PRINCE DESTHO, now provisional emperor of Reabon, moved his slender, leonine form to a more comfortable position on the scarlet cushions of his throne and turned his countenance in the direction of Zueppa, as he smiled a doubting smile.
“Do you expect me to believe such a wild tale as this, knave?” he growled. “Authentic reports had it that she and her four guards were devoured by a reptile nearly a year ago.”
“I swear by the sacred bones of Thorth that it is she and none other. Having seen her daily at the Imperial Court of Reabon, how could I forget her?”
“Granted that the woman you found resembles the Princess of Reabon, how could it be possible that if lost in the mountains of Uxpo she would be discovered wandering on the edge of the great salt marsh along the Azpok Ocean?”
“I can only recount the facts, your majesty, and let your own eyes bear me witness when you see her. We were just preparing for our evening meal when this girl suddenly appeared from the mouth of a nearby cave. At sight of the men and torches she turned and attempted to escape, but tripped over a creeper and two of our men caught her before she could rise. As she was clad from head to foot in shining brown armor, I at first took her for a youth, but upon removing her helmet, discovered her identity, while concealing my own. After ordering the captain to bring her here unharmed, I hurried ahead to apprise your majesty of the good news.”
“Do any of the men know who she is?”
“None recognized her, and I was careful not to betray her identity until I had learned your majesty’s intentions:”
“You have done well, Zueppa, and if she proves to be Vernia of Reabon you shall be highly rewarded. She must not, however, be brought here to the capital. The risk would be too great. Take her, instead, to my castle in my own kingdom, where every man is loyal to me, and where escape will be impossible. Matters of state delay me here, but I will be able to visit my castle in a few days. Take one of my swiftest motor vehicles and change the guard at the International Bridge before her arrival, posting only men from my own kingdom.”
That evening, while Zueppa sipped his wine in the guard house at the international bridge, a small party of huntsmen arrived and presented their passports. With them were two prisoners, a beautiful girl clad in brown armor, and a huge, hairy marsh-man, whose sole article of attire was a loin cloth.
The young captain, after examining the passports of the huntsmen, looked at the prisoners. “And who are these?”
Vernia threw back her visor.
“The soldiers of Reabon do not question their rulers,” she said.
The captain stared in open-mouthed amazement, then turned to a soldier who came up behind him.
“A striking resemblance to our princess,” he muttered.
“She is an impostor,” said the soldier. “Were we not warned of her coming?”
Vernia glanced imperiously at the two men before her. “Have you forgotten the homage due your princess? Procure me a fast motor vehicle at once and have done with your insolence if you would see the light of another day.”
Both men quickly bowed, with right hand extended, palm downward. Then a figure darted swiftly up behind them and kicked the bowing captain over on his face. In a flash Vernia recognized Zueppa.
“How now, idiots?” he shouted. “You were warned by our worthy sovereign, Destho, yet you make obeisance before this impostor. Seize and bind her as you were ordered.”
With a growl of fury, the hairy marsh-man leaped for the wily commander, but a score of soldiers rushed in and soon had him bound and helpless.
“Where did you get this brute, huntsmen?” asked Zueppa, looking at the still-struggling marsh-man.
“We captured him in the woods as he tried to steal our prisoner from us.”
“Bring him to the castle of Prince Destho,” he commanded. Then he lifted Vernia into his swift motor vehicle and sped away.
Some hours later the vehicle drew up before a massive gate. Zueppa answered the challenge of the guard and the lifting motors hummed sonorously. Vernia, half fainting, was taken from the vehicle and carried through a low arched doorway and along a dimly lighted corridor to a sparsely furnished suite of rooms where she was given over to the none-too-tender care of a tall, gaunt female slave.
The slave carefully locked the steel door and put the key in her belt pouch. For the first time in history, a ruler of Reabon was a prisoner within the borders of the empire.
On the evening of the sixth day, Vernia lay face downward on her couch when footsteps sounded in the corridor. Her armor and hunting suit had been taken from her and replaced with the scarlet apparel of a princess. She sat up as a man entered—Prince Destho.
