Revolt!
As Sadu, the lion, came into full view, a collective groan rose on the
afternoon air. Then came scattered boos and cries of disapproval from
various points in the stands.
"Give him arrows and a bow!"
"No man can kill a lion with a knife!"
"Death to Pryak!" shouted some more hardy soul.
Scattered protests began to gather volume until they beat as a steady
roar, filling the entire arena with ominous sound. Armed priests,
stationed at the upper edge of the retaining wall, began to move
uneasily among the seats to restore order.
Suddenly the mounting crescendo stilled, as action on the arena sands
seemed imminent.
Sunlight, flooding the huge oval, bathed in golden glory the calm figure
of the man and the tan coat of the jungle king. With striking clarity it
picked out the corded muscles and swelling muscles of this cave-god. His
handsome, finely-shaped head with its crowning mop of straight black
hair; his shoulders, wide and erect; his mighty chest, narrow waist and
tapering hips--all made up a picture of physical perfection that no
observer was likely to forget.
And yet, invincible though this Cro-Magnard appeared, he seemed puny and
pitiable when compared with the huge beast that Wotar had sent against
him. Never before had so magnificent a lion appeared in Sephar's Games.
Even Tharn, jungle traveler for most of his life, had blinked
disbelievingly when Sadu made his entrance.
Sadu padded gently forward, the lithe sinews of his giant body rolling
smoothly beneath a shimmering hide. He seemed unruffled and serene; only
the angry lash of his sinuous tail told of a seething ferocity within
that lordly head.
Armed only with his painfully inadequate knife, Tharn advanced slowly to
meet certain destruction. He knew his chances for victory were so slim
as to be almost non-existent; yet the self-confidence and
resourcefulness born of a hundred battles against overwhelming odds were
weapons more dependable than the flint blade he carried.
Sadu stopped his own advance when the hated man-thing started toward
him. For several days now, he had been underfed, goaded about with sharp
sticks and shouting voices, harassed and annoyed until he was angry
enough to have charged a regiment. Yet that unfathomable sense of
caution, so strong a part of every wild creature, held him motionless
before the deliberate approach of this two-legged enemy.
Tharn halted. Only a few paces separated the two as they stood unmoving.
The man's eyes were riveted on the lion's restless tail; by its
movements could he know what was taking place in Sadu's brain.
Slowly Sadu settled into a crouching position, head flattened,
hindquarters drawn beneath his taut frame, tail twitching in jerky
undulations. A vagrant breeze ruffled the thick mane at his neck....
* * * * *
Suddenly the tail stiffened and shot erect; and voicing an
ear-shattering roar, Sadu sprang at the man in his path.
Sadu, the lion, had felt man's tender flesh beneath his yellow fangs and
murderous talons before this. He expected no more resistance from this
one than had come from those others.
It was an astonished beast, therefore, that crashed to the sand where
the man had been--and was no longer. With an uncanny agility Tharn
evaded that lightning charge; then, so quickly that human eyes were hard
put to follow, he leaped in and drove his heavy knife deep behind Sadu's
left shoulder.
The jungle king, snarling hideously from unexpected pain and shock,
wheeled and struck in one simultaneous motion; but Tharn, leaping high
as the great cat turned, vaulted completely over the broad back, the
dripping knife still clutched in his hand. Before Sadu could reverse
himself, the blade flashed again, striking at the base of the tawny neck
where lay the great spine.
The flint bit deep but missed a vital spot by half an inch. Sadu had
moved in a rapid sideward maneuver as Tharn's arm was descending, and
while the wound that resulted was painful, it was by no means fatal.
Worst of all, the blow had cost the Cro-Magnard his only weapon. Sadu's
sudden shift had torn the knife from Tharn's fingers before he could tug
it free, leaving the blade sunk deep, haft still standing upright like a
miniature cross.
His blood crimsoning the white sands, Sadu whirled about, sending a
shower of the fine particles high into the air. Once more he hurled
himself at his elusive foe, and once more Tharn dodged aside. But this
time his foot slipped a little in the yielding sand. One flailing paw
struck his chest a glancing blow, the claws raking long scratches there,
and Tharn was catapulted heels over head a full fifteen feet across the
arena.
