Instantly pandemonium raged. The men scattered wildly from Sadu's flailing claws and glistening fangs, only to encounter other lions who, emboldened by the success of the first, had turned back to leap the barrier. Already a dozen of the tawny, sinuous bodies were sowing death among the ranks of Jotan's followers.
The princess Alurna huddled among a heap of furs and sought to close her eyes against the horrors of the growing massacre. But not seeing at all was infinitely worse than reality, and so her eyes remained open and staring.
Suddenly a huge, yellow-maned monster bounded toward her. A lithe spring brought it atop a mound of supplies scarcely ten feet from where she lay paralyzed with fear. Slowly the lordly head swung in a menacing circle and the savage eyes fixed upon her shrinking form. The small ears twitched back until they lay tight against the sleek skull, the mammoth maw parted to disclose awesome fangs and a low growl rumbled low in the deep chest.
Jotan, shouting orders in an effort to rally his scattered men to some semblance of order, caught sight of the doomed princess as Sadu rose in his spring toward her. Careless of his own safety, he drew back his strong right arm and launched his heavy war spear. The keen blade flashed across the intervening space and caught Sadu squarely in the chest, knocking him to one side and killing him instantly.
Whileall this was taking place, Dylara, daughter of Majok, had remained crouched close to one of the heaps of burning branches where she knew Sadu would be reluctant to approach. She saw man after man go down beneath the ravaging cats, and twice she saw lions leap back into the darkness, carrying the limp corpse of some unfortunate Ammadian. She witnessed, too, Jotan's rescue of the princess Alurna, and despite the awful carnage about her, she smiled grimly as Urim's daughter ran forward and threw her arms about the tall Ammadian noble.
At the moment it abruptly dawned on Dylara that this was her opportunity to escape from those who held her an unwilling captive. She turned her head and stared out into the open ground between camp and forest edge, seeing the long shadows cast by the flickering flames. If she could but cross that ribbon of grassland safely and gain the safety of the trees!
Even as she silently voiced the wish, her mind was made up for her. From behind one of the piles of supplies emerged a tawny shape. Two blazing eyes caught sight of the cave girl, and heedless of the nearby fire, the giant cat began to slink toward her.
Dylara, wise to the ways of the jungle, acted. Without a second's hesitation she whirled about and raced through a narrow break in the circle of fire, heading for the darkness beyond. Even as she acted, she knew this might be merely exchanging one peril for another: there could easily be ten lions between her and the safety of the trees.
With an earth-shaking roar, Sadu gave chase.
Her heart pounding wildly, Dylara shot across the open ground like an arrow from a bow. Behind her, gaining ground as though his frail quarry were standing still, came the lion, its jaws widely distended, low growls welling from its throat.
The low-spreading branches of a forest tree loomed ahead of the fleeing girl. Sadu was only a few feet behind her ... already he was launching the last leap that would crush the girl to earth just short of her goal.
Inthe camp itself, Jotan's bellowed commands were beginning to take effect on the disorganized warriors. Those still alive and unwounded managed to form a spear-bristling phalanx, standing shoulder to shoulder, while the blood-hungry cats moved slowly around them. Twice, a lion charged that square of flint spear-tips, only to fall back with roars of rage and bleeding from wounds. For a few minutes longer the beasts continued to circle warily about the men, now and then feinting charges in an effort to draw them into breaking ranks.
But the warriors, heartened by the confident bearing of their leader, held fast in spite of the fearful nearness of distended jaws and gleaming fangs.
At last, as though by some strange understanding, the lions began to withdraw, dragging with them some of the torn bodies of warriors who had died during the battle. Only the sharp commands of Jotan himself prevented the others from an attempt to save their fallen comrades from so horrible a fate—Jotan who was realist enough to know that any such foolhardy action—no matter how noble the purpose—could only result in further casualties.
When at last the lions were gone, Jotan set about restoring the broken defenses of the camp. Fires were increased in number and size, scattered supplies and weapons were reassembled and the wounded cared for.
Not until all this was done did Jotan learn of Dylara's disappearance. At first he was nearly frantic with worry, picturing her as being dragged away by one of the marauders. It was not until he questioned the wounded that the true story came out.
"No, Sadu did not get her. Not in the camp anyway." The warrior, wincing from the pain of a long gash in one arm, pulled himself into a sitting position as he replied to Jotan's questions. "She was crouched down near the fires until one of the lions began to creep up on her. She wasted no time in doing something about that!"
"Whatdidshe do?" Jotan demanded impatiently.
"The only thing she could have done: slipped through the fires and ran for the trees."
The young Ammadian noble glanced toward the Stygian gloom of the distant jungle and a faint shudder coursed through him. "What a mad thing to do!" he said, half to himself. "I would rather face Sadu here in the light than plunge into those shadows." To the wounded man he said, "Did you see her reach the trees?"
The other man shook his head. "My eyes are not that good. The lion chased her into the darkness and I lost sight of them both. She had a good start and she ran very swiftly."
"Which way did she go?"
The warrior waved an arm toward the south. Jotan picked four men who, carrying spears and torches, accompanied their leader in that direction.
They reached the fringe of trees and jungle to the south of the camp,and walked among the tree boles, calling out the cave girl's name. But only the voices of disturbed bird life and the distant scream of a panther answered their cries.
"Sadu must have gotten her after all," said one of the four.
"I don't believe it!" Jotan snapped. "She knows the jungle beasts too well for that to happen."
"Then why," asked another of the men, "does she not answer our calls?"
Jotan ignored the question. "Return to the camp," he said through a strange lump in his throat. "When morning comes, we will take up the search for her."
Alurna, still weak and shaken from her recent experience with Sadu, watched the five men enter the camp. She saw Jotan dismiss the others and come over to where she was seated between Tamar and Javan. When there was no sight of Dylara, and when she noticed Jotan's grim expression, her heart bounded with a wild and horrible hope.
"Well, Jotan?" Tamar said quietly.
Hisfriend spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "There is no trace of her," he admitted, and in his voice was a note of such intense suffering that Tamar's heart went out to him.
Javan, blinked stolidly at the stricken man, put into words the unvoiced question of the others. "The lions...."
Jotan shook his head. "I don't believe they got her. There were no signs of a struggle. No ... bones." His voice faltered on that last word, and he threw his hands wide in sick bewilderment. "I don't know what to think!"
The princess Alurna spoke up suddenly in silken tones. "Have you forgotten so soon, O noble Jotan, the cave girl's own words?"
Jotan stared deep into the faintly mocking gray-green eyes of Urim's daughter. "What do you mean?" he said stiffly.
"Did she not say: 'I would escape and return to the caves of Majok, my father'? Did those words mean so little to you?"
