A Lesson in Archery
Dyta, the sun, swung lazily toward the western horizon. And with the
coming of dusk, Pryak rose from his bench at the edge of the arena in
Sephar's amphitheater and gave the signal ending the first day of the
Games.
At his gesture the spectators climbed to their feet and pressed toward
the exits. They were less lively--more subdued than when they had poured
into the enclosure hours before. Perhaps the constant association with
death during the long day had sobered them, hushing their tongues at
last. But on the morrow they would be back, yesterday's scenes
forgotten, appetites whetted once more for hours of carnage.
While far beneath Sephar a roomful of tired unsmiling men spread their
sleeping furs for the night in ominous silence. For them a long day had
ended, yet taut nerves relaxed but slightly; for all knew that on the
next day the wearying ordeal must begin anew.
Morning found most of the prisoners awake and moving about the cell when
the morning meal was served. After the attendants had withdrawn and the
crowds were beginning to stream into the amphitheater, Tharn called a
number of prisoners together.
"Get ready," he said. "The guards are due here any minute. Listen at the
door, Katon; when you hear them, let us know."
Turning, the cave-man pulled Vulcar into position as the central figure
of the group. In this formation they waited expectantly, all eyes on
Katon at the door with one ear glued to the crack between door and jamb.
Suddenly Katon straightened. "They come!" he whispered, and sprang
forward to join the others.
At his words, the prisoners, yelling in well-simulated rage, pounced on
the hawk-faced Vulcar. The one-time officer was swept from his feet and
sent crashing to the floor with a resounding thump. A second later he
was at the bottom of a pile of raving madmen, all clearly lusting for
his blood.
It was this scene that met the eyes of four guards and Wotar as they
came into the room. Taking in the situation at a glance, the director
barked a curt order that sent the guards into the scuffle. Using spear
butts as flails they managed to beat the cursing prisoners from the
limp body of a disheveled Vulcar, who got painfully to his feet.
"What means this?" Wotar thundered. "Is there so little fighting in the
arena that you must brawl amongst yourselves?"
Vulcar, still trembling from his narrow escape, hurried to explain.
"These men," he panted, indicating the scowling faces about him, "hate
me because they think I am responsible for their being here. I have
tried to tell them it was Urim's fault, that I had only obeyed his
orders; but they would not listen. Some cried out that they would kill
me; then all of them sprang upon me. I would be dead now, had you not
come. As soon as you go they will try again. Put me elsewhere, mighty
Wotar; I am afraid to stay here."
Vulcar's voice broke with fear, and he trembled so that he could hardly
stand.
Wotar's lips curled with contempt. "Put him with the prisoners across
the hall," he instructed one of the soldier-priests. "Perhaps they will
be more gentle and considerate."
Wotar was an intelligent man; but he failed to notice that the departing
prisoner no longer seemed the craven weakling of a moment before. Too,
he failed to perceive the poorly hidden satisfaction of the other
captives....
* * * * *
The Game director, an experienced showman, had planned as the second
day's opening event, something calculated to arouse the spectators to
the highest pitch of excitement. Once in that frame of mind they would
follow each succeeding event with increasing enthusiasm--enthusiasm
being the barometer by which his fitness as director was measured.
Three times his finger crooked; each time a man stepped forward.
Quickly the guards took up positions and the three prisoners were led
away.
In the arms-room each participant was handed a bow and three arrows.
Wotar gave them instructions, the outer door was opened, and Katon,
Rotark and Tharn stepped onto the sands.
From the stands came a full-throated roar of approval. Tharn's fabulous
strength and agility they remembered from his initial appearance; the
others they also recalled as being exceptional fighting-men.
This morning Tharn was feeling remarkably light-hearted. His supreme
self-confidence gave him assurance his plan of escape would come off
perfectly when the time was ripe. And certainly he was enjoying himself!
These battles with men and with animals, with death the penalty for any
mistake in tactics, were doing much to satisfy that deep love of
adventure which was so great a part of him.
