar up to his shoulder, aye, and over it, and dashed him down on the marble floor.
One of the golden captains of the guard ran to the king's side and unhelmed him. Bel-Ar was dead, his back broken by the terrible fall.
"Heard ever a man the like?" roared Jastla. "The strongest warrior in Adlaz tossed like a toy and slain by an unarmed man!"
Through the fierce fray Glorian had sat like a statue, unable to stir or speak. As the Rutharians shouted in triumph, she roused and cried out:
"Look to the priest! Haste! He burns!"
Unnoticed in the stir of the combat, the ray of Shamar had moved on down the length of the altar. The priests in the dome had fled their posts in terror, and there had been none to stay the mechanism. In the path of Shamar's finger lay Rhaen, Shamar's priest, swooned and helpless. The ray struck him. Aid was too late.
Rhaen was a horrid sight when he was pulled from the altar. His soul had gone—perhaps to seek the god whom he had served.
On Ixstus's head stood Glorian in her silver armor.
"So ends the religion of Shamar!" she cried. With the battle-ax she carried, she bent over and struck the crystal vase and shattered it.
At the other end of the altar of basalt the great ray beat on the pillar of orichalcum, so that the surface of the metal was melted and the cruel laws of Ad were effaced. With the laws perished the prophecy.
Water was dashed on the face of Rose Emer, and presently she opened her eyes and sat up and realized that she was not dead. Before them all, Polaris took her into his arms and kissed her—for such is the privilege of kings. Glorian, watching from Ixstus's back, turned white with agony and clenched her slender fingers so that the nails bit into her palms.
"Oh, be strong, my heart," she whispered to herself. "My soul has said it—my time will come!"
Zenas Wright came soon, and at the altar of Shamar was held a reunion where hearts were too full for talking, until Ensign Brooks spoke up and Said:
"Lead me to a dinner-table, somebody. First they worked the flesh off my bones. Then they tried to roast me along with a bull's head and a pretty woman—but never once did they give me a decent meal."
"You shall have your dinner," said Polaris. "But first there is something which I will have done, here and now, if may be." He turned to Oleric, while Rose Emer's cheeks, that had been so wan, flamed rosy red.
"Has one of these priests here the power to perform a marriage ceremony?" Janess asked.
"Surely," replied Oleric. And then the red captain smiled broadly as he caught the import of the question. "Hale one of them here, Jastla," he said.
Jastla came soon, gripping a sadly scared priest of Shamar by the slack of his gown. "Do you, Oleric, who understand more of his jargon than I do, listen that he does a good job of it," grumbled the chieftain. "For if he doesn't, I'll flay him."
But Glorian was great-hearted, even befitting her title of goddess. She now stepped down from the amaloc to the altar.
"In this let Glorian of Ruthar serve you," she said. "I have the power, and the knot that I shall tie, though it shall be more gentle than if done by this dog of Shamar, yet will it be as binding."
So, after the long years and their perils, Polaris and his Rose-maid were wedded, Oleric the Red producing the ring. And when she had pronounced the words which made them one, Glorian took Rose in her arms and kissed her on the forehead.
"May you be very happy, my sister," she whispered.
Now here the pen that has written this history ceases, to give place to that of one of its chief actors, who has a parting word to tell.
I, Zenas Wright, now in my sixty-seventh year, and being in full possession of my health, mind, and faculties (as lawyers write it in the wills) having been asked by the writer of the foregoing work to make some comment on it, do hereby aver, asseverate, maintain, etc., that it is in the main a faithful account of certain events in which it has been my privilege to play a small part. In fact, I cannot well do otherwise, seeing that I furnished him the information.
Such changes as I might be tempted to make in the history he has written would only vex the writer, and so I'll let it be. They would be in the nature of scientific details, anyhow, and I fear would make only dry reading for any but brother scientists.
I have told the author that he has made altogether too much of my part in the events which he has described. I am not a hero, and never will be; but in this description of that brush in the Kimbrian defile—which was altogether a matter of chance—he has made me almost heroic. I have asked him to amend the account; but he will not listen to it, and so I suppose that it will have to stand. I hereby disclaim it.
It is more than six months since the fademeOarondropped anchor in the Potomac (where its arrival created a fine sensation), and I landed once more in Washington. With me came Lieutenant Everson. He did not get to Adlaz until some weeks after it had been taken, and he's not the man yet that he was before he got that jab from Atlo's spear. But he's improving. He had the loss of a cruiser to report; but he brought with him a sum in gold and gems, sent by the king of Ruthar and Maeronica, sufficient to reimburse the Government for the loss of the ship, and with a splendid sum left over to be distributed among the relatives of those who went down with her. The king is a man who doesn't do things by halves.
Ensign Brooks came with us also. He was pining for a peep up Broadway and a whiff of "America's strongest cigarette." I hope that he has had enough to eat since he came back.
Through the kindness of Oleric, I was enabled to bring with me a splendid pair of mammoth's tusks, which I took great pleasure in adding to the collection of the Smithsonian Institution. Some time I hope to be the means of bringing to these shores specimens of theElephas primigeniusthemselves, which the Rutharians call amalocs.
Before this history comes to the eyes of the world—if it ever does, of which I have some doubt—I shall have gone back to the south. I thought that I wanted to end my days in my home in Buffalo and be buried there; but I don't. I'm going back to be with my boy. He is making a wise ruler there in Adlaz. Perhaps an old man's life will not be altogether useless there, where there is so much to be done.
Before I left Adlaz, two small princes were playing in the royal palace—Patrymion, the boy of Minos, who eventually will be king if he lives, and another youngster, who must stagger through life under the burden of the name of Polaris Zenas Janess. Guess that's pretty good for an old rock-splitter—to have the first-born son of a real king named after him. Constituting himself the special guardian of the two little chaps is a simple-minded little cockney sailor, whom Polaris found in prison, Jack Melton by name. Sunlight has cured him of some of his hallucinations, and he no longer hates Rombar.
There is one thing more, which I did not find in the history, and will now add here. It concerns that remarkable woman, Glorian of Ruthar. One day when we were discussing the power which she and Oleric declare they have to prolong their lives (privately, I think it is rank bosh), Glorian told me that it was possible for one who knew the secret to make use of it to keep another person alive, and without that person knowing about it. Now Glorian is living in Adlaz, where she has had the temple of Shamar fixed over to suit her. She sees Polaris often. I am of the opinion that, if she has any such power—mind you, I'm not admitting she has—she is using it on Polaris, and is planning to outwait Mrs. Janess (Queen Rose, I suppose I should call her) and eventually have him for herself. The outcome of this, only time will tell, and I shall not live to know it. I have not the means to prolong my life—and would not if I had.
By the way, Zoar of the Amalocs died shortly after the taking of Adlaz. The excitement of the war was too much for his heart.
Oh, yes! And Oleric married Bel-Ar's widow, the Queen Raissa; and that is all.
Good-by.