Their son shook his head. "I never dreamed you were in Sephar. As a matter of fact, we came here to find a girl—Dylara, my—my mate. We thought she would be with the slaves."
Then it was that he saw a shadow come into Nada's eyes—a shadow which wiped away his smile and closed a cold hand about his heart.
"Nada!" he exclaimed. "What is wrong? Has something happened to her?"
"She is ... gone," his mother said dully.
"Gone?"
"Yes. Pryak gave her to a man from a land far to the south of Sephar. He has taken her there with him."
Tharn's face was white beneath its layer of tan. "How long since?" he demanded hoarsely.
"This is the third day."
Without another word the young man wheeled and started for the door. Before he could reach it, however, strong fingers closed on his arm.
His father had stopped him. "Wait, Tharn. Where are you going?"
"After Dylara," said his son grimly.
"Of course; but do not leave so—so abruptly. Let us talk this over before you start. Some of our men will go with you, once we have eaten and slept."
"I am neither tired nor hungry," retorted his son. "I am going alone; others would only delay me."
Katon chose this moment to intervene. "Wait a few hours, Tharn. There is much left to be done here, and we need your help. A new king must be chosen and order restored to the palace and city. Once that is done there will be a feast for all of us; then, after a good sleep, you can set out after Dylara. You can overtake those who have her within two or three suns."
Nada ended the discussion. "Stay until morning, my son," she pleaded. "I have but found you; I cannot bear to let you go so soon."
The smile came back to Tharn's face. "As you will," he conceded. "But when Dyta comes again, I must leave you."
So it was decided, and the four went down to the lower floor to join the others.
That night, in the great dininghall of Sephar's palace, a happy throng sat about a long, wide table laden to its edges with an abundance of foods. At the head sat Katon; at his right hand was Tharn, the elder; and, on his left, was Tharn, the younger, his mother beside him.
Earlier that afternoon the former prisoners and those nobles who had not fallen in defense of Pryak's government, had assembled in the great central hallway to elect a new king. Tharn, to his honest surprise, had been their instant and unanimous choice. But he had declined the honor, saying:
"There is one among you who has every right to rule over you. He, himself, is the son of a king—one who understands all those things expected of a ruler. That man is Katon of Huxla!"
The roar of approval which followed his words reached far beyond Sephar's walls. Katon would have protested but he had no chance of making himself heard, and he accepted—hiding his pleasure as best he could. He did not dream what a pang that speech had cost his Cro-Magnard friend, for with those words Tharn had relinquished his hope of taking the Sepharian back with him to the caves of his father.
Later in the day an armed force had entered the temple of Sephar's God; and while the feet of those faint-hearted members in the group had dragged somewhat, none had turned back.
However, no resistance had materialized; instead, a horde of priests, arms held high, hands empty, had welled up from the subterranean maze below the temple and begged the new ruler to accept them as his own loyal followers.
Among them was the Council of Priests, intact to a man—except for one. But that one was he whom Katon—and Vulcar!—had desired most to see: Pryak, high priest and Sephar's former king.
It was then that the new king displayed his ability to make sensible decisions. Before leaving the temple he had appointed Cardon as high priest to the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken. Nor could he have made a wiser choice; for Cardon was possessor of a rugged honesty as well as a lack of ambition beyond his position. The long-standing feud between Church and State was ended.
Once these matters had been disposed of, Katon had sent his soldiery to assemble the residents of Sephar at the palace grounds. When a huge throng had filled not only the grassy expanse but the street as well, Katon, as ruler of Sephar, had proclaimed the new government and asked that they acknowledge, as their king, a warrior in place of a priest.
The thunderous, welcoming roar which greeted his words was all that was needed to make of Sephar a unified community. Katon had immediately proclaimed a two day holiday, to be given over to feasting and drinking; and, because he was a shrewd judge of human nature, he had announced that every citizen must sacrifice some valued article to the God, whose help had made the revolt a success.
And so it was that on this night all Sephar, from palace to city walls, was in a merry-making mood. Within the palace dininghall, there was only a single tiny cloud to mar the clear sky of happiness; a cloud fast losing the dark hue it at first had assumed.
This bit of gloom was caused by the absence of Dylara. But when young Tharn had had an opportunity to reflect, there had come the certainty that Dylara would be back with him before many suns. Tharn knew he could cover in one day three times the distance that the slow-moving men from Ammad could travel in that same period of time. And while they must camp while Dyta slept, Tharn could go on across nocturnal jungles and plains without being forced to slack his speed.
