As the Green Star Rises

Chapter 21. THIEVES IN THE NIGHT

Night had fallen; the west was a glimmering pyre of gold and crimson. The last level rays of sunset flashed from the roof-tiles and crystal windows of Komar and bathed the upper tiers of the citadel in ruby light, while drowning the alleys and squares below in purple shadows.

The Xothun had lingered out to sea, awaiting the sunset hour, well out of the sight of any tower-top sentinel. Now, as darkness gathered upon the waters, the high-prowed galley glided stealthily into the harbor of the port-city. Prince Andar and his nobles looked, for the first time in weeks, upon the capital of their conquered kingdom.

The harbor was virtually a landlocked bay, with a steep sea-wall encircling it; rank on rank of buildings rose beyond. Warehouses where the merchants stored their goods, waterside inns and taverns, lined the harbor wall; beyond them rose the houses of artisans and workmen; then the mansions of the nobles and the merchants, with their rooftop gardens and armorial blazonry.

Beyond and above all, the royal citadel lifted its vasty, tiered height. Built on the cliff-crest above the city, the seat of the Princes of Komar was both a fortress and a palace. And now, for many months, the old black throne-chair of the Sea Kings of Komar had groaned beneath the weight of a Blue Barbarian. Andar gritted his teeth at the thought of this desecration; but he consoled himself with the thought that the hour of reparation was almost at hand.

The Xothun crept into the gloomy harbor on swinging oars, sails furled. Here and there about the decks strolled Andar’s warlike lords—the exiled barons of Komar, chained into slavery by their brutal conquerors. Those very conquerors were, at the same time, doubtless watching the great galley come into harbor. But not a single man among them felt the slightest suspicion. For every man visible upon the decks of the galley had the azure skin-coloration of a true Barbarian, and wore the soiled, gaudy finery affected by the conquering savages.

At the end of the long stone quay, the Xothun berthed. Blue warriors in piratical garments swarmed over the side to make the vessel fast, with her lines securely tethered to the great verdigris-eaten bronze rings which studded the surfaces of the wharf.

Then, leisurely, without attracting undue attention, the crew of the galley began to debark. By this time it was almost completely dark; the dense black of the Green Star World, lightened by no ray of moonlight, was the essence of blackness itself.

Those who went about at night in the harbor of Komar, under the reign of the Barbarian conquerors, commonly carried horn lanterns or oil-soaked torches. But the troop of bedraggled, grim-faced seamen who trooped down the gangplank of the Xothun bore neither lantern nor torch. To them, the darkness was a friendly shield; they knew well that the blue pigment with which their arms and faces were smeared would not stand up to prolonged, careful scrutiny under strong light.

By pre-arranged plan, they split into three groups of even strength. One group made for the main thoroughfare, which led by ascending stages from the harbor to the citadel on the heights. The two other groups of seamen headed for other exits. In this manner, if one group was stopped by guards or watchmen, the other two would at least have an even chance of reaching the rendezvous-point without raising an alarm.

They moved through the gloom-drenched streets, silent masses of unspeaking men, fully armed with long cutlasses and borrowed rapiers and dirks. Most kept their faces down as they passed the infrequent street-lights, or the bright-lit windows of wine-shops or inns. Others had muffled their features with scarves, or the turned-up collars of their long sea-cloaks. All wore some manner of headgear, to disguise the fact that their locks were the gossamer silver of the denizens of the treetop cities; not the lank, greasy, locks of the Blue Barbarians.

They strode through the gloom, keeping to the inkiest of the shadows, trying not to make more noise than could be helped. In the forefront of the first group strode Prince Andar himself; his lean-jawed, handsome visage was masked by his upturned collar, his fierce gaze roamed restlessly from side to side as he marched up the main avenue.

Beneath a fold of his cloak, he clenched the hilt of a naked sword.

By great good luck, the streets of the lower city were virtually deserted at this hour. Since the yet-unexplained death or disappearance of the Warlord many months before, Andar knew, the Barbarians had grown lax in their vigilance. Few guards patrolled the lower city, and little watch was kept on the movements of the captive Komarians themselves. In part, this laxity was due to overweening confidence on the part of the Barbarians. They swaggered about, fancying themselves irresistible warriors with naught to fear from a cowed, crushed, leaderless and captive citizenry. But for the most part, it was explained by the intrinsic nature of the conquerors; barbarians are a lazy, unruly mob who dislike taking orders and shirk an orderly regimen whenever they can. The absence of that brilliant military genius whom they hailed as Warlord gave them a chance to slump into a slovenly, disorganized horde-life again.

Only his miraculous genius had forged them into a warrior legion of unparalleled power. Lacking his tight hand on the reins, they would slowly crumble into jealous, quarreling, rival clans.

As Andar and his men prowled the dark streets of the conquered seaport, they saw at every hand the unmistakable signs of the conquerors’ brutality and callousness. Shops gaped, mere empty shells, their windows smashed, their shelves looted bare; bodies dangled from street corner gibbets, or rotted in alleys choked with garbage. Rows of homes were charred ruins, burnt to the ground through carelessness or malicious spite. Palaces and mansions were gutted, their gardens trampled and despoiled, fragile statuary lying in wreckage. And everywhere there were corpses—corpses of men, of women—even of children.

His lips tightened; so did his grip on his sword. But Andar did not pause or linger. Step by step he marched through his raped and littered city, up to the citadel on the height. Once that fortress was in his hands, he could hold it with only a few men against a nation of enemies.

The upper city was better lighted, and better patrolled. Often Andar and his men hid in the shadows at the mouths of alleys, holding their breaths in an agony of suspense, while guard-troops marched by on their rounds. No drunken slackers, these were a grim, sharp, wary lot; they marched with drawn swords and eyes that dug into every shadow.

Something had happened to tighten up the lax security in the upper city, Andar surmised. He wondered what it was.

But there was no time now to ponder on what had taken place here, since he and his men had sailed from Komar chained to the oars of the Xothun. For now they were approaching the gate of the mighty citadel itself; its beetling walls towered above them, frowning battlements of heavy stone lifted against the black, murky heavens.

