Dyta, the sun, climbed his blue ladder and looked down at the city of Sephar in its mountain fastness. Behind those gray stone walls hummed an activity found there only five days in every twelve moons.
For today was the first of the Game days. Since early morning the streets leading to the great amphitheater were packed with an eager citizenry, pushing and jostling its way toward the arena's several entrances. Those first to arrive had their choice of seats; consequently many had huddled beneath heavy cloaks outside the barred gates during the dark hours, awaiting the moment when they might enter.
It was a colorful throng, every member light-hearted, gay and friendly. Men and women pushed and tugged at their neighbors—friend and stranger alike—to keep the milling mass moving. Most of them carried parcels of food, for the Games lasted each day until the hour of sunset. Whole family groups were numerous: father, mother, and the brood of children. Many of the latter were mere infants, watching the swarm of shifting humanity with wide wondering eyes.
Patrolling the avenues and directing the crowds at the gates were many priests in white tunics. This was to be their day, as well; for shortly before the Games got under way, elaborate rites, honoring the God, were to be held, in which every priest was to take part.
Truly, this was the day of days.
In the great cell beneath Sephar's streets, Tharn, Katon, Vulcar, Rotark, Brosan, Brutan and Gorlat squatted in a group about a huge earthen bowl of stewed meat. They, together with the balance of the prisoners, had been aroused from sleep an hour before sunrise, and had been given food that their strength and endurance might be equal to the tasks ahead.
Katon, seated across from Tharn, caught the Cro-Magnard's eye and nodded significantly.
"For a man who may be dead within a few hours," he said grimly, "you seem very cheerful."
Tharn grinned. "Would you have me seek out Pryak and beg for my life?"
The others laughed. Brutan put down a bone from which he had gnawed the meat, and belched with frank satisfaction. "I will show them how a real man fights!" he declared. "With my bare hands I once slew a leopard!"
Brosan made a derisive sound. "It must have been a very old leopard."
Brutan's complacent expression vanished. "You lie!" he bellowed, glaring belligerently at his heckler. "It was a great, full-grown—"
"Quiet, you fool!" snapped Katon. "This is no time to start a brawl."
Brutan mumbled something under his breath and went back to his bone.
Rotark wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "How many of us will see the end of this day?" he asked in doleful tones. "Take Gorlat, here—so careful not to soil his tunic. It may soak in his own blood before darkness comes again!"
The blond young man kept his mechanical smile. He said: "Not if they give me a knife...."
Something in the soft words brought a momentary silence to the group. What had Vulcar said yesterday about this handsome, graceful youth? "Few men equal him in handling a knife...."
Katon said, "It will be an hour before the Games actually get under way. First they must finish the rites honoring the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken—a lengthy ritual. Then the guards will come, select a few of us, give them arms and send them into the arena."
"Somehow," Tharn said thoughtfully, "I wonder if it is wise to wait until the third day before putting our plan into action. After three days many of our men will have died in the arena. We shall need every man we can get."
Katon rubbed his chin, frowning. "True," he admitted. "But to hurry this thing would be fatal. The guards must be satisfied that everything is going smoothly before they relax their watchfulness.
"Although we shall lose men," he continued, "I believe many of the soldiers and citizens of Sephar will join us when the revolt gets under way. Few, I imagine, regard Pryak with favor; they should welcome a chance to end his power and make one of their own men king."
Then and there the germ of an idea was implanted in Tharn's mind—an idea destined to bear fruit in the days ahead.
For the better part of an hour the seven ring-leaders moved about the chamber, talking with groups of prisoners, discussing various phases of the plan Tharn had concocted. So confident did the seven seem, that many a despondent captive was caught up by their infectious spirit and began to grow impatient for the Games to start that the two days might pass the sooner.
At last the noise of sandaled feet sounded in the corridor, and a moment later the door was thrust open.
Five men came in: four well-armed priests wearing white tunics edged in black; and another, who was as different from the nondescript priests as Sadu differs from Botu, the jackal.
Head and shoulders above his companions towered this fifth man; his face was strong and proud, and from either side of a blade-like nose, eyes of blue fire swept over the crowded room.
Katon nudged the Cro-Magnard. "That tall one is Wotar, director of the Games. He is no priest; and before Urim died, was one of Sephar's most powerful nobles. He has been Game director for a long time; and since he seems still in charge, must be high in Pryak's favor."
Wotar may have heard the whispered words, for he glanced sharply in Katon's direction. The glittering eyes stopped at the sight of Tharn, taking in the graceful contours and swelling thews beneath the clear bronzed skin.
"You," Wotar said quietly, crooking a long forefinger at the cave-man.
At first, Tharn did not fully comprehend; but when two of the priests laid hold of his arms, his doubt was gone.
"Goodbye, my friend." Katon's voice was sad. "We shall watch for your return."
"I will be back," Tharn promised from the doorway. Then he was gone, the great door crashing shut behind him.
Tharn, preceded and followed by guards, was led along the corridor to where it ended before a narrow door. In response to Wotar's knock it opened, disclosing a small chamber almost filled with a miscellany of weapons of every type known to prehistoric man. An attendant stood in the center of the room, awaiting instructions from the director.
"No weapons," Wotar said briefly. He turned to the cave-man. "You are to go directly to the arena's center and wait for whatever I send against you. Make a good fight of it and the crowd will be for you. That can mean much to you. If you manage to kill your opponent, return here at once. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
Wotar nodded to the attendant and the arena door was opened, flooding the room with sunshine. Tharn, blinking in the sudden light, stepped out on to the white sands of Sephar's Colosseum.
That which met his eyes was something Tharn was never to forget. The sandy floor was perhaps three hundred feet in length and half as many in width—a perfectly symmetrical ellipse surrounded by a sheer stone wall twelve feet in height. Beyond that wall the spectator stands began, tier upon tier of stone benches sloping up and back for fifty yards to the last row.
The thousands of seats were filled with a shifting mass of humans, most of whom had risen as Tharn came into sight.
Never before had the cave-man seen so many people at one time; and the noise and confusion affected him exactly as it would any jungle denizen. His first instinctive impulse was to retreat, not because of fright, for he knew no fear, but because it was strange and unpleasant and, worst of all, there was that infernal din which only man of all animals can long endure.
The cave lord halted and half turned as though to withdraw, but the crowd, believing him to be afraid, set up an ear-splitting clamor of catcalls, whistlings and raucous shouts that whirled the barbarian about in sudden anger.
For a long moment he glared at the multi-eyed beast above him; then a slight sound at his back aroused him to his immediate surroundings.
He wheeled just as a huge figure launched itself at his neck. Before Tharn could prevent it, strong fingers closed about his throat and the impact of a solid body sent him staggering, saved from falling only by superhuman effort.
