WHEN the glass bell was lowered around high Grandon rightly guessed that the thing was intended either to torture or kill him—perhaps both.
He gritted his teeth, though he flinched when the guard started the motor. A roaring sounded in his ears. Were they pumping some sort of deadly gas into the bell? He could detect no unusual odor of any kind. Breathing, however, was rapidly growing more and more difficult.
It was then that he guessed the truth. They were pumping the air out of the bell! Fearful pains shot through his body as he gasped and struggled for breath. Suddenly all went black before him and his head drooped forward.
A moment later, he was revived by the sibilant inrush of air. He saw Vernia, apparently ready to sign the proclamation which would make her the lawful wife of Destho, and shook his head vigorously.
Though he could not hear what was said, he saw her refusal, the subsequent threat of Destho, and her final acquiescence.
“Don’t sign!” he shouted, but she was looking away from him and his voice did not reach beyond the thick wall of glass.
It was this and the final treachery of Destho in again starting the motor that filled him with a consuming rage and aroused him from his passivity. With a burst of strength of which he had not known himself capable, he strained at his shackles. A chain parted—then another. His arms were free. He reached down and wrenched at the fetters which held his legs. Again the roaring sounded in his ears. A quick jerk freed his right leg. He twisted the chair from his left and swung it against the glass with all his might. A thousand tiny checks radiated from the point where it struck. He swung again. There was a crash and a hollow report like the crack of a tork as the air surged inward.
The guard stood ready to receive him with drawn scarbo as Grandon leaped out. Swinging the iron chair, he crushed the man’s skull like an eggshell, and his scarbo clattered to the floor. The other guard, rushing to the assistance of his companion, met a similar fate.
Destho was dragging Vernia from the room. Bopo still faced Grandon, scarbo in hand. He hurled the chair, which caught the surprised captain amidships. Grandon picked up the scimitar-bladed scarbo of the guard and ran forward to intercept Destho.
With Grandon’s blade threatening him, the usurper was forced to release Vernia and draw his weapon. The man was no mean swordsman and, for a time, the outcome was uncertain.
The Earthman fought in a blind fury. Gradually, his brain cleared and his stroke became more certain. He forced his antagonist to the wall and, with a dexterous twist, sent his scarbo clattering.
A look of alarm shone in the eyes of the amazed Reabonian prince. “Would you kill an unarmed man?”
“Surrender or . . . ”
Before Grandon could finish the sentence the wily Destho dodged under his arm and ran through the door, calling loudly for help.
Grandon started after him—then paused hopelessly.
“Come,” he said, taking Vernia’s hand. “He will have a swarm of soldiers here in a few moments. We must try to find a hiding place.”
They sped down the dim passageway, hand in hand. Ahead of them they heard footsteps and the clank of arms. A doorway on their left offered temporary haven, and into this they darted. Grandon held the door slightly ajar and watched. In a moment a dozen of the castle guards rushed past, followed by Destho.
“Now,” he whispered. “We must go quietly.”
Again they darted along the passageway until they arrived at the spiral stair. They had barely ascended to the ground level when a guard appeared. Grandon ran him through the throat, but not before he let out a shriek that brought a score of his comrades running.
There was nothing for it but to climb the stairway, and this they did, only to be spied by the foremost guard. He dashed after them, calling his companions to follow, and paid for his temerity with a split skull when he came up with them at the fourth level. His comrades, finding his body a moment later, set up an angry shout and redoubled their speed.
Before they reached the seventh level, Grandon was forced to turn and engage the foremost guard. The man proved a poor swordsman, and a quick thrust through the heart sent him back on his fellows, momentarily impeding their progress.
Taking advantage of this opportunity, Grandon turned and again fled up the stairs with Vernia. They passed the eighth level before noticing that they were in a narrow tower overlooking the sloping roof. The tenth level was the last, and Grandon thrust Vernia into the tower room before turning to face their pursuers. They were fairly trapped.
