He shook his head briefly as if to clear away such thoughts. Guided by the dim light from candles in wall brackets set at wide intervals along the corridor, he bent and stripped the corpse of its tunic and drew it over his own shoulders. His late foe had been a tall man and the tunic came a bit higher on Trakor's legs than Ammadian fashion dictated, a grievous matter which he ignored. A keen-edged knife of stone went under the tunic's belt; the heavy spear he left where the warrior originally had placed it.
Trakorwent back along that corridor with long swinging strides, his naked feet soundless against the stone, his head erect, his ears and eyes alert for the slightest sound or movement.
Ascending the same flight of stairs he had descended a few minutes earlier, he paused at the top and looked carefully at the twin lines of closed doors. The seventh on his left; he had counted them off carefully while on his way to the floor below.
For a full minute he stood motionless outside that barred portal, listening for some indication that others were up and about the palace. Then he turned back, lifted the bar and pushed open the door with slow care.
A flicker of motion from within the darkened room caused him to leap sharply back, just in time to keep a heavy wooden chair from caving in his head. Unchecked, the chair struck the floor with a resounding crash, the impact tearing it loose from Dylara's hands.
By the time she had bent to pick it up for a second try, Trakor was inside and the door closed. He threw out a hand to ward off Dylara's impromptu club, whispering, "No, Dylara! It is I—Trakor!"
A muffled sob of relief and thanksgiving was torn from her throat, then she was in his arms.
At the feel of her body against his, the heady scent of her hair in his nostrils, Trakor felt his heart leap within him and his arms tightened suddenly about the girl's smooth, softly rounded shoulders.
Then the moment was gone and they drew apart.
"I can't believe it, Trakor!" Dylara whispered. "How did you manage to get away?"
"There's no time for that now," he said. "We've got to get out of this place and back to the jungle where we belong. Tharn is out there somewhere and we must find him before he enters Ammad in search of us."
"But how...."
"I don't know—yet. If we can reach the streets without being seen...." He went to the door, pressed an ear against its planks for a moment, then very gently drew open the heavy section of wood and put his head cautiously out. The corridor, in either direction, was deserted.
"Come," he whispered, and hand in hand they stole silently toward the head of those stairs Trakor had recently climbed.
From somewhere below them a door slammed heavily and sandaled feet, several pairs of them judging from the sound, approached the base of that same flight of steps.
Without speaking Trakor and Dylara turned and, on tiptoe, raced in the opposite direction. As he ran, Trakor drew his knife in preparation for any enemy who might suddenly loom in their path.
A turn in the corridor brought them to a second flight of steps, down which they raced at full speed. Past landings at the third and second floors they fled, stopping at last in front of a closed door marking the main level of the palace.
"Wait!" Trakor breathed, placinga restraining hand on the girl's arm.
Silenceseemed to press down upon them, a silence so complete they could hear the breath rustling in their nostrils.
With almost exaggerated care Trakor drew back the door. Moonlight streaming in at several stone-barred windows revealed a large hall, its walls hung with rich tapestries and a long wide table, lined with chairs, running almost its entire length.
Dylara, familiar with such scenes from her days in Sephar, said, "The palace dining hall." She pointed to an open doorway in the opposite wall. "That should lead to the kitchens. No one will be there at this time of night."
"Good!"
They crossed quickly to the designated opening, along a short narrow hall, through a second doorway and on into a low-ceilinged room whose furnishings bore mute testimony that Dylara's guess had been right.
"Look!" whispered Dylara, pointing.
Thin lines of moonlight formed a rectangle on the far wall, marking a doorway leading to open air. Quickly Trakor was across the kitchen and straining to lift the heavy bar from its catches.
And in that moment a sudden chorus of deep-throated shouts of alarm from beyond that door reached their ears.
Jaltor, king of all Ammad, rose from his chair as his four visitors entered the apartment. Straight and tall he stood, his magnificent body in its purple-edged tunic seeming to dwarf all else within the room.
No one spoke. Curzad, captain of the palace guards, closed the door softly and stood with his back against it, arms folded and his rugged features empty of all expression.
It was Jotan, son of Garlud, who was the first to speak. The anger that showed in his burning eyes and the thrust of his chin thickened his words until they were more nearly a growl.
"What means this, Jaltor? Why was my party intercepted outside Ammad's walls and dragged here in secrecy? Why are we thus treated like common criminals? I demand an explanation!"
"You may request an explanation, Jotan," Jaltor said calmly. "As Ammad's king I answer no man's demands."
In the strained silence following his words, Jaltor's gaze moved on to where Alurna, daughter of Urim and princess of Sephar, stood staring at him in wonder and uncertainty. His expression softened and when he spoke his voice had lost completely its former edge.
"Curzad has told me of your father's death. We have both suffered a great loss, for Urim was my brother—my only brother. Later I should like to know the details of his passing; but first I wish to explain my reasons for what has happened tonight."
There were mixed emotions evident in the expressions of his listeners. Tamar was clearly worried and puzzled, Javan appeared even more dazed and uncomprehending than usual, while Jotan was close to bursting with outright anger and injured pride.
Jaltor indicated chairs with a wave of his hand. "Be seated, please. This may take some time."
They obeyed in silence, and even though sitting none of them was relaxed. Jaltor remained on his feet, legs spread, his keen eyes somber.
"A little less than half a moon ago," Jaltor began, "an attempt was made to assassinate me. The reason it was not successful lay in the peculiar clumsiness of the assassin. He wascaptured immediately and put to torture in an effort to learn the names of others, if any, involved in the plot. He was an old man, strangely enough, and before he died he told me who had hired him."
"I don't see," Jotan burst out, "what this has to do with any of us. Certainly we are not involved."
"The name he gave," Jaltor went on, as though there had been no interruption, "was Garlud!"
In the sudden, shocked silence that followed the measured tread of a guard in the corridor outside came clearly through the closed door.
"I don't believe it!" Jotan shouted. He leaped from his chair to face the monarch. "Ever since I can remember you and my father were the closest of friends!"
"And long before that Jotan," Jaltor said quietly.
"Yet because some common killer gave his name, you believe such an impossible story? My father could have no reason for wanting you dead. What have you done to him?"
Jaltorignored the last question. He said in the same quiet voice: "Not a common killer, Jotan. It was old Heglar who so named your father."
The young Ammadian nobleman fell back a pace in complete amazement. "Old Heglar? Why, he wouldn't...." His voice trailed off.
"Exactly. Heglar would not lie."
Jotan lifted a shaking hand to rub his forehead in a kind of dazed helplessness that struck to the heart of every person in the room. "No," he said, his voice suddenly loud, "I do not believe it. Where is my father? Let me talk to him."