During the seconds in which all this transpired, Tharn had discovered what it was that had leaped cat-like upon him. He saw a great hulk of a man, naked except for a pelt about his loins; a man with muscles bulging so in arms, legs and shoulders as to constitute a deformity. He was not quite so tall as Tharn, with an ugly, hairy face, contorted with rage.
With the speed of a striking snake Tharn's hands came up, caught the wrists at his throat and tore away those choking fingers as though they were so many strands of cobweb. Then Tharn seized the other before he could twist free—caught him by thrusting an arm between the crotch of those gnarled legs while the other hand held to a hairy forearm. Lifting him thus, Tharn swung the man aloft like a bundle of grass, then flung him heavily to the sands a dozen paces away.
The onlookers came to their feet with a swelling roar of approval. This was what they had come to see; and they set up a deafening clamor that seemed to shake the stands. Tharn never heard them.
Now the dazed enemy was scrambling to his feet. Before he was fully erect, Tharn was upon him with the silent ferocity of Jalok, the panther. Grabbing the cringing man by the throat, the cave-man lifted him bodily from the sands, and holding him at forearm's length, shook him as a terrier shakes a rodent; shook him until the screaming voice was stilled as the senses fled and the white figure hung limp and motionless within Tharn's grasp.
Then, while the crowd watched in thrilled horror, Tharn dropped to one knee, placed the dead weight of his unconscious foe against his leg and snapped the man's spine as he might have broken a slender branch.
Rising, Tharn tossed aside the lifeless body and, not deigning to acknowledge by look or gestures the pandemonium of acclaim, disappeared through the arms-room door.
On the same morning that the Sepharian Games had opened, a band of fifty warriors, clothed only in animal skins about their middles, halted on the outskirts of an impenetrable forest which towered across their path. At their backs was a broad prairie that had required many days to cross.
The leader of the group, a man of heroic proportions, called together three of the men and engaged them in earnest conversation. Several times he gestured toward the mouth of a game trail leading into the jungle; but the others continued to shake their heads as though unconvinced.
"He would not go that way," one of them was saying. "In that direction are high hills, and beyond those are great mountains he could not hope to pass."
"We do not know that he came even this far," said another of the three. "We lost his trail over two suns ago; he may have changed his path many times since then."
Their leader silenced them with a wave of his hand. "You have told me nothing to change my mind. The trail lies ahead; when we can go no farther will be time enough to turn back and seek in a new direction."
A few minutes later the last of the band had passed from view between the walls of vegetation lining the narrow path.
Dylara, seated just behind the retaining wall of the arena, watched Tharn's broad back pass through the little doorway. About her was the murmur of many voices exclaiming over the exhibition of brute strength they had just witnessed. Dimly she heard Alurna telling of being rescued by that same forest god, the three nobles from Ammad serving as audience.
The cave-girl was trying hard to analyze the tangled emotions resulting from Tharn's appearance. Something related to the sensation she had known when he had taken her in his arms after striking Sadu dead, had come back to her. Why did sight of him make her heart leap with that peculiar breathless swoop? No one else she had ever known could effect it so. How handsome, how magnificent he had appeared, standing there on the white sands, sweeping the crowd with a contemptuous glance before leaving the arena.
She stole a glance at the handsome profile of Jotan as he listened politely to Alurna's story. How fortunate she was to have won the love of this man. In him were qualities all women sought in the men of their choice. Good-looking, kindly, thoughtful, an honorable position in his world—what more could any man offer?
Yet only Tharn, untamed man of the caves, could make her heart leap and thrill—something Jotan might never be able to do.
Last night a priest had come to the great room where she had been taken upon her return to Sephar. He had brought her to Jotan's quarters, and she had spent the night there, sharing a room with the princess Alurna, who had welcomed the opportunity of leaving the palace.
The two girls had little to say to each other. Alurna had regarded the slave-girl with unmasked loathing; while Dylara, after the first cold rebuff of her attempt to be friendly, had withdrawn into a shell of silence.
On the following morning, however, Alurna had surprised Dylara by displaying an attitude of warm friendliness toward her. Behind this sudden change was the secret decision of the princess to undermine Jotan's attempts to win the slave-girl....
Just as the second event was about to get under way, Jotan got up, excused himself and made his way to the section of the stands reserved for Pryak and the Council of Priests. There he took a seat beside the high priest.
Pryak glanced at him with a questioning lift of his eyebrows.
"O Voice of the God," said Jotan, "my men and I have kept our promise to attend the opening of the Games. We are anxious to start on our journey, and ask your permission to depart without further loss of time."
Sephar's enthusiastic reception of the Games thus far, had put the king in high humor.
"As you wish, Jotan," he said, rising and placing his hands on the other's shoulders. "I ask of the God a safe and uneventful journey for you and your men. And to Jaltor of Ammad, I send my greetings and avowals of lasting friendship. Explain to him my reasons for placing Urim's daughters in his care. He will approve, I am sure."
"All you have asked shall be done," promised Jotan. "And now, Pryak, king of Sephar and Voice of the God, I bid you farewell."
Turning, Jotan hurried along the stone aisle to his own lodge and waiting friends. Once there, he raised himself to his full height and waved both arms above his head.
Directly across the arena a group of some forty or fifty warriors rose in a body and started toward the nearest exit.
"Come," Jotan said, motioning to the balance of those in his party. "We start at once for Ammad."
Dylara stood up, casting one last look toward the closed doorway through which Tharn had passed not long before. He had been her last tie with the old life. Now she was about to leave all that behind, to go into a new world at the side of a man she greatly admired. Why was her heart so heavy? Was it because she would never again see the caves of her people—the face of her father? Or was it because Tharn was lost to her, forever? Even should he come through the Games alive, she would be gone—separated from him by the vast distance between Sephar and the country Jotan called home.
Jotan had told her something of the long stretches of untracked jungles and waterless plains between Sephar and Ammad. From others of the visitors she had heard stories of savage beasts and wild tribes of men that haunted the mountain trails and forest-cloaked ravines to the south. And beyond the mountains began a level monotony of grasslands that reached to still more mountains forming the boundary to Ammad itself.
The street before the building allocated to the visitors swarmed with hurrying figures bearing a wide assortment of articles to be bound into individual packs for easy handling.
Jotan took active charge. Quickly the line of march began to take form. Broad-shouldered men swung compact bundles to their backs; well-armed warriors took up their positions; and last of all, strongly made litters of animal skins stretched between long poles, arrived for use of the two female members of the party.
Dylara, following the example set by Alurna, seated herself in the exact center of the sheet of skins as it lay in the street. Two brawny attendants stepped forward, bent, one at either end of the wooden poles, and in perfect unison swung the rods to their shoulders.
From his position at the column's forefront, Jotan looked back and waved a greeting to the two girls. Satisfied that all were in place, he shouted a command and the safari got under way.
