"Would you have said he was an honorable man?"
"Certainly."
"Have you ever known him to tell a lie?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Does he have any reason to hate you?"
"None that I know of."
"Have you any idea why he tried to kill me?"
"None. I am completely surprised that he tried to do so."
"Then why," Jaltor thundered suddenly, "did he say his attempt to kill me was engineered byyou?"
Garlud met his angry glare without visible emotion. "I can hardly be expected to answer that question, Most-High, since this is the first I have heard of such a charge."
"Then Heglar lied in so naming you?"
"He—is mistaken."
Jaltor snorted. "Don't bandy words with me! When one man says he talked with another about killing a third, he cannot bemistaken. He is either telling the truth or lying. Which is it, in this case?"
"If Heglar's mind was clear at the time he so accused me, then he lied!"
"But my good Garlud," cried Jaltor, his reasoning tone a mockery, "youtold me only a moment ago that to your knowledge Heglar is an honorable man and does not tell lies."
"Then it must be," Garlud said, openly serene, "that he has started to tell them now. Either that or his mind has become affected by his disease. It is common knowledge that there is a sickness in his throat and he has only a few moons of life remaining."
Jaltorturned on his heel and began his pacing anew. The four guards remained stiffly at attention near the door, their eyes fixed unseeingly on the opposite wall, their ears obviously hearing none of this. Against the far wall the two attendants continued their unceasing efforts to bring consciousness and comfort to the old man on the bed.
Without pausing in his pacing, Jaltor said, his voice more subdued now: "It is useless to throw doubt on Heglar's sanity, noble Garlud. After his bungling attempt on my life I questioned him. He told me it was his own idea to take my life, that no one else had anything to do with it. Over and over he said that, even when my questions called for no such answer, until I began to suspect he was trying to shield an accomplice. When I charged him with this he became so upset I was sure he lied. So I had my guards torture him into telling the truth. That is when he named you."
"A man will say anything to escape torture, Most-High," Garlud pointed out calmly.
"Do you think I'm not aware of that?" growled the monarch. "It was not until he endured torture I doubt I could have stood up under that he gave your name."
"Naturally, in view of our long friendship, I thought he was lying. I ordered further torture to bring out the truth. Again and again he lost consciousness under the white-hot iron, and each time we revived him he gave your name. Finally I was convinced despite my reluctance. I then sent for you to hear the charge from Heglar's own lips."
Garlud shook his head. "I cannot believe that you would so easily turn against me, my friend. One man's unsupported word—and you believe the worst of me."
Jaltor's expression did not soften. "A word wrung from a man after long torture, noble Garlud, carries beyond ordinary denial."
"Would you wish to put me to the same test?" Garlud asked grimly.
"No. You are comparatively young and a brave man. Should you will yourself to deny Heglar's charge, no amount of physical suffering would wring a confession from you."
"Your pardon, Most-High." It was one of the men at the bedside who spoke. "The man is conscious now, but I fear he is dying."
"Good." Jaltor motioned to his erstwhile friend. "Come, Garlud, hear these things from the man's own lips."
They approached the bed, the two attendants falling back respectfully. From the narrow surface Heglar looked up at them, his faded blue eyes glazed with pain, his rib-ridged chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breathing. The smell of burned flesh came from his body in sickening emanations and his lips were torn where he had bitten them in agony.
Jaltor said stonily, "I have brought the noble Garlud here to listen to your charges, Heglar. Now accuse him or clear his name!"
The faded blue eyes flickered to the erect figure of the other man. It was not until the third effort that he was able to speak.
"I failed, Garlud." The words were barely audible. "Forgive me, my friend. They ... made me tell. I am ... old. Once they would not ... have been able...."
Compassion came into Garlud's expression. "Heglar, Heglar," he said softly. "You know I had nothing todo with your attempt to kill Jaltor. What have I done to you that makes you say this awful thing about me?"
Was there a flicker of remorse in those faded blue eyes? If so, it was gone before Garlud could be sure. "It ... is useless, Garlud," the feeble voice whispered. "I had to ... tell him."
"You are dying, Heglar." Sweat stood out on Garlud's forehead. "Would you face the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud with a lie upon your lips?"
"I ... I——"
The noble's hand closed on the old man's shoulder. "The truth, Heglar! Who is the real one behind this?"
The aged eyes closed and Heglar's face began to work. "No! No! I have ... no——"
"You must tell us, Heglar! Speak, man!"
Once more the lips opened. "I—I ... Rhoa!"
Abruptly Heglar's head rolled to one side, his body went limp and with his mate's name on his lips he died.
Fora long moment there was silence within the room. Garlud stood as though turned to stone, his eyes fastened unbelievably on the lifeless face of the old man. It was a tortured face; death had brought peace to it. What terrible compulsion, Garlud wondered dully, had forced an honorable man to die with a lie upon his lips?
"You have heard, noble Garlud?"
It was Jaltor's deep voice—stern, unflinching, empty of feeling. Garlud looked up into those piercing black eyes and despite himself he felt a tiny chill move along his spine.
"I heard, Most-High."
Jaltor passed a hand over his own face—a slow pressing gesture that momentarily left the skin white beneath its tan. "For the sake of our long friendship," he said thickly, "I am prepared to temper justice with mercy. Admit your part in the plot and I will spare your life. Although," he added, "I will leave you nothing else. Your wealth is confiscate, your palace will go to the noble next in line, as is our custom, and you shall be turned from Ammad. Your king has spoken!"
"And if I persist in my claim of innocence?" Garlud said evenly.
"The evidence is plain. You will be put to death."
"Very well." Garlud did not hesitate. "Order your guards to kill me then, my friend! I shall die as honorably as I lived during the years when we were friends."
Jaltor's jaw hardened. "And what of Jotan?" he said coldly.
Something akin to fear darkened Garlud's eyes. "My son? What of him? Surely your sense of justice has not so rotted that you would harm him!"
Sudden rage twisted Jaltor's countenance. "No man speaks so to Jaltor of Ammad and lives!"
Garlud's smile was undismayed. "Have you forgotten, Most-High. I have already been sentenced to death!"
"And by your attitude," Jaltor shouted, "you have sentenced your son to the same fate."
"On what grounds?"
"I need no grounds! I know your son, noble Garlud. When he hears that you are dead and that it was my order, he will attempt to avenge you. I know the love he holds for you, and it will be that mistaken loyalty which will lead him into an attempt to assassinate me. Your power is great in Ammad, Garlud; I helped you gain that power because you were my friend. Because you have won the affection and respect of many warriors they would rise to his leadership against me. All Ammad might be torn by civil war. For that reason Jotan must die!"