But the gate itself blazed with the light of many torches. Half a company of Barbarians stood about, guarding the entryway. To approach meant that Andar and his men must expose their flimsy disguises to the hard, measuring stares of two-score alert, wary guardsmen, in the full glare of these torches.

From the dark mouth of the alley-way, the Prince and his warriors gathered for their planned assault on the citadel. This was the rendezvous-point at which they had determined to meet, when they had split into three groups back at the harbor. Now, breathless with suspense, Andar’s party hovered in the black mouth of the alley, waiting to see if the rest of their comrades would make their way safely to join forces with them.

No out-cry had yet been raised in the sleeping city, which was a good sign. No ringing shouts of alarm, no scuffle of swordplay; the island city slept heavily, under the lightless heavens.

Then the man at his left seized the Prince’s arm.

“A group of men, coming from the merchants’ quarter,” he whispered. Andar nodded, saying nothing. The clump of booted feet on the cobbles came to him on the night air, with the muffled ring and clank of accouterments. A darker mass appeared in the gloom, and a muttered password was exchanged, Andar relaxed with a sigh and began to breathe again. He had not been aware that he was holding his breath until he released it.

Agonizing minutes crept by, one by one, leaden-footed. Then, another group of men appeared. This time he recognized Eryon at their head, by the silver in his grizzled beard and the proud way he held his shoulders. With as few words as possible and as little noise, the Komarians joined forces and waited Andar’s signal to assault the gate. By a great stroke of good luck, none had noticed them as they had slunk furtively through the city’s darkened ways.

From the dark mouth of the alley, they peered out at the well-lit entry-port of the citadel, estimating their chances of capturing it by a sudden attack.

” ‘Tis too risky, my prince,” growled the grizzled Eryon. “Let’s await the arrival of Prince Parimus and his airship, to divert their attention…”

Andar shook his head. “There is no time. We will arouse suspicion by merely lingering here. The next troop of guards to pass will notice and investigate such a mass of men lurking in the shadows. And ‘tis not yet time for Parimus to launch his attack.”

“What’s best to do, then, before the gods?” muttered Eryon, chewing on his beard in a torment of indecision.

“Let’s risk all on one turn o’ the dice,” Andar grinned recklessly. “One man may go where fifty would be helpless. Wait for my sign—”

Before Eryon could grasp the import of his words, or so much as lift a hand to stop him, the Prince of Komar strutted out into the well-lit square before the main portal of the citadel. He swaggered brazenly up to the guard-captain.

“What ho, comrade!” he bawled in a coarse tone affecting the crude accent of the Horde. “Be there thieves skulking in the night, that you guards be out in such strength?”

The captain eyed him warily.

“Where have you been hiding, friend, that you remain ignorant of the miracle?” he demanded. Andar, pretending to weave on his feet because of strong drink, blinked belligerently.

” ‘Miracle,’ ‘Miracle,’ is’t? Well, friend, I’ve been to sea on the Council’s business, all the long, weary way to far Tharkoon an’ back, that’s where! And I bear news of mighty import to the Council, this very hour; aye, that I do.”

“The Council is disbanded,” said the captain in harsh, level tones. “And the miracle I spoke of is that the Warlord has returned out of the very jaws of the grave, to lead us once again.”

This was news, indeed; and not to Andar’s liking; but, for reasons of his imposture, he must feign otherwise. He blinked and swayed gaping slack-jawed in astonishment, mumbling oaths he had heard from the former masters of the Xothun.

“You will take your news to the Warlord himself, who sits up late on matters of punishment and reward,” the captain cut in. “And, as you seem to have taken aboard a drop or two of wine, let me advise you to speak soberly and to the point. Hath been too much relaxing of discipline amongst us during his absence, says our master … already nine clan-chieftains dangle from courtyard gibbets, as token of his displeasure! Give me your name, sept and clan to set down in my book, and you shall be escorted within.”

“By the bowels of Yhorx, I need no escort!” roared Andar, pretending rage. Blustering and mouthing oaths, he lurched nearer to the captain; all the time his mind was racing keenly, trying to recall the names of one or another of the septs and clans the Warlord had welded together into his Horde. For the very life of him, he could not bring a single one to mind… and time was running out!

Chapter 22. FLASHING SWORDS!

The captain of the gate uttered a short bark of laughter at Andar’s blustering words.

“You’ll have an armed escort to take you within the citadel, my man, or the Warlord will add my corpse to the many who dangle from his gibbets,” he said inflexibly.

His hand rested lightly upon the hilt of his sword, and his eyes were hard and suspicious. They rested unblinkingly on the disguised Prince, searching his half-hidden features in the bright glare of the many torches. Andar felt cold perspiration break out on his body, trickling down his ribs and belly.

It could all end here and now, he thought to himself. His blood ran cold at the thought. Stumbling and blustering, he came a few steps closer to where the captain of the Barbarians stood.

The captain was still staring at him with alert, wary eyes.

“Come now, you wine-soaked fool, name your sept,” he growled. “The ship dispatched to Tharkoon, I seem to recall, was the Xothun, captained by my old comrade, Hoggur, of the Devil-Wasp tribe… how comes he not here to report in person, if the news you bear be so damned important—uhh!”

His eyes widened suddenly, as a lock of Andar’s hair escaped from the bright kerchief he had wound about his brows. At the same instant, Andar had whipped out his sword and driven the blade through the captain’s heart.

“I’ll name my nation, Barbarian! ‘Tis Komar! Komar!” roared Prince Andar, now that his imposture was exposed. Whirling on his heel, he withdrew his steel from the chest of the corpse to drive it singing into the throat of the gate-captain’s second-in-command, who stood nearby, staring without comprehension at the corpse which fell to the tiles spouting gore.

“Komar! Komar!” The cry rang up from half a hundred throats. Suddenly, the square was filled with yelling, running men, naked swords flashing in the torchlight.

Cold coils crushing my chest and pinning my arms to my sides, the gigantic serpent held me helpless as it prepared to feast upon the puny manlings who dared defy its sovereignty of this jungle realm.

