Renegade of Callisto

19 Unexpected Interruptions

For it was at that precise moment that the self-control of Gorpak broke.

The cowardly and treacherous chief of the Haroobs had stood there on the field all morning, trembling in abject terror of having to do battle with Borak, his dreaded blood-enemy.

The interminable chessgame had sapped his ability to stand and wait for doom. Finally, his nerve broke and he went momentarily mad. Uttering a harsh, maniacal scream, he flung down his shield and swung his whip-sword in a frenzied and cowardly blow against the back of his nearest opponent, which happened to be Valkar.

The Prince, of course, had turned his back on Gorpak to watch the unequal but incredibly daring battle which little Taran had been waging with the dreaded warlord of the Horde. The thought that the Haroob chief would try to sword him down from behind had never so much as entered Valkar’s mind.

The blow caught him across the arm and back and shoulder. He cried out and sagged forward upon his face. Blood spurted from the open wound, drenching the sand of the square in which he had fallen.

Suddenly―as we Earthlings would say―all hell broke loose.

Gorpak drew his arm back for another blow. But it never landed. For Borak the Yathoon, seeing his hated enemy’s cowardly blow fell the Prince from behind, sprang across the field and leaped upon him like a tiger. With one savage stroke of his sword he cleft the villainous Gorpak to the jaws, splitting his head in two.

Xara had whirled when Valkar was struck down. Lifting her bow, she had been about to put an arrow through the Black Chieftain.

At that moment, Norga, the Black Bowman, who stood only two squares from her position, lifted his own bow to slay the girl.

But that arrow never flew, for out of nowhere there was launched a living thunderbolt of purple fur. From the shadow of the trees, from which point of vantage he had lain patiently in concealment all this while, watching the deadly game of Darza, a mighty othode sprang and launched himself through space upon the Bowman.

Froglike mouth gaping wide, the iron jaws of the immense beast clamped down upon the head of Norga, and closed like a powerful vise, ripping his face away.

Bozo the othode had reached his friends at last.

No one was ever to know by what means the faithful and loyal-hearted beast had entered the Hidden Valley of Sargol.

Perhaps he had slunk across the iron drawbridge in the train of one or another of the Clan caravans, when they came one by one into the Valley. Or it may have been that his matchless instincts as a hunter had enabled the tireless othode to find a pathway through the ring of mountains that encircled Sargol.

Whatever the means whereby he had entered Sargol, Bozo could hardly have entered the bloody game at a better time. Now he raised his gory and dripping jaws from the corpse of Norga and lifted his deep-chested voice in a baying call.

From the pens of the Zajjadar some distance away there arose a mournful howl. A moment later wood shattered, and the gaunt form of Fido the othode came awkwardly gallumphing across the Darza field, trailing a broken length of chain. The two beasts sniffed each other warily, then Bozo, like an anxious parent, began licking his pup as if to make certain that he was unharmed. Fido wriggled ecstatically.

While the beasts cavorted, the humans and the arthropods stood in grim confrontation, measuring each other with their eyes, weapons drawn and brandished nakedly in the daylight.

Kamchan shakenly recovered his shattered composure. Stooping, he snatched up the whip-sword young Taran had knocked out of his hand, and, without deigning to so much as glance at the young boy who had come so perilously close to besting him in the duello, he stalked with chilly composure back to his own end of the field.

The only living persons on that field were Koja and the five members of his team. All of Kamchan’s warriors of the Black had been slain.

“I declare that Koja’s players have forfeited the game,” said Kamchan in loud tones―once he was clear and out of reach. “The penalty is, of course, death. Archers, strike them down!”

The bowmen, who stood along the forefront of the throng gathered to view the strangest game of Darza ever played, there to keep order and to see that the game was played according to the rules, now stepped forward at their Arkon’s command, raising their bows.

And lowered them, hesitantly, uncertainly.

For this was against the rules.

Again Kamchan in a loud voice commanded them to perform their duty. But this time a tall, plumed warrior stepped forth. It was Gorja, high chief of the Angkang Clan.

“One moment, my Arkon,” said this personage in cool, level tones.

“Why this interruption, O Gorja?” snarled Kamchan.

Imperturbably, the Angkang chief turned to address the other chiefs of his rank, the leaders of the Horde―excluding, for the moment, Koja himself.

“I am no more expert in the game of Darza than are many here,” said Gorja, “but to my eye it does not seem that the Reds forfeited the game, for it had already been forfeited by the Blacks.”

“What do you mean?” Kamchan demanded, glowering.

“My meaning is that when Gorpak the Haroob struck down the Red Swordsman there”―and he pointed to the fallen Valkar, who lay with his head pillowed on the lap of Xara while the Ganatolian girl strove to stanch his dreadful wounds―“that Gorpak struck out of turn. It was not the Blacks’ turn to move. By moving, he broke the rules of Darza, and it seems to my judgment that the game is forfeited and that the victory must go to the Reds.”