Garlud's face was livid with rageand his hands were trembling. "Then kill us both, you son of Gubo. You have become a fearful, evil old man who hides from shadows and who fears all men—even his friends! Kill us both that we may not pollute our lungs with the air you breathe!"
Withan almost casual sweep of his mighty arm Jaltor hurled the raging nobleman into the grasp of the guards. "Confine him to the lowest pit beneath the palace!" he thundered. "Let the rats chew him a few suns before I have him torn to bits!"
Without a backward glance the king strode from the room. He made his way up flight after flight of steps, through room after room of the sleeping palace, until he reached his own wing. Through several long, winding corridors he moved, oblivious to the salutes of startled guards on night duty, until he entered his private apartment. He went directly to his sleeping quarters, curtly ordered his two personal slaves into the next room, then undressed quickly and got into bed.
But not to sleep. For over an hour he tossed on the huge bed wooing sleep that would not come. Finally he rose, drew a richly woven robe about his shoulders and stepped out onto a small balcony overlooking one entire half of the vast city six floors below.
The rays of a full moon bathed the impressive scene. Because of the lateness of the hour no lights gleamed from windows of the box-like buildings and the broad streets were deserted.
Slowly reason was beginning to take hold of him as anger faded. Was Garlud correct in saying that he was becoming an old man fleeing from shadows, suspicious of all men? He went back over the golden days when he and Garlud were young warriors taking their first taste of battle against the then scattered states that today made up the country of Ammad. He recalled the day Garlud had saved his life by leaping in front of him and taking the tearing impact of a thrown spear. Garlud had very nearly died of that wound and he—Jaltor—had remained day and night at his bedside until the crisis passed.
And that was the man he had sentenced to death! The man whose friendship had meant more to him than all his kingdom. Surely personal ambition alone could not have driven him into plotting the assassination of his best friend!
There was something behind all this that did not meet the eye. Had the would-be assassin been anyone other than old Heglar he would have dismissed his involvement of Garlud as a trumped up lie and executed the man on the spot.
Had Heglar lied? Was there some motivation so strong that the old man had been forced into bearing false witness against one of the most loved noblemen in all Ammad? Was all this some intricate plot, with Garlud instead of Jaltor as the real victim?
Jaltor, stern, ruthless and high-handed though he was, was a man with ideals and a strong sense of honor. Also, he was extremely intelligent and a veteran of the machinations of intrigue. The more he thought about this whole business the more certain he was that all the facts were not yet revealed.
For a long time he stood there on the small balcony, staring out over Ammad with unseeing eyes. After a while a slow smile came to his strong lips and he nodded his head a time or two in satisfaction. There was a way....
Leaving the balcony he strode quickly to the room's single door and threw it wide. "Quick!" he snapped to one of the startled slaves, "tell Curzad I want him here at once!"
When the captain of the guards, asalert and bright-eyed as though he had not been dragged from a sound sleep by Jaltor's summons, appeared in the doorway the king bade him enter and close the door.
"Curzad," he said, "you have known the noble Garlud almost as long as I have. Does it seem likely to you that he would be mixed up in a plot to kill me?"
The iron-faced warrior shook his head impassively. "No, Most-High. His love and respect for you are beyond doubt."
"You think I acted unwisely in finding him guilty?"
"That is not for me to say, Most-High."
"Iknowthat! But you are not made of stone; you must have formed some opinion."
"It is not wise to hold an opinion which differs from that of Ammad's king."
Jaltorgestured with sharp impatience. "This is man to man, Curzad. Give me your honest impressions of this affair."
"If you command it, Most-High. I do not believe the noble Garlud had anything to do with old Heglar's attempt to knife you. I think the old one hated Garlud for some reason and named him because of that hatred."
"But you knew Heglar's reputation as a completely truthful man?"
"I do not say he would lie for another's purpose. But for his own ... that is a different matter."
"But he did not give Garlud's name willingly, Curzad. Only after prolonged torture could we wrest the name from his lips."
The captain shrugged. "Would you for even a moment have believed him otherwise. Old Heglar was no fool, Most-High. Were his motive strong enough for bringing ruin to Garlud he would have planned it exactly that way. An accusation lightly given is usually lightly taken."
Jaltor smote a fist into his palm. "By the God, Curzad, I believe you've hit it! Only my thought is that the plan was not his. When a man hates another both are usually aware of that hatred—and Garlud was at a complete loss to understand why he was accused."
"That is true, Most-High."
"Very well, here's what must be done." Jaltor began to pace the floor, speaking the while. "I want you to speak with the guards who were with you when I questioned Garlud tonight. Swear them to complete secrecy on the entire matter on pain of death. The same goes for the two attendants who were working over Heglar at the time."
"It shall be done, Most-High."
"Good! Now who in Garlud's household knows you brought him here?"
"We encountered only Bokut, his chief steward, and two guards—one at an outer gate and one stationed at his palace entrance."
"Very well, take those three into custody. Question them as to whom they told of the incident and placethoseunder arrest as well. Leave no one who can spread word that Garlud was brought to the palace at my orders."
"You see what I'm getting at, Curzad? Let us say there is someone whose identity we do not know at the bottom of this plot against Garlud. Heglar makes his clumsy attempt at killing me and fails according to plan. I order him tortured to learn the names of others involved. He gives me Garlud's name."
"Now, if I believe the charge, Garlud is arrested and executed, and the mysterious someone is satisfied. But if I do not believe the charge Garlud remains free, and this unknown person must try again or give up and the matter is never solved."
"But say Garlud simply disappears without anyone knowing what's become of him. Has he learned of whatwas in store for him and gone into hiding, trying the while to learn who is responsible for his plight? Or have I executed him secretly? Is Heglar still alive and in a position to eventually expose the true culprit?"
"The man we want is going to have to get answers to those questions, Curzad. He'll use great care at first; but when each effort meets a blank wall he'll become increasingly desperate. Desperate men make false moves, Curzad—then is when we'll have him!"
The captain nodded expressionlessly but there was a gleam of admiration in his deep-set eyes. "And what of Garlud himself, Most-High? Shall I have him removed from the pits and placed in more comfortable quarters?"
Jaltor pulled thoughtfully at his lower lip. "N-no, I think not. Let him stew there awhile. I am not giving up my suspicions of him entirely, Curzad; old Heglar's dying statement can not be utterly disregarded until we have proof he was lying."
"And should Jotan, his son, return from Sephar while his father languishes in the pits?"
The king nodded. "I have thought of that. It may be necessary to take him and his men into custody before they reach the city itself. It would defeat my purpose were he allowed to enter Ammad and start hunting for his father. On the other hand I cannot arrest him openly; it would tell our mysterious enemy more than I want him to know."