Blind, I could see nothing of what occurred. But to my ears came the shouts and cries as the archers of Tharkoon scattered. And then came to my ears, there is the clammy embrace of the monster Ssalith, the twang of bows and the hiss of arrows as they flashed through the air. I knew that the archers had returned to the decks of the aerial yacht to secure the weapons they had left behind. Now, as the coils tightened spasmodically about my body and the huge serpent hissed in rage and pain, I guessed that shaft upon shaft was being loosed from those powerful bows. They sank into the giant coils of the creature which held me captive.

The Ssalith hissed and struck, fanged jaws closing upon empty air, snapping at the flying darts which plagued it. But this mode of battle was something new in the serpent’s experience; its small, sluggish brain could not cope with pointed things which flew to cause it pain. Obviously, the Tharkoonian archers hoped to make it release me.

If so, their plans went awry. For, baffled, and infuriated by the stinging arrows, the great serpent headed back into the safety and darkness of its jungle home.

Carrying me with it!

Branches whipped my bare legs; tangled lianas slid over my face. The wet smell of the jungle closed about me; a curiously pungent perfume composed of the reek of rotting leaves and the sickly-sweet odor of jungle flowers. As the serpent bore me deeper and deeper into the jungle, the walls of foliage closed behind us; the shouts and cries of my comrades were muffled and faded out.

For an interminable period, the immense snake slithered through the depths of the tropic forest. My lungs half-crushed, my legs and arms going numb from the lack of circulation, I fell into a daze. Perhaps I swooned for a time, for my memories of this horrible experience are few and dim.

Then it seemed to me that we emerged into the open air again; that my reptilian captor was ascending some manner of inclined plane, like a stone stairway. Was there some ancient stone ruin amidst the jungles of this unknown isle; did the giant serpent make his home within the structure?

If so, my comrades might never find me in time to rescue me alive. For surely, once within its noisome lair, the gigantic snake would sate its hungers upon my flesh!

The serpent entered the temple ruin, and I lost all hope. The last memory that passed through my fading consciousness was of Shann.

And then I knew no more.

While the Barbarians stationed at the gate of the citadel of Komar were taken completely by surprise, they were trained to be vigilant and wary. The stunning shock of finding themselves suddenly under attack held them frozen only for a moment; then their own steel flashed in the torchlight, and the battle was joined in earnest.

Men yelled and cursed, scuffling hand-to-hand; steel blades rang in the echoing clamour. By sheer weight, the Komarian charge battered through the guard-ranks and reached the barbican of the gate without the loss of a single man. Andar, having slain both the captain and his lieutenant, turned to spring through the gate and into the courtyard; gaping men stood frozen in astonishment near the heavy wheel that could bring down the grille to block the entryway. Once it occurred to them to release the heavy barrier and bring it down, all would be lost and the only entrance into the fortress palace would be sealed.

His dancing sword point flashed in the ruddy glare of the torches, as Andar engaged two swordsmen at once. The most brilliant swordmasters in his royal father’s kingdom had tutored the young prince in the art of fencing; every last trick, feint and parry of this manly art was familiar to him. By contrast, his opponents, although burlier and heavier men, were rude savages; their notion of swordplay was the crude business of cut-and-slash. In the first five seconds after the death of the lieutenant, Andar’s blade laid the first of his adversaries grovelling in the dust with a thrust through the abdomen, while the second followed him mere moments later, his throat cut from ear to ear by a single stroke of Andar’s agile, darting point.

On the voyage hither, Andar and his barons had planned out the assault every step of the way. Thus, even as the Prince gained control of the entryway, his men came pouring through the gate on his very heels. They did not pause to engage the troop of guards stationed outside the citadel wall—their main objective was to gain entry to the citadel itself.

A few moments more and all of them were within the courtyard. Then, with the aid of two strong barons, Andar let the gate come down, crushing the forefront of the guards, who came storming through the gateway after the invaders. Men shrieked and screamed as the great iron grille came inexorably down, crushing skulls, smashing limbs, driving heavy spikes through chest, back and belly.

The gate was down to stay. Andar saw to that! He smashed the wheel with a huge war axe, breaking the gears so that only with difficulty could the entryway be cleared again.

By this time, more guards had come pouring into the courtyard from the main hall of the citadel; his men had formed a line to engage them. Once again it could be seen that superior skill at swordsmanship wins out over brute strength; for beneath the flickering blades of the Komarians, the roaring mob of cursing, bellowing Barbarians melted away like a snowbank in the hot breath of a furnace.

“Forward, men! Make a spear-head! Tryphax, hold our rear!”

His clear voice rising like a trumpet over the noise and tumult, the Prince of Komar delivered his commands. The ranked nobles hurried into a war-formation and charged the main doors of the hall, which the last, fleeing remnants of the Barbarians were desperately trying to close upon them. The point of Andar’s spear-head formation smashed the great doors open and bowled over the cursing savages. In a moment the hall was slick with blood, and filled with groaning, dying men. The flashing swords of Komar made a shambles out of the disorganized mob which challenged them.

Now the way opened up before them, and Komar seized the momentary advantage. On flying feet he charged through, sliding between the embattled, struggling men, rushing into the great hall itself. There, throned upon a dais, a smooth-faced man of indeterminate years sat with a table of maps drawn up at his knees.

The Warlord—!

Andar paused only for a moment, then hurled himself upon the military genius who had trampled his kingdom into the mire. He found the other was no mean swordsman; in truth, the blade his point engaged was as agile as his own.

Steel rang against steel as they fought. The Warlord was a man whom he had never met, so Andar regarded him curiously. He was of indeterminate age, blue-skinned and black-haired as were all of his Barbarian race; but his features were not as coarse and heavy as were those of his fellow-savages. Indeed, he was handsome in a smooth, sleek way, with quick clever eyes hooded beneath drooping lids. His fine-boned features, as well as the lithe, supple lines of his trim, slender figure, denoted birth and breeding superior to his oafish compatriots.

Andar’s features seemed familiar to him, it quickly became apparent; for as they fought, the Warlord smiled negligently, and addressed the Prince by name.