The first foeman, a huge coarse-featured giant, felt the weight of Grandon’s steel and toppled back with a groan. Another leaped over his body and took his place, only to go down before the bewildering swordplay of the Earthman. Then they tried rushing him two at a time, but as two men could not wield their scarbos simultaneously in the narrow passage, they quickly shared the fate of the others.
When they could no longer mount over their fallen comrades, they withdrew a little way and Grandon judged from the murmur of their voices that they were formulating another plan of attack. He took advantage of the lull in the fighting to strip a tork and belt from the nearest man. Then he lay down at the head of the stair with tork leveled and waited.
Suddenly he heard a familiar whining sound, followed by a terrific explosion that shook the floor. A mattork projectile! Could it be that they were shelling the tower? There followed another and another in quick succession—then a continuous roar, as though a hundred mattork cannon had gone into action.
Vernia called excitedly from the tower room.
“An army approaches through the forest. I can see their uniforms through the trees and they look like Fighting Traveks. Ah, they are Fighting Traveks! A company of them is charging through the camp while their mattorks shell the castle. A small band of men in Albine armor fight with them in the front ranks. Destho’s troops were momentarily thrown into confusion, but now they are rallying! Oh, they will kill all the Traveks, for they outnumber them ten to one.
“Can you see who leads the Traveks?” asked Grandon, not daring to leave his post.
“He is a big man with a gray beard. He towers above his men, urging them on to battle with a voice that roars deep and strong!”
“Bordeen!” exclaimed Grandon. So the doughty commander had disobeyed orders. Evidently Oro and his twenty marsh-men fought with them.
“The army of Destho has rallied,” continued Vernia. “They are closing in on the Traveks from two sides. They are I butchering them—it is terrible. Now the Traveks are retreating. They are cutting their way back to their comrades, but already half of their number has fallen. Now a new company charges to their rescue while the mattorks sweep the lines on both sides of them. The survivors have succeeded in reaching their comrades, but the army of Destho is surrounding them.”
“The fools—the utter fools,” moaned Grandon.
Again Vernia cried out in amazement.
“A new army approaches from the south. The camp is deserted on that side, all having gone to surround the Traveks on the north. A host of warriors in Albine armor is charging across the clearing. The army of Destho is rushing back to engage there and the men on the walls shower bullets on them without effect. They have clashed with Destho’s men and cut them down like reeds. Not a single warrior in brown armor has fallen. Now the men on the wall are training mattorks on them. The mattork projectiles tear great holes in their ranks, yet they forge steadily ahead. I can see their banners now. They are inscribed with the word ‘Granterra’!”
“It must be Joto,” said Grandon. “Yet how could he have learned of our presence here?”
“It is Joto,” cried Vernia, joyously. “He is fighting in the front ranks with his visor raised, cheering his men between blows and laughing as he fights.”
“There is not another leader like him.”
“Now the Traveks have rallied. They are shelling the batteries on the walls. They are cutting their way through the army of Destho.”
“Would that I could help them!” cried Grandon.
“More warriors in brown armor are approaching,” continued Vernia. “They are accompanied by an army of sabits. The men have mounted on the backs of the sabits and are charging the castle. The sabits are carrying them up and over the walls which they could not have scaled unaided. They are swarming everywhere. The sabits crush the defenders in their forceps and the mounted men cut them down with their swords. Now the walls and the courtyard have been cleared of defenders! The gate has been thrown open and they are storming the castle itself; the Traveks fighting side by side with the armored warriors.”
Grandon was so engrossed in Vernia’s description of the battle that he momentarily relaxed his vigil. He nearly paid for his carelessness with his life, for a tork bullet sang uncomfortably close to his ear, and a new company of guardsmen charged up the stairs. As he quickly returned the fire he heard a voice—the voice of Destho—on the level below. “Remember. Ten thousand acres of choice land to the man who slays him, but harm not the woman.”