Harsh lines deepened at the corners of Jotan's lips. "Yes, she said that. But she would not try to get away at night. Especially tonight, when there are the God knows how many lions roaming about the camp. The hardiest warrior would not dare that, let alone a frail girl."
"How long," Tamar broke in, "will you go on thinking of Dylara as a 'frail' girl? Can't you understand that she is not our kind of woman? She does not fear the jungle: all that she needed was a chance to get into it without our seeing her, and tonight she was given that chance. You have Sadu to thank for that."
For several long minutes Jotan sat there without speaking, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the leaping flames of the campfire. What strange currents and cross-currents, he mused, had been set into motion by his love for the girl of the caves. There was the steadily widening rift with Tamar—Tamar whose only flaw was his stiff-necked pride in lineage and noble blood—Tamar, who was his closest friend, his almost constant companion since boyhood. Together they had learned the arts of hunting and fighting, together they had served as fellow officers in Jaltor's armies, together they had crossed those interminable stretches of jungle, plain and mountain between Ammad and far-off Sephar. Could he afford to risk an almost certain break with Tamar by pursuing further his mad infatuation for the missing cave girl?
There was another complication, too—one leaving him open for repercussions even more unpleasant than the loss of a friend. There was no doubt in his mind but that the Princess Alurna was in love with him. He knew that in the eyes of his family and friends she would make any man a mate to be proud of. From the standpoint of beauty alone she was almost as lovely as Dylara. More than that, however, Alurna was the niece of Jaltor, monarch of all Ammad and a personal friend of Jotan's own father. Jotan shuddered slightly. He could well imagine Jaltor's reaction upon learning that the daughter of his dead brother had been spurned in favor of a half-wild woman of the caves!
And then the lithe, softly curved body of Dylara came unbidden before his mind's eye ... and all else was forgotten. He rose stiffly from where he sat among his friends, conscious from their expressions that they knew he had arrived at a decision affecting them all.
"When the dawn comes," he said in a strangely toneless voice, "we break camp and continue on toward Ammad. Not all of us will go on, however. A few warriors shall accompany me in search of Dylara ... and I shall not return without her!"
Hers was the beauty famous across half a worldHers was the beauty famous across half a world
Hers was the beauty famous across half a worldHers was the beauty famous across half a world
Dinosaur
Dinosaur
Otar, a warrior in the service of Vokal, a powerful and high-ranking nobleman of the city of Ammad, was violently unhappy this night. His sandaled feet beat an angry rhythm against the pavement in front of the arched opening in the high stone wall about his master's estate. Thirty paces one way, an about face executed with the military precision Vokal demanded of his guards, then thirty paces back again, spear held rigidly across his tunic-clad chest.
The velvety blackness of a moonless night weighted the street and matched his mood—a blackness only intensified by the feeble yellow rays of a lantern in a niche above the gate. Silently he cursed the captain of the guards who had demoted him to night sentry duty, then he cursed Vokal for his mad judgment in picking so heartless a captain to begin with.
There was a sound reason for Otar's unhappiness. Only the day before he had taken a mate—the incomparable Marua, daughter of one of Vokal's understewards—Marua, whose exquisite blonde beauty and matchless form had brought her a host of male admirers, many of them in high positions in Vokal's service. Among them was Ekbar, captain of the nobleman's guards; and therein, Otar knew, lay the reason why he was walking a midnight post outside Vokal's sprawling estate. The thought of his lovely new mate alone in his snug apartment in the guard's quarters while he paced away the hours brought a fresh flood of curses to his lips.
"Greetings," said a hoarse whispering voice behind him.
Otar, startled, whirled and leveled his spear in one rapid motion. "Who speaks?" he growled.
An indistinct figure, muffled to the chin in a black cloak, was standing in the street only a foot or two beyond reach of the questing spearhead.
"Fear not," said the harsh voice. "It is I—Heglar, nobleman of Ammad. I am here to hold an audience with the noble Vokal. At his own invitation. Here." He held out his hand from under the cloak and something gleamed from the center of his palm in the faint light. "Examine this by the rays from yonder lantern."
Cautiously, his heavy spear ready in his right hand, Otar took the object and backed away until he could see it clearly. His careful maneuvering was in line with orders, for attempts at assassination were fairly common among Ammad's nobles in their ceaseless efforts for power second only to Jaltor himself, king of all Ammad.
A single glance was all Otar needed. It was Vokal's personal talisman: a small square of gold bearing on one side a peculiar design cut in the soft metal. No humblest warrior in allVokal's vast retinue who did not know that design and his duties when faced with it.
He returned the talisman to the man who called himself Heglar and stepped back, bringing his spear sharply to a saluting position. "You may pass, noble Heglar. This path will bring you to a side door of Vokal's palace. The guard there will see to it that you are taken to him."
Vokalstood on a small balcony of stone outside his private apartment on the fourth level of his huge, many-roomed palace. He was a tall slender graceful man in his early fifties, with a narrow face, small cameo-sharp features and a languid almost dreamy quality in his movements and expression. Prematurely gray hair waved back from a brow of classical perfection, and the hand he lifted to smooth that hair was narrow and long fingered and beautifully kept. He was wearing the knee-length tunic common to all men and women of Ammad, but his was of a better weave, its belt of the same material was a full two inches wider and trimmed with the purple of Ammadian royalty.
From this elevated position he was able to look out over the northern section of the city of Ammad—a vast orderly array of box-like stone buildings, some gray and some white, rising one to three floors above the streets. Fully five miles from where Vokal stood was the northern section of the great gray wall of stone encircling the city, and the buildings became smaller and simpler in design the nearer they were to that wall.
A man's position in Ammad was determined by how near the city's center his dwelling stood. At the metropolis' exact center was the mammoth palace of Jaltor, king of Ammad and supreme ruler of a vast country of jungle, plain and mountain extending a moon's march in all directions. Like Vokal's own palace, Jaltor's rose from the crest of one of the city's five hills; but the king's, in addition to being at the exact center of Ammad, stood on the highest of them all. It could be seen from the windows on the opposite side of Vokal's palace—the principal reason his personal quarters were here. Sight of that huge sprawling pile of white stone, its roof six levels above the ground, was a constant source of irritation to him.
A sound of soft knocking from behind him aroused Vokal from his reverie, and he turned unhurriedly and re-entered the room.
The knocking was repeated. Vokal sank gracefully into an easy chair covered with the soft pelt of Tarlok, the leopard, crossed his shapely bare legs and studied the effect with approval.
Again the sound of knocking, a shade louder this time. "Enter," called Vokal around a yawn which he covered with the tips of two fingers.
A door opened, revealing the rigidly erect figure and carefully expressionless visage of an officer of the palace guard.