“I am surprised and pleased to learn that the Prince of Komar yet lives,” purred the other, in tones of silken mockery. “I had feared the ancient dynasty of Komar had been rendered extinct by the perhaps over-zealous action of my warriors! But where in the world have you been hiding all this time, Andar? Certes, ‘twould not be seemly for the princely heir of this throne to skulk in the sewers, or hide like a rodent in the back-alleys of his kingdom, while my men and I raped, burned and looted that very kingdom! I am surprised to discover that you did not make so rash and suicidal an attempt at liberating your realm long before this…”

He laughed; Andar virtually ached to wipe that sneering smirk of amusement from his calm, pleasant features.

“Save your breath for dying with!” the Prince snarled, as his blade flashed to ward off a stroke. With careless ease, the other eluded the flashing point of Andar’s sword, and engaged him anew.

“I have no intention of dying just yet,” he laughed. “But—may I suggest you make your peace with your gods? This duel bores me, and I plan to end it soon—”

Even as he spoke, Andar realized the trap his opponent had so cunningly maneuvered him into. His boot-heel slipped in a pool of ink, spilled from the desk when the Warlord had come to his feet to fight Andar.

Now he slipped, staggered, and for a brief moment was off balance. In that brief instant, his guard wavered and dropped.

And the Warlord, seizing upon the opportunity he had awaited, struck! His point flashed for the Prince of Komar’s heart—

Chapter 23. TO THE DEATH

As his foot slipped in the wet pool, Andar momentarily lost his balance. In that flickering instant, as he strove to regain it, the point of his sword wavered and fell; this exposed his breast to the blade of his opponent—who struck for his heart!

Andar threw himself over backwards, fell down the steps of the dais, sprawling on the tiles of the hall floor, well out of reach of the Warlord’s blade. He came scrambling to his feet again, snatching up his fallen weapon, hot to re-engage his hated enemy. But it was evident that the Barbarian monarch had lost his taste for swordplay.

” ‘Tis a pity you were so clumsy as to deny me the pleasure of spitting you upon my blade,” the Warlord jested, with a mocking salute. “But I have other, more pressing matters which demand my attention at the moment. We shall have to postpone, for the moment, the pleasure of a re-match. ‘Till we meet again, then, my boy!”

Andar growled an oath, and sprang up the steps to tackle him, but the Warlord raised one booted foot and kicked over his desk-like table. It fell directly in Andar’s path, spilling parchments and tangling his limbs. While the Prince cursed and struggled to untangle himself, the older man slipped behind a tapestry and seemingly vanished into the solid stone wall.

A moment later, Andar had gained the dais and stepped behind the throne to pull aside the hanging. A black opening was thus revealed—a sliding panel in the wall!

He ground a bitter curse and reluctantly, let the tapestry fall back into place again. He knew that panel well, it and the others like it; his ancestors had honeycombed the walls of the citadel with secret passages and hidden doors; he had memorized the system of hiding-places at his father’s knee. The Warlord must have discovered the secret during his long tenancy here, and made the system a secret of his own.

Andar knew only too well how complex was this labyrinth of passages hollowed within the walls, and how long it would take him to search through every one for his enemy. He could not spare the time. But he made a silent vow as he stood there, glowering.

“We shall meet again, my enemy, and I shall make you swallow your laughing words,” he growled between gritted teeth. “When next our swords cross, it shall be… to the death.”

Then he turned to see his men come spilling into the hall, pressed by a charging line of Barbarians. For a moment he stood there on the dais, watching the scene grimly. His men fought with cool precision, making every stroke count. But the blue-skinned savages fought with histrionic yells and grimaces, bellowing curses, shaking their fists and stamping their feet; contorting their faces in ferocious scowls as if to frighten their adversaries by the noise and violence. It was almost amusing—perhaps it would have been, had the occasion not been so fraught with life-or-death importance for the kingdom of Komar.

For all their rage and fury, the Barbarians proved to be no match for the master-swordsmen of Komar. Their line melted away as if by magic; they bolted the hall, fleeing into the corridor beyond, leaving a dozen corpses sprawled in their gore upon the pavement. Swiftly, the loyalists reformed and turned to Prince Andar for instructions.

The Prince gnawed his lip. The time had already passed for the arrival of Prince Parimus of Tharkoon and the diversion they had planned between them. Some unforeseen occurrence must have delayed the arrival of the sky yacht. That delay might well prove fatal to the hopes of Andar and his barons; however, they were in the thick of it now. There was nothing to do but to carry on as best they could, for as long as they could.

“Whither now, sire?” puffed Eryon, red-faced with exertion through his blue paint.

“We have no way of ascertaining how many guards are in the citadel,” Andar said rapidly. “But the chances are that we are the smaller in strength. It occurs to me that the Pits of Komar will contain many of our friends; those dungeons lay beneath this floor, tunneled into the bowels of the cliff. Take ten warriors and descend—you know the way, and also the method of unlocking the cells. Free as many of our friends as you can, and arm them with whatever comes to hand. Meet us on the height. I mean to clean out the citadel, room by room, until the fortress is ours; or we will die in the attempt. Quickly, now!”

Eryon nodded grimly, marshaled his men and left the hall.

“Now, my lords,” smiled Andar to the remainder of his force, “we have a deal of man-killing to do. Are you with me?”

“Komar! Andar and Komar!” came the roof-shaking shout in reply. The Prince grinned, saluted with his sword, and led them forth to shed more enemy blood.

And still Parimus did not come.

The roof of the fortress-palace was a vast, flat plaza-like area, tiled with smooth stones and surrounded with a battlement all its own. Naught broke the smoothness of the roof, save for a colossal idol of Koroga, the many-armed and many-faced national god of the island realm.

It was here that Andar and the remnant of his swordsmen met the last stand of their adversaries.

They had gone through the mighty citadel room by room, chamber by chamber, suite by suite; killing all they encountered, save for servants and slaves, whom they freed, armed and added to their ranks. The many lords and chieftains of the Horde who were housed in the suites and apartments of the citadel stood, fought and died bloodily, one by one. All the time beyond the outermost wall, the Barbarians surged in their thousands, yelling with rage and brandishing weapons; but they were unable to penetrate the defenses of the fortress, and unable to come to the aid of their chieftains.

Of the Warlord himself, Andar had seen no sign. Perhaps he lurked in one of the secret passages within the thick walls of the fortress, cowering in hiding. If so, they would root him out, once the last defenders of the citadel had been cut down; Andar did not believe that he had been able to escape from the gigantic edifice and flee to safety, for the only exit to the outer city was well blocked and sealed.