Across the city they marched, through wide-flung gates in the great walls, and on across the cleared space beyond. Before them rose the majestic trees and thick matted foliage of the forbidding jungle; and here, leading directly southward through a tangled maze, was the beginnings of a well-beaten trail, the first of many such roadways the little cortege must follow before far-off Ammad could be reached.
Just before the marchers entered the forest, Dylara turned to look back at Sephar's walls, grim and impressive under the sun's flaming rays. Still behind those sullen piles of rock was the man she could not forget. Something deep within her whispered that she had found love only to lose it; that happiness for her lay in forgetting, forever, the stalwart young giant who had snatched her from a peaceful, uneventful life.
Once more she looked back, and abruptly the stone walls wavered and dimmed as hot tears flooded her eyes....
Dyta, the sun, swung lazily toward the western horizon. And with the coming of dusk, Pryak rose from his bench at the edge of the arena in Sephar's amphitheater and gave the signal ending the first day of the Games.
At his gesture the spectators climbed to their feet and pressed toward the exits. They were less lively—more subdued than when they had poured into the enclosure hours before. Perhaps the constant association with death during the long day had sobered them, hushing their tongues at last. But on the morrow they would be back, yesterday's scenes forgotten, appetites whetted once more for hours of carnage.
While far beneath Sephar a roomful of tired unsmiling men spread their sleeping furs for the night in ominous silence. For them a long day had ended, yet taut nerves relaxed but slightly; for all knew that on the next day the wearying ordeal must begin anew.
Morning found most of the prisoners awake and moving about the cell when the morning meal was served. After the attendants had withdrawn and the crowds were beginning to stream into the amphitheater, Tharn called a number of prisoners together.
"Get ready," he said. "The guards are due here any minute. Listen at the door, Katon; when you hear them, let us know."
Turning, the cave-man pulled Vulcar into position as the central figure of the group. In this formation they waited expectantly, all eyes on Katon at the door with one ear glued to the crack between door and jamb.
Suddenly Katon straightened. "They come!" he whispered, and sprang forward to join the others.
At his words, the prisoners, yelling in well-simulated rage, pounced on the hawk-faced Vulcar. The one-time officer was swept from his feet and sent crashing to the floor with a resounding thump. A second later he was at the bottom of a pile of raving madmen, all clearly lusting for his blood.
It was this scene that met the eyes of four guards and Wotar as they came into the room. Taking in the situation at a glance, the director barked a curt order that sent the guards into the scuffle. Using spear butts as flails they managed to beat the cursing prisoners from the limp body of a disheveled Vulcar, who got painfully to his feet.
"What means this?" Wotar thundered. "Is there so little fighting in the arena that you must brawl amongst yourselves?"
Vulcar, still trembling from his narrow escape, hurried to explain.
"These men," he panted, indicating the scowling faces about him, "hate me because they think I am responsible for their being here. I have tried to tell them it was Urim's fault, that I had only obeyed his orders; but they would not listen. Some cried out that they would kill me; then all of them sprang upon me. I would be dead now, had you not come. As soon as you go they will try again. Put me elsewhere, mighty Wotar; I am afraid to stay here."
Vulcar's voice broke with fear, and he trembled so that he could hardly stand.
Wotar's lips curled with contempt. "Put him with the prisoners across the hall," he instructed one of the soldier-priests. "Perhaps they will be more gentle and considerate."
Wotar was an intelligent man; but he failed to notice that the departing prisoner no longer seemed the craven weakling of a moment before. Too, he failed to perceive the poorly hidden satisfaction of the other captives....
The Game director, an experienced showman, had planned as the second day's opening event, something calculated to arouse the spectators to the highest pitch of excitement. Once in that frame of mind they would follow each succeeding event with increasing enthusiasm—enthusiasm being the barometer by which his fitness as director was measured.
Three times his finger crooked; each time a man stepped forward.
Quickly the guards took up positions and the three prisoners were led away.
In the arms-room each participant was handed a bow and three arrows. Wotar gave them instructions, the outer door was opened, and Katon, Rotark and Tharn stepped onto the sands.
From the stands came a full-throated roar of approval. Tharn's fabulous strength and agility they remembered from his initial appearance; the others they also recalled as being exceptional fighting-men.
This morning Tharn was feeling remarkably light-hearted. His supreme self-confidence gave him assurance his plan of escape would come off perfectly when the time was ripe. And certainly he was enjoying himself! These battles with men and with animals, with death the penalty for any mistake in tactics, were doing much to satisfy that deep love of adventure which was so great a part of him.
The men crossed the arena's entire length, halting a few feet from the eastern wall. Then they turned about and waited, watching silently the wooden door of the distant arms-room.
They had not long to wait. Scarcely had they turned when that door opened and three warriors, each with a bow and three arrows, came out. They were clothed in white tunics, with legs and feet bare. All were taller than the average Sepharian, with wide shoulders, narrow hips and slender well-formed legs.
"Sephar's three finest bowmen," Katon murmured. "The tallest is Maltor, at one time chief of archers under Jaltor, and probably the greatest man with a bow in our history.
"I had forgotten the report that he would fight in the arena. Since he enlisted in the Games only to display his bowmanship, he may withdraw at any time. Watch him constantly, for he is our greatest danger."
He fell silent then, sudden lines of worry on his face. "Tharn, I remember, now, that you know nothing of fighting with a bow. We must work out some way of covering you."
The cave-man permitted himself a grim smile. "You are wrong," he said quietly. "The bow and I are good friends. I will keep up my end of this fight."
Katon was satisfied. "Good. Now if only we can outwit them....
"Let them shoot first. Watch the fingers of their right hands; when they open on the arrow's haft, jump quickly aside, keeping an arrow ready in your own bow. The moment you regain balance aim quickly and send your first answer.
"Aim always for the belly. A man can shift his head and shoulders much quicker than he can his middle. Besides, his belly is a broader mark.
"Ready now! They are getting close! Tharn—Maltor is for you. Rotark—see what you can do with the man on his left. The other is mine.
"Ah! they have stopped. They still are too far away to risk a shot. Being careful, I suppose; they had better be!
"Tharn! Thrust two of your arrows point first in the sand within reach. Fit the other to your bow. Do the same, Rotark.
"Careful now! They are starting this way again! Maltor is no fool; he is trying to coax us into wasting arrows."
Katon fell silent. His two friends, their bows half drawn, arrow points held downward, stood relaxed, intently gauging the approach of the enemy, now a scant forty paces away.
An absolute silence had enveloped the entire amphitheater as every observer of this tense drama strained his eyes to catch the impending action.
Now Maltor, arrogant and impatient, stepped a pace or two in advance of his companions. Notching an arrow, he nodded over his shoulder to the others, who came up beside him. Three bows were raised in unison; the warriors aimed their shafts carefully, each at a different member of Katon's troupe. The human targets stood at ease, seemingly indifferent to their danger.