Vokal concluded his yawn. "Yes, Bartan?"
"The noble Heglar is here, Most-High."
"Excellent! Permit him to enter immediately."
The guard executed a sharp quarter turn and stepped back, allowing a man swathed to the chin in the voluminous folds of a black cloak to push past him into the room.
"Greetings, noble Vokal." The words came out in a hoarse croak that grated against the host's sensitive ears.
"Greetings, noble Heglar." Vokal's smile seemed even dreamier than usual. "Remove your cloak, please, and be seated.... Bartan, tell a slave to bring us wine."
"At once, Most-High." The guard withdrew, closing the door softly.
Vokal's gray-blue eyes went to hisguest and he smiled blandly. "I trust all is well with you and the members of your family, noble Heglar."
Strippedof his cloak, Heglar was revealed as a man of extraordinary thinness and considerable age. The pronounced hollows in his cheeks and a thin nose the dimensions of an eagle's beak, together with the rocky ridge of an underslung jaw, gave him an emaciated look. But his body was straight as a young sapling, his shoulders for all their boniness were surprisingly broad, and his light blue eyes were alert and piercing.
He ignored his host's solicitous inquiry concerning his family and bent and unknotted the thongs of his heelless sandals. Kicking them off he leaned back in his chair and, sighing with relief, placed his bare feet on a low stool in front of him.
If he caught the faint wrinkle of disgust about Vokal's shapely lips he ignored it. "You'll forgive an old man for humoring his feet," he croaked. "I'm not accustomed to long walks these days."
"By all means give them comfort."
"I tried to learn from your messenger the reason behind your asking me here tonight. He would tell me nothing—simply gave me your message, handed me your emblem piece—" he dug a hand into a pocket of the tunic, took out the square of gold and handed it to Vokal—"and left without another word."
"You could hardly expect one of my men to do otherwise," Vokal said frostily.
"One never knows." The old man settled himself more comfortably in his chair. "I was curious and a little doubtful at the interest of the third most powerful man in all Ammad—especially when his interest concerns the most impoverished and least influential noble of that same country."
There was a soft knock at the door and a slave girl slipped in, placed a tray of wine and two goblets on a low table between the two men, and went out as silently as she had entered.
Heglar's eyes followed her trim figure until the gently closing door shut off his view. "Believe me," he said, watching Vokal fill the two goblets, "there was a day I had slaves like that one. Many slaves—and more warriors than any noble in all Ammad. Only old Rokkor himself, Jaltor's father, had more of them."
He sighed gustily. "But that's all in the past now. My only regret is that I must leave my young mate and our two children with little more than a roof above their heads when I die."
"Your love for the gracious and beautiful Rhoa is well known throughout all Ammad," Vokal murmured, handing his guest one of the filled goblets.
The old man gulped a third of its contents before taking the container from his lips. "And why shouldn't I love her?" he demanded harshly. "Thirty summers my junior, lovely enough to have her pick of men—and she chooses me. Forty summers I spent with my first woman—and what a sour-faced old hyenashewas—and not a child to show for it. Now we have two, Rhoa and I—and I have nothing to leave them but a miserable hovel in place of the palace I once owned."
Vokal sipped daintily from his goblet and let the garrulous old man ramble on. Let him go on bemoaning his lowly position and living over his past glories. Every word of it would make the old one more agreeable to Vokal's proposition.
The nostalgic refrain went on until Heglar had emptied his first glass of wine and extended it for a second helping. This time he spilled a few drops on the floor as a voluntary offering to the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud—a tribute given usually only during formal dinners—gulped down several swallows of the alcoholic grape beverage, then turned those sharp eyes on Vokal.
"But," he said hoarsely, "you didn't ask me here to talk of the old days. What do you want of me, noble Vokal?"
Therewas a short period of silence during which Vokal appeared to be making up his mind. Wavering light from candles set in wall brackets about the long, richly furnished room gave a lean, almost vulpine cast to his calm face and a glittering sparkle to his cold eyes. Finally he said:
"I want to make you a wealthy man again, Heglar."
The hand holding the wine goblet jerked involuntarily and some of the wrinkles in the aged face seemed to deepen. "... Why me?"
Vokal smiled dreamily. "Right to the point, eh, Heglar? It is one of my reasons for selecting you."
"Hmm." The old one looked down into his half-empty goblet to hide the sudden gleam in his eyes. "Tell me more of these reasons for wishing to make me rich."
"The list is long," Vokal said graciously, "so I shall give only the principal ones. First, it is well known throughout all Ammad that you are a man of your word—that once you give a pledge nothing in this world or the next could force you to go back on your word."
Heglar scowled. "One of the reasons I am a poor man today!"
"Secondly," Vokal went on, "it is reported that you are a walking dead man, that you have only a few moons left to live because of the sickness in your throat." At the other's startled expression he waved a languid hand. "It is common knowledge, noble Heglar; your physician is a talkative man."
"Thirdly," he continued, his voice calm, almost indifferent, "your long and honorable career as a mighty warrior proves you a man of great physical courage, and you are still strong and active enough for a dangerous task."
A wry smile touched the old man's lips. "Then I am expected to earn this wealth you are offering me?"
"Of course. I am not noted for being a charitable man, noble Heglar."
"... Are there other reasons?"
"Lastly," Vokal said imperturbably, "as a nobleman you have the freedom of Jaltor's court and may come and go there as you please."
He looked sharply at the older man as he finished speaking and for a long moment they stared into each other's eyes in silence.
Heglar was the first to speak. "Now that you have listed my qualifications, what use do you expect to put them to?"
Vokal bent forward and fixed him with his penetrating gaze. "I must call upon the first of them before this conversation can go any further. Will you give me your solemn pledge that not one word of this will go beyond the two of us?"
"... Yes."
"Good. I want you to forfeit the few remaining moons of life left to you."
Heglar blinked. It was the sole sign of emotion aroused by that startling declaration. "Those few moons are priceless to me, noble Vokal," he said, a faint smile hovering about his lips.
"I am prepared to pay heavily for them."
"You would have to.... What do you want me to do?"
Vokal leaned back in his chair and placed the tips of his fingers lightly together, looking over them at the old man. His eyes had gone back to being dreamy again. He said:
"I want you toattemptthe assassination of Jaltor, king of Ammad!"
The breath left Heglar's lungs in an explosive gasp. "What madness is this!" he cried hoarsely. "Why do you want Jaltor dead? Certainly his death would not better your position as a noble in the court. His son would take the throne; and even if something happened tohim, his sister would benext in line. Are you planning to do away with the entire royal family, noble Vokal?"