A little murmur of protest came from the ranks of spectators. They had
witnessed what had promised to be an ineffectual struggle develop into a
battle between giants, with its ultimate outcome very much in doubt.
Now, through a quirk of fate, the grim battle was ended; the favorite
they had acclaimed was doomed.
Sadu leaped forward to make his kill.
Tharn, helpless, knew life had run its course. Nothing could save him
now.
And then fickle fate shifted once more. Tharn's right hand, pressing
against the ground in a last futile effort to throw himself to one side,
closed purely by chance about a hard object which he instantly
identified as the hilt of a stone knife, dropped there, doubtless, by
some warrior earlier in the day.
Recognition and action came together. Tharn raised the weapon, hilt
between thumb and bent forefinger, and, while still in a sitting
position, flung it with all the concentrated strength of his powerful
arm point foremost at the on-rushing bulk.
As in a dream he saw the sliver of flint streak through the sunlight to
meet the great head. Full into Sadu's right eye sank its entire length;
then a crushing weight came down on Tharn's chest and he knew no more.
* * * * *
He could not have been unconscious for long; for his eyes opened in time
to see Sadu's lifeless body being dragged away. Two guards were standing
over his own supine figure, evidently seeking to learn the extent of his
injuries.
"He lives!" ejaculated one in surprise, as Tharn's eyes fluttered open.
In answer the cave man got unsteadily to his feet, and while the effort
sent a spasm of pain through his bruised chest and aching ribs, his face
betrayed nothing of his suffering.
Leisurely he brushed sand from his back and legs, then turned and walked
toward the western gate. Heedless to the thunder of acclaim beating
against his ears, he disappeared through the arms-room door.
Once within the common cell, Tharn told enough of his adventure to dull
the prisoners' curiosity, then edged away to join Katon.
Thus the day wore on. Now and then guards would enter, pick out a man or
two and depart. Once, Brutan came back from the arena with his left
cheek laid open from an animal's claw. But the wound had dulled no part
of his braggardism and he told a highly colored tale of an encounter
against nearly impossible odds.
Later in that afternoon, Katon had been summoned, to be absent for what
seemed an age to Tharn. But return he did, unscathed, a broad smile
lighting up his face as the cave lord came forward to welcome him.
A bond of friendship, based on mutual respect and admiration, had formed
between these two men; a bond which passing days but served to augment.
It was destined to be that rare understanding known only between men,
wherein each finds within the other something of himself.
Just before the day's end, Brosan went out, a quip on his lips and a
careless wave of his hand to the others. That joking remark and carefree
gesture remained with every man in the cell, for Brosan never came
back....
Darkness came at last, and for a second time the roaring of beasts and
shrieks and moans of dying men ceased in the oval above. Food was
brought and the weary gladiators ate and drank, doing their best to
forget tiredness and strain.
Sleep came slowly that night to most of them. Within every heart was
strong desire for the morrow to come--the new day for which all had
waited. There were some here who would never see a second sunrise; but,
as is usual under such conditions, each man looked for death to single
out any one other than himself.
* * * * *
Less than a day's journey to the north of Sephar's walls a party of
fifty warriors supped on the freshly-killed meat of Neela, the zebra,
shortly before Dyta slid below the western earth-line. All that day they
had traveled slowly along a thread-like game trail leading directly
south. At times, for hours on end, they had walked through sombre depths
of brooding jungle, beneath grotesque shadows of forest kings. Again,
their way was across wide reaches of gently undulating prairie, where
thick yellow grasses, deep to a tall man's thighs, stirred beneath the
touch of baking winds.
Always, however, they had moved into the south, and ever in the lead was
he whose decision, based solely on a vague premonition, had brought them
so far from home. On this man's left forearm was the painted insignia of
a chief....
With the sudden coming of night, the entire party took to the safety of
high branches on either side of the trail. When Dyta returned on the
morrow, they once more would take up their march into the mountains to
the south ... always to the south.
* * * * *
Once more, dawn poked gray fingers through the overhead grill-work of
the great cell beneath Sephar's amphitheater. And from the same point
came sounds of Sephar's thousands, filing again into their seats for
another day of grisly entertainment.