And then the scheme the wily Maltor had evolved was flashed on the enemy with a suddenness and brilliancy of execution that would have done much to settle the final outcome—had it succeeded.
A split second before the arrows were released, two of the three archers turned their aim toward the same target as that selected by Maltor. Immediately three bowstrings twanged as one, sending three flint-tipped shafts with incredible swiftness at a single mark.
To avoid one swiftly flying missile was difficult enough; to dodge three, so cunningly spaced that a move to either side would avail naught, was all but impossible. Yet in the flicker of time required for the arrows to reach him, Tharn had acted in the only manner possible to avoid impalement.
Flat on his face dropped the cave-man, the three bolts passing inches above his descending head to shatter against the stone wall beyond. As he fell, Katon and Rotark fired their first arrows.
One found a mark. A man screamed suddenly, horribly, and sank to the sand, a wooden shaft protruding from his abdomen. Rotark had followed instructions!
Had Katon's target been less agile there would have been two casualties. But the man managed to avoid that flashing point by a sideward lunge, keeping his balance with difficulty in the shifting sands.
Meanwhile, Tharn had not remained passively in a reclining position. As the opening barrage passed over him, he rose to his knees and dispatched his first arrow at the foe Katon had given him.
Maltor was too seasoned a warrior to be caught napping. Even though he had momentarily dismissed Tharn as a source of danger, he had kept an eye on the cave-man. And that precaution enabled him to twist aside barely in time to keep from being struck.
The veteran bowman gasped incredulously as the stone-shod missile whined past. He marvelled that a man's arm could be capable of driving an arrow with such superhuman power.
It was Maltor's last thought in this life.
Even as Tharn released his first arrow, his right hand shot out, snatched a second from its vertical position in the sand, strung it and let go—all within the quiver of an eye-lid. Maltor, still trying to regain balance, was in no position to dodge again.
Those in the stands saw the famed bowman straighten as though jerked upright by an invisible hand. Mouth agape, eyes staring in uncomprehending horror, he remained upright for a long moment, while a red line trickled between the fingers he had clapped to his side. Then he turned in a slow half-circle, his knees buckled; and Maltor sank to the sands, dead where he fell.
So savage had been the force behind Tharn's arrow that head and shaft had passed completely through the Sepharian's body.
Rotark, watching, spellbound by the brief drama, was shocked from his inertia when his bow was torn from his grasp and hurled several yards away. One end struck him, in its flight, full across the face and sent him sprawling.
An arrow intended for Rotark's heart had, instead, crashed against the hardwood bow in his hand. The impact cost Rotark two of his teeth; an inch or so either way would have cost him his life.
While the doleful one was still falling, Katon's bow spoke a second time and the last enemy dropped, mortally wounded.
Rotark, gloomier than ever, got unsteadily to his feet, spat out two teeth as an involuntary offering to the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud, picked up his splintered bow and started for the exit.
Katon and Tharn grinned quietly to one another and followed him.
And the thrilled thousands in the stands released at last the breath they unconsciously had been holding for long seconds.
And so the day wore on. Many times during the passing hours guards entered the great cell to select men for combat in the arena. Some of those selected returned, others never came back; but survivors outweighed, by far, the losses. The reasons were two: Every man knew that survival, now, would heighten his chance for freedom when the break took place. As a result he fought with determination and daring not possible without hope to feed upon.
Wotar was responsible for the second reason. The director knew from years of handling these Games that spectators thrilled more over duels between men than over those between men and beasts. As a consequence he husbanded his supply of warriors, sending enough of them at one time against the jungle creatures that the latter almost invariably succumbed before they could do much harm. Only when a man proved an exceptionally able warrior were the odds more nearly even.
About mid-way in that long afternoon, Wotar and his men entered the dungeon and took Tharn, alone, with them. The cave lord looked back as he passed through the doorway, in time to catch an expression in Katon's eyes that was very close to being fear. It came to Tharn, then, that should he perish in action, the planned revolt might never take place. On his leadership depended the hopes of every man in that room.
Once more Tharn found himself in the arms-room. The attendant there looked questioningly at Wotar.
The master of the Games ran a thoughtful eye over the Cro-Magnard's splendid body.
"Give him a hunting-knife—and nothing else," he said finally. "So far this man has had an easy time of it. Now we shall learn just how much of a fighter he really is!"
Silently the guard presented a long-bladed knife of flint.
Once more the arena door opened; and Tharn, blade in hand, strode into the amphitheater.
The shrill cacophony which greeted him held a welcoming note that did not escape the young Tharn. For the first time, he raised his eyes to the innumerable tiers, observing with wonder the mammoth sea of faces turned in his direction. Near the arena wall on his right, and half way to the far end of the arena itself, was that section occupied by Pryak and his numerous retinue. Tharn had no difficulty in picking out the high priest's unimpressive figure seated close to the protecting wall.
The cave-man's reverie was abruptly shattered as the massive gate at the enclosure's far end began to swing open. For a moment nothing appeared; then slowly and majestically there emerged from the darkened interior Tharn's arch enemy—Sadu, the lion!
As Sadu, the lion, came into full view, a collective groan rose on the afternoon air. Then came scattered boos and cries of disapproval from various points in the stands.
"Give him arrows and a bow!"
"No man can kill a lion with a knife!"
"Death to Pryak!" shouted some more hardy soul.
Scattered protests began to gather volume until they beat as a steady roar, filling the entire arena with ominous sound. Armed priests, stationed at the upper edge of the retaining wall, began to move uneasily among the seats to restore order.
Suddenly the mounting crescendo stilled, as action on the arena sands seemed imminent.
Sunlight, flooding the huge oval, bathed in golden glory the calm figure of the man and the tan coat of the jungle king. With striking clarity it picked out the corded muscles and swelling muscles of this cave-god. His handsome, finely-shaped head with its crowning mop of straight black hair; his shoulders, wide and erect; his mighty chest, narrow waist and tapering hips—all made up a picture of physical perfection that no observer was likely to forget.
And yet, invincible though this Cro-Magnard appeared, he seemed puny and pitiable when compared with the huge beast that Wotar had sent against him. Never before had so magnificent a lion appeared in Sephar's Games. Even Tharn, jungle traveler for most of his life, had blinked disbelievingly when Sadu made his entrance.
Sadu padded gently forward, the lithe sinews of his giant body rolling smoothly beneath a shimmering hide. He seemed unruffled and serene; only the angry lash of his sinuous tail told of a seething ferocity within that lordly head.
Armed only with his painfully inadequate knife, Tharn advanced slowly to meet certain destruction. He knew his chances for victory were so slim as to be almost non-existent; yet the self-confidence and resourcefulness born of a hundred battles against overwhelming odds were weapons more dependable than the flint blade he carried.
