Warrior of the Dawn

Tharn swung the nearest warrior bodily into the air

Four went down beneath the terrific impact; but before Tharn could follow up this momentary advantage, a swiftly descending club caught him a glancing blow behind one ear.

With a roar of fury the cave-youth wheeled and plunged his knife into the breast of the club-wielder; then seizing that weapon from the fingers of the dying man, swung it in a savage arc, splitting the skulls of three foes and transforming the weighty bludgeon into a handful of splinters.

Upon witnessing this superhuman feat, the balance of the Sepharians drew back in awe. Tharn, ringed about by a full score of enemies, their faces drawn and tense, stopped suddenly, caught up a stray club and once more charged.

For a moment it appeared the thin line of men would give way before that impetuous attack. The one directly in Tharn's path sought to dodge aside; but mighty fingers caught him about the neck, squeezed with irresistible force, and the man dropped, his vertebrae splintered.

Suddenly Tharn's legs were buckled by the combined thrust of three pairs of arms. As he fell backward, a club dealt his head a frightful blow; a great burst of fire seemed to sear his eyes—then blackness came as consciousness left him.

The sounds of struggling bodies, punctuated with screams of rage and anguish, awakened Dylara with a start. For a second she was uncertain from whence the bedlam came; then she leaped from the bed and ran to the closed door.

From the noise that reached her, she judged some wild beast had been trapped in the corridor outside; surely no human throat could have formed the fearsome snarls and growls coming to her ears.

Soon she caught the sound of a blow, heavier than the others, followed by deep silence, broken only by labored breathing of many men.

What could it have meant? Had a slave—perhaps one of her own race—attempted an escape? Or had some great animal invaded this lair of man while searching for food?

The thought never came to her that it might have been Tharn surprised outside her door. So positive was she that the cave-man had died beneath arrow and club, that she did not dream she had been on the verge of rescue.

It was from her door that Tharn had been lifting the bar when attacked.

Katon

A painful sensation in one shoulder brought full consciousness to Tharn, and opening his eyes he stared blankly up into the face of a Sepharian warrior. Noticing Tharn was awake, the man lowered the spear point with which he had been prodding the captive.

"So—you are alive, after all!" exclaimed the Sepharian. "You have a hard head, my savage friend; I thought they had beaten it in for you, last night."

The speaker's thin sharp face reminded the cave-man of Toa, the hawk. Tharn's lips curled with open contempt.

"The arms of your men are weak," he said mockingly. "It took many of them to overcome me."

An angry red came into the man's cheeks. "They meant to take you alive," he snapped. "Try to escape and you will find a quick death." He turned on his heel and strode away.

Tharn sat up and glanced about. It was evident he was in some subterranean spot; the air was cool and slightly damp, and there was that musty odor found only beneath the earth's surface. High up in one wall he made out an immense grating of some sort outlined against an early morning sky.

As the light grew stronger he saw the room to be tremendous. He noticed now that he was not alone; near the far wall lay a full score of sleeping men—many of them apparently cave-men like himself.

The sound of feet to his left attracted Tharn. He saw several men enter the cell through the room's single door, and place huge platters of meat on the several long tables near one wall. Noticing the sleeping men were rousing and taking stools about those tables, Tharn got to his feet and, ignoring their curious stares, joined them there.

Lowering his weight onto one of the three-legged stools, Tharn dipped into one of the great platters a neighbor had pushed toward him. As he ate, he looked about at the faces of his fellow prisoners.

They were an ill-assorted lot, most of them Sepharians, the balance men of his own kind. The former, without exception, seemed to carry themselves with the swaggering truculence of the true adventurer; the latter seemed sullen and aloof, like caged animals.

Among them all, however, was one who stood out in vivid contrast. Seated almost directly across from Tharn was a tall muscular Sepharian with a strong face and a pair of the bluest eyes Tharn had ever seen. His well-proportioned body, tanned almost to blackness, had much of the regal bearing that graced the cave-man's own.

Catching Tharn's eye, the stranger smiled suddenly, and unconsciously Tharn smiled in return. Thus encouraged, the Sepharian leaned forward and said:

"How did they happen to catch you?"

Those were the first actually friendly words Tharn had heard since the night he had left his own caves. For a moment he hesitated to answer, uncertain of the motive behind the other's interest.

"I was hunting for someone," he said finally.

The blue eyes widened a bit. "You mean they found you in Sephar?"

"If, by Sephar, you mean the strange caves inside the high cliff—yes."

The Sepharian shook his head in honest tribute. "But why did you come here? You must have known they would get you sooner or later."