The terrible killing went on and on. Andar’s sword-arm was weary now; his bare torso gleamed with perspiration and blood. Some of the blood was his own, for innumerable scratches and small cuts scored his bare body; but most of it was the blood of the many men he had slain this night.

The smoke of burning buildings drifted up to them, there on the rooftop of the citadel. Riots and pitched battles had broken out in the streets and squares of the city, Andar guessed. The Komarian citizenry, seizing the opportunity, had turned upon their conquerors, snatching up tools, staves and whatever lay to hand.

But without the aid of the Tharkoonian archers, and the scientific weapons of Prince Parimus, he seriously doubted if the Barbarians could be defeated.

Well, if he must die here, at least he would die fighting! Far better to perish with a sword in his hand, ringed about with the foemen he had slain, than any other death he could envision.

He fought on, wearily, without hope.

And then, very suddenly, it was over. The manner of the battle’s end was uncanny and terrifying.

To Prince Andar’s right hand there fought a grizzled baron who was named Ozad. He had served the Princes of Komar for a lifetime with loyalty. That lifetime ended abruptly.

The pitch-black darkness suddenly split open with an unearthly blaze of light!

Lightning smote the baron Ozad and burnt him to a cinder. The hideous stench of charred flesh was heavy in Andar’s nostrils, and the intolerable flash of light blinded him. He blinked dazedly, through swirling after-images, at the blackened body stretched out on the smoking tiles… a thing that only a moment before had been a man.

Bolt after sizzling bolt clove the impenetrable darkness. With each flash of lightning, one of the Komarians died as if struck down by the levin-bolts of heaven.

Andar looked up in horror and amazement. Atop the monstrous idol of Koroga stood the Warlord. How he had gotten up there was a mystery for which Andar had no solution. But there he stood, and in his hand was clasped a most peculiar weapon. It was a rod of sparkling crystal that blazed from within with captive lightnings. Each time the Warlord levelled the crystal rod, a blast of lightning fire struck from it, and a man died.

Andar had never seen or heard of a zoukar, a death-flash; these were the terrible weapons of the vanished race of Winged Men. Nor could he guess how the enigmatic mastermind of the Barbarians had gotten such a device. But he knew, with a grim certainty that went beyond words, that the zoukar spelt the end of all his hopes.

The bitterness of defeat was like ashes on his tongue. His sword-arm faltered, and fell to his side. From the summit of the idol, the Warlord’s voice echoed down to the embattled troop of swordsmen.

There was mockery in those tones, and a strange note of wild and reckless laughter; a heavy finality, like the ring of death.

“Lay down your arms and surrender, or I will burn you down where you stand!”

Eryon looked over to where Andar stood, and there were tears in the eyes of the older man. “Let us fight on to the end of it, sire,” he urged. But Andar shook his head.

“There is no use,” the Prince said with quiet dignity.

And he cast down his blade upon the tiles.

One by one they were disarmed, by the mere handful of Barbarians who still remained alive in the citadel.

Further resistance would be utterly futile, they knew; for all the while the Warlord stood, smiling with smooth mockery, atop the idol. In his hand, held in negligent carelessness, was the lightning weapon which had ruined their last chances of success, dashing the sweet cup of victory from their lips.

“It was a good fight, my Prince,” Eryon said heavily, as the Barbarians removed his weapons. “You have nothing for which to reprove yourself… ‘twas doomed to failure, I suppose. After all, when in the gory annals of war, seige and conquest, have half a hundred men taken an entire city? Your father would be proud of you this dawn.”

Was it indeed dawn? Andar lifted his head and looked about him wearily; yes, the freshness of morning was on the rising sea-breeze; and the east was pallid as nacre with the rising of the Green Star. The night had seemed but half-over, so swiftly had the time passed.

He doubted if he would live to see the evening of this day.

“We tried and failed, old friend,” he said. “At the very least we made them pay a goodly price in blood and lives and honor—”

“No talking, you scum!” spat the Barbarian nearest to him. Andar looked him straight in the eyes with a cool, level glance; his eyes were unafraid, faintly disdainful. The Barbarian flushed, scowled, and raised a heavy hand to cuff the captive youth across the mouth.

But the blow did not fall.

Puzzled, Andar looked to see why his tormentor had stopped his hand. The Barbarian stood rigid, his face slack-jawed and stupid with astonishment, staring at something far above them. Andar, from his position, could not see it.

He looked up, to find the source of the other’s amazement. And then he gasped in awe, as a vast black shape slid across the sky and settled down upon them—

Chapter 24. RACE AGAINST TIME

The gigantic serpent, still holding me helplessly pinned in the grip of its coils, went wriggling up the crumbling stony stairs of the ancient ruin. It made as if to enter the black and yawning mouth of the long-abandoned temple.

Suddenly—unaccountably—it paused, lingering on the very threshold. Then it turned and struck, viciously, again and again—struck at something which I could not see!

In its furious writhings, the coils about my middle were loosened. I fell a short distance, to land on the broken stair. I lay there, gasping for breath, sucking the sweet air into my oxygen-starved lungs, numb from head to foot, but grateful to find myself still alive.

The sounds of a terrific battle surged about me on the stair. I could not see anything at all, of course; but from the panting breath of the enraged monster serpent, and from the way it thrashed about, it was obvious that the brute was engaged in a battle to the death with some unimaginable opponent.

I staggered to my knees, groping about. The stone steps were low and broad, thickly grown with lichens and slimy mosses; littered with fallen leaves and bits of carven stone which the remorseless erosion of the ages had loosened from their settings. I began stumblingly to feel my way down the stairs.

The Ssalith uttered a hissing screech of agony and furious rage. Its monstrous fangs closed again and again upon the flesh of its attacker; I could hear the crunching of bones and the meaty sound of flesh being hammered and torn by those tremendous jaws.