Vulcar, earthen goblet in hand, was bellowing out an anecdote of the days when he had been a young warrior, when the hangings behind Tharn's bench swayed as though touched by a random current of air.
Because all eyes were fixed on the speaker, and because the faint candle light failed to reach much beyond the table, none saw the half crouched figure that stealthily pushed aside the curtain and tip-toed into the room. The intruder's lips were curled in a crazed grimace of hate; in one hand was clutched a long blade of polished stone.
Nada, pausing in her eating from time to time to gaze fondly at her broad-shouldered son, caught a glimpse of something moving among the shadows directly behind the young man. What was it that lurked there?
Suddenly Nada screamed—a high-pitched, tearing sound that cut through the babble of voices about the table.
With the first notes of the scream, a figure behind Tharn bounded forward and drove a flint knife deep into the naked back of the surprised Cro-Magnard.
Nada's terrified cry was all that saved Tharn from instant death. For he was rising from his stool and turning as the scream left her lips. As a result, the knife point entered his back at an angle, ripping through the muscles there to enter the lower tip of one lung.
Tharn, despite his agony, reached for the would-be assassin. But another was there before him—Vulcar, the hawk-faced.
The one-time captain of Urim's guards had vaulted the table in a flying leap and with a powerful sweep of his arm, knocked away the knife. Then he caught the man about the neck and forced him into a kneeling position.
"So, Pryak," cried the hawk-faced one, "you would add another killing to your list! Long have I waited for this—now comes your reward for the death of Urim!"
Pryak opened his lips to plead for mercy, but before the words could come he was whirled up from the floor as though he were a figure of straw. Then, as the others watched in awe, Vulcar brought the screaming man down on the edge of the massive table.
There was a crunching sound from splintering bones, one last nerve-tearing cry of agony and fear—and Pryak, the ambitious, was gone to his reward.
As the guests stood staring down at the broken form, a thin trickle of blood appeared at one corner of Tharn's mouth and coursed to his chin. Dazedly he lifted a hand to wipe away the stain, then his knees gave way, and before the paralyzed company could prevent, Tharn, the son of Tharn, had pitched to the floor.
When complete consciousness first returned, he was aware of a great mound of soft skins beneath him; and he opened tired eyes to a sun-flooded room. For a little while he was content to remain so, staring at the stone ceiling.
Later, he slowly turned his head and looked into the eyes of Nada. For a few minutes mother and son did not speak; then she reached out to touch his hand.
"You have come back to us, Tharn," she said softly.
Tharn pondered over her remark. When he spoke he was startled by the feebleness of his voice.
"How long have I lain here?"
"Half a moon."
"Half a—!" He sought to sit up, but sank back as a stabbing pain shot through his chest.
"No, no, Tharn!" cried Nada. "You still are not well. The wound in your back is not completely healed, and the jungle fever left you only a little while ago."
Tharn frowned. He was so very tired. "But—Dylara ... I must go after her. I should have found her before this. I must not lie here while she—"
Then, as an unsupportable weariness flooded his body, he closed his eyes. In another moment he was sleeping soundly.
Another half moon had passed. Today had dawned bright and fair. Dyta, the sun, had pulled his blazing head above the eastern earth-line an hour before, tearing the jungle fog into rapidly dissolving streamers of mist.
A group of three—two men and a woman—walked through twin gates in Sephar's rock walls and moved slowly toward the somber shadows of the jungle south of the city. A few yards short of the green wall they came to a halt on a slight, grass-covered elevation.
"I must leave you here," said young Tharn. "Within a few suns—a moon, at most—I will return. Dylara will be with me."
The older man nodded. "Your mother and I leave for home before long. We shall wait there for you and your mate."
"You will not need to wait long," said the young man confidently.
He placed an arm about the man's wide shoulders, pressed the hand of his mother in silent farewell, then turned and strode toward the wall of verdure and towering forest giants to the south.
Together, Tharn, the elder, and Nada, his mate stood on the little green mound, watching the lithe figure of their only son until it disappeared into the forbidding jungle. Beyond that first rampart of lofty trees, of tangled vines and creepers, lay a mysterious land, never before trod by any known member of their world. What hidden dangers lurked there? What savage tribes? What unknown and terrible beasts?
A shudder passed through the woman's slender body. The man at her side slipped a strong arm about the trembling shoulders in unspoken understanding.
"He will come back?" she asked, her voice unsteady. It was half question, half statement; and in those words ran an undercurrent of mingled hope and fear.
"Yes," said the man, his own voice strong and very certain. "He will come back."