The men crossed the arena's entire length, halting a few feet from the
eastern wall. Then they turned about and waited, watching silently the
wooden door of the distant arms-room.
They had not long to wait. Scarcely had they turned when that door
opened and three warriors, each with a bow and three arrows, came out.
They were clothed in white tunics, with legs and feet bare. All were
taller than the average Sepharian, with wide shoulders, narrow hips and
slender well-formed legs.
"Sephar's three finest bowmen," Katon murmured. "The tallest is Maltor,
at one time chief of archers under Jaltor, and probably the greatest man
with a bow in our history.
"I had forgotten the report that he would fight in the arena. Since he
enlisted in the Games only to display his bowmanship, he may withdraw at
any time. Watch him constantly, for he is our greatest danger."
He fell silent then, sudden lines of worry on his face. "Tharn, I
remember, now, that you know nothing of fighting with a bow. We must
work out some way of covering you."
* * * * *
The cave-man permitted himself a grim smile. "You are wrong," he said
quietly. "The bow and I are good friends. I will keep up my end of this
fight."
Katon was satisfied. "Good. Now if only we can outwit them....
"Let them shoot first. Watch the fingers of their right hands; when they
open on the arrow's haft, jump quickly aside, keeping an arrow ready in
your own bow. The moment you regain balance aim quickly and send your
first answer.
"Aim always for the belly. A man can shift his head and shoulders much
quicker than he can his middle. Besides, his belly is a broader mark.
"Ready now! They are getting close! Tharn--Maltor is for you.
Rotark--see what you can do with the man on his left. The other is mine.
"Ah! they have stopped. They still are too far away to risk a shot.
Being careful, I suppose; they had better be!
"Tharn! Thrust two of your arrows point first in the sand within reach.
Fit the other to your bow. Do the same, Rotark.
"Careful now! They are starting this way again! Maltor is no fool; he is
trying to coax us into wasting arrows."
Katon fell silent. His two friends, their bows half drawn, arrow points
held downward, stood relaxed, intently gauging the approach of the
enemy, now a scant forty paces away.
An absolute silence had enveloped the entire amphitheater as every
observer of this tense drama strained his eyes to catch the impending
action.
Now Maltor, arrogant and impatient, stepped a pace or two in advance of
his companions. Notching an arrow, he nodded over his shoulder to the
others, who came up beside him. Three bows were raised in unison; the
warriors aimed their shafts carefully, each at a different member of
Katon's troupe. The human targets stood at ease, seemingly indifferent
to their danger.
And then the scheme the wily Maltor had evolved was flashed on the enemy
with a suddenness and brilliancy of execution that would have done much
to settle the final outcome--had it succeeded.
* * * * *
A split second before the arrows were released, two of the three archers
turned their aim toward the same target as that selected by Maltor.
Immediately three bowstrings twanged as one, sending three flint-tipped
shafts with incredible swiftness at a single mark.
To avoid one swiftly flying missile was difficult enough; to dodge
three, so cunningly spaced that a move to either side would avail
naught, was all but impossible. Yet in the flicker of time required for
the arrows to reach him, Tharn had acted in the only manner possible to
avoid impalement.
Flat on his face dropped the cave-man, the three bolts passing inches
above his descending head to shatter against the stone wall beyond. As
he fell, Katon and Rotark fired their first arrows.
One found a mark. A man screamed suddenly, horribly, and sank to the
sand, a wooden shaft protruding from his abdomen. Rotark had followed
instructions!
Had Katon's target been less agile there would have been two casualties.
But the man managed to avoid that flashing point by a sideward lunge,
keeping his balance with difficulty in the shifting sands.
Meanwhile, Tharn had not remained passively in a reclining position. As
the opening barrage passed over him, he rose to his knees and dispatched
his first arrow at the foe Katon had given him.
