TEN DAYS had elapsed since the fall of Huitsen. On the day following their victory, the ships and warriors of the allies had sailed away. Only a part of the Olban air fleet remained, while Grandon, Vernia, Zinlo, Loralie, Kantar, and Narine stayed at the palace as the guests of the new Rogo. Now Han Lay stood on the palace steps, surrounded by his nobles and officers, to bid his friends farewell.
Zinlo’s flagship had descended to the ground, and two of its aluminum staircases had been lowered. Up one of these a number of Huitsenni struggled with two heavy, coffin-like chests, and passed them to the waiting Olbans.
Farewells were said, and, one by one, Han Lay’s guests mounted the other stairway. The stairs were raised, the doors were closed, and the mighty airship shot skyward, while the people cheered and the palace mattorks thundered a farewell salute.
At an elevation of about two thousand feet, the flagship darted seaward, followed by the fleet, which had been hovering above the palace.
Installed in his luxurious cabin, Zinlo’s guests sipped kova and chatted gayly. Having seen to their comforts, the Torrogo of Olba climbed to the forward turret to note their progress.
Presently Grandon joined him. “Are you sure we can catch San Thoy before he reaches the rendezvous,” he asked.
“Positive,” Zinlo replied. “We have already covered half the distance.”
“Marvellous! How fast will these things go, anyway?”
“Earth distance and time, about a thousand miles an hour. In Olba, the speed is reckoned in rotations of the planet at its equator, or fractions thereof. Our smallest and slowest ships make at least a quarter of a rotation. This one can easily do a rotation.”
“I thought the shoreline of Huitsen receded pretty fast, but I didn’t know it was quite that speedy. Look! We’re passing over a fleet, now.”
“That’s Ad of Tyrhana, ready to attack Zanaloth from the south. See that fleet over to the west? That’s Aardvan spoiling for a fight. Your own ships are over at your right, and the fleet that set sail from Reabon under your orders should be within twenty-five miles of the north coast of the Island of the Valkars by now.”
“Why, there’s San Thoy’s ship, already.”
“Right. We’ll ascend and do a little scouting before we drop you off.”
He gave several swift orders to his Romojak. Then the entire fleet of aircraft shot skyward, and entered the lowest cloud stratum.
Looking down through the thin veil of vapor, Grandon presently descried an island, the Island of the Valkars. Anchored off its tiny harbor was a single battleship, flying the flag of Mernerum. But behind a jutting promontory, only a little way off, fully fifty big battleships lurked.
“It’s just as you thought,” said Zinlo, at sight of the concealed ships. “Either Zanaloth was afraid of treachery on the part of the Huitsenni, or he intended treachery toward them. He came prepared for trouble, in any event.”
They cruised toward the north a few minutes longer, and Grandon saw another fleet, consisting of fully a hundred splendid battleships, the pride of Reabon’s navy, sailing toward the island. Zinlo saw them, too, and immediately gave orders to turn back.
“All is ready,” he said. “Now, if you still insist, I’ll put you on San Thoy’s ship, but I can’t for the life of me see the sense of it. We’ve got them bottled up, anyway, and it won’t be much of a job to lick them.”
“I’ll tell you why I insist on carrying out my plan,” replied Grandon. “It’s the only way I can make sure of meeting my worst enemy face to face.”
“I see. You want the pleasure of killing him, yourself. Well, I don’t blame you.”
They paused, at this moment, above the bat-winged vessel which Han Lay had lent to Grandon, and Zinlo gave orders for them to descend.
Lightly the airship dropped beside the vessel. Grappling irons were tossed aboard, and the two stairways let down. Grandon bade his friends good-bye, and took Vernia in his arms. She clung to him at the door—begged him not to go.
“You are putting your head in the mouth of a marmelot,” she said. “Why not capture him first, then deal with him afterward? I’m afraid for you.”
“And I,” replied Grandon, “am afraid he might otherwise escape me. This way, he will not.”
As he descended the ladder, San Thoy stood on the deck to greet him, mumbling kerra spores and grinning toothlessly. In the meantime, the two casket-like chests which had been brought in the airship were lowered to the deck of the vessel. The stairs were drawn up and the grappling irons cast off.
Grandon waved farewell to his friends, and entered the cabin of the bowing San Thoy.