"They have my mate here," Tharn explained briefly. "I came to get her."

"And now they have you both!"

Tharn's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. "They will not keep us," he said simply.

The other smiled a little. "I am Katon," he said, after a slight pause. "Who are you?"

Tharn told him, and the conversation lapsed for a while.

Meanwhile, a guard had entered the great room and approached Vulcar, the one who had reminded Tharn of Toa, the hawk. The two men spoke together for a few moments, then the captain of the guards came up behind Tharn and dropped a hand roughly on the cave-man's shoulder.

Tharn, in the midst of strangers, the memory of last night's battle still fresh in his mind, acted instinctively.

Bounding from his stool, he whirled on the startled Vulcar. Before the stupefied captain could lift a hand in defense, he found himself flat on his back, two knees pinning his shoulders to the floor, while iron fingers were shutting off his breath.

The entire body of prisoners and attendants was thrown into confusion. One of the guards leaped to the side of the cave-man and would have driven a spear into his back had not Katon vaulted the table and shoved him sprawling.

As though by signal, the prisoners threw themselves upon the handful of guards, and the room became a seething inferno of flailing arms and threshing legs, the four walls echoing muffled shouts, screams, curses.

Unmindful of the tumult about him, Katon knelt beside Tharn and the now weakly struggling Vulcar. Grasping the Cro-Magnon's steel-thewed wrists, he tugged with all his more than ordinary strength to loosen the awful grip.

"Stop it, Tharn!" he panted. "Let go! If he dies they will kill you!"

Slowly the red mist of anger faded as Katon's words reached the savage brain; and slowly, almost regretfully, Tharn obeyed.

As he rose from the floor and stepped back, a large group of guards broke into the room and joined the fight between attendants and prisoners. With lusty swings of spear shafts the newcomers beat the battling captives into a semblance of order against one wall.

As for Vulcar—he lay where Tharn had left him, tortured lungs sucking air in great gulps as the livid hue of his face gradually faded. Vulcar had been very near to death.

Finally he got shakily to his feet, assisted by two of his men. For a full minute he could not speak as he swayed there, rubbing at the angry red welts where Tharn's merciless fingers had closed.

"Seize that madman!" he croaked at last; "seize and tie him! A few touches of the whip will teach him how to act!"

Before the hesitant warriors could act, Katon had stepped into the breach.

"Wait, Vulcar," he pleaded. "Do not have him whipped. The man is a barbarian; he believed you had attacked him, and acted so. Had he stopped to think, he would not have dared raise a hand against the mightiest fighter in all Sephar."

Vulcar was shrewd enough to see that Katon had made it possible for him to save face before the others without chancing another battle. He realized the cave-man would resist an attempt to punish him, and such resistance might inflame the prisoners anew.

"Perhaps you are right, Katon," he admitted reluctantly. "But I shall not be so lenient if it happens again."

Tharn, listening, shrugged indifferently. The incident was closed as far as he was concerned, and Vulcar's thinly veiled threat did not impress him.

"I was about to tell your wild friend," the captain continued, "that Urim has sent word he is to be brought before him at once. Perhaps you had better come along, Katon; you seem to be the only one able to control him."

The three men crossed the huge cell, passed through the guarded doorway and went up a long ramp to the first floor of the palace. There they turned left and moved along a narrow corridor until stopped by a heavy door. Vulcar rapped on this with his knife hilt, it opened from the opposite side and they stepped through.

What met the cave-man's eyes caused him to catch his breath, so unusual did it appear to one who had known nothing more elaborate than simple caves and tangled fastness of jungle and forest.

Here was a great, high-ceilinged room, well-filled with warriors, citizens, slaves—even a sprinkling of women—all grouped about a low wooden frustum, its four sides consisting of steps. On the flattened apex stood a large chair, complete with arm-rests and towering back. Here sat the dignified figure of Urim, ruler of Sephar.

As Tharn and his companions entered, all conversation ceased, every eye turned toward them, and there was a great craning of necks. Some of those present had heard details of the cave-man's capture—details that had lost nothing in the telling. His god-like figure, the rippling sinews beneath a sun-bronzed skin, the primitive loin-cloth of panther hide—all drew forth murmurs of admiration.

As for Tharn—he strode toward the elevated throne with all of Sadu's majestic fearlessness. His level gray eyes bored into those of the man above him, and despite himself, Urim stiffened under their challenge.

When they had halted, Urim spoke, addressing his words to Vulcar.

"Is this the prowler you captured in the slave quarters?" he asked, indicating Tharn.

"It is, O Urim."