"Where," Jaltor said coldly, "would apt to be any man who plotted the death of Ammad's king?"
Slowly Jotan's hand fell from before his eyes as the meaning of those chill words came home to him. "You—youkilledhim? Garlud? My father? Your friend?"
Nothing altered in Jaltor's sober expression—and in that Jotan read his answer. With a strangely inarticulate snarl he launched himself at the king, seeking to lock his fingers in that deeply tanned neck.
Curzad leaped from his place at the door, brushing past the paralyzed onlookers, and reached out to engulf the crazed young nobleman in his strong arms. Jotan, helpless in that iron grip was borne back, tears of rage and frustration streaming from his eyes.
Jaltor raised a steady hand to his bruised throat, his expression unchanged. "Confine him in the pits, Curzad. Later I shall decide what is to be done with him."
Tamar started up from his chair in angry protest. "What kind of justice is this?" he cried. "Will you send a man to his death because grief causes him to——" He stopped there, stricken into abrupt silence by what he saw in the ruler's eyes.
It took the combined efforts of Curzad and two of the corridor guards to subdue Jotan sufficiently to get him out of the room and on his way to the pits. When the room was quiet again, Jaltor dropped into an empty chair across from Alurna and the two young noblemen.
"Now," he said, "I can tell you the whole story."
And tell them he did, from start to finish. "So you see," he summed up, "why Jotan must be kept captive. Had I told him the truth nothing would have satisfied him until his father was freed and another method used to force the real accomplice into the open. When this unknown conspirator learns that Jotan's party has returned from Sephar, apparently without Jotan himself, he is going to be more puzzled than ever. A puzzled man makes mistakes—which is what we want him to do."
Alurna shuddered. "But the pits! If they are like the ones beneath Sephar, you are punishing terribly two men who are innocent of wrongdoing."
"You must understand," Jaltor reminded her, "that the possibility exists that Garlud is guilty. I have lived long enough to know that ambition can drive the noblest of men to ignoble acts. Old Heglar's dying words cannot be lightly dismissed."
"You," he continued, nodding to Tamar and Javan, "are free to return to your homes. Should anyone ask what has happened to the leader of your party, tell him that—well, that the lions got him. That will fit in with what happened during the night that you were attacked by Sadu."
The two young noblemen rose to leave, greatly relieved by Jaltor's explanation, but still concerned. After they were gone, the monarch said to Alurna:
"I know you must be worn out from your long journey from Sephar. But sit there a little longer, if you will, and tell me the circumstances of my brother's death."
Itrequired the better part of an hour for the dark-haired princess to relate what had taken place in Sephar nearly three moons before. She spoke often of Jotan during the account, and the tenderness in her eyes at mention of his name told Ammad's king more than she realized. And when she told of Dylara's disappearance and the possibility that Sadu had devoured her, Jaltor caught the unconscious satisfaction in her tone.
For a little while after she had finished, Jaltor sat staring thoughtfully into his wine goblet. Then: "Urim's mistake was to coddle that rascally high priest. In Ammad the priesthood is no problem at all; we keep them few in numbers and with no power to create unrest. Long ago I put a stop to the Games honoring the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud.... Perhaps some day I shall find a means of avenging the cowardly assassination of Urim, your father and my brother."
He smiled gravely into her eyes. "Do not worry about Jotan, my princess. Soon, I hope, he will be free again and you shall have your chance to win him."
Alurna's gray-green eyes flashed momentarily ... and then she too smiled. "Ammad's king is a wise and understanding man," she murmured.
Jaltor straightened and put down his goblet. "And now I shall show you to the suite of rooms which I ordered made ready for your use. Come."
Fora long time after the slave woman detailed to serve her had gone, Alurna lay wide-eyed on the soft bed. Moonlight through the room's wide window formed a solid square on the floor, and in its ghostly radiance the furnishings seemed shadowy and unreal.
It was the first bed she had been in for a long, long time and sleep should have come to her the moment she touched the pillow. But too many thoughts raced through her mind to permit sleep—thoughts jumbled and confused.
Ever since Jotan had rejoined the main body of his men after his unsuccessful search for Dylara, he had been moody and distraught. Those warriors who had accompanied him and Tamar on the hunt seemed confident—out of Jotan's hearing!—that the jungle had gotten her, just as it had claimed the lives of countless others.
And now that the way was clear to win him, Alurna slipped easily into a new role—a role of silent understanding and ready sympathy. Slowly and unconsciously Jotan had begun to respond to treatment. It might take several moons, she realized, before he would begin to look upon her as a desirable woman in addition to a warmhearted and friendly companion. But she could wait—for many moons if necessary.
Now the intrigue of some unknown enemy of Jotan's father had given the young nobleman new worries. If only there was some way to help him—some method by which she might earn his gratitude. Gratitude, she knew, was an excellent base on which to build romance.
Somewhere in the bowels of this very building Jotan and his father lay in dark, damp cells, put there on the orders of her own uncle. As king of Ammad and brother of her father he was entitled to her loyalty and respect. But when it came to the point of choosing between Jaltor and Jotan ... there was no doubt in her mind as to her ultimate decision!
As she lay there on her back, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the ceiling beams, a plan began to shape itself in her mind—a plan which, as details took concrete form, brought a faint smile to her lips.
And still smiling, Alurna fell asleep....
Asthe Ammadian patrol bore down upon him with leveled spears, Tharn's blackwood bow seemed to leap into his hands and two arrows flashed across the intervening space. Two of the warriors toppled and died under those flint arrow heads, but before the cave lord could release a third he was forced to leap hastily aside to prevent impalement by three thrown spears. So narrow the distance now that his bow was useless, and so he tore his knife from its place at its belt and, with the silent ferocity of a charging lion, hurled himself upon the remaining four guards.
Two more of the Ammadians collapsed in death, their heads almost severed as polished flint tore into their throats. The remaining pair, upon seeing that and hearing the bestial snarls issuing from that broad chest, drew back sharply, wavering on the verge of outright flight.
Tharn, sensing their indecision, tensed to renew his charge and put them to rout.
A cacophony of loud shouts from behind him told of the arrival of reinforcements. There were eight of them this time, still a good thirty yards away but fast approaching.
Instantly Tharn, his knife sweeping high for a thrust, lunged at the remaining two warriors who turned and fled a short distance before circling back to join the second group. Tharn stopped, caught up his bow and brought down three more of the enemy as he began a slow withdrawal. Lights were beginning to show from some of the palace windows; at any moment an arrow from above might strike him down.