Tharn rolled over, sat up and ran tanned fingers through his heavy shock
of black hair. For a moment his eyes ran over the sleeping scores,
picking out many whom he had learned to respect. There was Katon, head
pillowed on the biceps of a strong right arm, a half smile discernible
on his firm mouth; he was sleeping soundly. Near him lay Brutan, the red
edges of his wound showing through black stubble covering his cheek.
There was Rotark, his long face even more solemn in sleep; and next to
him, Gorlat, blond hair unruffled, his tunic, still nearly immaculate,
neatly folded and placed close beside him.
Tharn got to his feet and set about awakening the sleepers. Before Wotar
arrived, he meant to speak once more to the prisoners; to go over for
the last time, those few vital points which all must know perfectly if
his plans were to be carried to a successful conclusion.
When all were assembled, he spoke briefly, asking questions again and
again that none might fail to understand what was expected of him. The
men listened intently, hanging on his every word and drinking deep of
the inexhaustible fund of courage and surety possessed by the gray-eyed
young man.
When he had finished he knew they were with him heart and soul, that
every man present would charge, without hesitation, a hundred spear
points if the need arose. If Vulcar could manage as well with the group
across the hall, then Sephar could have a new ruler before nightfall.
He had no more than finished speaking, when the door opened, admitting
Wotar and six guards. Quickly, ten prisoners were singled out and taken
from the cell, among them Tharn and the golden haired Gorlat.
Upon reaching the arms-room, Wotar sent four prisoners, with as many
guards, into the chamber, the others being forced to wait until the tiny
room could be cleared. And of the four who entered, two were Tharn and
Gorlat.
The door was closed and barred. The prisoners stood quietly, waiting for
the attendant to parcel out weapons to them.
The crisis was at hand. Now that it had come, Tharn felt his muscles
tense, his nerves grow taut, a deadly coolness steal through him. His
eyes narrowed, as do the eyes of Tarlok preparing to leap upon unwary
prey.
The air of the small chamber seemed suddenly charged with something
electrical; a hushed breath of expectancy made the stillness strangely
unbearable....
* * * * *
A guard cleared his throat uneasily, sending a harsh rasping note
against the silence. He said, "Give each man a bow, ten arrows and a
spear."
Removing a stone-tipped spear from a pile in one corner, the attendant
offered it, butt foremost, to the cave-man, who reached forth a steady
hand to take it. As his fingers closed on the haft, and before anyone
could guess his intention, Tharn drew back his arm and drove the
triangle of flint into the man's throat, changing a scream of terror
into a gasping whisper.
As the dying guard slumped forward, the other captives snatched weapons
from the supply about them and leaped upon the dazed soldiers, three of
whom went down before they could lift a hand in defense.
Tharn, farthest from the group, was forced to cross the entire room
before he could lay hands on the fourth guard. That one, instead of
standing his ground, was seeking to reach and unbar the corridor door.
As he fumbled with the heavy timber, iron fingers closed on one shoulder
and tore him away. Up and back he swung, high above Tharn's head; then
his thrown body struck head foremost against the far wall, crushing the
skull like a blown egg.
Turning to his comrades, Tharn found two of the three remaining guards
were already accounted for. The third, however, had killed one rebel,
and using the dead body as a shield, was successfully standing off all
efforts of the two men seeking to reach him. In one hand he grasped a
long spear, its darting head having already inflicted slight wounds on
the menacing pair.
A thunderous pounding warned Tharn that the sounds of combat had aroused
Wotar and his two men. The entire rebellion was being threatened by one
courageous man; and unless this delay was speedily ended, the break for
freedom was destined to end here and now.
Stooping, Tharn grasped the dead body of the attendant, straightened,
and hurled it with all his giant strength full against the lone
defender's human shield. So terrific was that impact, that the guard was
swept completely from his feet. Before he could recover, Gorlat had
slipped a knife into his heart.
Bounding forward, Tharn unbarred and threw open the door, and sprang
into the corridor, his two friends at his heels. He had a brief glimpse
of Wotar's hanging jaw and stupefied expression before the two factions
closed in battle.
* * * * *
Wotar was no coward. As Tharn leaped toward him he whipped a knife from
his belt and swung it savagely at the Cro-Magnard's broad chest.
