The planet of peril
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 Earth-man fought in a blind, fury. Gradually, however, 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 to a
far corner.
A look of alarm shone in the eyes of the amazed Reabonian prince.
"Would you kill an unarmed man?" Destho wailed.
"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. "The coward 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
sword-play of the Earth-man. 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.
They were brave men, these Reabonian guardsmen, and though it appeared
that sure death awaited each of them at the head of the stairs, each
man came forward in his turn until the stairway was choked with bodies
and slippery with gore.
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 a new 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 and led his pitifully small army in a hopeless attempt to rescue
their sovereign. 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 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. He was angry with Bordeen
for having made this hopeless attempt at rescue, yet the loyalty of his
fierce mountaineer subjects thrilled him.
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 them 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 onward. 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," said Grandon with a warm thrill
of pride.
"Now the Traveks have rallied. They are shelling the batteries on the
walls. Once more 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 aires 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," said
Grandon.
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 antennæ
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 sheering 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 blood-thirsty 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!" shouted a brawny Travek.
"The secret is out," cried Joto, "for Grandon of Terra approaches, and
with him is the princess!"