The ruler's eyes shifted to the stiffly erect figure of Katon. "Why have you brought this man?" he demanded.

"The prisoner has been troublesome," explained Vulcar. "Since Katon seems able to manage him, I brought him along."

Urim's face lost some of its good nature. "Well, Katon," he said coldly, "I have not forgotten you. Do you find the pits more to your taste than being in charge of the quarry slaves?"

Katon's face was without expression. "Both places have their good points, O Urim," he replied evenly.

Urim scowled. "Let me remind you the Games are not far away. I doubt that you will find many good points there—unless they be fang points!"

He turned back to Tharn. "What were you seeking in Sephar, forest-man?"

"I came here for my mate," Tharn said briefly.

"Your mate?"

"Yes. She was taken by your men three suns ago not far from here."

Urim looked questioningly at Vulcar. "He must mean the girl you brought in a few days ago. I understood the man with her had been slain."

"This is the one," admitted Vulcar. "There is an arrow wound—a fresh one—in his side. When we took the girl, the man with her was struck by an arrow. But we thought he had died from a blow from one of our clubs; it seems impossible that he has survived its force."

For several minutes the ruler of Sephar sat lost in thought, his eyes on the giant Cro-Magnon. This wild man's fate was in his hands, and his alone. As a slave the man would make an excellent guard or warrior—that is, were he tractable, amenable to discipline. Yet something warned him this man would recognize no authority or law beyond his own. Such a slave would only stir up unrest, perhaps open rebellion among his fellows.

And so Urim made his decision.

"Confine him to the pits, Vulcar," he commanded in dismissal. "He is to take part in the Games."

Vulcar led them out. A few moments later the two prisoners were standing within the mammoth dungeon, watching silently as the great door swung shut, hearing the heavy bars fall into place.

Hardly had Tharn left the throne-room when Dylara and Nada entered, accompanied by two guards.

An amazing transformation had been made in the appearance of Majok's daughter. The stained animal skin, that once had afforded an inadequate covering, was gone—replaced by a sleeveless tunic that fell from throat to knees. Her luxuriant curls of deep brown were neatly drawn behind her ears; on her feet were strong sandals of leather.

She hesitated slightly at sight of many strange faces, the serried ranks of motionless warriors about Urim's elevated throne, and, finally, the lordly figure of Urim, himself.

Regaining confidence, she walked slowly through the press of Sepharians as they cleared a pathway to the foot of Urim's chair.

Both women and their escorts halted a few paces short of the steps. Three heads were humbly lowered; Dylara alone gazed artlessly up at the monarch.

Urim hid his smile with a casual hand. Were all cave-people so difficult to impress? This savage girl was a beauty, though; the other women of the room certainly suffered by comparison. By the God! If there were not a hundred suitors at her heels before long he would have missed his guess. Even old Uglor, that confirmed misogynist, was staring at her, his heart in his eyes!

"Is this girl in your care, Nada?" he asked.

"She is, O Urim."

"She understands nothing of our customs?"

"That is true."

"She will be of no use, then," observed Urim, "until she has learned them. I think it would be best to keep her apart from the other slaves until then.

"You, Nada, shall teach her our ways; you are excused from other duties. See that she is taught to give service as a hand-maiden—she is far too beautiful for harder tasks. When she has learned all that you can teach her, let me know and I shall see to it that she has a kind mistress."

Nada could not hide her gratitude. It was clear that Urim had taken an interest in the new slave-girl, and it gladdened the older woman's heart to know Dylara's lot was to be an easy one.

Their interview ended, the two women were about to leave when the door opened to admit Jotan, Tamar and Javan.

Jotan, slightly in the lead, halted directly in front of Dylara. Indifferent to all else, he gazed deeply into the startled eyes of the cave-girl.

Dylara felt her cheeks grow warm under the unmistakable message in the man's eyes. She was conscious, in a peculiar detached way, of a strange, disturbing fascination. Somehow she knew this declaration was coming from deep within the heart of the square-faced young warrior; that the love he professed so silently was honest and complete.

Tamar nudged Javan sharply with an indignant elbow. "Look at him!" he growled under his breath. "There stands our friend—staring at a barbarian wench as though she were a nobleman's daughter! We've got to do something about this, Javan."

There was a dreamy expression in Javan's eyes. "She is beautiful, at that," he whispered. "Maybe we—"

His voice trailed off as one of the escorting guards, impatient at the delay, took Dylara by one arm and urged her on.

The movement brought realization of their surroundings to both the man and the woman. Jotan stepped aside to let them pass, his face expressionless.