Suddenly a door in the palace wall burst open and a white-tunicked figure came bounding across the lawn toward him. Tharn's bow was on its way into position to send an arrow leaping to meet this new attack when a familiar voice called out his name.
"Trakor!" Tharn shouted, astonished.
The boy bent while still running and caught up a spear from beside the body of one of Tharn's victims. Hardly had he reached the cave lord's side when a third group of palace guards appeared on the scene from behind them.
Cut off in two directions by enemies, blocked in another by the palace itself, Tharn chose the only possible avenue of escape.
"To the wall!" he shouted, then wheeled and raced across the greensward with long flashing strides, Trakor close at his heels.
Angling in sharply from two directions, the Ammadians sought toovertake them. Several spears were hurled but the distance was too great.
Trakor, seeing the high walls, knew it would be impossible to scale them in the few moments before the Ammadians arrived. But his faith in the cave lord remained unshaken; if a way to freedom could be found, Tharn would find it!
Whilestill a few feet short of the wall, Tharn swerved sharply to the left, crashed through a thick growth of bushes and paused in front of a small gate. Even as Trakor was about to point out the futility of trying to force a way through those stubborn planks, Tharn drew open the barrier and leaped through.
Trakor, stricken dumb with astonishment at this new development, followed him into the street as Tharn slammed shut the gate and dropped its bar into place a split second before a heavy shoulder thudded against its opposite side.
What promised to be at least a breathing space died in its infancy as a full dozen of the white-tunicked fighting men of Vokal's guard appeared at the juncture of streets to their left, and catching sight of them, came tearing along the pavement in their direction.
"This way," Tharn said, and the two cave men raced into the night.
For nearly a quarter-hour the two Cro-Magnards fled through the black labyrinth of Ammad's streets, twisting and turning to throw off pursuit. Twice they encountered patrols from other estates along their erratic pathway, but an arrow or two from Tharn's deadly bow drove them off.
Finally the two men slowed to a walk, their feet soundless against the stone surface of a narrow street between two walls in which no gates were visible. For the moment at least, it appeared their hunters had lost them, thus giving them a chance to gauge their present position.
Judging from the way this particular street slanted upward ahead of them they were on one of Ammad's hills. Further along a huge building loomed against the night sky from squarely across their path—a building larger and higher than any they had seen thus far.
"Dylara is back there," Trakor said abruptly.
Tharn nodded without looking around. "I know," he said simply. "We must find some place to hole up until another night comes. Then I am going back for her."
"We were close to getting away—Dylara and I," Trakor said ruefully. "We were on the verge of stepping out into the open when I heard the guards attacking you."
"You were that close to freedom?" Tharn asked, surprised.
Briefly Trakor recounted what had taken place in Vokal's palace. When he had finished, Tharn shook his head in savage disgust. "That makes the second time she was almost within arm's reach of me! I suppose by this time they have her again and she is locked away."
"Perhaps," Trakor admitted. "When I saw who it was Vokal's guards were after, I gave her my knife and she crawled under one of the tables to wait for us until we had killed the guards and could come back to get her." He laughed shortly, bitterly. "Wewouldhave killed them, Tharn, if so many hadn't come to their aid."
"It is always thus," the cave lord said philosophically. "Tomorrow night we shall try again."
Whiletalking, they continued on up the steep rise. Now their way was blocked by the wall they had glimpsed a few moments before. A narrow roadway skirted its base in two directions, and to the right, several hundred yards distant, they could make out the faint yellow raysof a lantern above a recessed gate.
"What now?" Trakor asked shortly.
Tharn shrugged. "A tree with foliage so thick none can see us. Judging from the size of the building beyond this wall, its grounds should contain many trees. Let us enter and see if we can find one large enough for our purpose."
Trakor glanced doubtfully up at the wall's edge fully fifteen feet from the ground. "Do we go over it or through one of the gates?"
"Over it. We dare not risk arousing the guards."
"How can we reach its top?"
In answer Tharn took up a position with his back only an inch or two from the wall. Cupping his hands together in front of him, he bent his knees slightly, keeping his back straight. "Extend your arms above your head," he directed, "and place your right foot in my hands, crouching a little while I support your weight. That way I can toss you high enough to enable your hands to catch the wall's edge."
Trakor nodded, a shade doubtfully, and followed directions. Like a striking snake Tharn uncoiled his bent legs with a sharp upward thrust, at the same instant jerking his locked hands up to chest level.
The youth shot upward like an arrow from a bow. Tharn heard a dull thud, followed by a low exclamation of pain. He looked up to see Trakor sitting astride the wall rubbing one of his shins.
At Tharn's instructions, Trakor lay chest down against the wall's top and extended his right hand downward. The cave lord backed away, then ran forward and leaped high, catching Trakor's fingers and swinging lightly up beside him.
There were trees—many of them—singly and in groups, their branches heavy with leaves. The grounds in which they stood were immense, with winding paths of crushed stone, winding between bushes heavy with jungle blooms. Here and there concealed jets flung graceful and shimmering curtains of water skyward, the falling drops pattering musically into stone-lined pools. In the distance loomed the gleaming white walls of a palace that, Tharn realized, was easily three times the size of any he had seen in Sephar.
Lightly the two men dropped to the closely clipped grass. Tharn would have liked to remain aloft for a minute or two, to drink in the beauty of the scene and to get some idea of just where within Ammad they were. But should some sleepless Ammadian be standing at a window in that palace, he could hardly keep from seeing those two figures atop the wall.
Side by side the two cave men strode lightly toward a cluster of eight trees arranged in a small circle.
While from the depths of a thicket of bushes bordering one of the garden pools a pair of eyes watched them in startled wonder.
Dylaracrouched beneath a table in Vokal's kitchen and listened to that nobleman's strident voice as it lashed at a group of palace guards outside the half open door.
"Do you expect me to believe," he said hotly, "that a single warrior could slay seven of you? Were their muscles turned to water at sight of him? And the rest of you—are you soldiers or children to be so easily outwitted?"
No one attempted a reply. Ekbar, captain of the guards, stood stiffly by, beads of nervous perspiration dotting his forehead. His turn would come once Vokal was through with the guards themselves. He would be fortunate indeed to escape with no more than a tongue-lashing; he might well end up being demoted in rank.
"Who was this man?" Vokal demanded. "Did any of you recognize him? Speak up, before I order yourtongues cut out with your own knives! You!" He pointed a finger at one of the men. "I understand you were one of those who first saw him. Who was he?"