"Let us wait a few suns to decide that, Curzad. We have the time; Jotan and his men are not due for half a moon yet. If our real quarry has not revealed himself in, say, seven suns, I shall send you and a detachment of guards out to intercept Jotan."
Dylaraawakened with a convulsive start as the lofty branch upon which she had been sleeping swayed and bent beneath suddenly added weight.
As she started up, a scream rising to her lips, hands reached out of the night's impenetrable curtain and tore her roughly from where she sat. Instinctively she attempted to struggle free, only to receive a buffet alongside the head that left her limp and only half conscious.
Her first impression was that one of the great apes, occasionally glimpsed among the more impenetrable reaches of jungle, had seized her; for she could feel coarse long hair matting its chest and arms. Even as the thought sent her heart sinking with fear and loathing, she knew she was mistaken, since the creature's body was much too slender, its arms too thin and frail to belong to one of the bulky anthropoids.
That she was in deadly peril Dylara did not doubt, but not to know the form such peril took was inconceivably worse. It was this, fear of the unknown that crystallized her determination to break from this stifling embrace or die in the attempt; and she was gathering her strength for the effort when her captor suddenly whirled about on the narrow branch and, with her across his back, dived headlong into space!
The shock was too much for human nerves. Dylara voiced a single scream and her senses fled under the lash of pure panic.
She came back to reality to find she was being borne through the trees with incredible speed. Now and then a vine flicked against her shivering body or leaves brushed against her face, and several times the thing carrying her leaped outward through space that seemed boundless, only toland lightly upon a swaying branch in another tree.
Even Tharn, she realized, could not have matched the creature's amazing agility, for it was using both hand and feet with equal dexterity after the manner of little Nobar, the monkey.
Gradually, as the likelihood of being dashed to earth seemed more and more remote, Dylara began to think once more of escape. The time was not now, of course; she could only cling desperately to her captor's thin shoulders and wait for this breathless journey to end. Eventually those wiry muscles must tire and the creature stop—then she would make her bid for freedom.
Abruptly and without slackening its pace the hairy thing uttered a piercing shriek like nothing Dylara had ever heard before. Twice more the awful sound rang out; and then, far ahead, came an answering cry faint and wavering.
Instantly the creature put on an added burst of speed, rocketing through the branches in dizzying bounds that threatened to tear away Dylara's none too certain hold. So swift was the pace now that within a few minutes a wide clearing loomed ahead and her captor began to slip groundward.
Suddenly the hairy creature halted on a wide limb bordering the clearing as a host of shadowy forms rose around him. There was not enough light for Dylara to make use of her eyes but she sensed these were the figures of creatures similar to the one which held her.
They chattered shrilly among themselves in a completely unfamiliar tongue for several moments, then all of them moved ahead a short distance until the clearing itself was reached.
Dylara was expecting the entire party to descend to the ground. But instead they began to climb higher and higher. At last the one carrying her came to a halt well within the embrace of a jungle patriarch; and at that moment Uda, the moon, appeared from behind a cloud and poured her silver rays into the clearing.
Forthe first time since her capture she was able to see well enough to distinguish objects. She was surrounded by a group of some ten or twelve man-like beings—but beings like nothing she had ever dreamed of!
All were well over six feet in height, but so thin in body they seemed much taller. All were naked except for girdles of grass about their hips, the rest of their bodies being covered with monkey-like hair. Their arms and legs were incredibly long and thin, their toes long and prehensile. Each face was hairless and almost perfectly round, containing small beady eyes, a brief blob of nose, a tiny lipless mouth and almost no chin at all. It was more the face of some particularly repellent insect—a comparison that leaped to Dylara's mind at sight of the long hairy limbs, the thin torsos pinched in deeply at the waist and the quick, jerky way in which they moved restlessly about her.
The one holding her let her slide from its back and the others moved closer, reaching out to pluck at her tunic with abnormally long nailless fingers, their voices like the rising skirl of an insect swarm.
Angrily she pushed away the exploring fingers. "Who are you?" she cried, "and what do you want of me?"
One of the things, evidently angered at being repulsed, snaked out a long arm and caught her roughly about the waist, dragging her to him. Instantly the one that had brought her here leaped upon the intruder, nearly sweeping Dylara from her precarious footing on the branch. For an instant the pair clawed frantically at each other, but their companionspushed between them and broke up the battle.
The incident seemed to touch off a long and heated discussion, during which Dylara was apparently forgotten. They stood in a tight knot among the branches, their ridiculous faces pushed together in almost a solid lump, while their keening voices went on and on with a monotonous kind of intensity.
A slow-moving cloud stole across Uda's shining face, plunging the scene into heavy darkness. Dylara felt sudden hope leap in her breast. Surely they were too intent with their arguing to notice her if she slipped away! Besides, how could even the keenest eye pierce the blackness of a jungle night?
She took a slow step away from them, balancing herself lightly on the broad bough. Another—and still another. The high-pitched debate went on in full volume.
Cautiously she lowered herself to a branch immediately below, then waited with pounding heart to learn if her move had been detected.
Nothing had changed! She bent again ... and from nowhere a sinuous arm slithered out of the blackness, caught her about the middle and jerked her back and into the group.
The discussion appeared to be ended. One of the creatures swept the cave girl into his embrace and continued to climb toward the stars, leaving his companions where they were.
A solid mass of foliage loomed suddenly in front of Dylara—and in that moment Uda came into the open sky once more. In the few seconds left for Dylara to drink in the scene she saw a sight she was never to forget.
Suspendedamong branches of the trees about her were conical huts of twigs and grasses. Their floors evidently did not rest on the boughs themselves but each separate structure bobbed lightly up and down from the end of a thick grass rope tied to a branch overhead. In the base of each was an opening only large enough to permit entry on only hands and knees.
Dylara's breath went out of her in a sudden gasp. Now she knew why her first impression of these creatures had likened them to insects. There was a species of spider that built nests above the ground—nests conical in shape and swung from twigs!
The hair-covered arms, legs and bodies, the pinched-in abdomens, the round heads set flush with the shoulders. These were spider men!
A wave of unbearable nausea overwhelmed her, robbing her of all strength. Dazed, she felt herself being thrust through an opening in one of the swaying huts, felt the spider-man follow her in—then once more she was lifted by a pair of long thin arms.
Weakly she lifted her hands to strike out at the loathsome thing holding her—then blackness poured into her brain and she knew no more.
Forthe better part of two weeks Tharn and Trakor made little progress along the trail taken by those Ammadians who held Dylara. With the patient stoicism of all creatures of the wild he accepted the unavoidable delay in his plans brought on by his acquisition of the untrained Trakor; and as the best way of lightening his burden, set out to school the boy in the lore of the jungle.