Zanaloth, dissolute Torrogo of Mernerum, sat at the gold-topped table in the luxurious cabin of his flagship, sipping kova. Oglo, Romojak of the Imperial Navy, stood at attention, awaiting his pleasure.
Presently the dissipated Torrogo turned his bloated countenance toward his chief naval officer, and said: “The time is nearly at hand, Oglo. Are you positive that everything is ready?”
“Positive, Your Majesty. A thousand warriors are concealed in the hold, awaiting instructions. Our fleet lurks in readiness to come to us under full sail at the boom of the first mattork.”
Zanaloth emptied his kova bowl and smacked his thick, sensuous lips. “Very good. Very good, indeed. If the pirates come in a single ship, as we agreed, we can capture it. If they mean treachery, and have other vessels standing by to attack us, they will be easily taken care of by our battle fleet.
“Now let us review your instructions, so there will be no mistakes. As soon as the pirates display the royal prisoner, we will request that she be brought aboard our vessel. They, on their side, will no doubt insist that the gold be transferred to their ship. We will agree to this, and begin transferring the gold. But as soon as the Princess of Reabon is safely inside this cabin, I will enter in and close the door. That will be your signal to attack. Let the warriors take the place of the gold-passers and charge into the other ship. See that you have plenty of grappling irons aboard her, so she cannot slip away from us. And don’t forget to go into action immediately with the mattorks, so the battle fleet will know they are to start at once.”
“To hear Your Majesty is to obey,” replied Oglo.
“And remember. Every man aboard the pirate vessel must die. If need be, we will sink their ship, but first we must try to get back what gold has been taken aboard her. As for the slaves we are supposed to have put ashore for them, the pirates will not live to look for them. We will have both the girl and the gold, and the Rogo of Huitsen will perhaps guess that he has been beaten at his own game, but he will have no proof.”
“I will not forget, Majesty.”
“If your head fails you in this, I promise it will no longer remain on your shoulders to trouble you. Go, now, and watch for that ship.”
Oglo made profound obeisance, and withdrew.
Zanaloth fidgeted impatiently. Presently he quaffed another bowl of kova and getting ponderously to his feet, paced the floor.
Suddenly the door was flung open, and Oglo, bowing on the threshold announced breathlessly: “A sail, Majesty! A pirate sail!”
Zanaloth grunted. “So! They come to the rendezvous at last.”
He squeezed his ample girth through the doorway, and walked forward, Oglo following at a respectful distance. Then he took the glass which his Romojak obsequiously proffered, and focused it on the approaching vessel. Traveling under full sail before a stiff breeze, it was making considerable speed.
“Bones of Thorth!” he exclaimed. “We must save that splendid ship, if possible. It flies over the water like an ormf. A few alterations, and it will never be recognized.”
As if its commander had no suspicion of treachery, the pirate ship sailed swiftly up to them, hove to, and dropped its anchors. An officer came out of a cabin, wearing the uniform of a romojak, and Zanaloth hailed him.
“Are you Thid Yet, Romojak of Huitsen,” he asked.
“No, I am San Thoy, Romojak of Huitsen,” was the reply. “Thid Yet is dead, and I have come to keep the rendezvous in his place.”
“You have brought the royal slave girl?”
“We have, Your Majesty. And what of the gold?”
“We stand ready to deliver it to you. But first let me see the royal prisoner.”
“What of the slaves you were to place on the island for us?”
“They are there, under guard, awaiting your pleasure. But let us see your prisoner.”
“Very well, Majesty.”
San Thoy went into a cabin, and remained for several minutes. Then he came out, alone. “She has fainted, Your Majesty. Will you not come aboard and see her?”
“Ha! What’s this? Perhaps you have not brought her, after all.”
“Well then, if you doubt my word, I’ll have her carried out, so you may view her.”
He raised his hand, and a mojak entered the cabin. He came out in a moment, followed by four Huitsenni, who bore a litter on which reposed the golden-haired, richly clad figure of a young woman.
Zanaloth stared until he was watery-eyed. Then he focused his glass on the recumbent figure and stared again.