The designated man, his trembling voice matching the shaking of his knees, said hurriedly, "He was like no warrior I have seen in all Ammad, Most-High. He was very tall, with great rippling muscles that——"
"Enough!" Vokal shouted. "I might have known you would claim no ordinary man could best the lot of you. And, I suppose, at least fifty more of these huge strangers fell upon you?"
"No, Most-High," the warrior admitted. "But there was one more, not quite so large as the first. He came from within the palace to join his friend and the two of them ran——"
"Wait!" the nobleman said sharply. "Are you sure this second man came frominsidethe palace?"
"Yes, Most-High." He pointed an unsteady hand at the door leading to the palace kitchen. "He came from there. With my own eye I——"
"Enough!" Vokal wheeled toward the captain of his guard. "Ekbar, send a detail to comb every room of the palace. There may be more of these strange intruders in there."
"At once, Most-High."
Dylara, listening from her place of concealment within the kitchen, knew she dared stay there no longer. A moment from now the room would be swarming with armed men and she was sure to be found. It was unfortunate she could not have accompanied Trakor when he raced out to Tharn's assistance, but she had known then, as now, that she would only have slowed their dash for freedom. With Tharn and Trakor both at liberty within Ammad's walls, they would eventually find a way to rescue her.
There was no point, however, in waiting around to be rescued. If she could make her way beyond Ammad's walls without help, so much the better.
Rising from her hiding place, the stone knife Trakor had given her ready in one sun-tanned fist, she crossed the kitchen with stealthy swiftness and hurried along the short hall leading to the palace dining hall.
It proved to be empty of life, although she could hear the sounds of sandaled feet entering the room she had only just quitted. Quickly she crossed the huge chamber, carefully drew open the same door she and Trakor had passed through a short time earlier, and raced lightly back up the stairs there to the building's second floor.
Atthe landing, she stopped and pressed an ear against the planks of the corridor door. She could hear no sound from beyond them to indicate someone was there. Carefully, inch by inch, she drew it inward until there was space enough for her to peer through.
Not ten feet away from her were the broad backs of two guards!
Despite the pounding of her heart and the almost uncontrollable efforts of her feet to break into instant flight, Dylara very slowly allowed the heavy door to return to its closed position. Then she was away, racing upward on the balls of her feet, silent as the shadow of a shadow.
She did not even pause at the third landing, for her quick ears caught the tread of feet beyond its closed door. At the fourth level the stairs ended at the corridor itself, with no door to mask them.
Fortunately the long hallway was deserted. Dylara turned to her right and hurried along, ears and eyes alert for the first sign that she was not alone. Past a score of doors and around several corners the corridor led and in all that time she encountered no one.
It seemed very still here on the fourth level of Vokal's palace. The almost eerie silence seemed to press down upon her spirits like some weighty and invisible hand. She could hear her heart pounding and the whisper of her breathing. The floor underfoot was now covered with a thick carpeting of some woven material and her sandals pressed soundlessly into it.
She had reached a point only a few yards from another bend in the hall ahead of her when she caught the faint sound of voices in that direction—voices which seemed to be growing louder.
Instantly she whirled to retrace her steps, then halted again. It was a long way back to where the corridor had last jogged; the owners of those voices might come into view before she could reach it.
There was a door in one wall almost even with where she stood now. It might open onto a room filled with guards, or it might not open at all. There was no time to weigh her chances.
She released the latch and pushed lightly against the wood.
She came into a large, low-ceilinged room, lighted by candles in beautifully carved wooden brackets affixed to the walls. Polished tables and luxuriously covered chairs stood about the carpeted floor. A door stood slightly open in one of the side walls, disclosing the foot of a wide bed, the covers rumpled as though some one had been sleeping there moments before. Several windows open and unbarred, permitted a panoramic view of a large section of Ammad, and one of them came all the way down to the floor to permit entry to a small balcony.
As Dylara stood there, drinking in the beauty of the room, voices sounded suddenly loud and clear from just outside the door. A moment later the latch moved under an unseen hand and the door itself swung wide. But even as the latch moved, Dylara was across the room, through the balcony entrance and crouching there, out of sight.
"... one, then call me immediately."
"As the noble Vokal commands."
The silver-haired nobleman closed the door, muttered something under his breath, and crossed to where an earthen jug of wine stood on one of the tables. He filled a goblet to the brim, drained it with a flourish, blew out all but one of the candles and went into the bedroom.
Dylara swallowed her heart back to its usual place and straightened slowly to ease cramped muscles. Give the Ammadian an hour to fall into a deep sleep and to allow the palace inhabitants to return to their beds, and she could make a second attempt to get away.
The minutes passed with almost painful deliberateness. So complete was the silence here that she could hear the sounds of even breathing from the bedroom. It was the breathing of a man who was sleeping soundly; a few minutes more and she would make her bid for freedom.
Knuckles pounded sharply on the apartment door.
AsTharn and Trakor were on the point of swinging into one of the half circle of trees, a crepitant rustle among the nearby bushes brought their heads sharply around in instant alarm.
Six stern-faced guards in spotless tunics stood less than a dozen feet away, spears leveled at the broad chests of the two Cro-Magnards. At sight of those weapons Tharn's hand dropped from the hilt of his knife and utter chagrin filled his heart.
He felt Trakor stiffen beside him and he put out a restraining hand. "It is useless," he muttered. "The slightest move and they will cut us down."
One of the six stepped forward a few paces and peered at the two intruders. "Who are you," he demanded, "and what are you doing on the grounds of Jaltor, king of Ammad?"
"We are men of Sephar," Tharn said, following the first line of thought that popped into his head. "We came to Ammad with Jotan's party and were looking over the palace grounds. There is nothing so fine in all Sephar, let me tell you!"
It was a wild, almost incredible shot into complete supposition. It was possible that Jotan and his menhadreached Ammad by this time; and, while less possible, it was conceivable that the young nobleman had come straight to the palace to pay his respects to Jaltor, instead of postponing the visit until the following day.
What Tharn did not know, of course, was that Jotan's entire party had been met outside Ammad's gates by a force of Jaltor's own guard and brought directly to the palace and were being held there until the king got around to ordering their release.
The officer in charge of this patrol knew all that—as did most of the palace guard. He looked searchingly at the two men for a moment, then said:
"You are lying! Every member of Jotan's party is already under guard. Come with us; we shall allow Curzad to hear your story."
He made a small motion with his hand and instantly Tharn and Trakor were surrounded by a ring of spear points. Side by side the two cave men strode toward the palace, helpless to resist.
Within the huge building they were led to a guard room on the first floor, and after a few minutes the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Jaltor's captain, sharp-eyed and alert, entered the room.
He listened to the officer repeat what Tharn had said outside, then ran his gaze slowly over the two men.