Sadu stopped his own advance when the hated man-thing started toward him. For several days now, he had been underfed, goaded about with sharp sticks and shouting voices, harassed and annoyed until he was angry enough to have charged a regiment. Yet that unfathomable sense of caution, so strong a part of every wild creature, held him motionless before the deliberate approach of this two-legged enemy.
Tharn halted. Only a few paces separated the two as they stood unmoving. The man's eyes were riveted on the lion's restless tail; by its movements could he know what was taking place in Sadu's brain.
Slowly Sadu settled into a crouching position, head flattened, hindquarters drawn beneath his taut frame, tail twitching in jerky undulations. A vagrant breeze ruffled the thick mane at his neck....
Suddenly the tail stiffened and shot erect; and voicing an ear-shattering roar, Sadu sprang at the man in his path.
Sadu, the lion, had felt man's tender flesh beneath his yellow fangs and murderous talons before this. He expected no more resistance from this one than had come from those others.
It was an astonished beast, therefore, that crashed to the sand where the man had been—and was no longer. With an uncanny agility Tharn evaded that lightning charge; then, so quickly that human eyes were hard put to follow, he leaped in and drove his heavy knife deep behind Sadu's left shoulder.
The jungle king, snarling hideously from unexpected pain and shock, wheeled and struck in one simultaneous motion; but Tharn, leaping high as the great cat turned, vaulted completely over the broad back, the dripping knife still clutched in his hand. Before Sadu could reverse himself, the blade flashed again, striking at the base of the tawny neck where lay the great spine.
The flint bit deep but missed a vital spot by half an inch. Sadu had moved in a rapid sideward maneuver as Tharn's arm was descending, and while the wound that resulted was painful, it was by no means fatal.
Worst of all, the blow had cost the Cro-Magnard his only weapon. Sadu's sudden shift had torn the knife from Tharn's fingers before he could tug it free, leaving the blade sunk deep, haft still standing upright like a miniature cross.
His blood crimsoning the white sands, Sadu whirled about, sending a shower of the fine particles high into the air. Once more he hurled himself at his elusive foe, and once more Tharn dodged aside. But this time his foot slipped a little in the yielding sand. One flailing paw struck his chest a glancing blow, the claws raking long scratches there, and Tharn was catapulted heels over head a full fifteen feet across the arena.
A little murmur of protest came from the ranks of spectators. They had witnessed what had promised to be an ineffectual struggle develop into a battle between giants, with its ultimate outcome very much in doubt. Now, through a quirk of fate, the grim battle was ended; the favorite they had acclaimed was doomed.
Sadu leaped forward to make his kill.
Tharn, helpless, knew life had run its course. Nothing could save him now.
And then fickle fate shifted once more. Tharn's right hand, pressing against the ground in a last futile effort to throw himself to one side, closed purely by chance about a hard object which he instantly identified as the hilt of a stone knife, dropped there, doubtless, by some warrior earlier in the day.
Recognition and action came together. Tharn raised the weapon, hilt between thumb and bent forefinger, and, while still in a sitting position, flung it with all the concentrated strength of his powerful arm point foremost at the on-rushing bulk.
As in a dream he saw the sliver of flint streak through the sunlight to meet the great head. Full into Sadu's right eye sank its entire length; then a crushing weight came down on Tharn's chest and he knew no more.
He could not have been unconscious for long; for his eyes opened in time to see Sadu's lifeless body being dragged away. Two guards were standing over his own supine figure, evidently seeking to learn the extent of his injuries.
"He lives!" ejaculated one in surprise, as Tharn's eyes fluttered open.
In answer the cave man got unsteadily to his feet, and while the effort sent a spasm of pain through his bruised chest and aching ribs, his face betrayed nothing of his suffering.
Leisurely he brushed sand from his back and legs, then turned and walked toward the western gate. Heedless to the thunder of acclaim beating against his ears, he disappeared through the arms-room door.
Once within the common cell, Tharn told enough of his adventure to dull the prisoners' curiosity, then edged away to join Katon.
Thus the day wore on. Now and then guards would enter, pick out a man or two and depart. Once, Brutan came back from the arena with his left cheek laid open from an animal's claw. But the wound had dulled no part of his braggardism and he told a highly colored tale of an encounter against nearly impossible odds.
Later in that afternoon, Katon had been summoned, to be absent for what seemed an age to Tharn. But return he did, unscathed, a broad smile lighting up his face as the cave lord came forward to welcome him.
A bond of friendship, based on mutual respect and admiration, had formed between these two men; a bond which passing days but served to augment. It was destined to be that rare understanding known only between men, wherein each finds within the other something of himself.
Just before the day's end, Brosan went out, a quip on his lips and a careless wave of his hand to the others. That joking remark and carefree gesture remained with every man in the cell, for Brosan never came back....
Darkness came at last, and for a second time the roaring of beasts and shrieks and moans of dying men ceased in the oval above. Food was brought and the weary gladiators ate and drank, doing their best to forget tiredness and strain.
Sleep came slowly that night to most of them. Within every heart was strong desire for the morrow to come—the new day for which all had waited. There were some here who would never see a second sunrise; but, as is usual under such conditions, each man looked for death to single out any one other than himself.
Less than a day's journey to the north of Sephar's walls a party of fifty warriors supped on the freshly-killed meat of Neela, the zebra, shortly before Dyta slid below the western earth-line. All that day they had traveled slowly along a thread-like game trail leading directly south. At times, for hours on end, they had walked through sombre depths of brooding jungle, beneath grotesque shadows of forest kings. Again, their way was across wide reaches of gently undulating prairie, where thick yellow grasses, deep to a tall man's thighs, stirred beneath the touch of baking winds.
Always, however, they had moved into the south, and ever in the lead was he whose decision, based solely on a vague premonition, had brought them so far from home. On this man's left forearm was the painted insignia of a chief....
With the sudden coming of night, the entire party took to the safety of high branches on either side of the trail. When Dyta returned on the morrow, they once more would take up their march into the mountains to the south ... always to the south.
Once more, dawn poked gray fingers through the overhead grill-work of the great cell beneath Sephar's amphitheater. And from the same point came sounds of Sephar's thousands, filing again into their seats for another day of grisly entertainment.
Tharn rolled over, sat up and ran tanned fingers through his heavy shock of black hair. For a moment his eyes ran over the sleeping scores, picking out many whom he had learned to respect. There was Katon, head pillowed on the biceps of a strong right arm, a half smile discernible on his firm mouth; he was sleeping soundly. Near him lay Brutan, the red edges of his wound showing through black stubble covering his cheek. There was Rotark, his long face even more solemn in sleep; and next to him, Gorlat, blond hair unruffled, his tunic, still nearly immaculate, neatly folded and placed close beside him.