Vokal was shaking his head. "I'm afraid you did not understand me, my friend. I said that I wanted you toattemptJaltor's assassination—not to kill him."
"This makes no sense to me!"
"It is very simple. I want you to attend one of Jaltor's morning audiences within the next day or two. Work your way close to him, draw a knife and make a clumsy attempt to stab him. But be sure you fail. The guards will overpower you instantly; and when Jaltor demands to know why you tried to kill him, refuse to answer other than to hint that you were not alone in the plot."
"Knowing Jaltor as we both do, he will order you put to torture in an effort to learn the facts. Endure that torture as long as you possibly can. Then blurt out the name of the man who hired you."
Heglar was watching him through narrowed eyes. "I'm beginning to see the light," he said dourly. "The name I give him will be that of the man you are really after."
"Exactly."
"Whereupon I will be put to death."
"Jaltor has never been famed for his leniency, noble Heglar."
Theold man drained his goblet of wine and put it on the table with a steady hand. "At least he is a just man. He would punish only those he believed implicated in the plot; my family would not be persecuted." He seemed to be speaking to himself. "Rhoa would be a wealthy woman and my children would never know want or hardship...."
His eyes came slowly up to Vokal. "My price will be one thousand tals!"
It was a staggering amount—the equivalent of twelve thousand young male slaves—but Vokal never hesitated. "I will pay it, noble Heglar," he said quietly.
"In advance."
"As you wish. I need no assurance beyond your word that you will carry out the exact terms of the arrangement."
Heglar sighed. "You have my word.... What name will Jaltor's torture wring from my reluctant lips?"
"That of the noble Garlud."
"Oho!" Heglar nodded in tribute. "That clears up the picture. Garlud is second only to Jaltor as the most powerful man in all Ammad. With him out of the way, you, as the next in line among Ammad's noblemen, will take Garlud's place and all the benefits that go with it. I congratulate you, noble Vokal, on your shrewdness."
They filled their earthen goblets and drank. After a moment Heglar said, "There is one drawback to your plan, my friend. I hesitate to mention it, for a man as thorough as you has doubtless anticipated that flaw and taken steps to overcome it."
"No man is perfect," Vokal said equably. "To what do you refer?"
"Garlud has a son. As is our custom he will inherit his father's position and estate even though Garlud is executed for treason."
"And if the son is dead also?" Vokal said silkily.
"So youhavethought of it! I might have known. In that case, since Garlud's mate died over a moon ago, his wealth returns to the State, except for the palace which is given to the next nobleman in line."
"Precisely."
"Uh-hunh. Do you know for sure that Garlud's son—let's see: his name is ... ah—"
"Jotan."
"Of course. A fine young man too—as I remember him. You're sure he's dead?"
"If not, he soon will be."
"But he is not in Ammad, I understand. Didn't he make a trip to Sephar, Vokal?"
"He is due back within half a moon at the earliest."
"How will you handle the matter when he arrives at Ammad's gates?"
Vokal smiled his dreamy smile. "He will not arrive at Ammad's gates, O Heglar! The day you attempt Jaltor's assassination a party of my most trusted guards will leave Ammad to intercept Jotan and his men. Their orders will be to leave not one of them alive."
"It is clear that you have thought of everything!" The old man gulped down his wine and stood up. "It is late, and at my age I need a great deal of sleep—especially if I am to be tortured by Jaltor's experts in that line! So, if you will pay me my thousand tals, noble Vokal, I shall leave you."
"Of course." Vokal rose smoothly to his feet, went to the door and summoned a guard outside. "Arouse Yodak and instruct him to bring a thousand tals to me here."
"At once, Most-High." The guard saluted and went quickly down the hall.
Heglar was shaking his head admiringly. "You take some long chances, Vokal!"
The gray-haired nobleman glanced sharply at him. "What do you mean?"
"This matter of your guards calling you 'Most-High'. That is a mark of respect given only to kings, you know. I doubt if Jaltor would approve of your appropriating it to your own use."
Theother's blue-gray eyes seemed to film over. "Kings have been known to die, noble Heglar—and at times the ranking nobleman takes his place. One must prepare for every possibility."
"Even to having one's guards form the habit of saying Most-High, eh?"
The arrival of a small frail-bodied old man in hastily donned tunic ended the conversation. He was bearing a small cloth bag which gave off the sounds of clinking metal.
"The thousand tals, Most-High," he quavered, holding out the bag.
Vokal took it and dismissed the man. "... Would you care to count them?" he said upon placing the bag in Heglar's hands.
"It is not necessary," the old man said, then smiling, added: "You need my specialized services too badly to cheat me!"
Vokal summoned a guard and instructed him to appoint several warriors to escort the old man safely to his home, as robbery under cover of night was far from unusual on Ammad's numerous streets.
When the door had closed and Vokal was alone once more, he returned to his chair and filled his wine cup. "A thousand tals," he mused. "Heglar's assistance comes high indeed. But let him fondle them for a little while before they come back to me—along with the lovely Rhoa. I wonder what the old man would say if he knew his mate has been my mistress these past three moons!"
AsTharn felt those fingers close about his ankle he dropped instantly to his other knee to keep from being upset and swung his free hand in a sweeping blow at the point where reason told him the face of his attacker would be.
So quickly had he acted that his knuckles thudded home on an unseen jaw before its owner was able to shout an alarm. There followed a convulsive twist of a body in front of him and the clutching fingers loosed their hold.
His unconscious prize still hanging from his shoulders, Tharn regained his feet and raced cat-like for the mouth of the cave. Behind him he caught the sound of a startled grunt, followed by a wild yell that rousedevery occupant of the cave while Tharn was still a good thirty feet short of his goal.
A huge form shot up in front of him, a raised knife silhouetted against the star light beyond. Behind him naked feet whispered against rock as several enemy warriors rushed to close with the foolhardy intruder.
Tharn was trapped! Burdened as he was by the limp weight of his captive, he knew his chances of leaving Gerdak's cave were almost nonexistant.
But not once did the thought come to him of abandoning his catch—his only means of locating the route of those who held Dylara. With a single bound he was upon the man in his path; a supple twist of his body allowed the descending knife to slip harmlessly past. At the same instant he drove a hip into his attacker, who, off balance, was knocked headlong into two other warriors.
The way was clear now to the cave's mouth and Tharn was congratulating himself that he would at least reach open air when two more warriors dropped from above onto the narrow ledge of Gerdak's cave. Evidently they had been aroused by the chorus of yells and had come down from their caves to investigate.
At sight of their leveled spears Tharn skidded to a halt. Behind him he could hear at least two of Gerdak's personal guards moving cautiously forward to take him from the rear. With no avenue for retreat, with a pair of trained fighting men cutting off his advance, his chances for escape were thinned indeed.