Dylara and Nada walked slowly along the corridor between the two guards. The girl seemed subdued, deep in thought. Nada, watching her covertly, said:

"He loves you, Dylara."

The cave-girl nodded. "I know.... Who is he, Nada? I'm certain he's never seen me before. Do men fall in love so quickly?"

Her companion smiled. "They have been known to," she observed drily. "He is Jotan, the son of a nobleman of Ammad. He has been in Sephar only a day or two."

"I like him," Dylara said. "You must tell me more about him."

Nada glanced sharply at the girl. "I know only what is told by palace slaves and guards. Such tales are not always true."

The guards stopped before the door of the room where Dylara had spent the night before. Nada said, "This is where we are to stay until Urim is ready to give you to some woman of the court."

As the door closed behind them, she added: "They will bring us food, shortly. While we eat, I shall tell you all I can about Sephar and Ammad ... and Jotan."

Woman Against Woman

As the door closed behind Tharn and Katon, the former noticed that, but for themselves, the great cell was empty of life.

"Where are the others?" he asked, as they sat down on a pile of skins near one wall.

"In the arena, I suppose," Katon replied. "We must have exercise in the open air almost daily if we are to be in condition to put up a good fight during the Games."

"Just what are these 'Games,' Katon? From what I could make out, both of us are to take part in them."

"Shortly before each rainy season," Katon said, "sacrificial Games are held in honor of the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud. These Games consist of battles between men, and between men and beasts. At times animals alone fight, and hundreds die.

"Each succeeding day the victors of the day before are pitted against one another, until, on the last day, only one is left alive. That one, whether man or beast, is acclaimed as favorite of the God and is set free. Always, however, that one is an animal; never in Game history has a man survived. And that, my friend, is what we face."

Tharn shrugged, unimpressed. "Perhaps not. We may escape before then."

Katon shook his head. "No, Tharn. Always we are either locked in here or remain under the watchful eyes of many warriors during exercise periods in the arena.

"No, there is no escape—unless you can overcome every life-loving fighting man and half-starved beast of the Games."

He looked up in time to catch the slight smile on Tharn's lips. No shadow of fear, no hint of concern clouded the cave-man's calm gray eyes. Limitless self-confidence, backed by superhuman strength and nerves of granite, had rendered impotent the ominous note in Katon's words.

The Sepharian felt a bit exasperated. What was the use of warning this headstrong wild-man of danger if danger meant nothing to him?

"Don't you understand?" he exclaimed. "The chance of either of us surviving the Games is so small that we may as well forget it."

Tharn's smile widened. "We are not dead yet. Much can happen before the Games begin. The rainy season is almost a moon away."

Katon gave it up. One could not make the blind see, nor the deaf hear. This barbarian would lose his smile when they put him in the arena with a hungry lion!

Tharn, seeking to change the subject, said, "I saw that this man, Urim, hates you, Katon. Is it because of him that you are here?"

There was a wry twist to Katon's lips. "Urim and I were once great friends. I came to Sephar from Huxla, a city of Ammad, where my father is ruler. Upon arriving here, I entered Urim's service as a common warrior. During a hunting trip, I saved him from being mauled by a wounded lion. In gratitude he put me in charge of Sephar's quarries—a position much sought after by Sepharian nobles.

"And then I met a girl—the daughter of a nobleman. She was very beautiful; and before long we were in love."

Katon seemed to have forgotten Tharn's presence. His speech was slow, his words toneless and deliberate. The cave-man was quick to sense the other's mental suffering as he recounted a painful chapter of his life.

"As it turned out," Katon continued, "Urim, himself, desired this girl and was planning to make her Sephar's queen. When he learned that she loved me, his anger was very great, and one night I was taken from my bed and put here."

His voice took on a deeper note. "The next morning they called to take the girl to Urim. They found her on the floor of her room, dead, a knife driven into her heart. She had taken her own life."

The two men talked on, while the time slipped by. Finally their conversation turned to religion as accepted by the Sepharians. Tharn found his friend's explanation difficult to understand; a creed that allowed a single god both to threaten and defend his worshippers was far beyond his simple direct way of thinking.

One part of Katon's remarks on religion did interest him, however. This concerned the friction between Urim and Pryak, high priest in Sephar of the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken-Aloud. Of this, Katon offered the following:

"Pryak is as cruel and tyrannical as Urim is kind and just. Many rites and ceremonies introduced by the high priest have so angered the king that he has banned their practice—a move widening the rift between the two men.