Most of that first week was spent in acquiring the knack of using the tree tops as a highway. Trakor, like most Cro-Magnards, was accustomed to climbing in search of fruit and birds' nests. But when it came to hurtling from bough to bough and tree totree in a dizzying pathway high above ground, he was both hesitant and doubtful.
Patiently Tharn strove to build up the youth's confidence. At first he spent hours in developing within him that sense of balance which is the basis for forest-top travel. Once Trakor could thread his way along a swaying branch a hundred feet in the air without reaching wildly for a hand-hold, Tharn undertook to teach him the grasp, swing and release used in plunging through space from one jungle giant to the next.
At first the boy fell many times and his body was a mass of painful bruises. But he endured the pain without complaint, returning to the branches for more with unabated enthusiasm. Hour after hour, day after day he strove for something approaching Tharn's expertness at the craft, and while he knew he would never succeed in reaching the high standards of his teacher, he was gaining confidence that eventually he would near that mark.
Within a week he was bounding about the trees with a sure-footedness and celerity that brought praise from his companion. He took the utmost pleasure in challenging the jungle lord to arboreal races, and while he never won them he came close on several occasions. Soon his confidence passed into a cocksure attitude and he began to take long chances—leaping twenty feet across a treeless gap to catch some narrow limb waving in a strong breeze, or hurtling through space at the end of a trailing vine in imminent danger of being dashed to death on the ground below.
Nor did Tharn protest these activities or urge him to greater caution. The youth must learn from experience what could and could not be done. He gloried in Trakor's small triumphs and comforted him in his failures, and always he was careful not to say or do anything that would weaken the boy's mounting confidence.
WhenTharn was satisfied the boy was reasonably at home among the trees, by night or by day, the second phase of his education was undertaken. He taught him to follow an animal's spoor along the dust of a game trail, he showed him how not only to classify each into its proper category but schooled him in such fine distinctions as judging an animal's height, weight and age from imprints left by its feet. Luckily Trakor was endowed with eyes and ears beyond the normal in keenness, and it was not long until he was able to give an excellent account of himself in woodcraft.
And daily his strength was increasing under the unaccustomed tasks imposed on his muscles. Swinging by the hands through mile after mile of branches molded biceps and back muscles into bands of steel and endowed his fingers with a vise-like grip. His body, already deeply tanned, became burned to a dusky hue and he began to fill out into a specimen of perfect manhood.
If Tharn chafed at the delay in his reunion with Dylara he did not display it and he continued the boy's education as though he had a lifetime to put into doing so. But Trakor knew what all this was costing the other, and while he never mentioned it, the determination grew to make it up to the cave lord. There was a bond between them now, based on mutual respect and admiration, plus a hero-worshiping desire on Trakor's part to become exactly like Tharn himself.
Exactly half a moon from the day Tharn had snatched Trakor from under the noses of Gerdak's warriors, the boy made his first kill—a fat buck that had come down to a water hole to drink. He had dropped upon its back from the lower branches ofa tree, as Tharn had taught him, and a knife thrust into its heart had brought it down.
They sat side by side among the branches of a tree, gorging themselves on strips of raw flesh hacked from the side of Trakor's kill, while below them a pack of Jackals quarreled over the buck's remains. Sunset was only minutes away and already dusk was seeping into the forest aisles.
Trakor was full of plans for the morrow. "When Dyta comes again," he was saying, "let us hunt out the lair of one of the great cats. I need a new loin cloth and I will cut one from the hide of Jalok or Tarlok—after I have slain him."
Tharn hid his smile by sinking his gleaming teeth into the meat in his hands. "And how will you go about killing Tarlok?" he said casually.
Trakor was surprised at the question. "The same way you slew Sadu the day we met. I will spring upon him from a tree and drive my knife into his heart."
"You will spring into his teeth!" Tharn said grimly. "Let this be your most important lesson: Seek no fight with the great cats. A life time in the jungle is not training enough to pick a quarrel with any of them. There will be times when one of them will stalk you down and trap you; then, if you are lucky, you instead of Tarlok or Jalok or Sadu will come out alive."
"But you have slain them!" Trakor argued.
"True. But never have I sought them out for that purpose. Each time we fought it was because I had no choice, and always the margin between victor and vanquished was so narrow it easily might have gone the other way."
"I am not afraid!"
"Fear has nothing to do with it. A true warrior does not doubt his bravery; only a coward feels he must prove to himself that he is brave. Survival in the jungle depends on knowing and respecting its denizens; he who struts along the trails looking for trouble finds himself filling trouble's belly!"
And so Trakor changed the subject and they talked of other matters. But deep within the boy burned the determination to hunt down one of the great cats at the first opportunity. Tharn, knowing this—his own development had gone through the same stage—said no more on the subject.
Whilethey talked Tharn watched his companion, marveling at the change these past two weeks had made in him. Trakor was every inch a true jungle dweller. He sat with his back comfortably against the tree bole, his shock of black hair falling almost to his shoulders in back and rudely hacked off above his eyes. His swelling chest and broad shoulders were burned almost black by the sun, the skin as clear and unblemished as a woman's. The thin waist, narrow supple hips and long straight legs were the hallmarks of a true warrior, and his sharp alert eyes and handsome clean-cut features were evidence of nobility and intelligence. Fate had placed worthy clay into Tharn's hands for molding and he looked upon his work and found it good.
With this realization came a decision. "Tomorrow," he said, "I must take up the trail of those who hold Dylara. Already she may be within the city of Ammad and I dare not wait longer."
Trakor flushed. "It is my fault. Had you not met me she might be with you at this moment."
"And had I not met you," Tharn said lightly, "I might still be looking for the trail I lost a moon earlier. Or Sadu might have caught and eaten me had I gone on instead of lingering here."
"A score of Sadus could not catch you!"
Tharn did not reply and his smile was hidden by the handful of leaves with which he wiped the blood of his meal from his lips. "Let us sleep now," he said quietly. "We have many suns of traveling ahead of us."
Otarwas utterly miserable. Fresh blisters had broken on his feet for the fourth day in a row and each step was agony. Life as a guard in Vokal's palace had not been strenuous enough to prepare him for a long journey into the jungle, and as he limped along in the company of his fifty companions he heaped silent curses upon the head of Ekbar, captain of Vokal's guards, who had selected him to take part in this mysterious excursion into the jungles surrounding Ammad.
Otar knew full well why he had been one of those so selected. The lovely Marua had chosen him as her mate instead of Ekbar, and the captain was allowing to pass no opportunity to keep them apart. True, Ekbar was leading the expedition and therefore was unable to take advantage of Otar's absence from the side of his lovely mate. But in view of his aching feet and terror of the grim jungle hemming him in night and day, this was small consolation.