"You are not warriors of Sephar," he growled. "You are not even Ammadians. I have seen your kind before. What are two cave men doing inside Ammad?"
Tharn shrugged but said nothing. Trakor, observing his reaction, followed his lead.
"Perhaps a few days in the pits will loosen your tongues!" Curzad said harshly.
Still no reply.
"As you wish." Curzad turned away indifferently. "To the deepest pits with them, Atkor," he said to the officer. "After a few suns I will see them again to learn if they feel more talkative."
Justhow many downward sloping ramps they trod on the way to the pits Tharn had no way of knowing. Further and further below the earth's surface they went, their hands bound behind them, while brightly lighted subterranean corridors gave way to others only faintly illuminated. Finally even the faint light disappeared and they moved, heavily guarded, through blackness relieved only by flames from a torch carried by one of the guards. There was the clearly audible trickling of water along the stone walls and several times Tharn felt his feet sink to the ankles in cold pools that had formed in hollows of the stone flooring.
At last the wearying procession of sloping ramps ceased and they moved along a level corridor. On either side Tharn made out heavy wooden doors with apertures in their surfaces closed off by columns of stone in the form of bars. Now and then light from the torch picked out white, heavily bearded faces containing white-ringed eyes and expressions of dull hopelessness. Not once, however, did he hear sounds from the throats of those prisoners—only the mute despair of lost souls peering into nothingness.
Finally the officer ordered a halt.At his command two of the doors, almost directly across from each other, were opened. Tharn felt the cold touch of flint as a knife cut away his bonds, a strong hand thrust him roughly into the cell on the right and the door banged shut behind him.
He turned back and looked out through the bars, to see Trakor, head held proudly erect, shoved into the opposite room. Bars at the top and bottom of each door were drawn into place, a sharp order rang out and the Ammadian guards started back for the surface.
"Curzad said 'to the deepest pits!'" one of them chuckled. "There are no deeper dungeons than those!"
Asthe sound of knocking rang through Vokal's private apartment, Dylara, crouching on the small balcony off the central room, felt her spirits plummet to a new low. Given another few minutes of grace and she would have been out of this cul-de-sac and on her way to freedom.
Again came the knock, louder this time. She heard a muttered exclamation from the bedroom, then Vokal, tying the belt of his tunic, crossed quickly to the corridor door.
"What do you want? Who is it?" he called, impatience strong in his usually calm voice.
"Your pardon, Most-High," said a humble-sounding voice, "but a visitor, bearing your personal talisman, insists on seeing you at once."
"It must be that fool Sitab," Dylara heard the nobleman mutter. He threw open the door, then stepped back suddenly as the cloaked form of a woman pushed her way into the room.
"Rhoa!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"
"I want to talk to you. Send the guard away and close the door." Her voice, deep for a woman, sounded muffled through the folds of cloak shielding her face.
Vokal obeyed, and when the door was shut she slipped from the wrap and dropped it across the back of a nearby chair.
She was a woman past thirty, taller than average and beautifully formed. Her hair was a dull black and she wore it long, framing the delicate features of her olive-skinned face. Her eyes were large and very black and at this moment there was anger in them.
"What are you doing here?" Vokal said again.
"It is fairly simple," she said imperiously. "I am tired of waiting, Vokal. For half a moon now old Heglar has been missing. I do not doubt for a moment but that he is dead. Why should we delay this thing any longer. You promised me that once the old fool was dead I could take my rightful place as your mate. I say the time for that is now!"
"But you don't understand, Rhoa. To acknowledge our love now would play directly into Jaltor's hands. Once our names are linked together he will realize Heglar attempted to assassinate him because I hired him to do so."
"I have given this a great deal of thought," Rhoa said coldly, "and I think you're being overly cautious. Let the good people of Ammad talk; the mere fact that we take no trouble to conceal our love will prove to them you had no hand in old Heglar's disappearance."
"You're not making sense!" Vokal cried. "The minute Jaltor hears we are together he will put enough of the threads in place to see the real picture. He will guess that it was I who hired Heglar to attempt that mock assassination in an effort to usurp Garlud's position in Ammad."
He threw his hands wide in a gesture of despair. "In the name of the God," he pleaded, "don't upset everything this short of success! Go backto your home, Rhoa. Give me a few suns—seven; no more than seven—and I promise you I will have things worked out the way we both want them. Do this for me because I love you and you love me and we can be together without fear of Jaltor."
"How can you know seven days will be time enough?" she asked doubtfully.
"In a few minutes I am expecting a visit from Sitab, a high-ranking guard of Jaltor's court," he explained. "He is in my employ, secretly, and will do as I wish. I shall instruct him to learn if Heglar and Garlud are held in the pits beneath Jaltor's palace. If they are, he will arrange the deaths of both; if they are not there we can assume both are already dead and act accordingly. But first I mustknow, Rhoa."
Shestood there, erect and beautiful in the shimmering radiance of candle light, indecision plain in her face. "When will this man Sitab get the information for you?"
"Tonight! Between the hour I discuss the problem with him and the hour of dawn. You will do this my way, Rhoa?"
A discreet knock at the door interrupted her reply. Vokal, sudden alarm plain in his face, stiffened. "Who is there?"
"The guard, Most-High," said a voice, muffled by the planks. "A second visitor, who refused to give his name, awaits your pleasure."
"It is Sitab," Vokal told the woman, whispering. "Will you give me those seven suns, Rhoa? Will you go now, and be patient for that long? What is your answer?"
Abruptly she nodded. "Seven suns, Vokal. But no more than seven."
His breath of relief was clearly audible. "Good!" He went to the door and drew the bar. "Hide your face so that none may know who you are. Goodbye."
He drew open the heavy door and the woman, her face concealed by the folds of her heavy cloak, swept regally through, past the staring guard and a short, barrel-chested man in the tunic of a guard of Jaltor's court.
Vokal, his handsome face completely without expression, crooked a finger at the latter. "Enter, my friend," he said cordially. "You have arrived at exactly the right time."
Shortlyafter arriving at the palace of his father, following the surprising interview with Jaltor, ruler of Ammad, Tamar had gone to his room and his bed.
But not to sleep. His thoughts were of his friend Jotan and the trouble that had befallen the young Ammadian noble. Tamar never doubted Garlud's innocence and he longed to take some action that would clear both father and son. In keeping with Jaltor's instructions he had told his own father nothing of what had taken place, letting him think Jotan had died beneath the claws and fangs of Sadu, the lion.
After more than two hours of fitful tossing, Tamar rose from his bed and entered the living room of his suite. He was standing at one of the windows overlooking sleeping Ammad, when a discreet knock at the door startled him out of his reverie.