Yet not for an instant did his confidence waver. He had weathered worse situations, and the muscles and cunning developed by a thousand jungle battles were weapons superior to the flint-headed spears hemming him in.
Even as he came to a halt, his sharp eyes caught a glimpse of that stack of spears he had passed when first entering the cave. One bronzed arm shot out, circled the lot of those keen-pointed sticks and lifted and flung them in one continuous motion.
The warriors outside were engulfed by the minor avalanche of flint and wood. They stepped back precipitantly, and one of the men was tripped up as a shaft slipped between his legs. With a shrill cry of terror he tottered momentarily on the brink of the ledge, then went over backwards, his despairing scream rising thinly on the night air.
Tharn had not waited to learn the outcome of his ruse. While the remaining warrior was attempting to sidestep the shower of spears the cave lord was upon him. Avoiding the flint point licking out at his naked chest, he ducked and swung his free fist in a savage arc that ended wrist deep in an unprotected belly.
Bent nearly double by the blow, the enemy Cro-Magnard was lifted completely from his feet and propelled into space, his already unconscious body tracing a perfect parabola to death on the ground sixty feet below.
Althoughno enemy stood before him, Tharn was a long way from safety. A spear thrown from the cave behind him passed scant inches from his head signifying Gardak's personal guards had recovered their wits and were after him once more. Below him a score of cave mouths were disgorging armed fighting men and flaming torches dotted the cliffside. To attempt to descend by the path that had brought him here was worse than foolhardy.
As in most Cro-Magnon settlements, the chief's own cave was nearest the cliff's top. A glance upward revealed to Tharn the escarpment's top not more than twenty feet distant. To swarm up that almost vertical slope while burdened with a body would have taxed the agility of littleNobar, the monkey. But there was no other avenue of escape except to battle an entire community—and no time to compute chances for scaling those heights.
Already two warriors, each armed with a stone knife, had gained the ledge on either side of him, grins of triumph curling their lips, while a faint scuffling sound against the cave floor behind him told Tharn others were slinking toward him from the rear.
With a muffled snarl Tharn wheeled and began to climb. His groping fingers and toes found outcroppings of rock to serve as almost invisible rungs of a perilous ladder. A lifetime of climbing, plus utter self-confidence, sent him up that sheer surface with incredible speed.
So completely unexpected was their quarry's route that Gerdak's men were thrown into momentary confusion. By the time the first shower of spears rose toward the climbing cave man he was three-quarters of the way to freedom. As a result most of the weapons fell short of their mark, while the others, because of the uncertain light and the swiftness of their target's progress, missed completely. Immediately a second flight of spears were launched—but time had run out. Tharn was already over the lip of the precipice as they were rising in his direction.
He found himself on rolling, grass-covered ground. A hundred yards ahead was a jungle-cloaked forest, its towering trees close-knit to the point of impenetrability.
With long, loping strides Tharn crossed the ribbon of grassland, melting into the shadows of the overhanging branches as the first of Gerdak's warriors appeared at the cliff's top.
The ground was too choked with verdure for more than snail-like progress, and Tharn, his unconscious burden still draped across one broad shoulder, took to the trees. With a celerity that long ago had become second nature to him he raced through the branches, moving parallel to the strip of grassland he had crossed a few moments earlier. The shouts of his bewildered pursuers faded, swallowed up finally by the noises peculiar to a nocturnal jungle.
Half an hour later altered his course and returned to the ribbon of open ground. By this time his captive was showing signs of returning consciousness and Tharn tightened his grip on the youth's arm to prevent him from attempting to get away. He could feel tremors of fear course through the flesh pressing against his shoulder and he smiled grimly. A terrified prisoner was usually a tractable one.
At this point the cliffside was neither as steep nor as high as that housing Gerdak's tribe. Tharn went over its edge without hesitation, slipping groundward with the reckless abandon of a falling stone, yet landing there without an appreciable jar.
The forest at this point came almost to the base of the cliff. Tharn entered, swung lightly up to the middle terraces and set out on the return journey to that point opposite Gerdak's caves where he had left Trakor.
While he had still a goodly distance to go he heard the sounds of shouting voices and caught an occasional glimpse of a flaming torch through rifts in the foliage ahead. Evidently Gerdak was not lightly giving up hope of getting his hands on the man who had made fools of him and his warriors.
An unerring instinct developed through years of travel through uncharted terrains brought Tharn to the very tree where he had left his new found friend. But even as he entered its branches his nose told him what his eyes verified.
"Trakor," he called out, keeping his voice down lest some nearby enemy warrior hear it. "Trakor, where areyou?"
There was no answer. Trakor was gone.
Evenas Sadu left the ground in a final leap aimed at crushing Dylara's fleeing figure to earth, the girl sprang for a low-hanging branch of a jungle giant. As her fingers closed about its rough bark she flung her body to one side, Sadu's cruel talons raking the air scant inches away. Before the beast could turn and leap a second time she was twenty feet above it and climbing with the speed of desperation.
She heard the sound of tearing foliage as the lion sprang blindly into the lower branches, a thump as it toppled back to earth, then an angry roar of protest at being cheated of its prey. She stopped her climb then and leaned her head weakly against the bole, panting and shivering from strain and utter relief.
Below her, Sadu stalked back and forth a time or two, voicing his displeasure. This lasted for no more than a moment or two, however; Sadu was too much of a realist to waste time in bewailing his ill luck. The rumblings of satisfaction from his fellows as they bore their kills into the forest, the screams of dying men, told him there was food aplenty back among the fires.
Dylara caught a glimpse of the brute as it slunk swiftly toward the terrified encampment. She crouched there, watching the awful scenes of carnage while gradually her heart stopped its mad pounding and the trembling left her legs and arms. She knew regret that many of the men she had learned to know and respect were dying so horribly, but the sight of what went on did not affect her beyond that. Except for these last few moons all of her eighteen years had been spent practically cheek by jowl with the jungle and its denizens, the only life she had known. The fiercest animals had stalked her at times, just as the warriors of her father's tribe had stalked them. She knew first-hand the stinging insects, the loathsome snakes whose bite or coils could bring a lingering death or a quick one. She knew the chill nights of the rainy season, the unbearable heat and humidity at other times. As a result death and suffering were able to touch her deeply only when they affected some one close to her.
It was a kind of life that had its compensations. She was far more self-reliant and much better equipped for survival under her present circumstances than the average Ammadian would have been. Her eyes and ears were more sharply attuned to impending danger, she could climb far better, she knew how to find water where her recent companions would perish of thirst, she could distinguish between poisonous and non-poisonous fruits and roots.