Kamchan literally foamed at the mouth in maniacal rage and fury. Then, mastering himself, he said:

“And I suppose the Reds did not forfeit the game by employing their beast to strike down the Black Bowman?” he sneered, nodding to where the faceless corpse of Norga lay sprawled in a pool of reeking gore.

“Who has established that the beast belongs to the Reds?” replied Gorja calmly. “It seems to me that the appearance of the othode upon the field was as much a surprise to the Reds as it was to the unfortunate Norga.”

Kamchan could answer only with a strangled grunt, so choleric was the emotion which gripped him by the throat.

“In such an event as this,” suggested Gorja equably, “it seems only fair that the opinions of the chiefs of the Horde be consulted, excluding only Koja of the Kandars, since his own fate is involved. And, of course, excluding also the Haroobs, who have no chief, since Gorpak has been slain.”

That left only three other Clans whose leaders were to be consulted, the Angkang, the Zajjadar, and the Thorome. And the Zajjadar Clan, of course, was the Clan to which Kamchan had originally belonged.

The vote was quickly taken.

Erza of the Thoromes gave as his opinion that the Blacks had forfeited the victory when Gorpak treacherously struck out of turn, and declared the Reds to be the winners.

Yazar of the Zajjadars, however, believed that the Reds had lost when they employed Bozo the othode. His position was precisely contrary to the facts; however, he proved adamant.

Gorja of the Angkangs announced that, in his opinion, the Blacks had cheated and had forfeited the victory to the Reds.

Then it was that, entirely unexpected, a fourth voice spoke up:

“I, Fanga of the Garukhs, declare with Yazar that the Reds have forfeited their victory!”

Koja and the others stared about with amazement. For, insofar as they had known, Fanga, their former captor, had been trampled to death beneath the thundering hooves of the stampeding vanth. How, then, came he here alive?

However he had escaped the almost certain doom, there he stood, with a half a dozen of his warriors ranged about him. And he could not possibly have entered the Sargol at a less opportune time―from the viewpoint of Koja and the others, that is. For there were now four chiefs to vote on the forfeiture, and Fanga’s malice toward his former captive, who had since risen to the highest position among the despised and hated Kandars, was so vehement that he had sided instinctively with Koja’s enemies.

And the vote stood evenly divided, two for the Reds and two for the Blacks. It was a stalemate.

Which could only be broken in one way.

Koja stepped forward and threw down his sword in the immemorial challenge.

“Let us resolve this dispute by continuing the contest in the form of hand-to-hand combat between the Arkon and myself,” he said in clear, ringing tones, “since the farce of the game of Darza has been accidentally ended and cannot be resumed. Decide, O Chiefs!”

There was only one decision possible, and it was soon made.

Valkar, now unconscious and seriously injured, was tenderly borne from the Arena by Kadar and Xara and Taran, accompanied by the two othodes.

There are no physicians among the Yathoon Horde, for such is their callous and inhuman indifference to suffering that an injured warrior, even of their own kind, is left to die untended. But among the captives of the Zajjadars there was a fat Soraban who had been a doctor of medicine in his native city by the sea, and Koja directed that he be requested to attend the wounded prince.

Zothon the Arzomian hurried off to fetch this individual, whose name was Yetzl. The fat, fussy little red man examined Valkar’s wounds and found them serious but not, with luck, fatal. Gorpak’s blow had been across Valkar’s back and shoulders, which were unprotected by mail. However, the thick, tough leather of Valkar’s wide baldric and the criss-cross straps of his war harness had deterred the stroke just enough to prevent it from crippling the Shondakorian. Very quickly the bleeding was stanched and the cut cleansed and treated with healing herbs and salves, and sewn shut with many stitches.

Valkar was taken into Koja’s own tent, with Xara and Doctor Yetzl to attend to his needs.

The corpses of Gorpak and the other dead were now removed from the field, and the markings of the Darza gaming squares and rows were obliterated. The fine sand was raked smooth, and Koja and Kamchan faced each other, swords in hand.

Koja was calmly aware that this would probably be the single most important battle that he had ever fought, or would ever fight. For if he was defeated by Kamchan, it meant not only his own death but the deaths of them all―Xara, Valkar, Taran, Kadar, and undoubtedly the two burly othodes, as well.

But if he defeated Kamchan, he would become the uncontested Arkon of the Horde, and. it was well within the scope of his powers to set his friends free and even to escort them back to Shondakor the Golden.

Koja was a matchless swordsman and a great champion. But Kamchan was accounted the greatest fighting man in all of the Yathoon Horde, and had defeated and slain dozens of warriors who had striven to replace him.