"Twice, I am told, they have quarreled openly; but Urim's warriors and followers so outnumber those of Pryak, that the priest dares not persist. By doing so he might plunge the entire city into civil war; for much of Sephar would flock to Pryak's side, since he is the true representative of our god.

"Each passing day, however, brings the tension nearer a breaking point. Pryak is crafty and wise and very proud. Some day he will seek to overthrow Urim and put a more friendly ruler in his place. Even Pryak, himself, may take the throne. It would not be the first time in our history a high priest became king!"

The entrance of the balance of the prisoners ended their conversation at this point. After the noon meal was eaten the men lay down on their beds to rest.

Tharn found sleep hard to find. Flat on his back he lay, eyes fixed unseeingly on the grill-work far above him, while his mind reviewed the remarkable adventures that had befallen him since he had set out on a mission of vengeance.

How long ago it seemed, now, since he had taken up the trail of those who had attacked his people! And now he was a prisoner of a race whose very existence had been undreamed of a few suns ago. A captive, too, was the girl who had been so abruptly thrust into his life, bringing with her the beauty and pangs of love.

Dylara! Where was she now? Did she believe him dead, a victim of arrow and club? Had she given up all hope of ever seeing again her father and the caves of Majok, to accept tamely the life of a slave?

In spite of having known her only for a short time, he doubted this. There was too much of the haughty pride of a born princess in her to submit tamely to such a fate. Given the chance she would brave the perils of jungle and plain in an effort to locate her own tribe.

As he lay there, motionless, watching sunlight streaming through the opening overhead, the resolve grew strong within him to win Dylara's freedom, and his, from this strange place and its stranger inhabitants. They had him now—but it would take more than a few doors and walls to keep him.

When the door had closed behind Dylara and Nada, Jotan turned to his two companions. He found them staring at him reproachfully.

"And now," Tamer said bitingly, "now that half of Sephar knows you are in love with a slave-girl, perhaps we can pay our respects to Urim, whom we have kept waiting."

Jotan was suddenly conscious of the curious eyes of men and women. Beyond the crowd of Sepharians was Urim on his elevated chair, peering over the heads between him and the three men near the door.

Jotan chuckled a little. "For her I would keep many kings waiting," he said in a low voice. "But you are right, of course. Come."

The three men moved through the crowd. Jotan's arrogant bearing and handsome face drew forth almost as many whispered comments as had the appearance of Tharn earlier that morning.

At sight of the three visitors, Urim's florid countenance lighted up with pleasure; and half-rising, he called to them.

"You are welcome, noble guests from Ammad!" he cried. "I had hoped you would come here, this morning. Come closer; there are many here who have asked to meet you."

When they had reached the frustum's base, Urim descended and, in turn, presented various members of his retinue. Introductions were acknowledged, and there was much small talk.

Jotan's interest in the somewhat lengthy ceremony was purely mechanical. His thoughts were with the cave-princess he had met at the door; in fact, he had thought of little else since he had first seen her on the day before. His determination to ask Urim for her had been strengthened by the chance meeting, and he resolved to wait no longer; as soon as these introductions were finished, he would make known to Urim his wishes.

As he stood there, head and shoulders above the throng about him, a pair of flashing gray-green eyes watched him intently, eyes that had burned angrily as they observed the meeting between him and the cave-girl. They were the eyes of the princess Alurna, who, with her hand-maiden, Anela, had come into the room by another entrance at the very moment Jotan had barred Dylara's path. Unobserved, she had witnessed the entire incident, and her hatred for the lovely captive was intensified a hundred-fold thereby.

Alurna had slept but little during the night before. After Tharn had vanished through her window, she had gone back to bed—but not to sleep. She could not banish thoughts of Jotan; she could not close out the memory of those flint-like blue eyes that could soften so wonderfully when their owner smiled.

And so, near morning, she had finally admitted to herself that she loved this broad-shouldered visitor from a distant land. Her admission brought with it no peace of mind; for, she told herself furiously, it would have been bad enough to love anyone; but to feel so toward a man who had eyes only for another—and a savage, at that!—was more than she could bear. Utterly miserable, she bit her lips to force back her tears and glowered resentfully at the unsuspecting Jotan.

Introductions completed, Urim returned to his chair and his duties. The others broke up into little groups; some attending closely the details of various petitions and demands of Sephar's citizens; others conversing among themselves and paying no heed to what went on about them.

Tamar, Javan and Jotan formed one of these latter groups, having withdrawn to some distance from the throne itself, at Jotan's whispered request.

Alurna saw the three men move apart from the rest.