“Go back, fools,” shouted Grandon. “Dead men have no use for land.”
But neither his threat nor his bullets could stay them. The men who surged up the steps fired their torks as they came and carried long-bladed spears. He was compelled to retreat to the tower room where he found momentary safety by barring the steel door.
There was a shout of baffled rage, and a rain of blows sounded on the door. “It will hold them off for awhile—a very short while, I fear.”
He was startled by a scream from Vernia. Turning, he beheld the ugly head of a red-mouthed sabit, peering in at the window. Behind it appeared the spiny crest of an Albine-armored warrior. Both squeezed through the narrow window and the warrior threw back his visor.
“Tholto!” exclaimed Grandon and Vernia simultaneously.
Leaping from his savage mount, the marsh-man prostrated himself before them, right hand extended palm downward.
“Tholto, your slave,” he said simply.
Grandon, noting that the steel door was sagging from the terrific blows of those without, leaped forward with scarbo ready. Tholto followed, drawing his sword, and, as he did so, speaking a few words to the sabit in the tone-language. The creature responded by vibrating its antennae and took a place between them, directly in front of the door, where it waited expectantly with its head cocked to one side, much as a terrier waits for the leap of a cornered rat.
The door fell inward with a rending crash and a shout of triumph went up from the attackers. Then the sabit leaped, snapping to right and left with its powerful forceps and shearing a man in twain with each snap. With Grandon swinging his scarbo on one side and Tholto his sharp Albine sword on the other, the landing was cleared in a twinkling.
The bloodthirsty sabit plowed on down the stairway, and the death shrieks of the fleeing guards were terrible to hear as it caught up with them one by one.
Grandon searched for Destho among the corpses that littered the landing, but he was not among them. Evidently he had escaped or was numbered among the sabit’s victims, whose shrieks still sounded from below at intermittent intervals.
A ringing cheer floated up from the courtyard, and Grandon looked down from the tower window. Far below him he saw a straggling line of Destho’s soldiers filing out from the castle, weaponless, and with their hands held out before them in token of submission. A detachment of Traveks escorted them on one side, while a company of the brown-armored soldiers of Granterra marched on the other.
“The castle has fallen,” said Grandon. “Let us descend.”
They picked their way down the blood-soaked steps while Tholto ran ahead, calling his ferocious steed in the tone language of the sabits. The mangled bodies that strewed the entire stairway mutely attested the terrible efficiency of the fighting monster.
Upon reaching the ground level they made their way toward the audience chamber, whence came the unmistakable sounds of heated argument.
Shouts of “Kill the traitor!” and “Behead the assassin!” were distinguishable above the clamor.
“Oh, what are they doing?” cried Vernia. “Let us hurry.”
When they entered the audience chamber they found it jammed with a crowd of Fighting Traveks and Granterrites, mingled indiscriminately. As they weaved their swords and scarbos aloft, Destho, the object of their hatred, stood trembling with fright before the throne in the grip of two brawny Traveks. Bordeen, on one side, and Joto on the other, were attempting to quiet the angry mob.
“Wait, fools,” roared Bordeen. “He has not told us where we may find Grandon of Terra and the princess. A dead man discloses no secrets.”
“Torture him!” cried a brawny Travek.
“The secret is out,” said Joto, “for Grandon of Terra approaches, and with him is the princess!”
At sight of Grandon and his fair companion the assembled fighting men sent up a shout that dwarfed their previous clamor to insignificance. A path was speedily cleared for the pair as they made their way toward the throne. Bordeen and Joto rushed forward to greet them, followed by Oro, Rotha and Tholto.
“I thought the hahoe of Reabon had killed you,” said Bordeen huskily, tears of joy gleaming in his eyes. “We searched every dungeon and cell without a trace.”
“A hahoe slays not a warrior so easily,” said Joto, smiling broadly.