Tharn got to his feet and set about awakening the sleepers. Before Wotar arrived, he meant to speak once more to the prisoners; to go over for the last time, those few vital points which all must know perfectly if his plans were to be carried to a successful conclusion.
When all were assembled, he spoke briefly, asking questions again and again that none might fail to understand what was expected of him. The men listened intently, hanging on his every word and drinking deep of the inexhaustible fund of courage and surety possessed by the gray-eyed young man.
When he had finished he knew they were with him heart and soul, that every man present would charge, without hesitation, a hundred spear points if the need arose. If Vulcar could manage as well with the group across the hall, then Sephar could have a new ruler before nightfall.
He had no more than finished speaking, when the door opened, admitting Wotar and six guards. Quickly, ten prisoners were singled out and taken from the cell, among them Tharn and the golden haired Gorlat.
Upon reaching the arms-room, Wotar sent four prisoners, with as many guards, into the chamber, the others being forced to wait until the tiny room could be cleared. And of the four who entered, two were Tharn and Gorlat.
The door was closed and barred. The prisoners stood quietly, waiting for the attendant to parcel out weapons to them.
The crisis was at hand. Now that it had come, Tharn felt his muscles tense, his nerves grow taut, a deadly coolness steal through him. His eyes narrowed, as do the eyes of Tarlok preparing to leap upon unwary prey.
The air of the small chamber seemed suddenly charged with something electrical; a hushed breath of expectancy made the stillness strangely unbearable....
A guard cleared his throat uneasily, sending a harsh rasping note against the silence. He said, "Give each man a bow, ten arrows and a spear."
Removing a stone-tipped spear from a pile in one corner, the attendant offered it, butt foremost, to the cave-man, who reached forth a steady hand to take it. As his fingers closed on the haft, and before anyone could guess his intention, Tharn drew back his arm and drove the triangle of flint into the man's throat, changing a scream of terror into a gasping whisper.
As the dying guard slumped forward, the other captives snatched weapons from the supply about them and leaped upon the dazed soldiers, three of whom went down before they could lift a hand in defense.
Tharn, farthest from the group, was forced to cross the entire room before he could lay hands on the fourth guard. That one, instead of standing his ground, was seeking to reach and unbar the corridor door.
As he fumbled with the heavy timber, iron fingers closed on one shoulder and tore him away. Up and back he swung, high above Tharn's head; then his thrown body struck head foremost against the far wall, crushing the skull like a blown egg.
Turning to his comrades, Tharn found two of the three remaining guards were already accounted for. The third, however, had killed one rebel, and using the dead body as a shield, was successfully standing off all efforts of the two men seeking to reach him. In one hand he grasped a long spear, its darting head having already inflicted slight wounds on the menacing pair.
A thunderous pounding warned Tharn that the sounds of combat had aroused Wotar and his two men. The entire rebellion was being threatened by one courageous man; and unless this delay was speedily ended, the break for freedom was destined to end here and now.
Stooping, Tharn grasped the dead body of the attendant, straightened, and hurled it with all his giant strength full against the lone defender's human shield. So terrific was that impact, that the guard was swept completely from his feet. Before he could recover, Gorlat had slipped a knife into his heart.
Bounding forward, Tharn unbarred and threw open the door, and sprang into the corridor, his two friends at his heels. He had a brief glimpse of Wotar's hanging jaw and stupefied expression before the two factions closed in battle.
Wotar was no coward. As Tharn leaped toward him he whipped a knife from his belt and swung it savagely at the Cro-Magnard's broad chest.
Like the striking head of an angry snake, Tharn's hand shot out and closed on Wotar's wrist. Mighty fingers contracted, and the knife dropped from his nerveless grasp to clatter against the stone floor. Tharn's free hand closed on the hapless leader's jaw, tightened, then wrenched the head in a vicious half-circle that left a broken neck in its wake.
When Tharn released the clay that once had been Wotar, master of Sephar's Games, he found no other foe alive within the corridor. Dead on the floor were the two guards, torn and mangled from the savage fury of those who had snuffed out their lives. Eight men, eyes alight, stood before him, awaiting instructions.
The cave dweller singled out two of them.
"Go back and open both cells. First, free those in our own room; Vulcar may not have convinced the others to join us. If so, our men can help in convincing them!
"Tell them the way is open to this room. Caution all to silence, that none overhears us and warns those we hope to surprise."
Tharn then motioned the remaining six into the arms-room. There, each armed himself with a bow, arrows, knife and a spear.
Soon they heard sounds of naked feet within the corridor, and into view, three abreast, came the former prisoners. At their head was Katon; beside him strode Vulcar, once captain of Urim's guards.
Tharn halted them just short of the arsenal. He ran his eyes along the ranks, and what he saw brought a smile of satisfaction to his lips.
As far back as his eyes could make out in the dimly lighted passageway were men. There were at least a hundred and fifty—perhaps more; all eager for weapons and a chance to use them.
The Cro-Magnard held up one hand to gain their attention. "Remember," he said, "march into the arena quickly and in silence. Do not so much as glance at the spectators until I give the signal. And when that signal comes, seek to kill only priests and warriors. To attack the people of Sephar without cause would only make them hate and fear us. We cannot fight an entire city.
"Come forward now—three each time. Once within the arena, take the places I give you."
Three entered the arms-room. To each went a bow, quiver of arrows, complete with shoulder band; a knife and a spear. Tharn then opened the outer door and passed them through, then pulled it shut and aided in arming the next three.
In that fashion twenty-seven were sent into the amphitheater before Tharn called a halt. Dimly, he could hear the rustling murmur from the packed stands, and he knew that all was well—thus far, at least.
He summoned Vulcar and Katon, now, gave them weapons identical to those issued to the others, and went with them into the arena, Rotark acting as door-keeper.
In a wide semi-circle at the far end of the sandy field stood the twenty-seven who had gone before them. They made a thin line, their backs close to the retaining wall, one end of which was almost directly below the loges occupied by Pryak and the Council of Priests. It was toward this section that Tharn and his two companions bent their steps.
The cave lord took a position less than four paces from the stone barrier at his back. Above him sat Pryak, high priest and ruler of Sephar, deep in conversation with Orbar.
Now, the second contingent of warriors began to issue from the arms-room. In groups of three, seconds apart, they emerged and took up positions near the wall at the arena's opposite end.
When an equal number were at either end of the enclosure, the influx of armed men became heavier. In groups of five, now, they appeared and formed a second row a few feet in front of the others and facing in the same direction. There were fully four score in the open by this time—and still they came.
Tharn knew the moment was fast approaching when suspicion would become aroused by this unprecedented concentration of warriors. Already a few priests were peering down at them, puzzled expressions on their faces. The buzz of conversation began to fade; and here and there spectators were rising to their feet.
Pryak stood up, suddenly, and leaned over the railing.