Yet, I had not the slightest clue as to the identity of its adversary. Nor had the other beast yet uttered the faintest sound. What could it possibly be, that dwelt here on this isle, huge enough to fearlessly engage one of the most dreaded of predators on this planet. Had this battle taken place miles aloft, in a branch of one of the sky-tall trees, I could have hazarded a guess or two. For the upper realm is made terrible by such enormous monstrosities as the ythid, or scarlet tree-dwelling dragon; to say nothing of titanic albino spiders whom the Laonese called the xoph.

Either of these terrors of the treetops might well afford the monster serpent a worthy adversary in battle.

But we were not in the arboreal regions, but upon a jungle isle. From my own experience as a castaway on just such an island as this, with Shann, the girl whom I had come to love and from whose companionship I had so mysteriously and abruptly been sundered, I knew too sell that no denizens of the upper regions dwelt here in the islands of the sea.

I am unable to explain why the forms of life which inhabit the upper regions of the great trees should differ in so marked a manner from those which dwell upon the jungle-girt islands of the Komarian Sea. But, after all, this is only one of the smaller of many puzzling and inexplicable mysteries which I have thus far encountered upon the World of the Green Star.

If this were a work of extravagant fiction I am writing, and not a sober, factual chronicle of events in which, however, incredible it seems, I have personally played a role, doubtless I would have, or could invent, a scientific reason to allay the questions of my readers. But the resources of the novelist are denied to him who chooses to indite a factual history. All I can do it to assure you that the thing is as much of a puzzle to him who writes these words as it is to him who reads them.

I reached the floor of the grassy glade in which the ancient ruin was built, without molestation. I stood there hesitantly for a long, suspenseful moment, pondering what course of action I should take next.

I had not the slightest idea of where I now stood in relation to the whereabouts of my comrades. Obviously, I was on the interior of the island, since I could smell the sea hut faintly, as it were, through the rank odor of the jungle vegetation. I could not hear the waves as they broke against the beach at all.

But exactly how far into the interior of the unknown isle the monstrous Ssalith had taken me, I was completely ignorant.

Undoubtedly, my friends had wasted no time in plunging into the jungle after me, and were following the trail of the huge serpent which had carried me off, as swiftly as they could. Also, it seemed very likely that the passage of so immense a creature would leave a trail clearly visible to the eyes of any who sought to track it to its lair. For these reasons, I decided that it was probably only a matter of time before Zarqa and Klygon, Janchan and Prince Parimus, would reach this ruin-encumbered glade in search of my whereabouts.

The wisest thing to do was, quite simply, to wait where I was. For, being completely blind, were I to enter the jungle I would swiftly lose myself even further than I was already lost. And, in the depths of the dense jungles, it might not be easy for my companions to locate me, nor I them.

But… I could not stay here! Not while the giant serpent was still locked in furious, hissing, clamourous battle with some unknown but doubtless gigantic monster.

For if I were to do so, the victor of that titanic conflict would find me the easiest of prey! My dilemma yeas excruciating. Every moment of time that went ticking by, carried my friends ever closer to where I stood, helpless, unarmed, and alone.

But, every instant that passed carried the battle of jungle monsters yet closer to its conclusion; and myself nearer and nearer to the dubious honor of serving as the chef d’oeuvre of the victory dinner—to be eaten by the victor!

Was there ever such a dilemma!

The battle of the monsters was nearly over now. The serpent writhed and hissed in its death-throes. I could hear its scaly coils scraping against the crumbling stone surface of the stairs as it wriggled in frightful agony; its furtive spark of consciousness fading, its mighty vital energy ebbing as hot gore leaked from the terrible wounds which scored its length.

The hot, rank smell of blood was heavy on the motionless night air.

Turning away from the scene of hideous carnage, which was invisible to me, but whose gory details I could envision with the inward eye of imagination, I stealthily crossed the grassy glade to where the jungle’s edge rose, thick dense and choked with vegetation. Perhaps the victor would linger for a time to feed upon the flesh of its monstrous, ophidian kill perhaps I would have time enough to enter the jungle and find for myself a place of safe concealment, before it turned away from its feasting to come ravening in pursuit of me.

I did not quite reach the edge of the jungle. The drumming of wings sounded from above me in the throbbing stillness.

Something alighted on the grassy ground behind me. I broke into a faltering, stumbling run, racing for the edge of the jungle with outstretched hands. Footsteps sounded behind me, the swish of long grasses parting before the passage of a moving body.

Then a hand-like claw settled upon my shoulders… and I fainted!

My friends were gathered on the beach, ready to depart. They hailed my safe return with a burst of loud, enthusiastic cheers.

“I hope those cheers are for Zarqa,” I grinned, still a trifle weak as a reaction from the ordeal. “For it was he alone who saved me, where I was helpless to do anything.”

They gave me a stoup of wine and while I drank it down, Zarqa the Kalood, with becoming modesty, described how he had spread his wings to soar aloft. He followed in pursuit, the very instant the serpent had carried me into the jungle.

Unarmed, he was helpless to oppose the enormous Ssalith with physical strength alone; in this dire eventuality, he was forced to do something repugnant to his race, but well within their powers. That was to use his mental gifts as a weapon.

The Ssalith had but a tiny brain, a miniscule self-awareness; but its instincts were powerful, swift-acting, easy to trigger. Insinuating a telepathic tendril into the sub-mind of the serpent, he had tripped its defensive mechanisms. He had made the serpent attack itself!

Those noises of terrific combat I had heard; the hissing and clashing of those monstrous jaws, the furious writhing of scaly coils locked in frenzied battle—had been the sounds of the maddened Ssalith fighting against itself.

So intense had been the mental concentration necessary for Zarqa to perform this feat of mental magic, that the Winged Man had not been able to spare a single moment to send a comforting or explanatory thought-message to me, lest he relax his grip upon the Ssalith’s brain.

My friends were amazed at Zarqa’s feat, and joined me in thanking him heartily. Parimus, no less than the others, was delighted at my safe return; but he urgently bade us suspend until a more leisurely moment our explanations and queries. For time was of the essence; due to the attack of the serpent monster, we were now long past the moment that he and Prince Andar had agreed upon for the planned diversion. The lateness of the air yacht in arriving at the island city might have already proven fatal to the hopes and ambitions of the Komarians. Only time would tell.