“By the blood and body of Thorth!” he exclaimed to Oglo. “It is she. It must be. For nowhere on Zorovia is there beauty such as hers.” To San Thoy he called: “I am satisfied. Let us draw the ships together with grappling irons. My men are ready to unload the gold.”
Irons were quickly hurled from ship to ship, and the chains, drawn taut by hand-turned winches, gradually drew the two vessels together. This achieved gangplanks were dropped across, fore and aft, and Zanaloth’s men began carrying bars of gold to the pirate ship from the after hold, to be checked, weighed, and received by members of the yellow crew.
For some time Zanaloth and San Thoy chatted across the rails. Then the latter said: “Nearly half the gold is unloaded. Shall we convey Her Majesty to the quarters you have provided for her?”
This was precisely what Zanaloth wanted, but he did not wish to appear too eager. “At your convenience,” he replied. “The cabin behind me has been prepared for her.”
San Thoy signaled to the officer who stood near the recumbent figure. The officer gave a command, and four Huitsenni took up the litter, while four more came out from the cabin and fell in behind them with a heavy, ornate chest about seven feet in length.
“What is in that chest?” asked Zanaloth, suspiciously.
“A few of Her Majesty’s belongings,” replied San Thoy. “Mostly wearing apparel and ornaments.”
San Thoy himself crossed the gangplank ahead of the others.
“This cabin?” he asked, indicating the door of Zanaloth’s cabin.
“That is right. Just leave her in there, and I’ll call the ship’s doctor to attend her in a moment.”
Zanaloth drank in the beauty of the recumbent girlish form as it was borne past him. “How still she is!” he thought. “Perhaps she is dead, and they have tricked me.” But a searching look at the red lips and pink cheeks reassured him. “No corpse could have such bloom of life and health as this,” he reasoned.
Under the supervision of their officer, the eight men placed the litter and the large chest in the cabin. Then they retired.
“You will excuse me,” said Zanaloth, formally, “if I go to examine the merchandise I have purchased at so high a price.”
“Assuredly,” replied San Thoy. “I will, in the meantime, take a closer look at the gold with which it was purchased.” He bowed low, with right hand extended palm downward, and turning, crossed the plank to his own ship.
Zanaloth watched his broad back with a supercilious sneer, until he had reached his own vessel. Then, with a significant glance at Oglo, he swung on his heel, and entering his cabin, slammed the door shut behind him. The boom of a mattork outside, instantly followed his action. It was succeeded by shouts, commands, shrieks, and groans, mingled with the popping of torks, the clash of blades, the scurrying feet on deck, and the rumble of mattorks. He smiled cunningly as he thought of the splendid prize which his concealed warriors would take so easily, and of the very slight expense at which he had been to secure the golden-haired beauty who lay at his mercy on the litter before him.
He crossed the room, and kneeling, touched a rosy cheek. Then he drew back his hand with a sharp exclamation of surprise. The face was as hard and cold as if it had been hewn from marble.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and closed with a grip that made him wince. He was jerked to his feet, and spun around to face a tall, handsome stranger, who wore the scarlet of royalty and the insignia of the imperial house of Reabon.
“Who—who are you?” he stammered, his trembling voice barely audible above the din of battle outside.
“I am Grandon of Terra, Torrogo of Reabon, and husband of her whom you would have wronged—whose graven image you just now profaned by the touch of your filthy hand.”
Behind Grandon, the ornate chest under which the four Huitsenni had staggered stood with the lid thrown back, empty. Zanaloth’s gaze roved from this to the door, as he realized the manner in which Grandon had gained access to his cabin. He leaped for the door, but found it locked. Grandon reached in his belt-pouch and held up the key.
“Wha—what do you want?” asked Zanaloth.
“I have come for your head,” replied the Earth-man, whipping out his scarbo. “On guard, if you have the manhood left to defend it.”
With trembling fingers, Zanaloth drew his own scarbo. In his youth he had been accounted an excellent scarboman. But that day was long past. Years of dissipation and luxurious living had made him short of breath and flabby of muscle. And he knew that there were few, if any, of the most expert duelists on Zorovia who could meet Grandon of Terra, scarbo in hand, and live to boast of it. Only a trick, a sudden, unexpected move, might save him. He came on guard, but before the blades had touched, lowered his point.