"Who is there?" he called.
"The corridor guard," said an apologetic voice. "A young woman wishes to speak with you, noble Tamar. Upon an urgent matter, she says."
Tamar crossed the room quickly and unbarred the door. Beyond the stalwart figure of the guard was the softly curved form of a woman whose hair was very black and who, despite the folds of a cloak held to shadow her face, seemed young and beautiful....
"Alurna!" Tamar gasped incredulously. "What are you doing here?"
She shook her head warningly, entered and waited until Tamar had closed the door. The nobleman helped her remove the cloak and she sank down on a nearby stool.
"I thought you would be sleeping," she said, smiling a little.
Trouble clouded his fine eyes. "I could not sleep," he said huskily. "I tried. But I keep thinking...."
"Of Jotan," the girl finished. "And his father. We must help them, Tamar. We must not leave them to rot in the pits of Ammad."
"But what can we do?"
"Do you know how to reach the pits without being seen?"
He stared at her. "What difference would that make?"
"Why can't we free them, Tamar? Give them a chance to learn who is behind the plot against them." She leaned toward him, her face set with determined lines. "My uncle, it seems, is content to let them suffer until time works out the problem of who is guilty. I say Jotan and his father should be allowed to do something themselves to hurry matters!"
"But there's no way——"
"Are you sure? Have you thought about it before this?"
He hesitated. "No-o. But it could mean imprisonment for us if we fail, Alurna. Jaltor can be completely ruthless; if he learned we were attempting to interfere with his way of doing things ... well it could be too bad for us."
Color crept into her cheeks but she met his eyes resolutely. "Jotan means enough to me to risk that," she said flatly. "Doyoufeel that way?"
He rose and began to pace the floor. "You're right. Let me think. There is an entrance to the corridors housing the pits of Jaltor's palace, an entrance supposedly secret, which Jotan himself once pointed out to me."
He wheeled suddenly and entered his sleeping quarters, returning a moment later with a flint knife in a sheath at his belt and there was the light of battle in his eyes.
"Return to your room, Alurna," he said grimly. "I will go to free Jotan and his men."
She shook her head. "This was my idea and I'm going with you."
"But—but this is dangerous! If I am caught I shall be thrown in the pits myself—perhaps killed. This is no venture for a woman!"
"It is a venture forthiswoman," she replied doggedly. "Jotan is to be my mate ... even though he may not realize that yet. He must find me beside you when we rescue him."
For a long moment they stared into each other's eyes—then Tamar's shoulder rose and fell in surrender.
"As you wish," he said.
Sitab, warrior of the palace of Jaltor, moved stealthily down a steep ramp. About him was darkness more intense than that of a tomb, forcing him to feel his way with infinite slowness lest a misstep make a noise loud enough to rouse one or more of the guards in the arms-rooms here and there among the subterranean corridors.
From one of his hands trailed a heavy spear; in the other was a keen-edged knife of flint ready for the first man who should find him where Sitab had no right to be.
For whoever he came across now must die. It would not do for word to reach Jaltor on the morrow that Sitab, a trusted guard, had been seen on his way to the pits.
A miasmic odor of damp decay seemed to increase in strength the further below the earth's surface he progressed. Now and then a water rat would rustle across his path, its passage marked only by the rasp of claws on rock. Damp stretches of slippery surface proved difficult to negotiate and on several occasions he saved himself from falling only by a quick movement of his feet. Now and then he would step into ankle-deep pools of chill water, bringing an involuntary gasp to his lips.
At long last his feet found no ramp where one should have been and he realized he now stood at the beginning of the deepest corridor beneath the palace. For a long moment he stood there, his ears straining to catch some sound of life. As from a great distance he caught the muffled snores of sleeping men, the faint murmurings of troubled words from a mind dreaming of the horrors to which it awakened after each sleep.
Grasping his spear tighter, Sitab inched his way cautiously along the corridor until his ears told him he was standing between twin rows of cells. From the belt of his robe he drew a small length of tinder-like wood and from a pouch in the same belt came a small ball-like bit of stone, its interior hollowed to hold a supply of moss in the center of which glowed a single coal of fire. Drawing the perforated bit of wood serving as a cork, Sitab let the bit of fire roll out onto the miniature torch. It rested there, glowing redly as he breathed against it. When a minute of this had gone by a tiny tongue of fire rose to life and within seconds the torch was fully lighted, dispelling the ink-like gloom about him.
On silent feet Sitab moved from door to door of the cells. At each barred opening he let the rays of light seep into the tiny interior of the room beyond while his eyes sought to identify the sleeping men.
Some he saw were hardly recognizable as human, so long had they lain prisoner in this awful hole. Matted hair hung over faces so thin and emaciated as hardly to be human at all. Others he saw were still in excellent physical condition: these had been here only a little while.
But none was familiar to him until he was well down the first row. As he peered into this particular cell, he saw a man lying asleep on the bare stone platform which served this cell, as in others, as a crude bunk. The sleeper's face was turned toward the wall, shadowed by a raised arm, so that Sitab was unable to make out the features. But something was familiar about the man's general build and the shape of his head, and for several minutes Sitab stood there waiting for the man to stir in his sleep sufficiently for his face to be seen.
When full five minutes had passed without this taking place, Sitab broke a small piece of the rotting wood from his torch and flipped it unerringly through the barred grating of the door. It struck lightly against the bare arm of the sleeper, and he sighed heavily, stirred, then turned his face toward the light.
Sitab stiffened, waiting for the man to awake and cry out in alarm at the glare of the torch. But the eyes did not open and the prisoner lapsed back into complete slumber. Only then did Sitab see who lay sleeping there.
It was Jotan.
A slightgasp escaped the guard's lips. Jotanhere! But Jotan was dead! Vokal himself had said as much.
Sitab smiled. No matter that Vokal had been misinformed; Jotan would be dead within seconds. Vokal would reward him well for killing both JotanandGarlud—if the latter were imprisoned here as well.
How best to kill him? Open the door, creep to the side of the sleeping man and plunge the spearhead into his heart? That would be the quietest way ... and also the most dangerous. What if Jotan were in reality awake—lying there waiting for this unknown visitor to enter the cell, then jumping upon him in a bid for freedom.
A glance at those muscles, even though apparently relaxed in sleep, was enough to give him his decision.Lifting his spear, he thrust its point between the bars of the door, aimed it squarely at Jotan's exposed chest—and tensed his muscles to launch the heavy weapon.
