by Lin Carter
I was about to turn back, retrace my steps, get back up my line and give it up for this time, anyway, when the unexpected happened. I say “unexpected,” but actually I should have expected it.
I turned a corner and walked smack into a girl!
With a frightened squeak, she dropped to her knees and bumped her forehead against the floor. Looking down, I saw that she wore the slave collar of a palace servant.
Then she looked up timidly, obviously fearing that she had collided with a snooty member of the local aristocracy, and I had another shock. I knew her!
It was Ialys, the Empress’s handmaiden.…
I must have looked about as flustered and tongue-tied as I felt, for her expression of surprise swiftly gave way to one of sly amusement. She rose to her feet and saluted me deferentially.
“Is the Lord Eric taking a bit of a stroll?” she inquired demurely.
I shrugged, forcing a laugh which rang false even to my ears.
“You’ve got me!” I said. “Actually, I wasn’t really trying to escape; I was just trying to find my friend—you know, the old man with the little white beard?”
She nodded, humor dancing impishly in her eyes.
“Has the Goddess given her noble guest the freedom of the Great House?” she asked. “If so, Ialys has heard nothing of this.…”
“I’m afraid not,” I confessed with a grin. “I sort of took it on myself to go for a walk. And I’d be eternally grateful, Ialys, if you wouldn’t give me away. I’m honestly not trying to escape.”
Her expression sobered. She examined me thoughtfully.
“When the Goddess commanded that you use the thunder-weapon upon her handmaiden, why did you dare to refuse?” she asked.
I cleared my throat awkwardly.
“Like I said at the time,” I muttered, “I’m not used to killing nice people in cold blood.”
“But Ialys is not a ‘person,’ she is a slave.” She said this with a questioning lilt in her voice, and her eyes were puzzled. In her world, I gathered, one does not risk disobedience to goddesses—and certainly not over one so lowly and unimportant as a mere slave.
“In my country, there are no slaves,” I commented. “Oh, sure, we had them once, to our eternal regret and guiltiness. But the wisest and most humanitarian of our statesmen and philosophers taught us that no person has the right to own another person. And in my country it is against the law to own a slave.…”
Her face expressed her wonderment, and the emotion in her beautiful eyes was all but unreadable. Tears welled up but were quickly suppressed.
“Ialys could wish that she had been born in your country,” she said wistfully.
I nodded, saying nothing, for there was nothing I could think to say. She studied me for a long, long moment, her face inscrutable. Then, before I could stop her, she took my hand and pressed her lips against the back of it.
“What was that for?” I demanded, flushing.
A sad smile touched her warm lips.
“For having the courage and the manliness to spare the life of a worthless slave,” she said softly.
“No human life is worthless,’’ I said stoutly.
“Is that another wise teaching from the philosophers of your country?”
“I believe it is.”
“They breed wise men in that far land,” she observed. “And brave and gallant men, too.”
“They do that.”
Her eyes were inscrutable. But from the way she squared her shoulders and took in a deep breath, I gathered that Ialys had reached a decision. She took my hand again, but not to kiss it this time.
“Come,” she said simply. “I will take you to your friend. But Ialys fears that the Lord Eric will not at all like what he is about to see.…”
A cold stab of fear went through my vitals at that. But I set my jaw grimly and let her lead me to the Professor.
CHAPTER 22
JORN TO THE RESCUE
When Jorn emerged from the ravines which twisted between the low hills, his gaze fell upon a spectacle which astonished him.
There, trotting at a rapid pace directly toward him were the young Sotharian girl, Yualla, and the runaway, Murg. Jorn did not at once notice that Murg’s hands were bound behind his back and that the cave-girl was leading him along like a dog on a leash.
This he did not have time to notice because of what else met his gaze.
Directly in front of him, with its back toward him, a gigantic sabertooth tiger crouched in the concealment of the long grasses.