We bundled up our gear and possessions and hurried aboard. Zarqa and Janchan would follow close behind us in the skysled. As for Nimbalim of Yoth, the old philosopher chose to ride in the flying ship of Prince Parimus; for he had become fascinated with the marvel of the million-year-old vehicle, eager to observe it in action from close quarters. Parimus had affably given the ancient savant a place beside him on the bridge.

We ascended into the skies and set our course for the island of Komar, which lay not far off; separated from the island of the monster serpent by a relatively narrow stretch of waters.

From here on, it was a race against time!

Chapter 25. AS THE GREEN STAR RISES

From the strange black shape which hung against the pale skies of morning, there came a withering blast. A rain of deadly arrows swept the rooftop of the citadel of Komar… and the Barbarians fell, bristling with barbed death!

A great shout of wonder and delight went up from Andar’s men, for they knew beyond all question the identity of that black enigma which had swept down upon them from the sky.

Parimus had come at last!

Then was the battle rejoined, with a vengeance! Snatching up the weapons they had let fall at the moment of surrender, the Komarians turned upon the disorganized, demoralized rabble and slew—and slew!

From the embattled streets of the city below that towering height, Andar and his nobles heard a faint, rising chorus of cheers. The citizenry of Komar, who had arisen against their conquerors when it became known that the citadel was under attack, had almost failed against the roaring tide of the Barbarians. But now, with the miraculous visitation from the skies, their hearts beat high within them. They turned with new strength and with redoubled determination upon their oppressors. Snatching up paving stones, ripping loose barrel-staves, plundering the corpses of their fallen comrades for anything that could be used as a weapon, the folk of Komar rose as one man, to trample down and tear asunder the savages who had for so long cruelly abused them.

The air yacht of Parimus was everywhere, floating above them, blasting with the very lightnings of heaven through every barrier hastily erected by the Barbarians; striking down knots of resistance, exploding buildings where a force of the blue men had taken refuge. The archers of Tharkoon, led by the stalwart young bowman, Zokar, lined the decks of the yacht; they swept the streets, squares balconies and rooftops of the city with a hissing rain of barbed, unerring death l

The citadel had already fallen to the Komarian assault. The golden banner of Komar floated from the topmost tower, glittering in the rays of early dawn; a sign for all to see that the lords and chieftains of the Horde were dead or captured, and that the heart on the city was retaken.

The sight of that proud golden banner floating freely on the morning winds struck new strength, hope and vigor into the weary and battered people of Komar. At the same moment, it stole from the hearts of the Barbarians, who looked upon the golden oriflamme with bitterness and despair, the last dregs of their courage and determination to fight on.

They broke and fled, first in two and threes, and finally in a great rout. Down to the harbor they fled, harried by the bowmen of Parimus. There they made their last stand, holding the Komarians at bay while, clan by clan, they climbed aboard the ships moored to the long stone quays.

It was evidently their hope to set sail and escape to sea. Parimus could, of course, have destroyed the heavily-crowded galleys with his electric ray, but debated with himself the wisdom of this. It was not the way of Tharkoon to slaughter helpless men in their thousands; although the Prince of Komar might well determine the wholesale destruction of the Horde a fitting, just retribution for the horrors of conquest and occupation.

The air yacht returned to float above the many-tiered citadel, so that Prince Andar could decide upon this question. Andar’s loyalists now held the royal fortress securely; the last surviving remnants of the Barbarians within the palace walls were prisoners. The Prince harkened to the older man’s pleas to permit the Barbarians to flee with their lives, and agreed that magnanimity in a great victory was only right. So long as the Barbarians fled to the mainland, without taking refuge on one or another of the islands of the Komarian realm, they should be permitted to live.

Parimus departed to observe the escape of the survivors of the Horde. It was just about over.

The last stronghold of Barbarian resistance within the city had been destroyed; the last stragglers of the Horde who had been left behind when their comrades fled to sea were hunted down, seized and made captive by the people of the city. These captives, somewhat battered and bloody, very cowed and crest-fallen, were delivered in chains to the gates of the citadel to be locked in the dungeons.

It was a touch of poetic justice, thought Prince Andar with satisfaction, that those who had lorded it over a captive and enslaved populace should henceforward serve that populace as their slaves. The neatness of this final stroke of justice pleased him heartily, although Eryon and some of the older barons grumbled that it was foolishness to permit so much as a single foe to continue living, when so many Komarians had been murdered or executed.

Andar grinned soberly. “There remains much hard work to be done,” he pointed out, “to restore our capital to its former beauty. There are streets to be cleared of rubble, wreckage to be removed, and burnt or gutted buildings to be rebuilt. Personally, I see no reason why these onerous tasks should fall upon my people, who have already suffered so much at the hands of their Barbarian conquerors. Let them regain their pride and self-esteem, watching their former masters groan and sweat beneath the burden of this labor… Besides, it is only fitting that those who wreaked such damage to our city should do the work of repairing that damage!”

Eryon grumbled, but a reluctant grin tugged at his bearded lips. He had to admit the decision of his Prince was only right and certainly just.

We stood there on the rooftop of the citadel overlooking the city of Komar. Klygon was with me, and Janchan, and Zorak the bowman of Tharkoon. But Zarqa was absent, flying the skysled over the sea, assisting Parimus in harrying the Barbarian ships. Andar and his lords conferred some little distance away. Bloody, dishevelled and bone-weary from their long night of battle, they were flushed and jubilant with the heady wine of victory.

Morning was upon us; the Green Star had risen to flood the world with its light. Even as a new day brightened the world, a new day had dawned for the island kingdom of Komar; the long night of savagery and subjugation was ended.

We had each a thousand questions to ask the others. Zorak was fascinated to hear of our adventures among the albino cannibals at the bottom of the world; and how we had escaped from the subterranean burrows of the primitive troglodytes and found our way to sea.

I told the bowman how I had been blinded by a great explosion of light, in my battle with the Nithhog, the monster god of the troglodytes. Even as I spoke of these things, I found myself rubbing the bandages Parimus had placed across my eyes at the termination of my last exposure to the healing rays of his miraculous lamp.