“Greetings, fair cousin,” he said, placing a tray before her and locking the door. Destho had always been handsome in a flashy sort of way. Now as he stood in the gold and scarlet raiment of a rogi of Reabon, Vernia marveled at the change in his bearing.
“Your insolence is in keeping with your treason,” she said.
“A thousand pardons if I have offended you, but I could not properly make obeisance in your presence, since our positions are reversed. Last year, you ruled supreme in Reabon; today I rule. I expect from you the deference due your sovereign.”
“Expectation is far from realization,” she replied.
“We shall see. There are ways of taming a proud spirit which may not have occurred to you—but pray do not force me to speak of them. I have come to offer you a pleasant and honorable way out of your difficulty.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“It would have been easy to kill you, you know. My associates urged that course, but I would not listen to them. The throne was my ambition, but I sought more than that—to wed the most beautiful woman in all Zarovia.” He raised his hand. “Hear me out, fair cousin; you cannot reverse history now. In ten days I will be Emperor of Reabon, while you are an expatriate. You know the laws that bind even the supreme ruler. The expatriate is an outcast, subject to seizure as a slave by the first free citizen who discovers him—or her. I would save you from that indignity.”
“And what is this pleasant and honorable way out of the difficulty?”
“A marriage to your future emperor before the ten days are up. I will make you my empress, and together we will rule the mightiest empire in all Zarovia.”
“So you would return the half of my birthright in exchange for my hand in marriage. It is a most magnanimous offer.”
“It is far from being the worst I could make you. Where, on all Zarovia, could you find a man better suited to be your mate? My royal blood is on a par with yours. My bravery has been proved by the very coup that has placed you in my power. As for my looks, I assure you there are a thousand beautiful damsels who do not think me unhandsome and would jump at the offer I am making you.”
“Your royal blood is an accident of birth, and your bravery is that of a man who seeks combat with those weaker than himself. I spurn your offer, traitor Destho. Pray, leave me now. Spare me the further insult of your insufferable presence.”
Destho cleared the space between them and seized her roughly by the shoulders, forcing her back on the scarlet couch. “Take heed, lest the insult of my presence become a reality. I could . . . ”
His words were cut short by the thunder of a heavy fist on the steel door. Furiously, he released the half-fainting girl and answered the summons, opening the door but a little way.
“How now, Zueppa?” he demanded angrily. “What is the meaning of this intrusion? Did I not give you explicit orders not to disturb me for other than the most urgent business?”
“It is because of your highness’s command that I have come. A messenger has just arrived with startling news of a revolt in the kingdom of Uxpo. He awaits your presence in the audience chamber.”
“Another revolt in Uxpo? By the bones of Thorth! Will that kingdom never cease to trouble us?”
He turned to Vernia. “I regret that I must leave you thus hastily, fair cousin, but I will return presently to continue our interesting discussion.”
He bowed sardonically from the doorway, then closed and locked the door after him. Vernia heard the retreating footsteps of the two men grow fainter in the corridor, finally dying away in the distance. She sank back on the couch.
She had heard the conversation of the two men, but, at first, placed no significance on the fact that there had been another revolution in Uxpo. Gradually, however, it came to her that there could be but one man with the ability to lead the Uxponians to a successful revolt—Grandon of Terra!
Some time later the gaunt slave woman came in to remove the dishes containing her untouched meal. Though she had always been sullenly taciturn in the past, Vernia resolved to question her.
“Have you heard aught of a revolt in Uxpo, Marsa?” she asked.
The sour features of the woman brightened perceptibly.
“It is the talk of the castle,” she replied. “The capital has fallen into the hands of the Fighting Traveks and every Reabonian soldier has been killed, captured or driven from the kingdom.”
“You seem elated at the news,” said Vernia, noting the unusually cheerful demeanor of her custodian.
“And well I may be,” she answered, “for I am of Uxpo. I was captured and brought here a slave by the armies of your father, Emperor Margo. These are the most glorious tidings I have heard in years.”
“No doubt the revolt was led by Bordeen, commander of the Fighting Traveks,” said Vernia in as casual a manner as she could assume.