The girl did not see Jorn, who stood in the shadows. Neither did she apparently see the giant vandar, crouched belly to earth concealed in the long meadow grasses. But Jorn took the entire situation in with a single sweeping glance.
The young hunter knew the vandar was about to pounce upon the Sotharian girl. He knew this from the way the muscles in its hindquarters were bunched with tension, and from the restless twitching of its tail-tip.
Jorn had hunted vandars in his native land, and knew well their habits. Within a split second, the beast would leap upon the girl and dash out her brains with a single swipe of its mighty paws. They were as heavy as sledgehammers, those velvet paws.
And Jorn was unarmed.…
Nevertheless, he did not for the slightest fraction of a second hesitate in what he next did. Chivalry is innate in the human breast, it seems, as the Cro-Magnons—who happen to be just about the finest people I have ever encountered—were very much human.
With a wild, crazy yell, the boy leaped full upon the back of the giant cat just as it began its lunge for the girl.
He landed between its shoulders; locking his legs about the barrel of the cat, he clung with both arms tight around the beast’s neck and buried his face in the coarse, dry fur at the base of its throat.
Startled by the unexpected weight upon its back, the vandar’s leap miscarried. It sprang to one side, missing the amazed Yualla, landing lightly on the turf. The weight of its unwanted burden, and the maddening man-smell, drove the sabertooth into a frenzy. It rolled over on its back, seeking to crush its rider beneath its weight. Fortunately, the grass was long and thick here, and very springy; all this maneuver accomplished was to drive the air out of Jorn’s lungs.
Regaining its feet, the great cat sprang into the air, landing heavily. Obviously, it hoped to jar the grip of its rider loose. This, too, failed.
Next it attempted to reach back with snapping jaws and rip the offending weight from its shoulders. Those hideous ivory fangs clashed within mere inches of the boy’s face. Its stinking breath blew foul in his nostrils, and gobbets of foam from its dripping jaws splattered his neck and shoulders.
Through it all, Jorn clung grimly to the back of the beast as one clings for dear life to a log in a maelstrom.
* * * *
The paralyzing shock which froze Yualla proved only momentary. An instant later, the girl dropped Murg’s tether and whipped up her bow, a weapon, with which she was extremely expert. Time and time again she sought to loose a shaft into the belly or side of the rampaging sabertooth, but each time she faltered, fearing to transfix her rescuer with the shaft.
Moments later she saw her opportunity, and trained reflexes took command with the swift surety of instinct. She sank an arrow to the feather in the fleshy underpart of the beast’s throat, just below the jaw.
Coughing blood, the brute shook its head, dazedly; then, mad with pain and fury, it gave voice to a thunderous yowl and hurtled toward her.
Yualla stood her ground just long enough to loose a second shaft, then threw herself to one side. The great cat stormed by, missing her so narrowly that its harsh fur brushed her bare legs. It wheeled to come at her again, a striped juggernaut of tawny-furred death—then reeled, lurched, and fell heavily o
n its side.
It lay there, panting raggedly, dribbling hot gore from between open, distended jaws.
Then it heaved one great sigh, and its eyes glazed, and it lay still.
The second arrow had caught the sabertooth directly in the left eye and had driven its cruel barb deep into the brain.
Crying and shaking like a leaf, Yualla half-dragged, half-shoved the dead weight of the vandar off Jorn’s leg and helped him to his feet. He was shaken and stunned, bruised and battered, but otherwise unhurt.
When both boy and girl had recovered themselves and had regained a modicum of calm, they regarded each other somewhat warily.
“Jorn of Thandar, the Hunter, is grateful to the gomad Yualla for her assistance in slaying the beast,” the boy said solemnly.
“Yualla of Sothar is grateful to Jorn the Hunter for risking his life to save her own,” the girl replied with equal solemnity.
These ceremonial exchanges of gratitude done with, her eyes flashed angrily.