Maltor was too seasoned a warrior to be caught napping. Even though he
had momentarily dismissed Tharn as a source of danger, he had kept an
eye on the cave-man. And that precaution enabled him to twist aside
barely in time to keep from being struck.
The veteran bowman gasped incredulously as the stone-shod missile whined
past. He marvelled that a man's arm could be capable of driving an arrow
with such superhuman power.
It was Maltor's last thought in this life.
Even as Tharn released his first arrow, his right hand shot out,
snatched a second from its vertical position in the sand, strung it and
let go--all within the quiver of an eye-lid. Maltor, still trying to
regain balance, was in no position to dodge again.
* * * * *
Those in the stands saw the famed bowman straighten as though jerked
upright by an invisible hand. Mouth agape, eyes staring in
uncomprehending horror, he remained upright for a long moment, while a
red line trickled between the fingers he had clapped to his side. Then
he turned in a slow half-circle, his knees buckled; and Maltor sank to
the sands, dead where he fell.
So savage had been the force behind Tharn's arrow that head and shaft
had passed completely through the Sepharian's body.
Rotark, watching, spellbound by the brief drama, was shocked from his
inertia when his bow was torn from his grasp and hurled several yards
away. One end struck him, in its flight, full across the face and sent
him sprawling.
An arrow intended for Rotark's heart had, instead, crashed against the
hardwood bow in his hand. The impact cost Rotark two of his teeth; an
inch or so either way would have cost him his life.
While the doleful one was still falling, Katon's bow spoke a second time
and the last enemy dropped, mortally wounded.
Rotark, gloomier than ever, got unsteadily to his feet,
spat out two teeth as an involuntary offering to the
God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud, picked up his splintered bow and
started for the exit.
Katon and Tharn grinned quietly to one another and followed him.
And the thrilled thousands in the stands released at last the breath
they unconsciously had been holding for long seconds.
* * * * *
And so the day wore on. Many times during the passing hours guards
entered the great cell to select men for combat in the arena. Some of
those selected returned, others never came back; but survivors
outweighed, by far, the losses. The reasons were two: Every man knew
that survival, now, would heighten his chance for freedom when the break
took place. As a result he fought with determination and daring not
possible without hope to feed upon.
Wotar was responsible for the second reason. The director knew from
years of handling these Games that spectators thrilled more over duels
between men than over those between men and beasts. As a consequence he
husbanded his supply of warriors, sending enough of them at one time
against the jungle creatures that the latter almost invariably succumbed
before they could do much harm. Only when a man proved an exceptionally
able warrior were the odds more nearly even.
About mid-way in that long afternoon, Wotar and his men entered the
dungeon and took Tharn, alone, with them. The cave lord looked back as
he passed through the doorway, in time to catch an expression in Katon's
eyes that was very close to being fear. It came to Tharn, then, that
should he perish in action, the planned revolt might never take place.
On his leadership depended the hopes of every man in that room.
Once more Tharn found himself in the arms-room. The attendant there
looked questioningly at Wotar.
The master of the Games ran a thoughtful eye over the Cro-Magnard's
splendid body.
"Give him a hunting-knife--and nothing else," he said finally. "So far
this man has had an easy time of it. Now we shall learn just how much of
a fighter he really is!"
Silently the guard presented a long-bladed knife of flint.
Once more the arena door opened; and Tharn, blade in hand, strode into
the amphitheater.
The shrill cacophony which greeted him held a welcoming note that did
not escape the young Tharn. For the first time, he raised his eyes to
the innumerable tiers, observing with wonder the mammoth sea of faces
turned in his direction. Near the arena wall on his right, and half way
to the far end of the arena itself, was that section occupied by Pryak
and his numerous retinue. Tharn had no difficulty in picking out the
high priest's unimpressive figure seated close to the protecting wall.
The cave-man's reverie was abruptly shattered as the massive gate at the
enclosure's far end began to swing open. For a moment nothing appeared;
then slowly and majestically there emerged from the darkened interior
Tharn's arch enemy--Sadu, the lion!