Like the striking head of an angry snake, Tharn's hand shot out and
closed on Wotar's wrist. Mighty fingers contracted, and the knife
dropped from his nerveless grasp to clatter against the stone floor.
Tharn's free hand closed on the hapless leader's jaw, tightened, then
wrenched the head in a vicious half-circle that left a broken neck in
its wake.
When Tharn released the clay that once had been Wotar, master of
Sephar's Games, he found no other foe alive within the corridor. Dead on
the floor were the two guards, torn and mangled from the savage fury of
those who had snuffed out their lives. Eight men, eyes alight, stood
before him, awaiting instructions.
The cave dweller singled out two of them.
"Go back and open both cells. First, free those in our own room; Vulcar
may not have convinced the others to join us. If so, our men can help in
convincing them!
"Tell them the way is open to this room. Caution all to silence, that
none overhears us and warns those we hope to surprise."
Tharn then motioned the remaining six into the arms-room. There, each
armed himself with a bow, arrows, knife and a spear.
Soon they heard sounds of naked feet within the corridor, and into view,
three abreast, came the former prisoners. At their head was Katon;
beside him strode Vulcar, once captain of Urim's guards.
Tharn halted them just short of the arsenal. He ran his eyes along the
ranks, and what he saw brought a smile of satisfaction to his lips.
As far back as his eyes could make out in the dimly lighted passageway
were men. There were at least a hundred and fifty--perhaps more; all
eager for weapons and a chance to use them.
The Cro-Magnard held up one hand to gain their attention. "Remember," he
said, "march into the arena quickly and in silence. Do not so much as
glance at the spectators until I give the signal. And when that signal
comes, seek to kill only priests and warriors. To attack the people of
Sephar without cause would only make them hate and fear us. We cannot
fight an entire city.
"Come forward now--three each time. Once within the arena, take the
places I give you."
Three entered the arms-room. To each went a bow, quiver of arrows,
complete with shoulder band; a knife and a spear. Tharn then opened the
outer door and passed them through, then pulled it shut and aided in
arming the next three.
In that fashion twenty-seven were sent into the amphitheater before
Tharn called a halt. Dimly, he could hear the rustling murmur from the
packed stands, and he knew that all was well--thus far, at least.
He summoned Vulcar and Katon, now, gave them weapons identical to those
issued to the others, and went with them into the arena, Rotark acting
as door-keeper.
* * * * *
In a wide semi-circle at the far end of the sandy field stood the
twenty-seven who had gone before them. They made a thin line, their
backs close to the retaining wall, one end of which was almost directly
below the loges occupied by Pryak and the Council of Priests. It was
toward this section that Tharn and his two companions bent their steps.
The cave lord took a position less than four paces from the stone
barrier at his back. Above him sat Pryak, high priest and ruler of
Sephar, deep in conversation with Orbar.
Now, the second contingent of warriors began to issue from the
arms-room. In groups of three, seconds apart, they emerged and took up
positions near the wall at the arena's opposite end.
When an equal number were at either end of the enclosure, the influx of
armed men became heavier. In groups of five, now, they appeared and
formed a second row a few feet in front of the others and facing in the
same direction. There were fully four score in the open by this
time--and still they came.
Tharn knew the moment was fast approaching when suspicion would become
aroused by this unprecedented concentration of warriors. Already a few
priests were peering down at them, puzzled expressions on their faces.
The buzz of conversation began to fade; and here and there spectators
were rising to their feet.
Pryak stood up, suddenly, and leaned over the railing.
"What means this?" he asked of Orbar. "Does Wotar mean to end the Games
with one battle? There are too many men on the sands; send someone to
investigate."
Tharn, overhearing, knew he dared wait no longer. Throwing back his
head, he sent the hair-raising battle cry of his tribe reverberating
throughout the entire structure. As the notes of that horrendous cry
rose on the still air, he pivoted about and sent a slender arrow leaping
from his bow full at the head of Pryak, king of Sephar!
It is no mean tribute to Pryak's nimbleness to tell that he dodged that
arrow. And dodge it he did--falling back into the arms of his retinue as
death passed a finger's breadth above his sparse locks to transfix an
unfortunate under-priest.
