THE FIGHTING TRAVEKS.
Grandon halted. There was nothing else for him to do. As he did so, the
leader ordered his men to lower their torks, for it was plain to be
seen that he was unarmed. The leader advanced toward him.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "Are you friend or foe of Uxpo, and what do
you in these woods at this hour, unarmed and alone?"
The Earth-man first thought of giving the name of Prince Thaddor, and
was on the point of doing so, but checked himself in time when he
remembered that these men apparently did not know him, and replied:
"I am Grandon of Earth."
"Grandon of--Erg?" said the leader. "I have never heard of that
country. It must be a great way from here. You wear the color of
royalty, yet you travel alone and unarmed. It is strange."
He turned and held a whispered council with his men for a few minutes.
Then he swung on Grandon.
"My men are of the same opinion as I," he snapped. "You have not told
us the truth, and you masquerade in the color of royalty. However, that
is not what principally concerns us. We wish to know if you are friend
or foe of Uxpo."
Grandon thought quickly before he replied,
"Since I know nothing of Uxpo or its people, I cannot truthfully say
that I am either."
"Very well. You may go your way in peace if you so desire, or you may
remain with us by demonstrating your fitness to associate with the
Fighting Traveks. We have no weaklings in our ranks. No doubt you are
aware that, in the shadows about us, lurk the hahoes, and hundreds
of other man-eating monsters for which, unarmed, you would be a most
tempting and easily dispatched morsel. Make your decision quickly.
"In what way may I prove my fitness to bivouac with the Fighting
Traveks?" asked Grandon.
The leader seemed surprised.
"Indeed you must hail from a far country," he said. "There is only one
way and that is by demonstrating your ability with the scarbo. You may
choose which one of us you shall fight. All are expert scarbomen, with
many dead warriors to their credit."
"In that case, I choose the scarbo, and shall feel honored if you will
consent to be my opponent," said Grandon boldly.
If the leader was either pleased or displeased by this decision he gave
no sign. One of the men handed a scarbo to Grandon and a circle was
formed.
* * * * *
As he grasped the hilt of his weapon and stood facing his opponent,
Grandon tried to recall the various tricks of Zarovian swordsmanship
that had been taught him by Vorn Vangal, but it seemed that they had
been totally obliterated from his memory. Instead, he beheld a vision
of Le Blanc, his old fencing master, who had instructed him in his
early youth.
Fencing, as it is practiced on Earth, was an unknown art in Zarovia.
The scarbo, as its shape indicated, was primarily a cutting weapon, and
the point was seldom used in combat.
How the Earth-man was enabled to parry the bewildering rain of blows
that followed the first clash of metal, he never knew. For several
minutes he fought as one in a trance, often escaping the death blow
by the merest fraction of a second. It seemed that some alert,
subconscious force from within directed his sword-arm.
Gradually, however, he regained complete control of his faculties. He
found himself combining the sword-play of Vorn Vangal with the fencing
technique of Le Blanc. A look of bewilderment came over the face of
his opponent as Grandon made several quick thrusts, any one of which
would have terminated the duel had he held a straight-bladed sword.
It was this change in the style of fighting that turned the tide of
battle in Grandon's favor. He was not slow to follow up his advantage,
and shortly after, a well directed lunge stretched the leader of the
Fighting Traveks at his feet.
Two men picked up their fallen commander and carried him to a couch of
moss which had been prepared near by. He was breathing faintly, and one
of the band, evidently a surgeon, stated that while the wound was not
necessarily a mortal one, the man would not wield a scarbo for many
days to come, if ever.
Then, to Grandon's surprise, a personage who was apparently an officer
of rank, came before him and saluted, while every man in the band stood
at attention.
"What is the will of our new mojak?" he asked.
"I'm afraid I don't quite get your meaning," answered Grandon.
"You have overcome our mojak--our leader--in single combat. By so doing
you have won the right to command in his place. I am the second in
command. I await your orders."
"Let each man go about his camp duties as before. We will remain here
for the night. See that your former captain has the best of medical
attention."
The lieutenant saluted. "Did you say your name was Grandon of--Urgg? I
cannot pronounce it!"
Grandon thought quickly, remembering, for some reason or other, a few
tag-ends of Latin. Earth--_terra_. "Well, you may call me Grandon
of Terra," he suggested. There was no use in making his leadership
needlessly difficult for the Fighting Traveks, simply because of their
habits of speech. Besides, Grandon of Terra had a ring to it--it
could, he reflected as he looked about this band of fighters, become a
resounding war-cry.
"Grandon of Terra!" the lieutenant repeated. "We salute you."
In a moment the band was busily preparing for the bivouac as if nothing
of consequence had happened. The men were divided into three groups,
one to prepare a shelter, one to bring moss for couches, and a third to
build fires and cook the evening meal.
It was some time before Grandon could compose himself for slumber, and
it seemed to him that he had slept but a minute or two when a deafening
din assailed his ears. He sat up, bewildered for an instant, while a
hail of tork bullets pattered against the tree-trunk. All about him men
were fighting, shouting, cursing, groaning.
"What is up?" he asked the man nearest him.
"It's the Reabonians," replied the man, stanching the blood from a cut
in his shoulder. "We are surrounded by the soldiers of the princess."