“What does Jorn mean—‘assisting’ in slaying the beast?” she demanded scornfully, staring obviously at his hands. “Did Jorn the Hunter hope to slay the vandar with his bare teeth or with his naked hands?”
The boy began an angry retort, then subsided, blushing, with a shamefaced grin.
“The gomad Yualla is correct,” he admitted. “I had no hope of slaying the vandar. At the time, it did not occur to me that I had lost my weapons. I…only did what needed to be done,” he finished lamely.
Her eyes glowed. Her expression softened. Her cheeks went bright pink.
“It was very, very brave of you,” she whispered.
“It was nothing, really,” said Jorn around a huge lump which had suddenly come into his throat from wherever it is that lumps in the throat of adolescent boys come.
She smiled shyly.
He stared deeply into her beautiful eyes.…
* * * *
Quite some time later, they remembered about Murg. With a little searching, they found the scrawny one crouched on his bony hunkers in the grass, eyes squeezed tightly shut.
“Is it you, m-mistress…or the b-beast?” he squeaked fearfully, sensing their nearness.
The girl grinned impishly, and made a growling, catlike sound deep in her throat.
Murg paled to about as pale a hue as one covered with dirt can pale, and shivered miserably.
They helped him to his feet, dusted him off, and cut his bonds. Now that Jorn had joined the party, Yualla feared nothing from the miserable little man.
Then they set off toward the mountains to rejoin Hurok and the others, if possible.
* * * *
As Jorn, Yualla, and Murg followed a winding path through the foothills and began to ascend the slopes of the mountains, they broke the monotony of their journey with conversation. In fact, they narrated to each other in turn the story of their recent adventures.
The young huntsman was astonished to hear of the manner in which the thakdol had carried off the Sotharian girl, and was even more astonished that she had survived the adventure with neither hurt nor harm.
For her part, Yualla was impressed that Jorn had managed to live through the landslide, to say nothing of the lengthy and dangerous dive into the little mountain lake. Her estimate of the courage and stamina of the Cro-Magnon boy—which was already high, since his incredible feat of attacking the giant sabertooth tiger—rose all the more. It verged, perhaps, on idolatry; and the gomad of Sothar was not easily impressed by the male sex, being adventurous and daring to a fault herself.
The boy and the girl got along famously, exchanging information and getting to know one another. As for poor, miserable Murg, however, he plodded along, sniffing and snuffling, groaning with weariness from time to time, and feeling very, very sorry for himself. The two ignored him as much as was possible, the girl with frosty and aloof scorn, the boy with utter detestation. Rape is a crime not unknown to the Cro-Magnon tribes, of course, but one severely frowned upon as unmanly and displaying the vilest traits of cowardice.
From Murg in turn, however, during a pause to rest their aching leg muscles, the young people elicited an account of his own experiences since being captured by One-Eye. I suspect, as did they, that the account was rather heavily censored, if not considerably rewritten. It was ever the way of Murg to vainly attempt to conceal his faults and flaws and weaknesses by lies, deceits, and a certain application of soothing cosmetics to the plain unvarnished truth.
He did not really fool them, however. Both Jorn and Yualla were clever enough to see through the abridged and retouched portions of his narrative, and his pitiable attempt at embellishment they found wryly amusing.
“To hear Murg tell the tale,” murmured Jorn to the jungle girl at his side, “he fled from Hurok’s encampment with nothing but the noblest of motives in mind.” The girl chuckled. For indeed Murg had striven to convince his captors that he had crept away from the sleeping place in order not to burden the stronger, swifter warriors with his less hardy presence.
Which hardly explained his thefts of the sleeping-hides, water bottles, extra buskins, and surplus weapons, of course.
As Jorn was unarmed, he pressed the stolen armament into service. It made him feel naked to be unarmed, and even though he resolved to return the stolen property to its owners as soon as they had caught up to Hurok and the others, he intended in the meantime to put the weapons to good use.
They continued on their journey.
They began to climb the mountains.