Yet for all of that she was still a girl, young and, by jungle standards, weak. She caught herself wishing Tharn were with her—and even as the thought came she knew a fleeting doubt.
Did she love him? It was a question she was not yet able to answer. The memory of his handsome face and splendid body rose to torment her with doubt. She recalled him as he appeared in Sephar's arena facing insurmountable odds with a laugh and a careless toss of his black-thatched head, remembered his blazing eyes and rippling muscles as he plummeted to earth between her and charging Sadu, appearing just in time to stave in the lion's skull with one terrible blow. In all the jungle, in all the world, there was no man a tenth his equal in cunning, strength and courage! Even among his own kind he was unique; for no man in Cro-Magnon history could use his nose the way the beasts used theirs, no man who could travel among the trees with the rocketing agility of little Nobar, the monkey.
If only he had met and wooed and won her instead of seizing her by force and carrying her away like some bit of jungle loot! Pride and the awareness of her position as daughter of a tribal chief could not permit her to surrender to a man who would do such a thing. It was the way the Hairy Men*won their mates, and Dylara, daughter of Majok, must give her heart, not have it taken!
*The Hairy Men was the Cro-Magnards' name for Neanderthal Man. The Neanderthalers appeared in Earth's prehistory roughly 100,000 years before the birth of Christ and centered in Southern France and Spain of today. At the time of the Cro-Magnards' arrival, perhaps 80,000 years later, Neanderthal Man was nearly extinct, possibly because of climatic changes due to the recession of the last Ice Age. Cro-Magnon Man, the first ofHomo Sapiens(true men), regarded these ape-like subhumans as little more than beasts and eventually exterminated them.—Ed.]
Evenas she told herself this for the hundredth time, she realized such thoughts were probably empty. The chances were overwhelming that Tharn had not survived the rigors of the Sepharian Games: battles between men and between men and beasts for the entertainment of Sephar's populace and held in honor of the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud. Jotan and the others had told her many times that no man in all Sephar's history had ever come through those Games alive.
And even if he should! Would he undertake to follow her across the almost limitless stretch of plains, mountains and jungles to the country of Ammad? Even if he should accomplish such a feat—how could he hope to wrest her from the depths of a stronghold as impenetrable as she understood Ammad to be?
No, it was unthinkable. She had best wait until the lions were driven from the encampment below, then slip from her tree and go back to Jotan. Since the day he had won her from Sephar's high priest he had treated her with unfailing courtesy and kindness, declaring over and over his love for her but not once attempting to force his attentions upon her. After a little while she might allow herself to be won over into accepting him as her mate. It would be an honored, sheltered life and in time she might know complete happiness.
Dylara was shaking her head even as these last thoughts were crowding in. No. Her place was with her own kind, with Majok and the others. It was a long, long way back to them and in the attempt she might leave her bones to bleach on some mountain top or disappear down the maw of one of the great cats. But there was no other acceptable choice—and no time like the present to get started.
Carefully she began to work her way into the jungle, moving cautiously far out on a strong limb until she was able to clamber into the branches of the next tree. The curtain of greenery was too thick for the light of moon or stars to penetrate, leaving her to grope her way in utter darkness. Each vine she scraped against was pictured in her mind as the sinuous coils of Sleeza, the snake; each fluttering of a disturbed bird was an aroused panther or leopard.
She was not going on this way much farther; her nerves, steady as they were, could not take much of such suspense. Only deep enough into the jungle to keep the inexperienced Ammadians from following her trail; with the coming of Dyta, the sun, she would locate a game trail pointing in the direction she wished to go, then descend to the ground and follow it.
An hour later her trembling limbs refused to continue this inch-by-inch progress. And so Dylara made her way toward the high flung branches of a forest patriarch to where Jalok, the panther, and Tarlok, the leopard,dare not go. Here the foliage was less compact and Uda's pale beams displayed to her rapt eyes an endless sea of tree tops everywhere about her.
Finding a comfortable fork fully a hundred feet above the jungle floor, Dylara composed herself to wait the coming of dawn. Finally she drifted off to sleep, while far below a lion roared that he had made his kill and filled his belly for the night.
And not long after, a jungle dweller, swinging swiftly through the trees, came to a sudden halt on a swaying branch as a vagrant breeze brought the scent of her to its quivering nostrils. For a full minute it remained motionless as if carved from stone, then it turned sharply aside and went on, fairly flying along the dizzy pathway of swaying boughs, following that scent spoor to its source.
WhileTharn was puzzling over the strange disappearance of Trakor, his keen ears caught a sudden yell of surprise from the direction of Gerdak's caves, followed by a chorus of exultant exclamations that told him the Cro-Magnards had flushed some sort of game and had succeeded in bringing it down.
Quickly he lowered his captive to a broad branch, stuffed a handful of leaves into its mouth, bound them there with a short length of vine, then lashed the wrists to the tree bole. This done he was on the point of swinging off to investigate what lay behind those sounds when he caught a glimpse of a familiar object swinging from a neighboring branch.
His blackwood bow and quiver of arrows left earlier with Trakor! With them in their accustomed places along his back and shoulder, Tharn swung the short distance between tree and clearing. From a wide branch he gazed down at the scene below.
A knot of enemy warriors was moving slowly toward the caves of Gerdak, among them the still struggling figure of Trakor. Wavering flames of resin-wood torches lighted up his features and Tharn saw there was only rage in his expression and nothing of fear. Already shouts from the group had aroused others of the tribe and a score of them were running forward to meet it.
With quick, certain movements of his powerful hands Tharn unshipped his bow and withdrew several arrows from his quiver. Steadying himself on the swaying branch, he notched an arrow, drew back the stubborn wood, steel muscles moving under his naked back, took careful aim....
"Twang!"
Like a plucked violin the bow sang his single note, polished wood flickered in the light of torches and one of Trakor's captors threw wide his arms and sank into a briefly twitching heap. Before his fellows could grasp the significance of what was taking place three more of their number were down, each with a thin-bodied arrow protruding from his chest or back.
There was a general scrambling as those holding Trakor released him and threw themselves headlong to escape the rain of death. The advancing wave of warriors halted with breathtaking abruptness, those behind the front rank crashing into it. Momentarily freed, Trakor looked wildly about him, as confused as the others.
"Run!" shouted Tharn. "Into the jungle, Trakor!"
The youth heard—and obeyed. As he broke into a run, one of Gerdak's fighting men, either more courageous than his companions or angered beyond reason at losing their prize, scrambled to his feet and lifted his spear for a cast at the flying figure.
Again Tharn's bow twanged and a tufted arrow appeared magically embedded in the spearman's chest. Voicing a piercing shriek he toppled back, spear rolling from his fingers.
