Abduction
The humid heat of early afternoon hung in shimmering waves over Sephar's
walls and buildings of stone. Except for an occasional perspiring
warrior or slave, hurrying on some urgent mission, the broad avenues
were quite deserted.
In a palace wing containing the female slave quarters, Dylara and Nada
were together. The daughter of Majok lay stretched at full length on her
bed, hands locked beneath her head, drowsily watching a patch of
sunlight near the ceiling. Nada nodded sleepily on a low stool near the
bed.
Dylara yawned audibly to break the silence. She rolled over and touched
the older woman on one arm.
"I don't want to sleep, Nada," she protested. "Let's talk awhile. You
promised to tell me about him--Jotan, I mean. I keep thinking about
him--how he acted, staring at me the way he did."
Nada smiled, and patted the hand on her arm. She had been thinking of
her only son--of him whom she had last seen as a little boy. She had
wanted to overcome a strange reluctance to question Dylara about him;
what he had been like, if he was big like his father ... little things
that meant much to a mother.
"I will do the best I can," she said. "What I say will be only what is
repeated among the slaves and guards.
"Jotan's home is in Ammad--about which I have already told you. His
father is a nobleman there--one of the most powerful and influential men
in that country. Jotan is well liked by all who know him; they say his
followers would die in his service and count themselves honored."
"I think I can understand that," said Dylara dreamily. "There is
something about him that takes hold of you--awakens your imagination.
Many girls must care a great deal for him."
Nada glanced sharply at her, and was on the point of making some
comment, when there came a sudden brief rap at the closed door.
"I wonder who that can be," she said, frowning. Rising, she crossed to
the door and drew it open.
A guard in a grayish-white tunic stood at the threshold. Behind him,
half-concealed by the shadows of the hall, was a second man.
"Urim," said the guard gruffly, "wishes the slave-girl Dylara brought to
him at once."
For some reason this unexpected summons alarmed Nada. "I do not
understand. What does he want of her?"
"I forgot to ask him!" retorted the guard sarcastically. He beckoned to
Dylara. "Come; I have no time to waste."
* * * * *
The cave-girl approached uneasily, affected more by Nada's concern than
the prospect of being brought before Urim.
The guard stepped aside to let her pass, then turned to leave.
"Wait!" Nada cried. "I am going with you."
The man scowled. "I was not told to bring you," he snapped. "You stay
here." He went out, slamming the door.
Dylara, a man at either side, was led down the long corridor and through
the double doorway. There they paused while the two men held a brief
conversation in whispers too low for the girl to make out their words.
And then the second man approached and took hold of her arm. "You are to
come with me," he said. "I am to take you to Urim."
Dylara's skin crawled under the contact. She jerked away. "I do not need
to be held."
The dim light hid the man's angry face. "Slaves do as they are told," he
reminded her coldly. "Do not forget that."
Grasping her arm roughly, he strode along the hall, the girl beside him.
Shortly afterward they descended the great staircase to the main floor
of the palace.
They met no one on the way, the intense heat having sent the palace
inhabitants to their beds to rest until early evening.
To Dylara's mingled surprise and alarm, her escort moved straight to the
great doorway leading to the palace grounds. Four guards lounging
outside the entrance watched them pass, nodding briefly to the man with
her.
They turned into one of the wide streets that led to the city's outer
wall.
Dylara fought down a wave of panic. "Where are you taking me?"
The man was quick to sense her fear. He tightened his hold on her arm.
"To Urim," he replied briefly.
"Where is he?"
The Sepharian turned his head and frowned at her. For the first time
Dylara noticed the long white scar across his cheek.
"You ask too many questions," he said roughly. "Now keep them to
yourself."
A cold hand seemed to close about the girl's heart. She knew, now, that
Urim had not sent for her; that she was being led into some horrible
danger. Worst of all, there seemed no way to prevent this man from doing
as he pleased. The street was deserted; and even should someone appear,
an appeal for help would probably be useless.