“By Bordeen, say you? Hardly, though no doubt he took part in it. Prince Thaddor, who now calls himself Grandon of Terra, reappeared as suddenly and mysteriously as he disappeared nearly a year ago. It is said that he wears a suit of brown armor that will turn even a mattork projectile and carries weapons of the same strange metal, which cuts steel as easily as a scarbo’s blade cuts wood. Report has it, also, that he brought with him a bodyguard of twenty men from a far country, similarly garbed and armed. And I understand that yesterday he was formally crowned King of Uxpo.”
“Would you be willing, Marsa, to do a favor for Grandon of Terra, the savior of Uxpo, if the opportunity offered?”
“I would willingly risk my life for him, even as he has risked his for my beloved country,” replied Marsa fervently.
“And would you be averse to performing the task if it favored me as well?”
The brow of Marsa clouded. “You have always been the most bitter enemy of Uxpo. My husband was slain by your father’s soldiers and I was enslaved by them. You, in turn, twice led your armies into Uxpo for conquest and pillage. You ordered the execution of our valiant King Lugi and sent Prince Thaddor himself to wear his life away in the marble quarries. A favor to you could not possibly be a favor to the King of Uxpo.”
She took up the tray and turned to go.
“One moment, Marsa,” entreated Vernia. “There is reason and justice in what you say; nevertheless, I am sure I can convince you that you will favor Grandon of Terra by assisting me.”
Marsa paused. At length she said: “I must go now, but I will return presently. There can be no harm in listening.”
“Return as soon as possible,” replied Vernia as the slave inserted the key in the lock, “or you may be too late.”
The dreary minutes dragged into hours, and hope was fast falling when footsteps sounded in the corridor and a key rattled in the lock. Vernia rose and moved toward the door with hope renewed—then paused in alarm—for the doorway framed the burly figure of Zueppa. To her surprise, he bowed low with right hand extended palm downward, then paused respectfully, waiting for her to speak.
“What spirit of irony brings you to make mock-obeisance at this unseemly hour?” asked Vernia.
“I come not in irony, your majesty,” replied Zueppa, “but in all humility to crave forgiveness for the great wrong I have done my sovereign, and to offer my services.”
“You could not choose a more fitting time for such an offer—and if it be genuine, for full forgiveness and perhaps an additional reward, should it be merited.”
Zueppa softly closed the door.
“I betray a secret that would forfeit my life if divulged in this castle, when I tell you that I am in sympathy with Uxpo. Though my father was a Reabonian noble, my mother was from Uxpo, and it was with her and with her country that my sympathies always lay. One in this castle who is loyal to Uxpo had enlisted me in your cause. When you were my country’s most bitter enemy, I plotted your downfall. But Prince Destho, has become even a worse enemy to Uxpo than you were, and now that the conditions are reversed I am willing to change my position for a royal promise—the sole conditions to be, first, a proclamation freeing my countrymen, and second, a pardon for myself.”
“I have already promised another to free Uxpo,” replied Vernia, “and I willingly add to it the promise of complete and unconditional pardon for you if you can do one of two things—either arrange my escape to Reabon before my year is up, or immediately send a message to Grandon of Terra, in order that he may come to my rescue.”
“I had already thought of the former plan,” said Zueppan “and made some preparations for it. I will leave now and send Marsa to you with clothing in which you will pass for a castle slave. When all is quiet I will return and conduct you through a secret passageway to a place outside the castle where I keep a swift motor vehicle. We will thus be able to reach the capital by morning.”
“And Tholto, the marsh-man. I would have him released also.”
“Tholto escaped from our guards as they were bringing him to the castle. No doubt he is back in his native haunts by now.”
As he bowed low and departed, hope rose in the bosom of Vernia.
After Zueppa closed and carefully locked the door of her chamber, he made straight for the quarters of the slaves, but his way was blocked by a castle guard before he had gone a dozen steps.
“Out of my way, fellow,” he roared, expecting cringing obedience.
The soldier met his frown calmly. “His Highness, Prince Destho, commands your immediate presence in the audience chamber.”
Zueppa turned, without a word, and followed the guard. “It is the end,” he thought. “Our plot has been discovered.” In spite of his misgiving, however, he proceeded serenely to the foot of the throne and made obeisance. To his surprise, Destho received him cordially, descending from the dais to take him by the hand.