This was the eighth day since Ammad's walls had faded into the south and still no word from Ekbar as to how much farther they must go. Night was not far distant; at any moment now the several advance scouts Ekbar sent on ahead each day would be straggling back to make their reports to the captain. That would be the signal to make camp for the night—something others of the party besides Otar were looking forward to.
In a column two abreast the fifty shuffled along, war spears ready in their hands, bows and arrow-filled quivers at their backs, a stone knife in the belt of each tunic. Over them hung the brooding humid jungle on either side of the elephant path, while in their ears rose and fell the now familiar pattern of sound formed by buzzing insects, chattering monkeys and raucous-voiced birds. Except for the clouds of insects that had a way of working down inside a tunic this was not so bad. It was when night came and the challenging cries of Sadu and Tarlok and Jalok made hideous the darkness beyond the camp's circle of fires, that Otar knew the depths of fear. Then was when heavy paws padded against the earth nearby and yellow eyes gleamed out of the night.
"Here comes one of the scouts!" said the man next to Otar, pointing. "Look how excited he is!"
A stocky built man in a once white tunic was running swiftly along the path toward the column's head, waving his arms. Instantly Ekbar lifted his spear in a horizontal position and the column ground to a halt.
Otar could see the two of them, Ekbar and the scout, carrying on a heated discussion, but he was too far back to make out the words. While they talked, the remaining three scouts arrived and joined in the conversation.
It lasted for several minutes; then Ekbar, tall and square-shouldered, gave the signal to resume the march. Several of the troops groaned openly; but the groans changed to elated murmurs of satisfaction almost immediately when the winding trail debouched into a small circular clearing divided by a small jungle stream.
The order was given to make camp and prepare food. Those whose nightly duty it was to gather branches for a fiery circle to keep the cats at bay were called back when they started into the jungle—a matter that caused considerable discussion among the others.
Theywere not long left in doubt. Ekbar gathered the warriors in a tight circle and, standing in its center, gave them their first explanation since leaving Ammad.
"An enemy force lies encamped an hour's march ahead of us," he said in his high-pitched, almost querulous voice. "For that reason we must forgo our nightly fires lest the glow be seen and the enemy warned. Instead, once you have eaten, you are to spend the night in the trees. A few of us will go on ahead under cover of darkness and learn the number of enemies we must face. Early on the morrow we attack!"
His chill eyes went around the circle, then he lifted one arm and began to point out individuals, calling their names and ordering each to step forward.
Otar, anger stiffening his jaw, was among the first to be summoned. When the new group reached six, Ekbar dismissed the others and bade them follow him.
Half an hour after leaving the main body darkness came down upon the seven Ammadian warriors, blacking out their immediate surroundings. Unconsciously they moved closer together and their voices stilled. The jungle was unfamiliar territory to most of them and a place where death might lay behind each bush along the way.
Presently they detected a wavering glow filtering through the trees ahead, and Ekbar warned them in a low voice to proceed with added caution. A little later he motioned them to a halt and went on ahead, his body crouched, his spear and knife ready for action.
He reappeared almost immediately. "They have made a dry camp in a small clearing just around a bend of the trail," he whispered. "Follow me and let not so much as a blade of grass bend under your feet!"
Like disembodied wraiths the seven members of Vokal's palace guard crept among the towering trees to one side of the trail. With slow stealth they worked their way forward until they lay, side by side among the thick undergrowth at the clearing's edge. Trained ears would have marked their passage long before they reached that position, but the ears of the five sentries on duty were no keener than those of the average Ammadian.
Most of the camp lay sleeping behind barricades of burning branches, their huddled shapes beneath sleeping furs visible by light of flickering flames. The sentries were pacing to and fro, stopping occasionally to pass a remark or two among themselves. The only sounds came from the crackling wood of the fires and, very distant, the hunting squall of a leopard.
Ekbar's eyes, a bit keener than those of his companions, noticed something. "Look!" he whispered. "Several in a row of sleepers nearest us have bandages on their heads. Yes, and one of the sentries is carrying his arm in a sling. They've come through a fight of some kind recently."
Otar, who had been peering intently at the five sentries, voiced a muffled explanation.
"Your scouts were wrong, Ekbar!" he said, his voice rising to its normal volume. "These men are——"
A savage hand about his neck choked off his words. "Quiet, you fool!" whispered Ekbar, his fingers tightening their hold.
One of the watch had lifted his head and was staring intently in their direction. After a long moment he shrugged slightly and busied himself with adding branches to the fire. Only then did Ekbar release his hold.
Otar, anger and bewilderment plain in his expression, massaged his aching neck. "I tell you," he whispered, "those are not enemies. They are warriors of the palace of the noble Garud of Ammad. One of those sentries is Dretox, an acquaintance of mine who went with Jotan, Garud's son, to Sephar several moons ago. It is plain that they are returning to Ammad and we should go out and welcome them instead of skulking here in the bushes."
"And I say these men are enemies!" hissed Ekbar heatedly. "Listen and judge for yourself."
"The morning of the day we left Ammad an attempt was made on the life of Jaltor, our king. The news swept the city; I know that some of you, at least, must have heard it. Vokal, our master, as one of Ammad's noblemen, learned Garlud was behind the attempted assassination. On the direct and secret orders of Jaltor himself, Vokal has sent us to intercept and kill Jotan, who once he learns Garlud is dead after plotting to have the king slain, may attempt to even the score by leading a revolt that could plunge all Ammad into civil war."
"That is why we are here and that is why these men are enemies. And on the morrow we shall attack them and put them all to instant death!"
It was reason enough and they were satisfied. Such intrigues were common in Ammad; several of the six had served more than one nobleman during their lifetimes.
"One thing bothers me," Ekbar was whispering. "It was believed Jotan took fifty men with him to Sephar, also two friends who are sons of noblemen. These last two must be overcome and spirited away without learning our identity. When Jotan and the rest are dead, we will release the pair of them and let them find their way to Ammad. I want a suggestion on how that can be done."
No one spoke for a while. The sentries continued to move among the fires a few feet away, and the sounds of a nocturnal jungle rose and fell about them.
It was Ekbar himself who hit on a plan, as befitted one of a captain's rank.
"We shall need one of those sleeping men," he said. "I will take two of you and circle the camp to the opposite side. After we have time enough to reach that point, the rest of you will make a noise of some kind to attract the guards' attention. Be careful not to make them too suspicious lest they rouse the camp. While they are looking in your direction, we will creep up and grab the first man we come to."
The men signified that they understood, and Ekbar, Otar and a warrior named Kopan set out to take up their arranged positions. Hardly were they ready when a low moaning sound rose from among the bushes across the clearing and the foliage there began to shake violently.