"What means this?" he asked of Orbar. "Does Wotar mean to end the Games with one battle? There are too many men on the sands; send someone to investigate."
Tharn, overhearing, knew he dared wait no longer. Throwing back his head, he sent the hair-raising battle cry of his tribe reverberating throughout the entire structure. As the notes of that horrendous cry rose on the still air, he pivoted about and sent a slender arrow leaping from his bow full at the head of Pryak, king of Sephar!
It is no mean tribute to Pryak's nimbleness to tell that he dodged that arrow. And dodge it he did—falling back into the arms of his retinue as death passed a finger's breadth above his sparse locks to transfix an unfortunate under-priest.
The cave-man's cry was the awaited signal, releasing all the pent-up hate and fury within the hearts of those who acknowledged him as leader. As one man, a hundred warriors turned and loosed a shower of arrows at the thin line of guards and priests above them. The instant those flint-tipped messengers were released, those rebels nearest the walls knelt, braced themselves and became living ladders over which their comrades swarmed to gain the seats above.
A living wave of blood-hungry men swarmed into the stands and fell upon the already wavering ranks of defenders. The entire bowl was now a maelstrom of swirling bodies, legs and arms. Panic-stricken spectators, few of them armed, rose from their benches and rushed headlong for the exits, trammeling, pushing, fighting to gain the streets, to escape the raving horde of crazed demons.
And, seemingly everywhere at the same time, Tharn, Katon and Vulcar fought shoulder to shoulder, their knives rising and falling, their spears licking out to take lives and spread further the reign of terror they had fostered.
Twice, Tharn caught sight of Gorlat, blond hair finally disarranged, weaving among the tiers like a cat, his only weapon a long, thin knife. And as priest after priest sought futilely to keep that long blade from his throat, Tharn knew, now, why Vulcar had said few could equal that young man with such a weapon. How many died that day with throats slit by that knife, only Gorlat knew—and he was never to tell.
It had happened shortly after Tharn had caught his second glimpse of the steadily smiling youth. Gorlat had just made a kill, and as he stood erect, a thrown spear came from nowhere to catch him full in the chest. Gorlat had staggered back to sink into a sitting position on an empty bench. Dazedly he had raised a hand to wipe away the red stains of his own blood from that once spotless tunic—then slumped back and moved no more.
There were other men of Tharn's force who fell, never to rise again; but for each who died, five enemies went to join him. Bodies of slain priests were everywhere—draped across seats, hanging over the arena wall, lying in the aisles. Warriors loyal to Pryak had died in droves and lay glaring at the sky with sightless eyes.
At last there was none within the amphitheater other than the dead, the wounded, and the blood-splashed figures of the rebels who stood panting from their efforts, their eyes on Tharn and his two lieutenants.
Of those three, Vulcar alone had been wounded. An arrow had creased his shoulder close to his neck, and blood from the cut had stained one side of his chest a fast-darkening crimson. But his eyes were bright with satisfaction and his lips were curled in grim content.
"Urim would have enjoyed this!" he said, and his smile widened. "Now, on to the palace and the temple to clean out the rest of Pryak's men. That done, the city is ours!"
Katon bent and took up a stray spear. "Come, then," he remarked; "if we wait, they will have gotten over their panic and will be that much harder to rout a second time."
Tharn nodded agreement. "First, the palace; then we can invade the temple and take Pryak and his men."
A warrior spoke from the ranks. "Dare we enter the temple?" he asked doubtfully. "If we offend the God, He may destroy us."
"He is right!" declared another. "Why should we chance angering our God. Once the city is ours, Pryak will have to do as we say. Let us not attack the House of the God."
"Pryak dies!" Vulcar roared, grinding the butt of his spear savagely against the stone flooring. "Let the God be offended—Pryak must die! If the rest of you brave warriors are afraid, I will go alone into the temple and drag out Urim's murderer by the few hairs left on his ugly head!
"Did Pryak's God save these priests who lie about us, here, their bodies cut by our spears and knives? Did He, seeing Pryak in danger, hide him with His sky-fire? No; they were men like us; and since they deserved to die, theydiddie! Pryak is next!"
Tharn, listening with silent admiration and approval, thought of something that snatched the half-smile from his lips.
"WhereisPryak?" he asked. "He was here when the fighting started. How did he and those with him get away?"
The others could furnish nothing toward clearing up this minor mystery. Nor was there a single body of the missing group in the vicinity.
"Let us go on," suggested Tharn finally. "After the palace is taken, we can set about finding Vulcar's good friend Pryak!"
Still chuckling at the cave-man's sally, the insurgents formed into a column, three abreast, and marched toward a nearby exit that led from the shambles they had created.
Upon reaching the street, they started for the palace, its white walls gleaming under the mid-morning sun. No citizen of Sephar was abroad; but the marching men were conscious of watching eyes at windows of the buildings on either side.
The palace grounds, too, were deserted as they swept across the palace grounds and dashed against the great double doors. They might as well have sought to force the palace walls so strongly barred were the heavy planks.
As they stood debating their next step, a shower of spears, arrows and clubs fell suddenly upon them from above, killing several before Tharn could give the order to withdraw.
At a safe distance from the windows, Tharn, Vulcar and Katon held a brief council of war, finally agreeing upon a strategic maneuver that held promise of being effective.
Eight warriors left the group, returning with a heavy log, free of branches. This was carried, four men to a side, to within a short distance from the barred entranceway. Now, eight replacements came forward, took up the massive tree trunk and started at a run toward the doors, the log's heavy base aimed at a point where the two rough-hewn sections joined.
Within a dozen paces of their objective, they swerved sharply to their left and sent the great timber crashing through the slender stone columns of a large window.
Following the log came those who had carried it, pouring through to the hallway beyond. It was deserted; evidently the defenders were grouped at the upstairs windows, intending to stage their defense from that point.
A second later the palace doors were thrown wide and, notwithstanding a heavy barrage from overhead, the rebels soon over-ran the central hallway.
Halfway up the wide staircase they were met by a withering volley from the upper passageway and stairhead. But Tharn raised his voice once more in the awesome war challenge of his people, and which seemed to lift his followers bodily to the top of the steps.
Here, fighting was fast and furious. Although outnumbered at first by four to one, the insurgents made up that handicap by the intensity of their assault; and slowly but steadily Pryak's loyal troops were being pushed back.
Tharn was in his element! Knife and spear had been cast aside or lost; his only weapons were his mighty hands. Yet his was the most feared figure among the rebels, as was attested to by the mound of strangled and broken guards strewn about him.
Several times he saw Katon battling away close by, a long knife in either hand. Once, an enemy in a badly torn tunic was preparing to drive a knife into his unsuspecting back. Tharn had torn a spear from the fingers of a neighboring comrade and without pausing to judge distance, had thrown it across the hall to pass half its length into the side of Katon's would-be slayer. The man had fallen, while Katon, unaware of his narrow escape, was finishing the warrior with whom he had been engaged.