“Come, let us walk in the garden, excellent Zueppa,” he said. “I would confer with you about our plans for the recapture of Uxpo. The stuffy air of the castle fogs my brain.”
“I should be happy to learn,” said Zueppa, preceding Prince Destho into the garden, “that your highness favorably considers my admonition to abandon the reconquest of Uxpo until established firmly on the throne. Much can happen in a short time, and it is possible . . . ”
His words ended in a gasp of pain. Moaning feebly, he slumped to the ground, as a dagger sank to the hilt in his back. Destho tore the weapon from the wound and calmly wiped it on the clothing of the prostrate man.
“Thus should all traitors die. I have been lenient with you, after all, for you are a double traitor; first to your princess, then to me.”
He turned and entered the castle. On reaching the audience chamber he summoned the captain of the castle guards.
“Has Marsa been confined in the dungeon?” he asked.
“She has, your highness, with heavy manacles and the spiked collar about her neck as directed.”
He dismissed the captain with a nod, then picked up a long, flexible tube, one end of which passed into the floor behind the throne. On the free end was a bell-shaped contrivance which he held to his ear. He listened intently for some time, then smiled grimly, as he heard the sound of subdued sobbing.
The tube connected with a sound amplifier which was concealed behind a grating in the room where Vernia was imprisoned.
The plans of Prince Destho for the reconquest of Uxpo were materializing rapidly, as he breakfasted leisurely in the throne room of his castle several days later. He had sent no less than fifty hired assassins to slay Grandon, and, if this failed, had a huge army of thirty thousand men assembled in and around his stronghold, ready to march on the rebellious kingdom.
A courier, dusty and bedraggled, was hurried before the throne.
“How now, Torbo?” asked Destho, glancing down at the courier. “What tidings from Uxpo?”
“Grandon of Terra has been slain and his body lies in state at the royal palace!”
“Great news, if true. Who slew him?”
“I do not know, but it is rumored that the men who succeeded in the attempt were, themselves, slain.”
“Did you see the body?”
“I did, your majesty, and the features were so horribly mutilated as to be unrecognizable. I also regret to inform your majesty that your chief assassin, Malcabar, was slain yesterday morning.”
Destho turned to his councillors. “We will not disband our army yet,” he said. “I must have a further confirmation of this.”
A few minutes later, two of the castle guards entered, ushering between them a tall, bearded man in the uniform of a soldier of Reabon. All three made the customary salute before the throne, then they rose, and the two guards stepped back, leaving the tall soldier in the center of the floor.
“Whom have we here?” asked Destho, addressing one of the guards.
“His papers proclaim him one Xantol of Uxpo, resident helper of the spy, Malcabar, and a bearer of tidings for your highness.”
Destho looked long and appraisingly at the soldier. It seemed that those black eyes were searching the usurper’s very soul.
“Your tidings, Xantol,” snapped Destho.
“I have been sent to inform your highness of a rumor being circulated in Uxpo, to the effect that Grandon of Terra has been slain.”
“A rumor, say you? You bring us stale news, fellow. We have already been apprised that the villainous imposter is dead and that his mutilated body lies in state in the palace.”
Destho turned to the guard. “Who signed this man’s papers?”
“They are signed by Malcabar.”
“By Malcabar? Let me see them.”
He examined the papers carefully. “The writing and signature seem genuine,” he said. “Send for that courier again!”
As Torbo reentered, bowing low, Destho snarled: “So! You found it expedient to lie to me, Torbo!”
“I lie to your highness?” exclaimed Torbo in surprise. “Surely it pleases your highness to jest with his humble servant.”
“You told me Malcabar was slain yesterday morning. I have here a letter, written and signed by him last evening. Can the dead write letters?”
“If you have a letter from Malcabar, then indeed can the dead write letters, for I swear by the bones of Thorth that I saw him lead the attack on the usurper yesterday morning and a huge armored guard clove him from crown to chin.”
Destho looked searchingly from Torbo to the soldier, and from the soldier back to Torbo.