Instantly the five guards grouped behind that section of the burning circle nearest the disturbance. They raised their spears ready for casting and one of the five hurled a burning branch across the narrow ribbon of open ground.
"Now!" Ekbar grated.
Stooping, the three men raced for the encampment. They cleared the burning barrier at a bound, snatched up the nearest of the sleeping figures, muffling his face with his own sleeping furs before he could awaken, then turned and vanished into the jungle. So quickly had they acted, so swift and sure their motions, that none of the other sleepers so much as stirred and the guards never noticed.
The instant the abductors had disappeared the moans stopped and the shaking foliage stilled. For a long time the guards continued to stand there waiting, but when no other disturbance materialized they sighed with relief and went back to the restless patrolling.
Meanwhile Ekbar and his men were returning to their own camp, theircaptive with them. They drew him into a sheltered place under the trees, lighted a small fire that his expression might tell them if he answered their questions with lies and went to work on him.
He was a young man, clear-eyed, intelligent and not at all frightened. He stared at his captors without recognition, obviously puzzled to find they were men of his own nationality.
"What is your name?" rasped Ekbar, scowling menacingly.
"Tykol—if that helps you any! What is the meaning of this? Who are you?"
"I will ask the questions here!" Ekbar snapped. "And you will answer them if you wish to see Dyta, the sun, again! Do you understand?"
"I understand well enough, but that does not mean I will tell you anything!"
Without the slightest change of expression Ekbar whipped out the knife at his belt and sank three inches of the cold flint into one of the man's thighs. Tykol cried out involuntarily and struggled to free his arms from the vines binding them to his sides.
Ekbar waited until his struggles ceased. A small stream of blood welled from the knife wound and began to drip against the leaves beneath.
"What," said Ekbar, "are the names of the two young noblemen accompanying Jotan?"
Tykol, his active mind racing, did not at once reply. It was clear these men meant no good to any of Jotan's followers. His cue was to simulate a certain amount of fear to satisfy them his answers were the truth until he could discover exactly what was afoot.
Ekbar leaned forward and lifted his knife again. "Shall I give you a second taste of this?" he growled.
Tykol appeared to flinch. "No," he mumbled. "I will tell you. Their names are Javan and Tamar."
"How many men are with them?"
"Thirty-seven."
"You lie!" Ekbar snarled. "Fifty were in the party when it left Ammad."
The young captive digested this information quickly. It proved these men were Ammadians like himself; how else could they have known that?
"I am not lying," he said sullenly. "Three nights ago lions attacked our camp and killed and ate the others, wounding many of the rest of us."
Ekbar, remembering the bandages he had glimpsed while spying on the camp, nodded to himself. It would make his task of wiping out the balance of them that much easier.
"What positions do these two men hold in the line of march during the day?" he demanded.
"Javan now marches at the head of the column."
The captain's head jerked up sharply. "Don't lie to me, you son of Gubo! Jotan marches there; he is in charge of his men. There is no need for you to attempt to shield him—he will be dead in a few hours!"
It was all Tykol needed. He knew now that he himself would not live to see tomorrow's sun; and while the thought was sobering enough it did not dim his determination to save the life of his beloved master.
And so Tykol threw back his head and laughed—laughed until a heavy blow from the fist of Ekbar sent him sprawling. The captain gestured angrily to the others to drag the youth upright again, then said:
"You laugh, fool. Does the thought of Jotan's death mean so little to you?"
"That is not why I laugh," Tykol told him, grinning. "I laugh because no act of yours can take his life—for he no longer has a life to take!"
Strong fingers twisted into the front of his tunic and jerked him forward. "What do you mean? The truth, jackal, or I cut you in bits!"
Tykol appeared properly cowed. "The lions got him—as they got the noble Tamar. It was terrible, I tell you! For hours they crouched just outside the circle of fires while their roars filled the night. We tried to drive——"
"Enough!" growled the captain. "We shall soon find out if you are lying. If our scouts learn Jotan is still with his men I promise you a slow and horrible death."
"And when you find I am telling the truth," Tykol said, feigning eagerness, "will you then let me go?"
Ekbar sat there fingering his knife, thinking. If this man spoke true words there would be no need for massacring Jotan's warriors. It would be far better to permit them to reach Ammad and tell of his death under Sadu's rending fangs. Thus the last threat to Vokal's plans would have been accomplished without an air of mystery behind it that some one, becoming curious, might dig into.
But he would need more than this man's word. On the morrow he would send scouts who could recognize Jotan, back to spy on the column. If Jotan was not there, then Tykol's story would be proved true; Ekbar would withdraw his men and return to Ammad, leaving the remnants of Jotan's troops to straggle back unmolested by him.
Either way he no longer had use of Tykol. His attention came back to the bound man in front of him. "Yes," he said, replying to the young man's last question, "you shall have your freedom. In fact I shall give it to you now."
With those words he lunged forward and drove his knife into Tykol's heart!
Thus died a true warrior—loyal unto death to the man he served, knowing his heroism would lie with his bones unknown, yet making his supreme sacrifice without hesitation and without self-pity.
Ekbar wiped clean his stone blade on the dead man's tunic and rose to his feet. "Haul this carrion deeper within the jungle," he told his sober-faced men, "and rouse the camp. We start back to Ammad at once."
"I tellyou it is useless, Jotan," Tamar said. "For three suns now we have beat the jungle searching for some sign of her. How long do you expect to keep up this useless hunt?"
There were five of them in the group: Jotan, Tamar and three of the former's best fighting men. They were seated on a fallen log at the edge of a narrow stream, having finished washing away the stains of jungle travel only minutes before. Directly overhead hung the midday sun, flooding them with humid heat, and hemming them in on all sides stood towering giants of the forest.
Jotan shook his head and said nothing. The strain and hopelessness of the last three days had aged him visibly: there were new lines in his face and his eyes were haggard. He recognized his injustice in subjecting his friends to the dangers of jungle travel, especially when their number was so small; but Dylara meant everything to him and he could not give her up without a struggle.
"I beg of you," Tamar persisted; "give up the search that we may turn about and rejoin the others. We are not equipped to follow this trail all the way back to Sephar. Already we have lost two of our men—one of them the only man among us who was qualified to track her down. For all we know she may be dead—the victim of one of the numerous cats infesting this section of the country."
"You may return if you like," snapped Jotan, stung by that last remark. "I am going on—alone if necessary!Oh, I know why you want to call it off," he went on, scowling. "You never had any use for her because she is a girl of the caves instead of a nobleman's daughter. But whether you like it or not, Dylara is the only woman I shall ever love and I am going to find her—or give my life in the attempt."