The cave-man's cry was the awaited signal, releasing all the pent-up
hate and fury within the hearts of those who acknowledged him as leader.
As one man, a hundred warriors turned and loosed a shower of arrows at
the thin line of guards and priests above them. The instant those
flint-tipped messengers were released, those rebels nearest the walls
knelt, braced themselves and became living ladders over which their
comrades swarmed to gain the seats above.
* * * * *
A living wave of blood-hungry men swarmed into the stands and fell upon
the already wavering ranks of defenders. The entire bowl was now a
maelstrom of swirling bodies, legs and arms. Panic-stricken spectators,
few of them armed, rose from their benches and rushed headlong for the
exits, trammeling, pushing, fighting to gain the streets, to escape the
raving horde of crazed demons.
And, seemingly everywhere at the same time, Tharn, Katon and Vulcar
fought shoulder to shoulder, their knives rising and falling, their
spears licking out to take lives and spread further the reign of terror
they had fostered.
Twice, Tharn caught sight of Gorlat, blond hair finally disarranged,
weaving among the tiers like a cat, his only weapon a long, thin knife.
And as priest after priest sought futilely to keep that long blade from
his throat, Tharn knew, now, why Vulcar had said few could equal that
young man with such a weapon. How many died that day with throats slit
by that knife, only Gorlat knew--and he was never to tell.
It had happened shortly after Tharn had caught his second glimpse of the
steadily smiling youth. Gorlat had just made a kill, and as he stood
erect, a thrown spear came from nowhere to catch him full in the chest.
Gorlat had staggered back to sink into a sitting position on an empty
bench. Dazedly he had raised a hand to wipe away the red stains of his
own blood from that once spotless tunic--then slumped back and moved no
more.
There were other men of Tharn's force who fell, never to rise again;
but for each who died, five enemies went to join him. Bodies of slain
priests were everywhere--draped across seats, hanging over the arena
wall, lying in the aisles. Warriors loyal to Pryak had died in droves
and lay glaring at the sky with sightless eyes.
At last there was none within the amphitheater other than the dead, the
wounded, and the blood-splashed figures of the rebels who stood panting
from their efforts, their eyes on Tharn and his two lieutenants.
Of those three, Vulcar alone had been wounded. An arrow had creased his
shoulder close to his neck, and blood from the cut had stained one side
of his chest a fast-darkening crimson. But his eyes were bright with
satisfaction and his lips were curled in grim content.
"Urim would have enjoyed this!" he said, and his smile widened. "Now, on
to the palace and the temple to clean out the rest of Pryak's men. That
done, the city is ours!"
Katon bent and took up a stray spear. "Come, then," he remarked; "if we
wait, they will have gotten over their panic and will be that much
harder to rout a second time."
Tharn nodded agreement. "First, the palace; then we can invade the
temple and take Pryak and his men."
* * * * *
A warrior spoke from the ranks. "Dare we enter the temple?" he asked
doubtfully. "If we offend the God, He may destroy us."
"He is right!" declared another. "Why should we chance angering our God.
Once the city is ours, Pryak will have to do as we say. Let us not
attack the House of the God."
"Pryak dies!" Vulcar roared, grinding the butt of his spear savagely
against the stone flooring. "Let the God be offended--Pryak must die! If
the rest of you brave warriors are afraid, I will go alone into the
temple and drag out Urim's murderer by the few hairs left on his ugly
head!
"Did Pryak's God save these priests who lie about us, here, their bodies
cut by our spears and knives? Did He, seeing Pryak in danger, hide him
with His sky-fire? No; they were men like us; and since they deserved to
die, they _did_ die! Pryak is next!"
Tharn, listening with silent admiration and approval, thought of
something that snatched the half-smile from his lips.
"Where _is_ Pryak?" he asked. "He was here when the fighting started.
How did he and those with him get away?"
The others could furnish nothing toward clearing up this minor mystery.
Nor was there a single body of the missing group in the vicinity.
"Let us go on," suggested Tharn finally. "After the palace is taken, we
can set about finding Vulcar's good friend Pryak!"
Still chuckling at the cave-man's sally, the insurgents formed into a
column, three abreast, and marched toward a nearby exit that led from
the shambles they had created.