“The warrior was fairly cornered by the hahoes when you came so gallantly to the rescue,” said Grandon. “How did you learn of our plight and how could you bring such a large army here without imperiling your people? The sabits may attack them during your absence.”
“It was Tholto told us of the plight of the princess,” said Joto. “We did not know that you had come here on the same mission as our own until informed by the Traveks. Tholto traveled unarmed and alone through the forests and the great salt marsh. There he built himself a crude raft with which he navigated the underground river. I came near beheading him before he convinced me that he was telling the truth. As for the safety of our people, there is no more danger in the Valley of the Sabits. Every sabit community has been subjugated and man rules supreme. We lead indolent lives in Granterra, for our sabit slaves work for us, hunt for us and even fight for us. My only fear is that we may degenerate through inactivity.”
“And you,” said Grandon, turning to Bordeen. “How came you to disobey orders?”
“As soon as you had gone,” Bordeen said, “I thought of the odds against you and realized that your quest was hopeless. I called all the captains in council and explained the situation. To a man they voted to come to your rescue. We felt that, though we might not be able to reach you, we might at least disconcert those within the castle sufficiently to give you an opportunity for escape.”
“You did nobly,” said Grandon, “yet my heart bleeds for the gallant soldiers who have sacrificed their lives today.”
There was a sudden outcry from the direction of the throne. The wily Destho, taking advantage of the fact that all eyes were riveted on Grandon and Vernia, had broken from his guards and bolted for the door.
A dozen soldiers ran to intercept him, but to no purpose. He ran down the hallway and disappeared from view around a corner.
Grandon, Bordeen and Tholto, in hot pursuit, were only a few seconds behind him, yet when they turned the corner no one was in sight. The hall was lined with doorways, and Grandon plunged into one while his comrades entered the others. He found himself in an empty room, lighted by a small window which stood open. Suddenly he heard the roar of a motor vehicle in the yard outside and ran to the window. He shouted a warning to the soldiers outside, but too late. The vehicle, gathering momentum with every revolution of its huge single wheel, shot through the gate and down the road before the astonished soldiers realized what it was all about. They sent a volley of tork bullets and curses after it as it disappeared around a curve in the road.
Calling his comrades, Grandon returned to where Vernia awaited them in the throne room. “We must hurry to Reabon at once,” he said. “Destho has escaped.”
“Did he take the proclamation with him?” asked Vernia.
Bordeen spoke up. “He could not have taken the proclamation with him, because we deprived him of all papers in his possession when he was made prisoner. I have them with me now.”
He produced a bundle of papers which Grandon scanned eagerly. They were all letters from his spies and fellow conspirators. The proclamation was not among them.
“Your searchers must have overlooked it,” said Grandon, “for it is not among these papers.”
“That is possible, of course, but not probable,” replied Bordeen. “He was searched thoroughly.”
“Perhaps he disposed of it in some other way,” suggested Joto.
“We may be able to find out from some of his officers, if any of them have been captured alive,” said Grandon.
“Most of those left in the castle surrendered,” Bordeen said. “Let us see what they have to say.”
A dozen of them were produced forthwith and questioned. All declared that Destho had dispatched a messenger to the capital in a swift motor vehicle shortly before the attack by the Traveks. It was understood that the messenger was conveying an important document to Bonal, Prime Minister of Reabon.
“Copies will have been made and distributed and broadcast through the empire by this time,” said Bordeen. “What was the nature of the proclamation? No doubt it favored Destho in some way or he would not have rushed it to the capital.”
Grandon ground his teeth. “It favored Destho, all right, for it made him Emperor of Reabon and the husband of Vernia.”
Joto laid his arm across Grandon’s shoulders.
“My friend,” he said gravely, “be not so downcast, I beg of you. Your enemy has the proclamation, but you still have Vernia of Reabon, and an army that is all but invincible. Let us march to Reabon at once.”
Grandon turned to Vernia. “With your permission.” A smile overspread her face as she calmly replied: “I will go with you. Let us start at once.”