"Quick, Anela," she murmured, grasping the girl's arm, "get close enough to those three to hear what they say. Don't let them suspect you are listening. Go!"

Anela nodded, and slipped away through the crowd....

"What now?" asked Tamar, eyeing Jotan's set face narrowly.

Jotan was watching the gradually thinning knot of Sepharians at the foot of the throne. He said:

"When Urim has finished there, I shall make my request of him. Until then we may as well wait here."

Tamar scowled; then suddenly he smiled. "Listen, Jotan," he said rapidly, "let it go for a few days. After all, you want to be sure of a thing like this. Then, if you still want her—why—take her. It won't be necessary to go about telling everyone she is to be your mate. Javan and I can arrange to get her for you without it being known you are interested. Then, after you've had her for a while, if you still feel the same way, let it be known she is your mate. I've an idea, though, that it will never get that far. You'll learn that—"

Tamar saw the gleam in Jotan's eye, gulped, and was silent.

For a long moment Jotan stared at his friend, his expression one of mixed pity and scorn. Then, with cool deliberateness, he turned and started toward the throne.

"Wait, Jotan!" Tamar stepped in front of him. "I was wrong. I shouldn't have said that. I see how it is, now, and I'll help you all I can. But at least do this: Wait until you can speak to Urim alone. Tonight, after the evening meal, draw Urim to one side and make your request—not while all Sephar is watching you."

Tamar's distress was so genuine that Jotan stopped. After all, it meant the difference of only a few hours; if such a concession would appease his friend it would be a small price to pay.

"Very well, Tamar," he agreed. "I will wait until then."

None of the three noticed a figure detach itself from the fringe of the crowd nearest them and hurry away.

When the eavesdropping slave girl reached Alurna's side, the princess drew her into a deserted corridor outside the room.

"What were they saying, Anela?" she asked impatiently.

"The handsome one spoke of asking your father for someone—a woman. One of the others sought to change his mind, but he would not listen."

Such a soul-searing flame of hate went through Alurna that her heart seemed to wither in its heat. At sight of her mistress' expression Anela shrank away in terror.

"Did he say when he intends asking for this woman?"

Anela swallowed. "Tonight," she faltered, "—after the evening meal."

For a moment Alurna stood there in thought. Then, dismissing the girl with a gesture, she turned and strode rapidly along the corridor, away from the audience hall.

Her head pounded with jumbled thoughts. Over and over she told herself that Jotan should never have the golden-skinned cave-girl. There were ways to prevent it; no slave could have the man Alurna wanted!

The princess went directly to her own apartment. Closing and bolting her door, she sank wearily onto the wide bed. With an arm across her eyes, she lay down, thinking bitter thoughts and shaping many plans to prevent Jotan from having the girl he desired. Each plan, however, was discarded in turn as being either too difficult to accomplish or too liable to failure.

How? How? How? Ask her father to refuse Jotan's request? No; that would bring to light facts she preferred kept hidden. Have her killed? Too dangerous. If Urim ever discovered who was responsible she would pay a terrible price.

And then out of nowhere came her answer. Alurna rolled over and sat up as the idea took shape in her mind.

"Anela!" she called.

Immediately someone tried the door, and finding it locked, rapped timidly.

Alurna rose and admitted the still apprehensive girl.

"Listen to me closely, Anela," commanded the princess, closing the door. "Do you know Meltor?"

Anela was surprised. "Why—yes. He is one of the guards stationed at the palace entrance."

"Tell him," the princess said crisply, "to come here at once."

The slave-girl started to say something, reconsidered, and went out. A few minutes later she was back, followed by a tall slender young man, whose dark expressionless face bore a long livid scar across one cheek.

"Leave us, Anela," Alurna said softly ... "Sit down, Meltor."

The man lowered himself stiffly on the edge of a stool and looked at Urim's daughter with steady eyes. His face might as well have been masked, so completely was it lacking in expression.

"Meltor," said the princess, "I have kept a secret of yours for many moons—a secret that, were I to divulge it to a certain nobleman, would cost you your life. Am I right?"

A shadow of uneasiness crossed the warrior's face.

"Did the daughter of Urim," he said dryly, "summon me here that I might be reminded of something best forgotten?"

Alurna smiled. It was not a nice smile. "The nobleman, too, would like to forget. But he cannot—until his daughter is avenged."

Meltor said nothing.

"It is not a secret to remember," Alurna said smoothly. "I want very much to forget it. And if you will help me, Meltor, I promise never again to remind you of it."

"What is it you want me to do?"