Soon they reached one of the huge gateways in the wall about Sephar. The
warrior drew Dylara to a halt as two guards sauntered in their
direction.
"Well, Meltor," said one, a tall, languid man of middle age, "what are
you doing out in this heat? And with a girl, too; up to your old tricks,
I suppose."
Meltor smiled without humor. "This is something else. If I may speak
with you privately...."
* * * * *
Dylara, under the watchful eye of the second guard, watched them step
away a few paces and engage in a whispered colloquy. Meltor did most of
the talking, speaking earnestly and at length. The other nodded from
time to time, appearing properly impressed. Once or twice he glanced
with interest at the girl.
Meltor had evidently gained his point. He approached Dylara, now, a
triumphant curl at the corners of his mouth.
"We must hurry," was all he said. Together the man and the girl passed
through the twin gates.
Beyond the open ground Dylara could see the grim forest rising dark and
forbidding against the sky. And yet she wondered if it was more to be
feared than the city of stone behind them. Danger lurked in the
jungle--ah, yes; but it was danger both direct and elemental--not hidden
beneath hypocrisy and artifice.
Why had she been taken from Sephar? She was certain this man was not
acting in his own behalf; someone else was behind it all--someone who
did not want others to know. It could not be Urim. Urim was chief; he
need not hide his activities from anybody. Yet who else could it be?
Suddenly a great light burst upon her. Jotan! He was responsible--it
could be no other! Because she belonged to Urim he had been forced to
have her stolen from the palace and taken to some out-of-the-way spot
that he might be with her. This was the answer--the only answer!
Belief became certainty; and with it came indecision. A strange mixture
of dread and exultation came over her. Her heart beat faster at thought
of meeting the man who had aroused within her an emotion as yet
unfathomable. But matters were being brought to a head much too quickly
to suit her--she needed more time.
Unconsciously she slowed her steps, pulling back at the grip on her arm.
They were already within the jungle, hidden from Sephar by a bend of the
trail underfoot.
Meltor, satisfied that the girl would accompany him peaceably, had
relaxed his hold.
Suddenly Dylara twisted free, and before the surprised warrior could
interfere, she whirled about and dashed away in the opposite direction.
Meltor wheeled and took up the chase, crying out hoarsely for her to
stop. But the rage in his voice only spurred on the girl to greater
effort.
Along the trail they raced, a few yards apart, their sandaled feet
kicking up little puffs of dust and powdered vegetation. The
nimble-footed girl was gradually increasing her lead, seeking to gain
the bend in the trail with enough time for concealment before Meltor
could catch sight of her again.
And then, without warning, something caught at her ankle, plunging her
headlong to the ground with terrific force. Half-stunned, she made a
weak effort to regain her feet, when a strong hand grasped her roughly
by an arm and jerked her upright.
* * * * *
The rage-distorted face of Meltor swam hazily before her. She blinked
rapidly in an effort to dispel the fog.
"You little fool!" The words seemed to come to her from across a great
distance. "Try that again, and I'll--"
There sounded a sharp ringing "crack," and Dylara staggered back, her
left cheek flaming from the force of an open-handed blow.
The slap transformed the girl from a dazed, bewildered child into an
infuriated tigress; and for the next few moments Meltor had all he could
do to keep from being badly mauled.
Exhausted, she finally sank to her knees and burst into a storm of
tears. Meltor stood by, more or less winded himself, fingering a long
scratch alongside his nose, waiting for the girl to regain composure.
At last he pulled her to her feet, and urged her along the path into the
west. Dylara, her once spotless tunic grimy and torn, accompanied him
docilely now, too weary to resist. She knew by this time that Jotan had
nothing to do with her abduction; no hireling of his would dare handle
her so roughly.
An hour later they entered a small clearing, deep in the heart of the
jungle. In the center of the open ground stood a rambling, one-storied
building of gray stone, weather-beaten and unkempt, its unprotected
windows staring vacantly like the dull lifeless eyes of a corpse.