Fora long time after Sitab was gone, Vokal remained seated on a low bench in the living room of his apartment. Worry was crowding in on his mind, the ambition that had led him into discrediting Garlud was proving itself a curse, and his love for Rhoa, wife of old Heglar, was now a burdensome thing that had cost him a thousand tals and might end up costing him his life.
Well, the die was cast now; there was no turning back. Dawn was no more than two or three hours away; long before Dyta's golden rays flooded Ammad's streets Sitab should have returned with word that Heglar and Garlud were dead. Everything depended on that now—it was still not too late to recoup, winning back his thousand tals and a higher place in Ammad's society.
The silver-haired nobleman rose from his chair and reached for the candle to blow out its flame. A few hour's sleep would make him better able to face the morrow....
... From her place on the narrow balcony of the nobleman's apartment, Dylara watched the candle flame perish under the man's exhalation. This time, she thought, I will not wait so long for him to fall asleep. She watched him cross the room and disappear from sight into the sleeping quarters beyond, waited for the space of a hundred heartbeats to be sure he would not come into this room again, then very slowly, her heart in her mouth, she began to move with extreme stealth across the floor toward the corridor door.
The journey seemed to take hours although two minutes were all that passed before she reached out to remove the heavy bar Vokal had dropped into place when his last guest was gone. With trembling fingers she set the thick length of wood against the stone flooring and slowly swung the door open a crack.
Light gleamed dully from down the corridor. With great care she widened the distance between the door's edge and its frame. When the space was large enough, she put her head out cautiously and looked along the corridor.
Standing there, watching her with wide eyes, was one of the palace guards!
Shock held both Dylara and the guard momentarily paralyzed—then Dylara, the first to recover, was into the corridor and running swiftly in the opposite direction.
Behind her she heard the guard shout a command. But before he could do more, she was around a bend in the corridor and racing toward the stairs she knew were further along....
... Vokal, not yet completely asleep, leaped from his bed at the sound of a sudden hoarse cry from outside his apartment. When he arrived at the open door—a door he had only moments before barred from inside—he found a knot of palace guards already assembled there.
"What has happened?" he demanded sharply.
The man regularly stationed outside his door explained in a few words.
Vokal's cheeks paled at the full implication of what had occurred came to him. Whoever this mystery woman was, she had overheard—musthave overheard—his conversations with both Rhoa and Sitab. Were she a spy—someone who would go to Jaltor with what she had heard—Vokal was a dead man!
"Find her!" he screamed. "A hundred tals to the man who brings her alive, to me. Death to all of you unless she is found! Go!"
They went. They went as though the hounds of hell were at their heels. Within seconds every floor of the palace was alight with torches, every hall crowded with warriors, every room being searched. Guards at the palace gates were alerted, patrols were set to scouring the grounds between palace and outer wall.
There was no sign of the missing girl.
Tharn, sleeping soundly as a man does whose conscience is clear and whose bed is no more uncomfortable than a hundred others he has occupied, awakened suddenly. For a brief moment he lay without moving, his ears searching for some indication of what had awakened him.
There! The barest whisper of leather against stone from down the corridor that ran past his cell door. A sandaled foot had made that sound. Other ears—even the ears of a man already awake—would have missed what his sleeping brain had caught.
Soundlessly he left his stone bench and moved to the door. But the darkness was such that even his unbelievably sharp eyes were helpless to penetrate it. But if his eyes were useless, his ears were not. Fifty feet further down the corridor a man was standing; he could hear his breathing and the rustle of garments. A few seconds later Tharn's eyes caught a tiny glow of light—a glow that soon swelled to a flickering light strong enough for him to see the opposite row of barred cell doors.
Again came the whisper of sandaled feet. Presently an Ammadian guard came into view, a heavy spear in one hand, a small torch of flaming wood in the other. The guard was peering into each of the cells across from Tharn, pausing at length at some, passing others quickly. Tharn wondered at the man's attempt at stealth; since it was impossible for any of the prisoners to get at him, such precautions could serve no evident ends.
When the man reached a cell almost exactly across from Tharn, the cave man saw him toss something through the opening framing the bars. He heard the unseen prisoner sigh ... and then the guard raised his spear and inserted its head through the same opening.
Tharn was on the point of crying out a warning, his reason dictated only by a desire to thwart as far as possible the hated symbol of authority represented by this white-tunicked assassin. But in that moment he saw a second figure steal into the outer periphery of light thrown by the torch—a figure of a man whom Tharn recognized instantly as one of those who had accompanied Jotan on his search for Dylara a few days before.
As the arm holding the spear tensed to send it plunging into the unseen prisoner, the newcomer leaped cat-like upon the would-be assassin. There was a startled cry that echoed along the subterranean hall and the two men became a squirming knot of arms and legs.
And then abruptly the threshing figures were still as the second man pressed the blade of a flint knife against the other's thinly clad back.
"Not a move," growled Tamar, "or you are a dead man!"
Nowa lovely dark-haired girl came into view, her face revealed by the flickering light of the still burning torch lying on the corridor's flooring. As she bent to pick up the bit of blazing wood Tharn recognized her as Urim's daughter, whose life he had saved on a long gone day.
"What were you up to there?" growled Tamar. "Who are you and what——"
"Tamar!"
The cry came from behind the barred door from which the young nobleman had just drawn the cringing Sitab. There, framed in the barred opening, was Jotan!
Alurna, a faint cry of happiness on her lips, rushed to the door and removed the heavy bar. Jotan bounded into the narrow hallway, gave Sephar's princess a thankful pat on the back, then turned to Tamar.
"What's going on here? Who is this guard? How did you find me?"
"First," Tamar said, "I'm going to find out why this son of Gubo was about to send a spear into you!"
At Jotan's blank expression, Tamar explained what had been about to happen when he and Alurna arrived. Whereupon Jotan took the trembling Sitab by the front of his tunic and shook him until most of his breath was gone.
"Who sent you?" Jotan snarled. "Speak before I strangle you with my bare hands!"
"I dare not tell you! He would kill me!" Sitab cried through chattering teeth.
Again Jotan shook him. "But I will cut you into tiny pieces if you do not tell. First I will cut your toes and fingers from your rotten body, then I will dig out your eyes and chop off your——"
Sitab had fainted.
Three ringing slaps brought the man back to consciousness. In a voice made shrill with terror he gave the name of the man who had sent him.
Tamar and Jotan stared at each other in utter amazement as the name of Vokal fell from those craven lips. Angrily Jotan hurled the shrinking figure from him, Sitab fell headlong against the stone wall and lapsed into a motionless heap of quivering flesh.
Tamar said, "That's all we need! We can go to Jaltor and tell him what this coward has said; then he will free you and your father and put Vokal in your place."