The princess bent forward. "Deep within the jungle beyond the Gate of the Setting Sun, is an old abandoned house of stone. It was there Rydob, the hermit, lived for uncounted years. Do you know the place?"

The young warrior nodded. "Yes, I know where it is. Nobody goes there since Rydob's bones were found on his own door-step."

"Yes," Alurna said contemptuously. "They fear Rydob more after his death than when he lived. I hope you are different, Meltor."

The man flushed. "I am not afraid, daughter of Urim."

"Good! I knew I could count on you. Now listen to me carefully; there must be no mistakes."

For half an hour the princess spoke steadily. The guard listened attentively, interrupting now and then to ask questions; twice he offered suggestions.

When Alurna had finished, Meltor remained silent for a few minutes, mentally reviewing the plan's details. The girl watched him with narrowed eyes.

"I shall need help," he said at last. "I have no right to enter the slave quarters."

Alurna nodded. "I shall leave that up to you. You are known to the guards there; find one you can trust and enlist his aid. Promise him much, but tell him no more than is necessary."

Meltor got to his feet. His face had resumed its habitual lack of expression.

"Your orders shall be carried out, daughter of Urim," he said flatly. "I will report to you, here, when I have finished."

The door closed behind him.

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.

Torture

Jotan pushed back his plate and sighed wearily.

"I can't eat in this heat," he complained. "Besides, I have no appetite."

"It is hot," Javan agreed through a full mouth; "but then it's always hot at this time of day."

Tamar helped himself to another serving from the pot on the table. "It's not the heat alone that's taken his appetite, Javan," he observed disagreeably. "Our friend is so eager for evening to come that he can think of nothing else. It is then, you know, that he will become the laughing-stock of all Sephar by asking Urim for a cave-girl to take as his mate."

An hour before, the three visitors from Ammad had left the palace audience hall and returned to their quarters. After bathing and getting into fresh tunics, they had sat down to food brought from the palace kitchens.

Rising, Jotan crossed the room, sank down on a pile of sleeping furs and pulled off his sandals. Then he lay down, covered his eyes with one arm and was soon asleep.

Presently Tamar and Javan finished eating. The latter at once sought his own couch; but Tamar remained at the table, deep in thought.

Two hours went by, and still Tamar remained there, head bowed in his hands. The slaves had long since cleared the table and departed, leaving the three men to themselves.

Abruptly the seated man raised his head, his expression that of one to whom a momentous idea has come. For a long moment he remained thus, then got silently to his feet and tip-toed to the door, let himself out and, despite the withering heat, started briskly toward the palace.

The four guards stationed at the entrance stiffened to attention as he approached. Tamar halted a few yards away and beckoned to one of them.

"Do you know me?" Tamar asked haughtily.

"Of course!" replied the young warrior humbly. "There is none in all Sephar who does not know Tamar of Ammad."

"Good. Take me at once to the quarters of the female slaves."

The eagerness in the young man's face was replaced by doubt.

"I am not permit—" he began hesitantly.

Tamar cut him short with a gesture. "Do as I say," he snapped. "The responsibility will be mine."

The warrior bowed. "Follow me."

They entered the great hall and ascended to the third floor. Outside the twin doors leading to the slave quarters they were stopped by two guards on duty there.

Tamar's guide addressed one of them. "Rokor," he said, "this is the noble Tamar of Ammad. At his command I have brought him here."

Rokor bowed deeply. "It is an honor to meet Urim's guest. How may I serve you?"

"By taking me to see one of the slave-girls here—the cave-girl, Dylara."

Something akin to a leer crept into Rokor's expression. "Oh, yes; I know the one you mean. If you will come with me...."

Tamar dismissed the first guard and followed Rokor through the twin doors and down the corridor. Halting before one of the numerous doors, Rokor unbarred and opened it, then stepped aside that Tamar might enter.

A tall slender woman of early middle-age rose from a bed in one corner. But for her tunic of a slave, the visitor would have taken her for the mate of some Sepharian noble.

At his appearance, the eager expectant air she had at first assumed, faded, replaced by one of questioning doubt.

Tamar turned to Rokor. "She is not the one," he said testily. "This is not Dylara."

The guard scratched his head, baffled. "She should be here. This is her room. Urim told Nada, here, to teach her our customs."

Nada came forward and placed a hand on Tamar's arm.

"Do you seek Dylara?" she asked tensely.

Tamar nodded. "Do you know where she is?"

The woman looked meaningly at the staring guard. "If I may speak with you alone...."

Tamar sent the man out, and closed the door.

"Well ..." he prompted.