If Koja won, or if he fell, it was va lu rokka―“destined.” And he felt no fear, only a firm and unshaken determination to slay the tyrant so that his friends might go free. For their lives were in his hands, and the lives of one’s friends are a heavy burden for any warrior to bear.

The two combatants were armed with spear, whip. sword, war axe, and a long stiletto or poignard. Each bore a small round buckler of light weight, fashioned from tough, lacquered leather tightly stretched over a wicker frame, securely strapped to his left forelimb. Other than this, they were naked.

Kamchan struck first with his spear, which he hurled point-blank at his opponent, hoping to take him off guard. But Koja stood his ground without flinching, merely batting the hurtling shaft aside with his own spear.

Then he advanced upon Kamchan, jabbing with his spear, forcing the other to give ground. They circled each other until, with a lucky stroke, Kamchan caught the wooden shaft of Koja’s spear with a whistling stroke of his whip-sword and snapped it in half.

Koja flung the butt of the spear in Kamchan’s face. And when he lifted his shield to catch and deflect the spear butt, Koja sprang upon him, aiming a deadly stroke with his long, whipping sword.

However, it did not land, for with one remarkable flexion of his double-jointed, insectlike legs, Kamchan leaped backward and avoided the slashing stroke.

Then Koja ran forward and sprang directly over Kamchan’s head, striking downward with his whipsword as he soared above his foe. Kamchan caught the stroke upon his shield, but it was deeply slashed―cut almost through by the stinging fury of Koja’s stroke.

Coming lightly to earth a few paces behind Kamchan, Koja leaped upon him and hurled a rain of furious strokes. Some Kamchan deflected with his own blade, others fell upon his buckler, which was coming apart by now. Kamchan reeled dazedly beneath the storm of steel: never in all his days, it seemed to the Arkon, had he faced so tireless or indomitable an opponent.

Suddenly, he sprang forward to close with Koja, striking out, as he did so, with his war axe, which Koja caught upon his shield. So terrific was the force of Kamchan’s blow, however, that it clove entirely through Koja’s buckler and wounded his forearm slightly.

Koja untied and cast away the ruined shield, and now for an interminable time the two fought with sword alone. The chiming of steel upon steel-war’s cold, ferocious music―filled the tense silence which was otherwise broken only by the shuffle of their feet in the dry sand and the hoarse panting of their breathing.

Then Kamchan aimed a savage slash at Koja’s face, but it was a ruse. For he deflected the weapon from its path at the last possible moment and caught Koja across tile left shoulder―a crippling blow. But the “shoulder” of a Yathoon’s arm is shielded by Nature with a heavy cusp of chitinous armor that covers the joint. This was cut through, but the blade did not sink deep into the shoulder itself, quite possibly crippling Koja for life, because Koja permitted himself to roll with the blow while his natural covering of chitin absorbed the worst punishment of the stroke.

Nevertheless, his arm went numb and strengthless, and blood trickled down the paralyzed limb.

Scenting the heady aroma of victory, Kamchan now moved in for an attack of such savagery and utter ferocity that Koja could only fall back from it, helpless, with just his sword-arm to defend himself.

Then Koja tripped and fell backward, sprawling in the sand, and as he did so, he lost his sword. It whirled away, thudding to the floor of the Arena some dozen feet away.

Kamchan would have smiled then, a cold, gloating, cruel smile, but Nature did not design the visage of her most savage children with the ability to smile. Eyes gleaming with cold blood-lust, he stood over the fallen Koja and raised his whip-sword in both hands, to bring it down in one great slashing blow that would end the battle and the life of Koja.

As he raised his sword he also raised his eyes.

And something he saw in the skies caused him to gape incredulously. His timing faltered, his sword wavered.

And Koja, from the ground, seized this momentary diversion. Snatching his stiletto from its scabbard on his harness, he struck upward, sinking the needle of hard steel to the hilt in Kamchan’s abdomen.

A hoarse cry roared from twenty thousand throats as the Arkon, already dead, wavered drunkenly on his feet, then fell over, and lay face down in the dry sand. From his belly a pool of scarlet gore spread, and the sand sucked in the moisture of his heart’s blood.

Koja got to his feet, bent, and severed the head of Kamchan completely from his shoulders.

Koja-Arkon of the Horde!

Chiefs and chieftains and warriors stalked to where he stood, to kneel before him, offering their swords, giving their new Arkon their loyalty and allegiance.

Koja solemnly accepted their vows and permitted them to place upon his head the triple-plumed headdress of the Arkonate.

But from time to time he raised his head from where he stood surrounded by groveling chieftains and warriors, to stare up into the sky, even as Kamchan had done for one brief―and ultimately fatal―instant.

Staring up to where the lone ornithopter, the Shondakor, floated weightlessly above the Hidden Valley of Sargol.

And looking directly into the smiling eyes and relieved and friendly features of Jandar of Callisto―the man who had taught him the meaning, and the value, of friendship and of love.