Tharn was already among the lower branches of a tree when Trakor came crashing into the jungle. As the boy plowed past, the cave lord reached down with one arm and caught him under the arms, lifting him to the branch beside him before the youngster was fully aware of what was happening.
"Tharn!" It was a gasp of such utter relief that the giant Cro-Magnard smiled.
"I thought I left you safe in a tree," he said.
"I meant to stay there, Tharn," Trakor admitted sheepishly, "but I heard one of them shout to the others that you had been captured and was being held in Gerdak's cave. I thought that because of the darkness I might pass among them without being recognized, reach the chief's cave and in some way set you free."
"You could never have done it." Tharn's voice was stern, revealing nothing of his inner feelings. He was more deeply touched by this evidence of loyalty than he cared to admit. For this untrained boy to pit his relatively puny muscles against an entire community in an effort to rescue his benefactor was proof enough that here was material for the shaping of a great warrior; and with this thought Tharn's last remaining reluctance to be saddled with Trakor during the search for Dylara disappeared.
Thewarriors of Gerdak appeared to have recovered their courage; already several of them were entering the jungle in search of Trakor and the mysterious bowman. Two of them passed cautiously beneath the very tree in which their quarry was seated. Tharn touched his own lips in warning, pointed up at the branches overhead, then lifted the youth to his back and climbed in perfect silence to where he had left the captive Roban.
In the dim light Tharn could see the whites of rolling, fear-filled eyes and beads of perspiration dotting the receding forehead. A muffled chattering pushed through the wad of leaves and the prisoner shrank away as far as the vines binding his wrists to the tree would permit.
The cave lord was undecided as to his next step. He dared not remove the gag from Roban's lips and question him here. A single shout would bring Gerdak's men to the scene; and while this would mean little if any danger to Tharn and his new-found companion, it could mean he might lose the services of Roban as involuntary guide.
The alternative was to carry Roban deeper into the jungle where he might be questioned without interruption, but Tharn knew that Trakor could not hope to follow through the tree tops.
There was but one answer: he must carry both of them. Quickly he loosened Roban's bonds and swung him lightly across one shoulder, then turned to Trakor.
"Lock your arms about my neck," he said.
There was wonder and doubt in Trakor's expression as understanding came to him. But such was his faith and confidence that he did not hesitate to comply with the order.
And once more Trakor, heart in his mouth, rode the skyway. Where before the awful depths had sent cold fear to his core, he was now confident and unafraid; yet actually the danger of plunging earthward was far greater this time. Bough after bough bent perilously beneath their triple burden as Tharn threaded his way, like a tightrope artist, along them, held erect only by his uncanny sense of balance. Constantly he was forced to search out branches of sufficient strength, stepping out and onto them without the additional safety of a steadying hand hold.
Fifteen minutes of this was enough to satisfy him he was beyond any territory Gerdak's warriors would reach before dawn. The search would go on,of course, until Roban, dead or alive, was found; for he was son of a chief and not lightly to be abandoned.
Near the pinnacle of a towering tree Tharn lowered his two passengers to adjoining branches. While Trakor watched, he removed Roban's gag, after warning him to utter no outcry on pain of instant death. The youth nodded violently in agreement, and for a moment he was unable to speak so cramped were his jaws.
Tharn glanced to where Trakor sat, an interested spectator to Roban's discomfiture. "This is the chief's son?"
Trakor nodded. "He is Roban."
Tharn turned his sharp eyes to the captive, who was glowering at him in mingled fear and hatred, and said:
"A few suns ago you saw a party of Ammadians scaling the cliffs near your caves. Exactly where was this?"
Roban scowled unpleasantly. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"You know well enough. Answer me or die!"
"You would not dare kill me," Roban blustered. "I am Gerdak's son. Unless you let me go at once he will come with many warriors and hunt you down. He will kill you, but not quickly. First he will take his knife and...."
He broke off suddenly, gasping as Tharn's fingers bit into his skinny shoulder. "I, too, can use a knife! Answer my questions quickly or I will prove it to you!"
Roban licked dry lips. "What do you want to know?" he mumbled.
"The exact spot where the Ammadians climbed those cliffs."
"What are Ammadians?"
Tharndescribed them in a few words and Roban nodded grudgingly. "Yes, I saw them. There is a place in the cliffs, a sun's march to the west of my father's caves, where a river tumbles over the edge. It was there they climbed the cliffs."
"He is lying!" Trakor exclaimed. "At the cooking fires he said it was east of our caves."
Roban's small eyes, evil and ratlike, swung toward him. "Your mother was a hyena! Wait till my father gets his hands——"
Tharn shook him until his teeth rattled. "Where?" he growled. "The truth this time or I throw you to a lion!"
The words tumbled out. "Half a march to the west. There is a low point in the cliff there, making it easy to climb. They are not good climbers; it took them a long time to——"
"Were there shes with them?"
"Shes?" The youth's beady eyes flickered. "I—I cannot say. I did not see——"
Tharn shook him again. "Enough of your lies!" he thundered. "How many shes were with them?"
"T-t-two." Roban was thoroughly frightened now. "I saw no others, although there may have——"
"Describe them."
"One had black hair; the other's hair was the color of Dyta, the sun, as he seeks his lair for the night. Both were very beautiful, although the black-haired she was less beautiful."
Tharn's chest swelled with elation. At last he had found the trail of Dylara and those who held her. He was eager to be on his way, flying through the trees to wrest her from the Ammadians. They were only five suns ahead—a distance he could cover in a quarter that time....
His gray eyes went to where Trakor sat watching him. As those eyes met his, the youth smiled. "The golden-haired one must be Dylara," he said. "Your search is nearly ended, Tharn. Hurry on to her."
The cave lord caught the faint note of sadness in the young man's voice and his admiration for the lad went still higher. Even as he was urging Tharn to go on without him it waswith the knowledge that were the cave lord to do so it would mean Trakor's doom. Trakor could not now return to the caves of Gerdak without being slain on sight; yet to remain alone in the jungle would mean certain death.
Tharn rose to his feet on a swaying branch, light from the moon picking out his slow smile. "Come, Trakor," he said. "We must reach that point at the cliff before dawn."
Trakor offered a protest. "But I will only slow—"
In reply Tharn picked him bodily from the branch and placed him across his shoulder, hearing the young man's sigh of relief as he did so.
"But what about me?" cried Roban. "You can not leave me here!"
Tharn looked at him in simulated surprise. "Have you forgotten? Your father is coming with many warriors to hunt me down. You, yourself, have said so. Wait for them here."
"But Tarlok may find and eat me!"
"Even Tarlok does not stoop to carrion," Tharn pointed out. Before Gerdak's son could reply, Tharn and Trakor were gone into the inky depths below.