My eyes had not pained me now, for a long time—not since the swelling had gone down and the inflammations had ceased to be raw and tender. But now my blinded eyes itched annoyingly, as a numb limb tingles with the excruciating return of life and vigor.

“Perhaps, lad, your dressings need changing,” said homely little Klygon. “In all the fuss and worry of this long night, we have had no opportunity to renew the ointment. Be you certain, Zorak, his wizardship left you no fresh dressings for the lad’s poor eyes?”

The tall bowman slapped the leather pouch at his side.

“Dressings and bandages I have aplenty, friend Klygon,” he said. “We each carry emergency medical supplies with us on such an expedition as this.”

“Then, by all the Avatars and Saints, lad, sit you down here. Let me take off these dirty rags and fit you out afresh.” I seated myself on a block of stone and leaned back, gratefully yielding to his ministrations. Those gnarled and knotted hands, which had learned each one of the hundred skills of sudden death in the grim House of Gurjan Tor, were as tender and gentle as the hands of a woman.

He stripped away the old bandages, and cleansed the dried ointment from my eyes with a clean rag and fresh water from the canteen in Zorak’s battle-gear. And as he did so I cried aloud, in wonderment and joy—

For I saw the Green Star, rising!

For the first time in an endless eternity, or so it seemed, a ray of light had penetrated the unendurable blackness that surrounded me!

The heavens were a vault of silver mists, through which the shafts of emerald brilliance struck as the mighty orb climbed up the arch of the sky. And I could see the marvel of it!

Dim and vague at first—a mere blur of emerald and silver—but gradually, as I blinked my eyes into focus, the vision steadied and grew clearer, until at last every detail was as sharp and vivid as before the explosion of light had robbed me of my eyesight.

To this day, to this very hour, I cannot explain the miracle.

Perhaps it was only that my eyes were stunned and paralyzed for a time, by the unshielded explosion of brilliance. That they were not truly blinded at all; but that the optical nerves were merely strained beyond endurance by the light and shielded themselves for a time in darkness, as a mind strained beyond endurance will seek refuge in unconsciousness.

Or was it the beneficial action of the sea-water upon my injuries, acting as a natural antiseptic? Or, again, the miracle may be explained by the wonder-working art of Prince Parimus himself, and of his marvelous lamp; that was but one of the science marvels salvaged from the wreckage of the lost wisdom of the prehuman Kaloodha.

Whatever the explanation—I could see!

And almost in the same moment as I experienced the bliss and ecstacy of regaining my sight—those very eyes beheld a scene of mystery, horror and revelation.

Andar shouted; Eryon snatched up his sword and stared about. Then all eyes were turned upon the inexplicable thing above us, dark and ominous against the silver sky.

Out of the heavens, a weird and alien craft came floating down. It was like, and yet unlike, the skysled and the air yacht—a flying vehicle such as none of us had ever seen before.

In the clear luminance of dawn, we were able to see within the crystal shield of the cockpit, two persons struggling together.

One of these persons was a magnificently built, beautiful black man, whose noble features were distorted by a furious rage. Even as I stared at this unknown and mysterious being, Janchan at my side cried out his name in a mighty yell

“Ralidux!”

I had first heard of this sinister madman from the very lips of Janchan, only shortly before. The Phaolonese nobleman had told me of the insane passion the black immortal had conceived for the voluptuous loveliness of the Goddess Arjala.

In the next moment, the antagonist of Ralidux twisted about in the course of their struggle, so that I obtained a clear look at the second of the cabin’s occupants.

It was a young girl, perhaps a year or two younger than myself; with floating gossamer hair and an elfin face of heart-stopping beauty. A thousand questions seethed through my bewildered brain in that infinite moment; for the face of that girl was known to me, and so were the ragged remnants of a gown she wore, garments I had previously known by touch and texture alone!

In the struggle she was turned about so that she faced me; and as her eyes fell upon my face, they widened and she called my name aloud in tones of wonderment—and the voice was one whose soft, sweet music was very dear to my heart

“Shann!” I called, in a great shuddering thrill of wonder and amazement, even as Prince Janchan cried out yet another name

“Niamh!”

And I saw that it was truly so. The faceless girl on the isle, whom I had come to love, was none other than the lost Princess of Phaolon. I had known and loved her in another body, another life, another time!

Her amazement at recognizing me froze her in a posture of astonishment. In that instant, her black antagonist sprang upon her. They had been struggling for the controls, it was evident. From the torn strips of silvery cloth which still fluttered from her slim wrists, Ralidux had bound her; but from these bonds she had escaped.

Now, as we watched in frozen horror, unable to assist, the black immortal seized her slender body in his powerful arms and was about to thrust her over the side.

In that same instant, she drove her slim blade into his evil heart. It was that chaste, slim knife that every Laonese woman wears, ever concealed on her person.

Transfixed with incredulous shock, his superb features twisted into a snarling mask of fury, he staggered to his feet, releasing the girl, and fell from the cockpit of the idly drifting craft, hurled to his death on the rooftop.

Of us all, it was Zorak who saw the next player in this swift, astounding drama. The bowman raced across the rooftop, and clambered with agility up the stone limbs of the towering colossus. Only now did I see the stone idol of the Komarian divinity, which lifted its mighty limbs far above us.

And now, emerging from some secret hiding place in the idols’ head, appeared a trim figure which I recognized with a thrill of hatred. It was Delgan of the Isles!

In one hand he held the death-flash, the powerful zoukar he had stolen from me; when he had abandoned Klygon and myself to death by drowning, that time he had stolen our leaf-boat.

The drifting sky craft had floated near the outstretched arms of the stone god. Clambering out to the extremities of that limb, Delgan dropped into the cockpit beside the startled girl whom I loved.

She turned upon him like a tigress; they fought, while the sky craft drifted over the roof upon the morning breeze.

All the while, the powerful young bowman, Zorak, climbed up the stone colossus with the agility of an acrobat. He reached the hand of the idol and sprang into empty space—The outstretched fingers of one hand brushed the tail fins of the craft—slipped—clung!

With Zorak clinging to its tail, the sky craft floated out over the city. In the cabin, as it dwindled from our sight, Shann and the traitorous Delgan struggled for the controls.

The battle was still undecided, as the sky craft faded and was lost in the distance.