“One of you lies, that is certain,” he said, “and you may rest assured, both of you, that the guilty man will be discovered and dealt with for his perfidy.”
“May I ask who brought the letter?” asked Torbo.
“I brought the letter,” replied the soldier.
“And who are you?”
“Xantol of Uxpo, resident helper of Malcabar.”
Torbo flushed angrily. “This man lies,” he said. “Malcabar had no Uxponian helpers. All were men of Reabon, and all died with him yesterday morning.”
“You were acquainted with Malcabar’s assistants?” asked Destho.
“Every one of them.”
“And you have never seen this man before?”
“I have seen him somewhere,” replied Torbo, knitting his brows. “His face is familiar yet unfamiliar.” He approached the soldier and scanned his features carefully. Then he burst into a loud laugh.
“Shoot me for a hahoe if this man wears not a false beard,” he said, and to prove his statement he suddenly reached forward and plucked a handful of hair from the man’s face.
The Uxponian whipped out his scarbo, but strong arms pinioned his own from behind, and, in a moment, he was deprived of his blade and stood helpless in the grip of the two burly guards.
“Pluck a few more feathers from this bird and see if you can identify him,” said Destho.
“That is unnecessary,” replied Torbo, “for I have recognized him already. He is Grandon of Terra!”
Had a thunderbolt crashed through the arched ceiling at that moment it could hardly have created more surprise. Destho was dumbfounded.
“Grandon of Terra?” he exclaimed. “But you told me that he was dead.”
“I did not tell you that I saw him die,” replied Torbo, “and this man here is unquestionably Grandon of Terra.”
A gleam of triumph shone in the eyes of Destho at these words.
“You are more of a fool than I took you to be, Grandon of Terra,” he said. “Perhaps even more of a fool than you took me for.”
“It is possible that I surpass you in folly. You have, however, two other qualities on which I must yield you all honors.”
“And those are . . . ”
“Treachery and cowardice!”
“Away with him,” Destho said. “Let him meditate on his folly in the darkness of the dungeon until we have use for him.”
The burly guards hustled Grandon out of a side door and along a narrow passage to a winding stairway which seemed to lead into the very bowels of the planet, so long were they in descending. After manacling his wrists and ankles they pushed him into a dark, foul-smelling hole and slammed and fastened a heavy metal door which fitted so snugly that not the tiniest ray of light was admitted.
As he lay on the damp, slimy floor, Grandon pondered the words of Destho. The phrase “until we have use for him” was puzzling. After a short interval, two guards entered Grandon’s dungeon, removed the manacles from his ankles, and led him up the spiral stairway.
They did not go all the way to the top, but turned off through a narrow doorway which Grandon judged to be about halfway to the ground level. A short walk along a dimly-lighted passage brought them to an underground chamber which looked to Grandon like a workshop or laboratory of some sort, for it contained several unusual appearing contrivances.
In one corner was a raised circular platform covered with a resilient material greatly resembling rubber. He noticed that there was a hole in the center of the platform, and that a pipe, evidently connected with the hole, led from under it to a small motor which stood nearby. A huge glass bell was suspended by a pulley above the platform and a steel chair stood beside it. The only other articles of furniture in the room were a wooden chair and table on which were writing materials.
The two guards chained Grandon to the steel chair and, lifting him between them, placed him on the raised platform directly above the hole.
A moment later Destho entered. He looked at Grandon with a grim smile. Then he turned to the nearest guard.
“I see you have things in readiness. Now bring her imperial majesty and see that her face be veiled so that none may recognize her on the way.”
Scarce had the guard left to do the bidding of his master ere Bopo, captain of Destho’s private guards, entered. “Where is the document, dolt?” demanded Destho. “Have failed to prepare it?”
“Here,” replied Bopo, drawing a scroll from beneath his garments. “I kept it hid, as your majesty commanded secrecy in the matter.”
“Good. Let me have it.”
Destho read the document hastily. Then he read it again more slowly.
“Are you sure this is the correct legal form?”
“I am positive, your majesty.”
Destho placed the scroll on the table, then crossed the room and bowed politely as the guard returned, leading a woman whose face was heavily veiled.