[A]Probably no race of man in all history has so stimulated the imagination of scientists as that of Cro-Magnon Man. The origin of the race is lost in antiquity, although its arrival on the scene was supposed to have taken place between 35,000 and 20,000 B.C. It is established, however, that hordes of the white-skinned, strong-thewed cave-dwellers over-ran, long before the dawn of history, what today is southern Europe and the Mediterranean Basin. This section of the earth's surface was sparsely populated, at the time, by Neanderthal Man—the last of the sub-human fore-runners of Homo Sapiens.Immediate warfare raged between the two. The Cro-Magnards, while lacking the tremendous muscles and long, ape-like arms of the Neanderthaloids, were far more intelligent (as witness the dimensions of their heads; a brain-case exceeding in size that of present day man), and gradually eliminated the native Neanderthals. Between the two, there was little difference in man-made weapons. The principal weapon of both was the club; but, in Cro-Magnon's case, this was augmented by the flint knife, clumsily shaped but effective. It is entirely possible that the latter people made use of the rope, both as one of the amenities and as a weapon of offense.Cro-Magnon Man was the proud possessor of a virtue both new and startling in a world given only to the struggle for survival. This virtue was Leisure—a period in which he was free to do things other than kill his enemies, hunt, and eat. He used his leisure to develop an artistic sense that found its expression in the painting of everyday scenes from his life. The walls of his cave served as a canvas; his materials, principally ochre, he took from the earth. He was the first Artist; and his paintings, still admirable considering the lack of guiding precedence, have endured to this day.In appearance, Cro-Magnon Man was ruggedly handsome, both in figure and face. He was long-headed, with a short face patterned on the diamond. The width was extreme, with high cheek-bones slanting up to a narrowing forehead, and down to a short, firm chin. Above a long, finely moulded mouth, the strong, usually prominent nose jutted out imperiously.The female was considerably smaller than her mate, often reaching no more than to his shoulders. Possibly she was lovely of face and figure; we of today have no evidence to the contrary.There are authorities who insist no finer specimen of humankind ever existed than the Cro-Magnard. Whether or not this is true, does not alter the fact that he was able to carve a secure niche in a savage and implacable world, and, at the same time, place the feet of his descendants on the path to civilization and a more sheltered life.—Ed.
[A]Probably no race of man in all history has so stimulated the imagination of scientists as that of Cro-Magnon Man. The origin of the race is lost in antiquity, although its arrival on the scene was supposed to have taken place between 35,000 and 20,000 B.C. It is established, however, that hordes of the white-skinned, strong-thewed cave-dwellers over-ran, long before the dawn of history, what today is southern Europe and the Mediterranean Basin. This section of the earth's surface was sparsely populated, at the time, by Neanderthal Man—the last of the sub-human fore-runners of Homo Sapiens.
Immediate warfare raged between the two. The Cro-Magnards, while lacking the tremendous muscles and long, ape-like arms of the Neanderthaloids, were far more intelligent (as witness the dimensions of their heads; a brain-case exceeding in size that of present day man), and gradually eliminated the native Neanderthals. Between the two, there was little difference in man-made weapons. The principal weapon of both was the club; but, in Cro-Magnon's case, this was augmented by the flint knife, clumsily shaped but effective. It is entirely possible that the latter people made use of the rope, both as one of the amenities and as a weapon of offense.
Cro-Magnon Man was the proud possessor of a virtue both new and startling in a world given only to the struggle for survival. This virtue was Leisure—a period in which he was free to do things other than kill his enemies, hunt, and eat. He used his leisure to develop an artistic sense that found its expression in the painting of everyday scenes from his life. The walls of his cave served as a canvas; his materials, principally ochre, he took from the earth. He was the first Artist; and his paintings, still admirable considering the lack of guiding precedence, have endured to this day.
In appearance, Cro-Magnon Man was ruggedly handsome, both in figure and face. He was long-headed, with a short face patterned on the diamond. The width was extreme, with high cheek-bones slanting up to a narrowing forehead, and down to a short, firm chin. Above a long, finely moulded mouth, the strong, usually prominent nose jutted out imperiously.
The female was considerably smaller than her mate, often reaching no more than to his shoulders. Possibly she was lovely of face and figure; we of today have no evidence to the contrary.
There are authorities who insist no finer specimen of humankind ever existed than the Cro-Magnard. Whether or not this is true, does not alter the fact that he was able to carve a secure niche in a savage and implacable world, and, at the same time, place the feet of his descendants on the path to civilization and a more sheltered life.—Ed.