Despite the flame-tipped rays of the mid-afternoon sun which flooded the
clearing, Dylara shivered, conscious of the miasmatic atmosphere of the
place.
Nor was Meltor entirely unaffected by the eerie aspect of dead Rydob's
former residence. Details of stories he had heard about the old hermit
came to him now, and he caught himself glancing nervously about.
A short series of stone steps led to the half open door. A profusion of
vines and creepers had sprung up unchecked, partially covering the
stairway. Meltor cautiously kicked the vegetation away, aware it might
be the hiding place of little Sleeza, the snake--Sleeza, whose bite
meant a lingering, painful death.
Suddenly the man jumped back, voicing a yell of terror, and almost
upsetting Dylara. His prodding foot had torn away a curtain of foliage,
disclosing the bleached skeleton of a man, stretched out on one of the
steps. The skull had rolled a few paces away, and lay there grinning
malevolently up at them.
Dylara shuddered, shrank back. She had seen the bones of man before; but
under present conditions and surroundings the gleaming skeleton seemed a
horrible prophecy of her own fate.
"Who could it have been?" she asked in an awed whisper.
Meltor forced a grin. He had managed to regain control of his shattered
nerves.
"Old Rydob, the hermit," he replied. "And no prettier in death than he
was in life. Some say he was the brother of Pryak, the high priest."
Taking Dylara by the elbow, he urged her past the pile of bones and over
the threshold.
* * * * *
They came into a huge, high-ceilinged room, well-lighted by the sun.
From its appearance the girl judged that Rydob had spent most of his
time here; the ruins of a bed stood in one corner, while a large table
in the center of the room held a jumbled collection of stone dishes and
bowls. Several tunics, rotten with mildew, hung across one of the three
chairs about the table.
And over everything was a thick layer of dust and cobwebs and the
droppings of countless rodents.
Meltor kicked over two of the stools to clear them of dust, replaced
them, then cleared the table top in the same way.
"Sit there," he said, pointing to one of the stools.
Dylara obeyed without a word, watching the man seat himself across the
table from her.
There followed a period of silence. Thus far, Meltor had carried out his
plan to the letter. But now, faced with the unpleasant part of his task,
he was beginning to feel decidedly qualmish.
How truly beautiful she was! Not the empty loveliness of perfect
features alone; there was personality and fire and a keen, alert mind
mirrored in those grave brown eyes and the sweet curve of sensitive
lips.
And then he thought of Alurna and the secret she held, and the memory
put an abrupt end to growing misgivings.
Dylara, who was trying to fathom what lay behind the man's cold
expressionless face, broke the silence.
"Why have you brought me here?"
Meltor hesitated. Why not tell her? Perhaps the knowledge would drive
her into making a second attempt to escape. And then....
"I suppose there is no reason why you should not be told," he said
slowly. "It will make no difference--now.
"You have made an enemy in Sephar. How it happened, I do not know--nor
does it matter. It is enough that you are in the way--and must die."
The calm emotionless statement brought no sense of shock to Dylara. She
had known what was coming--known it as surely as though he had said the
words an hour ago. In a curiously detached way she was conscious of the
brilliant sunlight streaming through the windows; of the strident voices
of many birds in the nearby jungle; of the slow-moving wind among many
leaves....
"I do not want to kill you," Meltor continued. "You are too young to
die. I would like to let you go--to leave you in the forest to go back
to the caves you call home."
As he spoke, his hand dropped below the table's edge, fumbled there,
then reappeared, a long knife of stone in his fingers.
"But I dare not do that," he went on, in the same flat monotone. "You
might turn up again in Sephar and ruin everything. I cannot risk it."
Was he, Dylara wondered, trying to goad her into some act of resistance,
that he might escape the stigma of cold-blooded murder? Fascinated,
unable to look away, she watched him lift the keen-edged blade.
Suddenly he rose and lunged across the table toward her. Dylara knew the
moment had come.