Tamar, hearing, knew his friend meant exactly what he said. It was useless to plead with him on the basis of not being able to pick up her trail. But there was another way—and he bored into it, playing it up for all it was worth.
"Your life is your own, Jotan," he said stiffly. "But do you have the right to sacrifice the lives of the rest of us in a quest that is completely hopeless? If we had found anything to indicate we were on the right trail I would not for an instant try to dissuade you. It is true I do not think the girl worthy of your love—but that is not important. You do love her and I would fight against the world in defense of your choice."
"But to go on this way without a single lead to show us we have even the faintest chance for success, to throw away the lives of these three men—and our own—is rank folly! Perhaps you regard it as some sort of admirable determination; in truth it is sheer stubbornness."
For a long time Jotan sat there staring with unseeing eyes at the sluggishly moving waters of the tiny river. There was no denying the truth in Tamar's words. He knew his best friend meant every word of his statement that he would back Jotan's choice of a mate against a world; he had proved that back in Sephar by saving Dylara's life by a bit of quick thinking, when he might as easily have let a plot against her go on to its inevitable end. Equally as undeniable was his statement that it was sheer injustice to sacrifice needlessly the lives of loyal men on what could only be classified as a fool's errand.
Impulsively he turned to one of the three warriors sitting in a stolid row beside him. "Tell me, Itak," he said, "what is your greatest desire at this moment?"
"To serve you, noble Jotan," the man replied promptly and with complete honesty.
"And after that?"
Itak's dark face split in a wide smile. "When we left for Ammad, my mate was heavy with child. I would like to learn if I have a son or a daughter."
Slowly Jotan rose from the log and stretched his long, powerful arms. "We have rested long enough," he said, his face empty of all emotion. "Let us be on our way—back to join our companions!"
Open relief showed in the three warriors' faces. Only Tamar fully understood what those words had cost his friend and he stood up and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. For only a second he left it there and neither spoke.
Then packs were swung to stalwart backs and the five men disappeared among the trees along the narrow game trail leading into the south—and Ammad.
Consciousnessreturned to Dylara at the moment the spider man was placing her roughly on a heap of foul-smelling grasses. In the almost impenetrable darkness she was aware that his hands were moving lingeringly along the contours of her body and in sudden terror she struck out at his face, guided by the sound of hoarse rapid breathing.
Her nails struck home and she raked them fiercely across an unseen cheek, bringing forth a startled cry of pain and anger. An open hand caught her heavily above the ear and once more her senses swam, leaving her weak and defenseless.
Dimly she was aware that the awful creature was dropping to its knees beside her and once more long slender hair-covered fingers tugged at her tunic.
And then there was a startled grunt, a flurry of motion—and she was alone. Even as she started up wonderingly the floor of the swinging hut vibrated sharply under a heavy impact, followed by the sounds of furious struggle.
What it all meant, Dylara did not know. Perhaps one of the other spider-men, jealous of her captor's prize, had come to take her for himself. Or perhaps the spider-man's mate had arrived to protect the sanctity of her home.
Whatever the reason, it was Dylara's chance—and she took it without hesitation. Hugging the walls to keep free of the two battling figures rolling about the floor, she edged her way swiftly toward the small aperture that served as a door, then dropped to her knees and crawled through. At any moment she expected one of those slender hands to close about one of her ankles; but that did not happen and she gained one of the branches outside.
Never in all her life before had the daughter of Majok descended from a tree with such reckless abandon—but never before had she so strong a motive for haste. In fact she slipped and fell the last ten feet, her heart bounding into her throat as she toppled into Stygian blackness.
She was on her feet like a cat, not stopping to learn if the fall had injured her, and ran blindly into the tangled fastness of brush, vine, creeper and tree. Thorns tore at her skin and tunic, brambles tugged painfully at her hair, the stems of bushes tripped her up, trees loomed up too late for her to avoid slamming into them.
But Dylara was impervious to pain and heedless of obstacles. On and on she went, stumbling, running, crawling—fighting to put distance between her and the ugly monstrosities in those conical, tree-top huts.
How long this mad flight endured or how far it took her Dylara was never to know. But at last overtaxed muscles rebelled, her laboring lungs refused their task, and the cave girl collapsed in a pitiful heap among a tangled maze of head-high bushes.
Twice she sought to rise and go on. But each time her legs turned to water beneath her and she sank back to earth. Tears of utter helplessness flooded her eyes; she put her head down against one arm—and in that instant she fell sound asleep.
When she awakened night had fled and sunlight, pale and without warmth after filtering through layer upon layer of foliage, made visible her immediate surroundings.
Shegot shakily to her feet and stood there swaying a little as outraged muscles reminded her painfully of last night's mad flight. Little lines of dried blood on her arms and legs marked where thorns had raked her and she realized her body was one aching mass of bruises. Added to this was an inflexible stiffness brought on by sleeping on damp earth.
But all this was relatively unimportant. She was free once more—free to begin her long journey back to the cave of her father. She must hasten back to the trail which Jotan and his men had followed from Ammad and retrace her way southward toward home.
And at that moment the full impact of her predicament came home with stunning force.
She was utterly and completely lost! Whether the trail to Sephar was to the east or west of where she now stood was as unknown to her as the opposite side of Uda, the moon. True her goal lay to the north; but unless she could locate the original path Jotan had followed, she might spendthe rest of her life picking a way through the towering mountains and endless plains between.
Surging panic cut her legs from under her and she dropped into a sitting position on a fallen log and buried her face in her hands. For a long time she sat thus, fighting back her tears, trying to think logically. But what use was logic in this tangled wilderness of growing things?
Still, she told herself, she could not sit there forever, an unresisting morsel for the first meat-eater to come along. She stood up, brushed away an accumulation of leaves, thorns and dirt from her tunic, and struck resolutely out toward the east, pushing her way slowly through the walls of plant life everywhere about her.
Monkeys raced and chattered among the branches overhead and disturbed rodents and the crawling things that infest the rotting jungle floor fled from her path. After a dozen yards she was bathed in perspiration and her skin seemed to crawl with the dampness.
If only she could find some sort of pathway that would allow her to make progress without battling this ocean of pulpy, slimy vegetation—a footing solid enough to prevent sinking to her ankles with every step. Three different times she narrowly avoided treading on snakes—small, brightly colored reptiles whose bite would have meant a lingering death; and once she nearly collapsed with fright when a looping vine caught her about the neck unexpectedly and she thought it the folds of a python.
And then, after an hour of this, she stumbled unexpectedly into an elephant path, its powdery surface marked by the passage of numerous other animals. Unfortunately for her purpose it ran almost east and west instead of north and after following it into the east for the better part of two hours, it began gradually to veer southward, taking her further and further from the caves of her father.