Knucklespounding heavily against his door awakened Garlud, nobleman of Ammad. There was an urgency in the sound that brought him bolt upright from his pillow in alarm.
"Who's there?" he called out.
"Open!" thundered a heavy voice. "Open in the name of Jaltor of Ammad!"
Hardly able to believe his ears Garlud left his bed and groped for the brazier of coals kept in one corner of the room. Igniting a tallow-soaked bit of cloth from it, he lighted two of the room's candles, crossed to the door and unbarred it.
Four stalwart warriors wearing the tunics of Jaltor's personal guard pushed into the room, leaving Garlud's major-domo, who had brought them there, hovering anxiously outside. At sight of the latter's worried face Garlud smiled a reassurance he was far from feeling and said, "Return to your bed, Bokut. I will see my visitors to the door when they are ready to leave."
He closed the door on Bokut's unrelieved expression and turned to Jaltor's men. One of them he recognized immediately as Curzad, captain of the king's guard, whose strong intelligent face was set in grim lines.
"Well, Curzad," Garlud said lightly, "your expression is forboding enough to put fear in the bravest of men. What errand brings you here?"
"My master's respects, noble Garlud," the captain replied woodenly, "and he bids me escort you to the palace at once."
"Does it require four of you to help me find my way to Jaltor's palace?" Garlud demanded, his voice suddenly sharp.
The captain's face seemed even bleaker. "I obey my orders, noble Garlud. I must ask you to don clothing at once and come with us."
For a moment it seemed that Garlud was about to refuse ... then a slight smile crooked the corners of his mouth and he turned to take up his tunic. He slipped into the garment without haste, drew the strings of his sandals tight about his ankles, then straightened.
"I am ready," he said.
Itwas a cold, forbidding room, its walls, ceiling and floor of bare roughened gray stone, and located deep beneath the palace of Jaltor, supreme ruler of all Ammad. Against the far wall was a narrow bed occupied by the naked body of an elderly man. It was a body thin to the point of emaciation, the ribs standing outsharp and distinct beneath yellowing skin. Two middle-aged men, their expressions grave, were gingerly applying liquid-soaked cloths against scorched blotches covering the naked man's chest. The man himself appeared to be in a comatose state, although from time to time he groaned and stirred feverishly under the attempts to soothe his suffering.
There was another man in the room—a man of such appearance that he dominated it through his physical dimensions alone. In height he was a full seven inches beyond six feet, yet built proportionately so that he did not seem that tall. His wide shoulders seemed to fill the room, his body sloping to narrow hips and long powerful legs. His face was almost startlingly handsome, with a fierce regal cast to its large, sharp-lined features. Chill black eyes of exceptional brilliance burned from beneath heavy black brows that matched the thick, slightly curling growth above a high rounded forehead. It was the face of a man of strength and intelligence, a man ruthless and proud and yet who could be given to quixotic acts of kindness, a man dictatorial but usually just, a man incapable of brooking interference.
He was pacing the room now with quick restless strides, badly restrained anger riding his expression. Once a quick turn caused him to brush against one of four stools grouped about a wooden table set on four crossed timbers, and he kicked the stool viciously aside causing it to shatter against the wall.
At the sound of splintering wood the man on the bed cried out in such utter fear that his two attendants fell back. He did not appear fully conscious however and they resumed their attempts to ease his pain.
That cry of fear had altered the pacing of the tall man momentarily and he turned his burning eyes on the men at the bedside. "Is he awake?" he asked sharply, his deep voice beating against the walls like surf against a rocky shore.
One of the attendants shook his head nervously. "Not yet, Most-High. But soon now, I think. He is old and weak and the burns are grievous."
"Time is short and he must not die—yet."
"Yes, noble Jaltor."
Again there was silence within the room, broken only by the mutterings of the half-conscious man and the heavy tread of feet as Jaltor resumed his pacing....
A brief knock at the room's only door brought Jaltor around sharply. "Enter!" he thundered.
The door opened and four guards came in. With them was a trim figured man a few years short of middle-age, his strong regular features impassive. As his escort halted he continued on into the room, pausing only when he stood facing Ammad's monarch.
"Greetings, noble Jaltor," he said quietly. "You sent for me?"
Anger and bewildered sorrow seemed to be fighting for dominance in the ruler's expression. "I thought you my friend, Garlud!" he burst out suddenly. "How could a senseless ambition so drive you that you would turn against your king?"
The blood seemed to drain from Garlud's cheeks and his eyes went wide in shocked wonder. "Turn against you?" he repeated, aghast. "What madness is this?"
Jaltor's eyes narrowed and a sneer curled his upper lip. "Before you add lies upon lies, Garlud, give greetings to a friend of yours."
With these words the king stepped aside, for the first time permitting Garlud to see the man on the bed.
The nobleman's jaw dropped. "Why, it's old Heglar!" he exclaimed. "What in the God's name has happened to him?"
"What usually happens to enemiesof Jaltor?"
Garludtook a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You have spoken in riddles from the moment I came in here. For almost forty summers—since we were boys together—we have been more like brothers than friends. For that reason, if no other, I believe I am entitled to an explanation instead of badgering and half-veiled threats."
Jaltor's face darkened. "I'm the one who demands an explanation! Why did you set Heglar to attempt my life this afternoon?"
"I—set...."
"Do you deny," thundered the king, "that this very morning you held a long and carefully guarded conversation with Heglar in an ante-room outside my audience hall?"
"It is true that I spoke with him this morning," Garlud said slowly. "We did not talk for long, nor were we 'guarded' about it."
"I see!" Jaltor's tone was triumphant. "And what did the two of you talk about?"
"He sought me out as I entered the room on my way to the audience chamber. He drew me into a corner and asked if I had had word from Jotan, my son, recently. I told him I had not, but that I expected him to return within half a moon, perhaps even sooner."
Understanding dawned suddenly in Garlud's face and he added: "I wondered then why he drew me aside to ask the question, but at the time I thought little about it."
"And now?" Jaltor urged mockingly.
"I am beginning to see he had a reason of his own."
"You deny any part in the plot to kill me?"
"I do."
"But you knew there was such an attempt made this afternoon?"
"I heard some such rumor."
"But," persisted Jaltor, "you did not think it necessary that you learn if your friend—yourbrother, as you said a moment ago—had been injured in that attempt?"
"I was assured you were not even scratched," Garlud replied quietly.
"Humph!" Jaltor paced up and down a time or two, his face working, the great hands opening and closing spasmodically. Abruptly he stopped in front of the other and bent until his face almost touched Garlud's.
"Before you walked into this room, if anyone had asked for your opinion of Heglar what would you have said?"
"That I knew him well and liked and respected him."