“You may choose between—” Grandon began. But just then Zanaloth raised his weapon and lunged at his opponent’s unprotected body. Grandon had no time to parry this vicious and cowardly thrust. Barely in time to avert disaster, he hurled himself to one side, so that the point only grazed him. Zanaloth automatically recovered his stance as Grandon now attacked. For a moment, it seemed to the Mernerumite that the blade of his opponent had wrapped itself around his own. Then his weapon was twisted from his grasp, and flew through the air to alight in a corner of the cabin. Zanaloth started back, his eyes wide with terror, as the point of the Earth-man plunged straight for his breast. But Grandon stopped the thrust, and contented himself with merely touching his antagonist.
The din of battle had increased outside, but neither man heeded it.
“I suggest that you pick up your scarbo,” said Grandon, “and that hereafter you keep a tighter grip on it.”
Furtively watching his generous opponent, Zanaloth slunk to the corner and recovered his weapon. He knew that he could not hope to win this fight, that death had him marked for its own. Great beads of sweat standing out on his forehead betrayed the fear that gripped his craven heart.
At his left side, as at Grandon’s, there hung a jeweled, gold-plated tork. Suddenly he lowered his left hand, gripped the weapon, and was about to press the firing-button when a projectile struck his wrist, numbing it, and paralyzing his fingers. With incredible swiftness, Grandon had again forestalled him.
Seeing that he had rendered the Mernerumite’s tork hand useless, Grandon lowered his own weapon. “Since you can no longer fight with the tork,” he said, politely, “perhaps we had best resume with the scarbo.” He advanced, and once more their blades met. “I advise you,” continued Grandon, mechanically cutting, thrusting, and parrying, “to guard well your head, as I have promised it to the Rogo of Huitsen. A little gift to recompense him for the loss of much gold and many slaves. But then the head of a Torrogo is a rare and truly royal gift, even if its intrinsic worth is trifling.”
Zanaloth said nothing. He was fighting with all his strength, yet the Earth-man was only playing with him. Suddenly Grandon’s blade flashed in a swift moulinet, touched the Mernerumite’s neck, and was withdrawn, without so much as drawing blood. But to Grandon’s surprise, his antagonist dropped his weapon and sank to the floor, limp, and apparently lifeless.
For some time the Earth-man stood there, waiting, suspecting a trick. But as his opponent continued motionless, he bent and felt a flabby wrist, then held his hand over the heart. There was no pulse. Zanaloth of Mernerum was dead, not slain by the scarbo, but by a weapon that is often more deadly, that always tortures before it kills—fear.
Grandon rose to his feet and sheathed his bloodless blade. Then, taking the key from his belt-pouch, he opened the cabin door and stepped out on deck. San Thoy was waiting there to greet him. The fighting had ceased, and the Huitsenni worked side by side with his own Fighting Traveks who had been concealed in the hold of their ship. They were tossing the corpses of the slain Mernerumites overboard, tending the wounded, and guarding the prisoners.
A large aerial battleship dropped beside them. Grappling irons were cast aboard, and an aluminum stairway was lowered. Zinlo stood in the doorway.
“The battle fleet of Mernerum has surrendered,” he said. “Coming aboard?”
“Immediately,” replied Grandon. With one foot on the stairway, he turned to San Thoy. “Good-bye, my friend,” he said. “Come and visit me in Reabon. Oh, by the way! You will find the gift I promised Han Lay on the floor of Zanaloth’s cabin. Present it to him with my compliments.”
San Thoy bowed low, and grinned toothlessly, as Grandon mounted the stairs.
The next day, Grandon sat at the crystal-topped table in the drawing room of his private apartments in the imperial palace of Reabon.
Bonal, his torrango, or prime minister, appeared in the doorway and made obeisance. “The messenger has arrived from Mernerum, Your Majesty,” he announced.
“I’ll receive him here,” replied Grandon. “And by the way, Bonal, ask Zinlo of Olba to come in now. I want him to be present at the interview.”
A few moments later, Bonal announced: “His Imperial Majesty, Zinlo of Olba, and Mojak Sed of the staff of Orthad, Supreme Romojak of Reabon.”
Zinlo entered, followed by a young Reabonian officer. The Torroga of Olba took a seat at the table, and the democratic Grandon invited the young officer also to be seated, knowing it would not offend his equally democratic guest.