Suddenly she flung back her veil and rushed forward with a little smothered cry, paying no attention whatever to Destho. Grandon’s heart leaped to his throat at sight of her pale face and golden tresses.
“Vernia!” He would have risen, but the chains held him.
“My Grandon—my hero!” she cried as her lips found his and clung there, and her arms went about his neck. He tried to lift his manacled hands to smooth her hair as she buried her face on his shoulder, sobbing incoherently.
“But why did you come here alone—to certain death?”
Grandon whispered his answer in her ear. “Zueppa, though fearfully wounded, managed to reach me with tidings of your whereabouts. It would have been futile to bring my small army, so I came alone, disguised as the helper of an assassin who attempted my life!”
“Enough of this whispering!” said Destho, smiling as he tore her from her lover and led her to the chair beside the table.
“A pleasant surprise I prepared for you, fair cousin, was it not?” Destho said. “You have had your little emotional outburst. Now let us get down to business. I have a document here which needs only your signature to make it legal. Read it aloud, Bopo, that all may hear and bear witness.”
Bopo took the scroll and advanced pompously to the center of the floor. He unrolled it with a flourish, cleared his throat, and read:
“A proclamation by her imperial majesty, Vernia, Princess of Reabon:
“On the twenty-fourth day of the eighth Endir in the four thousand and tenth year of Thorth, I, Vernia of Reabon, hereby proclaim and declare to all my subjects throughout the length and breadth of the empire that I have taken for my husband, and raised to the office of emperor, to rule over me and my people, the brave and illustrious Prince Destho.
“It is my command that copies of this proclamation be made and distributed to all parts of the empire without delay, and that the fifth day of the ninth Endir be set aside as a day for feasting and suitable celebration in honor of this momentous event.”
He finished and handed the scroll to Destho, who spread it on the table before Vernia.
She looked up with flashing eyes. “Surely you do not expect me to sign such a ridiculous document?”
“You refuse?”
For answer she seized it and flung it from her.
“More temperament,” said Destho, coolly, picking up the scroll. “You compel me to use persuasion.”
He made a sign to the guard, who grinned broadly and, loosing the chain by which the glass bell was suspended, lowered it until it rested firmly on the elastic edges of the platform where Grandon sat, calm and immobile in the iron chair.
“It is plainly evident,” said Destho, “that you have some regard for yonder doomed man.”
Vernia started at his words.
“Though he is a rebel and traitor, you could have saved his life, merely by signing your name. As it is, you shall have the pleasure of witnessing his death struggles. Start the motor.”
The burly guard crossed to the motor with a grin more broad than before, and pressed a button.
Vernia, peering intently through the glass, saw Grandon flinch slightly when the thing started. Then he compressed his lips and settled back as if resolved to meet his fate calmly. Presently she noticed that he was breathing convulsively with nostrils distended.
“Stop! You are killing him!” she screamed. “Stop, that terrible thing. I will sign. I will do anything.”
Destho made a sign to the guard, who pressed another button and opened a valve, but not before Grandon’s head had sunk limply forward. There was a loud hissing sound and he raised his head, gasping weakly.
“I thought you might be brought to reason, stubborn and headstrong as you are,” said Destho with a smile of triumph.
He placed the scroll before her and she paused for a moment, for Grandon was looking at her through the glass and shaking his head emphatically. “I cannot do it,” she said weakly.
“Very well,” replied Destho. He turned to the guard. “Start the motor. There will be no stopping it this time.”
“No, no!” cried Vernia. “Do not start it. I will sign.”
Again Destho motioned for the guard to desist. Vernia held the scroll, half rolled before her. She looked at Grandon for a moment as if in silent farewell. Then she tore her eyes from his with a visible effort and resolutely affixed her name to the document.
Destho seized it eagerly and examined, the signature. Then he rolled it up, stuffed it in his bosom, walked to the motor, closed the valve and pressed the button.
Vernia, sensing his purpose, screamed frantically and ran to shut the thing off, but he intercepted her and forced her back in the chair.
“I am legal emperor of Reabon now,” he said. “There is no more need for force, for my word is law. I now decree that this traitor shall die, and you, in company with your beloved husband, will have the pleasure of watching his death struggles.”