"My father lives?" cried Jotan. "I thought Jaltor had slain him."
Quickly Tamar explained what had actually happened. When he had finished, Jotan said, "Before we do anything else I must find my father. Help me search these cells, both of you."
"He may not be on this level," Tamar said. "We could spend hours hunting him. The thing to do would be to go to Jaltor——"
But Jotan was already on his way along the corridor, peering in at the occupant of each.
Minuteslater there was a sizable group of men freed from the cells and grouped about Jotan and Tamar. Among them was Garlud, Jotan's father, his gaunt face wreathed in smiles, his strength, sapped by long days of imprisonment, flowing back at the realization he was free and in possession of the name of the man who had brought about his downfall. The others were those members of Jotan's party who had accompanied him from far-off Sephar, released from their brief imprisonment and ready for action.
Tamar said, "And now we can go to Jaltor and tell him what happened!"
"We shall have to take this man"—Jotan pointed to the fallen and unmoving body of Sitab—"to Jaltor as our only witness against Vokal."
Garlud said, "It is hard to believe that Vokal is the one behind all this trouble. We have been friends for many years, all of Ammad loves him, even Jaltor admires him more than almost any noble of the court."
"He is behind the plot against us, father," Jotan said sharply. "There can be no doubt about it."
"We shall need overwhelming proof."
"Our proof lies there." Jotan waveda hand at the motionless bulk near the wall. "Get him on his feet, somebody; it's time he told his story to Jaltor, king of Ammad!"
Tamar bent above the fallen man and shook him. "Come! You've rested long enough!"
But Sitab did not move and Tamar shook him again, harder this time, and repeated the order. Then suddenly the young noble was kneeling beside the still form of the guard and placing a hand against the tunic over his heart.
In the silence Tamar rose to his feet and met the stricken eyes of his friends. "He is dead," he said simply.
"There dies our proof," Garlud said glumly. "Now it is our word against Vokal's."
"No!" Jotan swung around to face his father and Tamar. "There is another way. We can go to Vokal's palace, pull him from his bed and force him to confess!"
"And what of Vokal's loyal guards and warriors?" Garlud said soberly. "Do you think they will idly stand aside and permit that?"
Jotan swept out his hand in a half circle. "Here are fifty men—stalwart warriors all. And in your own palace, father, are hundreds more. I say let us go to our own palace, gather together our warriors and march upon Vokal!"
"You forget," Garlud said softly, "that I am regarded as an enemy of the State. As such, my palace and possessions are confiscated and my warriors stripped of their weapons and confined to quarters."
"Jotan," said a quiet voice from behind them.
Thegroup of men standing about the subterranean corridor beneath the palace of Jaltor of Ammad, turned as the quiet voice reached their ears.
Standing at the barred opening of one of the locked cells, the strong handsome face, visible in the light of the late Sitab's torch, was Tharn, a slight smile on his lips.
"Who calls my name?" demanded the young noble, stepping nearer the door of the cell.
"It is I—Tharn, son of Tharn, the cave man. Have you forgotten the times we have met in the past?"
Recognition dawned in Jotan's expression. "Of course! You are the man who claimed Dylara belonged to you."
"And she still belongs to me," Tharn said quietly.
"She lives?" Even the absence of more than dim light could not hide the sudden hope flaring in the young nobleman's eyes.
Tharn nodded. "Even now she is held prisoner by the man who has plotted against you."
Jotan stiffened. "You mean Vokal? How do you know this?"
Tharn, with a few terse words, explained what had taken place at Vokal's palace only a few short hours before. When he finished, Jotan was ready to start out for that nobleman's palace, alone if necessary, to rescue her. But others of the group remonstrated, pointing out the rashness of such a move. As they stood there arguing the point, Tharn's clear voice brought them into silence once more.
"There are too few of you to march against Vokal," he pointed out. "But all around you are men who are no better than dead as long as they remain behind bars. Free them, arm them with the weapons of the guards attached to this wing of Jaltor's palace, and they will march with you to overcome your enemy."
The idea caught instant hold. Moments later the group of fifty had swollen to three times that number as cell after cell of the lower three levels of Jaltor's pits were emptied.
There were some of the prisoners who held back, preferring to remainbehind bars rather than become involved in a war between noblemen; while others had spent too long below ground to be little more than empty shells of men.
It was on the fourth level that they found several rooms furnished as quarters for the guards stationed in this wing of the palace. An ante-room contained a large supply of spears, bows and arrows and knives, but guards were on duty at that point, while a dozen others slept in the adjoining room.
After a brief council of war, it was decided that Tharn and Trakor would attempt to creep up on the two guards on duty just within the entrance to the arms-room and overpower them without permitting an alarm to be given. Should they succeed in doing this, it would be a simple matter to bar the only exit to the sleeping quarters, thus effectively keeping Jotan's men from being surprised from the rear by Jaltor's warriors.
While the embryo army waited on the level below, Tharn and young Trakor crept up the next ramp and moved stealthily toward their goal. Almost at once Trakor returned, a broad grin creasing his face, and beckoned the others to join him.
Theyfound both guards bound and gagged, the door into the guard's quarters closed and barred, and weapons enough for an army at their disposal. With muffled cries of joy the men swept up bows, arrows, spears and knives; and what a few minutes before had been an unarmed mob was now a small compact army of disciplined men, ready to win amnesty and a nobleman's favor by helping to expose a traitor.
So great was the excitement, so strong the exultation of them all, that none noticed one of the recently freed prisoners detach himself from the group and steal back into the corridor. An instant later this man was fleeing rapidly up the final ramp, on his way to freedom.
For more than an hour now the palace and grounds of Vokal, nobleman of Ammad, had been the scene of great activity. Every guard, every servant, scoured the four floors and palace grounds, inch by inch, in search for the girl who had fled Vokal's room.
While seemingly everywhere at once, the silver-haired nobleman spurred them on, his calmness gone, his eyes wild, fear riding him hard. He alone of them all knew what it would mean for him were this girl to escape and find her way to Jaltor with the knowledge she had gained while lurking on the balcony outside his private suite.
He was standing now in a room on the first floor, giving directions to Ekbar, captain of his guards, when one of the warriors pushed through the crowded room, a stranger at his heels.
"Your pardon, Most-High," said the guard, "but this man came to our gates a moment ago and demanded to see you. He says he has important information that is for your ears alone."
Vokal, turning to order the man aside, stopped and stared. The stranger was tall and little more than a skeleton. His hair hung in long strands to his shoulders and a heavy beard covered his face. Among a race of men who permitted no hair to mask their countenances, the beard alone made him worthy of attention.