“You bring a message from Orthad?” Grandon asked.
“I do, Majesty. He bids me inform you that we took Mernerum with ease. The people were sick of the tyrannous Zanaloth, and most of them actually welcomed us. We were delayed only by the difficulties which arise in moving so large an army. The fighting was but desultory, and there were few casualties.”
“What was the attitude of the nobles and officials?”
“They begged that Mernerum be annexed to Reabon, or if this should not comport with Your Majesty’s wishes, that you name a competent Torrogo to rule them. So as soon as Kantar the Gunner arrived in the Olban airship, His Excellency named him Torrogo, in accordance with Your Majesty’s commands. He was later acclaimed by the nobles, warriors, and people without a dissenting voice.
“What of the other ceremony?”
“It has been performed, Majesty. And Her Majesty invites all to attend the feast which will be held this evening.”
“Did you bring with you a messenger from the new Torroga?”
“I did, Your Majesty. He awaits your permission to present his missive to Ad of Tyrhana.”
“Good. You may go now. And send this messenger to me.”
The mojak arose, and making the customary obeisance, withdrew.
“Thus far,” Grandon told Zinlo, “our plot has worked out. It remains to be seen how Ad of Tyrhana will take the news.” He called a guard. “Have Bonal usher in Their Majesties of Tyrhana and Adonijar,” he commanded.
“I can tell you how Ad will take it,” said Zinlo. “He’ll take it as a marmelot takes a slap on the nose. But it was the only thing to do.”
A moment later, Ad and Aardvan were ushered in by Bonal. A slave brought kova, and the four Torrogos were chatting merrily over their bowls when Bonal announced: “A messenger from Her Imperial Majesty for the Torrogo of Tyrhana.”
“What’s this?” exclaimed Ad. “I didn’t know Zanaloth left a widow. And why should she send a messenger to me?”
“Perhaps an interview with the messenger will explain,” rumbled the deep voice of Aardvan.
“True. Show him in, Bonal.”
The messenger, who wore the uniform of a mojak of the Imperial Guards of Mernerum, made obeisance to all four of the rulers. His puzzled look showed that he did not know which one to address.
“I am the Torrogo of Tyrhana,” said Ad. “I believe your message is for me.”
“It is, Your Majesty.” The mojak took a small scroll from his belt-pouch and handed it to Ad. “From Her Imperial Majesty, the Torroga of Mernerum,” he said.
Ad broke the seal and unrolled the missive. First he looked puzzled, then astounded, then fiercely angry. His face purpled and his brow contracted. “Blood of Thorth!” he exploded. “Narine has eloped with that young upstart of a gunner, and married him!”
“She could have done worse,” soothed Grandon. “The gunner is now Torrogo of Mernerum.”
“The little she-marmelot! The traitor! The ungrateful child! I’ll disown her! I’ll—I’ll—”
“Tut, tut,” said Aardvan. “I think she has made a splendid match.”
“But what of Gadrimel? What of our pact that my daughter and your son should wed?”
“I don’t like to mention this,” replied Aardvan, “but Gadrimel picked up a slave girl in Huitsen and brought her here with him. Zena, I believe he called her, an ex-concubine of Yin Yin’s. I told him to get rid of her, and last night they both disappeared. Later, I learned that they had gone for a cruise in one of my ships.”
“Um,” grunted Ad, non-committally.
“So you see,” continued Aardvan, “their marriage would have been impossible, anyway. Besides, we need no marriage to comment the firm friendship between us. And think, you will now have as an additional ally the wealthy and powerful Torrogo of Mernerum, your son-in-law.”
“That’s right, Your Majesty,” said Zinlo. “Forgive the child, and let’s pile into one of my ships and attend the wedding feast tonight, all of us.”
“What! You, too? This has all the earmarks of a conspiracy,” said Ad.
Grandon filled the kova bowls all around, then took up his own, and said: “My friends, let us drink to the health and happiness of the charming young bride and the lucky bridegroom.”
Zinlo and Aardvan drained their bowls.
Ad hesitated for a moment, then caught up his own bowl and emptied it with apparent gusto. “Our work is done,” he said. “The power of the pirates is broken, and the port of peril is no more. Let us on to the wedding feast.”
THE END