Of Vulcar, Brutan and Rotark, Tharn had seen nothing since the battle began. During momentary lulls he had time to wonder how they were faring—if, somewhere in this madhouse of fighting, bellowing men, they were managing to keep their skins whole.
Gradually the palace defenders were weakening, losing heart as their list of casualties grew. Already, the men of Tharn's party had sensed victory was slowly but surely passing into their hands.
And then came the unexpected, the one contingency which none of the rebel leaders had forseen.
A ringing shout sounded from the open doorway, and through the gap came priests from the temple of Sephar's God. Instead of waiting for the freedom-hungry prisoners to take their first objective, then march against the House of God, the cunning arch priest had sent every man he could muster to reinforce the palace garrison.
There must have been a hundred of them, fresh and—for priests—eager for battle. They fell upon the revolters from behind, spreading death and consternation in the thinning ranks of those from Sephar's pits.
Encouraged by aid from this wholly unexpected quarter, the palace defenders regained their fading morale and renewed the attack with reckless fury.
The end had come. Bitter was the realization to Tharn who, until now, had been certain nothing could prevent his men from taking Sephar. He smarted under the knowledge that wily old Pryak had outwitted them after all.
He might, under cover of the raging turmoil, have turned his back on friends and supporters to seek out Dylara's cell and escape with her from Sephar. But the thought was gone as it was born; and the Cro-Magnard sought to rally his shaken followers to the task of cutting a pathway back to the street. Once outside, some of them might manage to flee into the jungle—a far cry from their ambitious dream of taking Sephar!
It began to appear, however, that leaving the palace was to be infinitely more difficult than forcing an entrance had been. Again and again his men were repulsed by the white-faced but unflinching priests at the foot of the staircase. Steadily the number of rebels grew less; and while they took more lives than they gave, there were too many to outlast.
Suddenly there rose above the pandemonium within, a chorus of savage cries from outside the open doors. Tharn straightened as though struck by an unseen spear. His eyes went wide with incredulous astonishment bordering on disbelief; then from his powerful lungs broke an answering shout that paled to insignificance the tumult about him.
Swarming into the hall below, came a host of strange, warlike fighting-men, naked except for panther- and leopard-skins about their loins. Splendid, beautifully proportioned barbarians they were, heavy war-spears gripped in powerful right hands, sun-bronzed skins rippling under the play of corded muscles.
At their head was the stalwart figure of a man such as never before had been seen within Sephar's borders. Four inches above six feet he stood, slim of hip and broad of shoulder—a wealth of black hair held from his eyes by a strip of cured snakeskin.
"Father!" burst from Tharn's lips.
At sound of his cry, the leader of the newcomers looked sharply in his direction.
"Kill!" shouted young Tharn, bringing one hand out in a sweeping gesture toward the frozen ranks of priests.
In response, the Cro-Magnards threw themselves at the white-clad enemy. At the same time Tharn, the younger, leaped into action, shouting words of instruction and encouragement to his friends.
The end came quickly. Torn at from two sides, the priests broke and fled in all directions, the cave-men in hot pursuit. At sight of this, the original defenders threw down their weapons and surrendered on the spot.
Now came Tharn, the elder, striding forward to greet his son. Behind him crowded others of the tribe, wide smiles on their lips.
"We have searched long for you, my son," said the chief. "At times we were close to giving up; it was not until yesterday that one of us found where you and a girl had followed a game trail leading to this place."
"You could not have arrived at a better time!"
The chief smiled. Katon, watching from the background, marveled at the striking resemblance of father to son when both smiled.
"At first," said the Cro-Magnard leader, "we were almost afraid to leave the jungle's edge. But no one was about the openings in the walls, and as your trail led straight toward one of them, we decided to follow it. Then, too, all of us were curious to see what manner of people lived in such strange caves.
"No one tried to stop us. In fact, we saw no one at all. I was beginning to wonder if we were the only ones here until we heard sounds of fighting coming from here. The rest you know."
His son nodded. "Soon I shall tell you what I have gone through since I last saw you. But first I have something to do."
He hesitated. How should he go about telling his father? He hoped Dylara would not exhibit that temper of hers the first time she met the chief.
"What must you do?" the chief asked, glancing sharply at the face of his son.
"I have taken a mate!" There—it was out!
His father never batted an eye.
"Where is she?"
"Somewhere in this place. A prisoner, I suppose. Katon, here, may be able to find her. She—she may not seem pleased that I have come for her."
Those last words came out with an effort. But sooner or later his father was bound to learn he had taken a mate by force.
The elder man pursed his lips to keep from smiling. He was shrewd enough to come very close to the true state of affairs. But what of it? His own courtship had been none too easy. Afterward, Nada and he had been closer than words could express. He had never, nor would ever, lose the pain that had come when she had been taken captive by some strange tribe so many years ago.
Katon, at mention of his name, had stepped forward.
"This," Tharn said, "is Katon—my friend."
There was immediate approval in the eyes of both the blue-eyed Sepharian and the Cro-Magnard chief.
"Dylara probably is in the slave quarters," Katon said. "If you will come with me, I will lead you there."
And shortly thereafter, father and son stood before a great door while Katon removed its heavy bar.
They entered a huge, sunlit room crowded with women, young and old, who shrank away from them in alarm.
There was one, however, who did not draw away. Her lovely face was registering astonishment and disbelief—and hope. One hand lifted slowly to her throat as she stared into the eyes of Tharn's father.
Nor was she alone in displaying tangled emotions. Tharn, the elder, was gazing at the woman as though unable to credit the evidence of his own eyes.
And then the man found his voice.
"Nada!" It was more gasp than a word.
"Tharn—my mate!"
An instant later she was caught up in his arms.
Young Tharn looked on in bewilderment, not grasping, at first, the significance of that single word his father had uttered. Then, as the chief turned toward him, an arm about the woman's shoulders, he understood.
Then his arm, too, was about her: and after twelve long years, father, son, and mother were reunited.
None of the three had much to say during the next few minutes. There was an enormous lump in Nada's throat, making speech impossible. She could not take her eyes from the splendid young man who, until a few days ago, she had thought to be dead. He was everything Dylara had said he was. She remembered him as she had last seen him—a straight-backed, sturdy-legged youngster, whose inquisitive nature and complete lack of fear had given her so many anxious moments. Even at that early age he had shown promise of the extraordinary physical development he now possessed.
But her greatest pride and satisfaction came from what she could see in those frank, compelling gray eyes—eyes mirroring a fine, sensitive soul and an equally fine mind.
"Tell me," Nada said at last, "how did you know I was here?"
"I did not know," admitted her mate. "Did you, Tharn?"