CHAPTER 23
THE MYSTERIOUS CIRCLET
When the Cro-Magnon arrow struck Captain Raphad between the eyes he uttered a shrill cry and fell from the back of his enormous steed.
Moments later, he got shakily to his feet, stunned and dizzy, but otherwise unharmed.
The arrow had struck the circlet of shining metal which he wore upon his brows, and had dislodged the narrow band. Outside of giving him a headache, the lucky shot had done no harm.
Rubbing his aching forehead, he peered about him. And discovered the most surprising events taking place.…
Kicking and pounding the sides of their mounts and tugging furiously upon the reins, his squadron of riders seemed unable to command their docile beasts. What had been, only a moment before, a disciplined line-of-charge had now mysteriously decayed. The thodars had broken ranks and were wandering to and fro, placidly browsing upon the thick, lush meadow grasses, indifferent or perhaps actually oblivious to the furious commands of their human riders. Some had wandered off into the plains, perhaps in search of water. The battle, if so brief a skirmish can be thus properly described, was over.
As for the warriors of Sothar, they had also broken formation and were striding among the beasts, unceremoniously pulling the Zarians out of the saddle and binding their arms behind their backs. More than a few of the Dragon-riders had attempted to defend themselves against the savages, but the Cro-Magnons were taller, brawnier, and stronger than their diminutive adversaries and swiftly disarmed them with ease.
Garth came striding up to where Raphad stood, swaying dizzily, peering about in extreme puzzlement. The giant chief disarmed the Zarian officer and bound him in the same manner as his men were being bound. Nor did Raphad, who was no fool, attempt to resist; as good a soldier as the Scarlet City possessed, he recognized defeat.
Not that it tasted any better this time around.…
Then Garth stooped to pick up the fallen circlet. He turned it this way and that in his heavy, powerful hands, studying it curiously. As an ornament it was attractive, but there seemed more to the device than mere beauty of worksmanship. For Garth had keenly observed that the very instant the circlet had been struck from Captain Raphad’s brows, the advancing half-circle of giant reptiles had evaded the control of their human masters.
<
br /> Garth was no more and no less superstitious than other savages of his degree of civilization. He supposed when he thought about it, which was very seldom, that he believed in ghosts and curses and (what was more to the point in this case), in magic.
It seemed to him that, somehow, possession of the circlet had enabled the leader of the enemy troop to control the enormous thodars. And he decided that it must therefore be a magical talisman. Having decided this, Garth carefully tucked away the circlet within the hide garments he wore.
Noticing this, Raphad bit his nether lip sourly.
Obviously, the Cro-Magnon leader thought the magic circlet might come in handy on some other occasion. And this was bad news indeed for Raphad and his people.…
The fact of the matter was, as Garth of Sothar imagined it to be, that possession of the circlet did indeed give the man who wore it a mysterious power to control the great reptiles.
When Raphad had, considerably earlier on, captured myself, Xask, and Professor Potter, the old scientist had sharply observed the uncanny circlet. And—as always!—he had evolved a theory concerning it.
The metal of the circlet was of a peculiar composition, ruddy yet gleaming. It seemed to be some sort of an alloy, perhaps the mixture of silver and copper. Both metals, the Professor knew, are excellent conductors of electrical impulses. And it had logically occurred to the scrawny savant that thought itself is nothing more than an electrical impulse, albeit one which is very feeble.
Centering between the brows of its wearer, the circlet bore a large cut piece of crystal. From these observations, the Professor theorized that the metal band somehow conducted the impulses of thought, which were focused by means of the crystal exactly as light is focused by a lens, and that in this manner the leader of the Dragon-riders maintained control of the beasts which he and his men rode through mental telepathy.
Had the Professor been present on this particular occasion, it would doubtless have delighted him to obtain practical verification of his tentative theory. For the very moment the circlet fell from the brows of the squadron leader, he and his men totally lost control of their reptilian mounts, which instantly reverted to their normal behavior.