Her only hope was that sooner or later she would come upon an intersecting trail that would lead northward. The thought of leaving the narrow strip of open ground and plunging back into that green maze was more than she could endure. And so she went on, staggering now and then under the lashes of heat and weariness, finding an occasional waterhole to quench her thirst and stripping fruit from trees and bushes to satisfy hunger.
Near nightfall she came upon a large clearing through which flowed a wide shallow stream. It had been several hours since last water had passed her lips and sight of the river lifted her spirits. She pushed her way through a heavy growth of reeds on the near bank, knelt and drank thirstily, then slipped out of her tunic and submerged her entire body in the brackish liquid.
Emerging at last, she dried her body with handfuls of grasses, her lithe, sweetly rounded figure gleaming like an image molded of pure gold in the fading sunlight. Her spirits were soaring again, for when first leaving the water she had glimpsed the beginnings of a second trail into the forest—a trail pointing straight as a spear shaft toward the north.
Already her plans were made. She would spend the night among the high-flung branches of that tree at the trail's entrance, when dawn came again she would start out once more—this time toward home.
Donning her tunic she ran lightly toward the tree, its base buried among a heavy growth of bushes.
While from the depths of tangled undergrowth near the bole of that tree, a pair of glowing yellow eyes were fixed in an unblinking stare upon the swiftly approaching girl!
A stormwas blowing up. Tharn, belly flat against a broad branchwhile he gnawed the sweet pulpy interior of a hard-shelled fruit, caught the signs of it in the scent of the air, in the uneasy pattern of a shifting breeze, in the faintly yellowish cast of the sky overhead. He mentioned the possibility to Trakor, who, wedged into a fork nearby, was dozing in the heat of day.
"A nice dry cave would come in handy if the rain comes," the youth observed. "I know how Gerdak's warriors hated being caught in a storm. They say the jungle is never more dangerous, with winds blowing branches through the air with the speed of flying spears, great trees being uprooted to crash down and crush the unlucky, while Rora, the lightning, flickers angrily about their heads."
"It is a part of jungle living," Tharn said philosophically. "This one will not come for half a sun yet—if it comes at all. Or it may be only a little storm."
"And if it is a bad one?" Trakor asked.
"Then we find a very big tree that is not too old and stand under it until it passes."
"But sometimes storms last for many suns!"
"Not at this season. The rain may fall for suns on end but then the wind is not too strong and there is no danger in moving about."
This was the sixth day since he and Trakor had set out in sustained pursuit of those Ammadians who were holding Dylara. They traveled mostly during the morning and afternoon hours, laying up during the heat of day. To Trakor every hour brought new confidence, increasing dexterity in tree-top travel and his store of jungle lore, under the expert tutelage of Tharn, increased by leaps and bounds. He could stalk Neela, the zebra, or Bana, the deer, across wide stretches of grasslands and, more often than not, get close enough to this wariest of all prey to bring one down with a single spear cast. Tharn had spent all of one sun making him a bow, and with it and a handful of arrows from Tharn's own quiver the boy had learned to handle the weapon with some degree of success. No member of the cat family had faced him and his new-found abilities thus far, but the time must eventually come and he looked forward to it with ill-concealed impatience.
But it was in the trees where Trakor excelled. Already he could keep pace with Tharn for short periods, although he was far from being able to match his friend's over-all agility and stamina. Only when it came to racing swiftly through the trees in the blackness of night was he hopelessly outclassed; for here success depended on an uncanny kind of sixth sense that Tharn had managed to develop only by constant practice and use since almost the day he was able to walk.
Nor was Trakor capable of such quick thinking as that displayed by his hero. A sudden development would freeze Trakor momentarily, while Tharn, because of both environment and heredity possessed reflexes that would have put Rora, the lightning, to shame, would already have the situation in hand.
And as the days passed the bond between the two of them increased in strength and permanence. To Trakor, Tharn was even more a god than on that day he had dropped from the skies to save the youth from the fangs of Sadu. He sought to emulate everything about him—his expression, his walk, his way of speaking—even his way of thinking. Almost every word the mighty Cro-Magnard uttered was stored deep within the mind of his worshiping companion, to be secretly mulled over and absorbed. As for Tharn, he admired the boy's boundless enthusiasm, his unflagging desire to master the lore of the jungle, his uncomplaining acceptance of hardship and his quiet courage.
To Tharn the jungles and plains of his world made up all he wanted from life. To range far and wide in search of adventure, to match his wits and prowess against its savage denizens, animal and human, had made that life complete. With the advent of Dylara, and love, fresh horizons had opened before his eyes, but not once had he pictured life with her as his mate as closing the door on his previous existence. He would have her, he reasoned, and the jungle too.
Butwith the admission of Trakor still another phase presented itself. Self-sufficient as he had always been, even unto childhood, loneliness was no more than a puzzling word. But now he caught himself thinking of ranging those jungles and plains with a companion—one nearly his own age—and the thought pleased him more than he permitted to show. As the days passed the resolve grew to bring Trakor with him and Dylara back to his own people. Always there would be the three of them—Dylara, Trakor, Tharn, inseparable.
The eddying gusts of wind suddenly brought a strangely familiar scent to Tharn's sensitive nostrils, dispelling his mood of reverie and bringing him instantly upright on the swaying branch.
Trakor, startled by the abrupt move, looked up at him sharply. Tharn was standing with head thrown slightly back, his nostrils quivering, his entire body as motionless as though cut from stone.
"What is it, Tharn?"
Tharn's eyes went to the boy and in them was something that brought Trakor beside him instantly.
"Come," the cave lord said.
Side by side they set off through the trees, following the winding path far below. Tharn was moving swiftly, and when he elected to do so few in all the jungle could match his pace. Trakor, to his consternation, began to fall steadily behind and he put on a fresh burst of speed, taking chances he ordinarily would never have dreamed of. Despite this, Tharn continued to widen the gap and within minutes the youth lost sight of him altogether.
The passage of both was practically soundless, for that is important for survival in the wild. As a result Trakor was unable to make use of his ears in trailing the other, but as Tharn had continued on above the pathway, it would seem logical that he would continue to do so. He hesitated to call out, for to do so, he thought, would be to confess his lesser ability; besides a cry might serve to warn whatever had excited Tharn's interest.
While far ahead of him now, Tharn raced onward, his face an expressionless mask, his heart thudding with desperate hope.
Fivedust-covered, disheveled men moved steadily along a winding game trail, the rays of a noon-day sun pouring down on their tunic-clad backs through rifts in the arching branches overhead. They moved in single file without speaking, almost without thinking, their every energy intent only on cutting down the distance between them and the major portion of their party.