Nada looked at him searchingly. Since Dylara had been taken from the room over three hours ago her concern for the girl's safety had steadily grown. She was convinced Urim had not sent for Dylara, but realized she was powerless to act in her aid.

Why Tamar had come here puzzled her; but he might be of assistance in clearing up the mystery surrounding Dylara's absence.

"What do you want of Dylara, noble Tamar?" she asked.

Tamar showed his surprise. "You know me, then?"

Nada smiled. "There is not a slave in the palace who does not know of you and your two friends."

Tamar hesitated. Something told him he would lose nothing in being frank with this woman. And there was something amiss here; Dylara's absence and this woman's concern made that evident.

"I can think of no reason why you should not know," he said. "You see, my friend Jotan has the mad idea he is in love with this Dylara. I have tried to make him see that one in his position cannot mate with a barbarian; but he will not listen. He means to ask Urim for her tonight. I came here to talk to the girl—to make her understand she could never be happy as the mate of a man so far above her. If she promises to have nothing to do with my friend, I will promise to arrange for her freedom, to return her to her own people."

It took an effort for Nada to repress a smile. "Does anyone else," she asked, "want to keep Jotan from having her?"

"Not that I know of," Tamar said, puzzled by the question. "Why do you ask?"

"Because one of the guards took Dylara from here shortly before you came. He said Urim wanted her, but I think he lied."

Tamar stiffened. Was this some of Jotan's work? Had his friend suspected one of his companions might seek to interfere, and to thwart them, had the girl removed to another place?

He would go back and confront Jotan with this evidence. To think the man did not trust his own friends!

But what if Jotan had had nothing to do with taking the girl? Would it be better to remain silent, so that when he did learn she was missing it would be too late to discover what had become of her?

And then, cutting through the fog of selfishness and snobbery like rays of the sun through mist, came a new trend of thought, far more worthy of the real Tamar.

Jotan was his friend! They had fought side by side against a common foe; they had hunted together, traveled vast distances together, sought adventure together, gone hungry and cold—together. Ever since boyhood they had been companions—closer than brothers. And now he, Tamar, was on the verge of disloyalty to his own best friend!

His eyes blazing, he caught the astonished Nada by an arm.

"Who took her?" he demanded hoarsely. "Where is he, now?"

"It—it was Fordak," Nada stammered, staring wide-eyed at the man's taut face, "—Fordak and another whose face I could not see."

Tamar let go of her arm, threw open the door and went out. He found Rokor leaning against the opposite wall, waiting.

The man from Ammad masked his emotions by resuming an air of indifference.

"Come, Rokor," he said easily, "I am ready to go. The girl I came to see has been taken to another part of the palace. I have decided not to see her, after all."

As the two men walked along the corridor, Tamar said, "By the way, Rokor, do you know a guard called Fordak?"

"Why, yes," Rokor said. "He stands watch at the entrance to the slave quarters. I, myself, relieved him shortly before you came up."

"Do you know where he can be found at this time of day?"

"Probably in his room, sleeping."

"Will you take me there? I have something for him."

In his eagerness to please the noble visitor from Ammad, Rokor quite forgot to be curious.

"Gladly," he said. "Come this way."

Tamar was led to the second floor of the palace, and along a corridor to the wing housing the warriors of Urim. Rokor stopped before a narrow opening and pounded heavily on a closed door.

"Fordak!" he bellowed; "open up here! You have a visitor."

They heard someone moving about inside, and a second later the door swung back.

A thick-shouldered man, inclined to fatness about the middle, stood there, his coarse black hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep.

"Who wants me?" he grunted.

"This is Tamar of Ammad," Rokor explained. "He has something for you."

Tamar interrupted. "You may leave me here, Rokor. I can find my way out when I have finished with Fordak."

When the guard had gone, Tamar turned to the man Nada had named. He found the fellow eyeing him respectfully.

"Fordak," said the man from Ammad, "I have need of a fearless warrior to do something for me. One who can do as instructed and, at the same time, keep his mouth shut. You were recommended as such. Will you help me?"

Fordak rubbed one side of his bull neck with a calloused palm. "What do you want me to do?" he asked warily.

"I cannot tell you, here," Tamar said. "Come with me to my quarters and I will explain. You will be well rewarded for your work."

The guard's wide face lighted up. "Then I'm your man," he rumbled. "Lead the way."

A few minutes later, Tamar, with Fordak in tow, opened the door of the building set aside for him and his companions.

Jotan and Javan were still sleeping. Tamar closed the door and dropped the bar into place.

"Sit down," he told Fordak, pointing to a stool. He crossed the room and prodded the sleeping pair into wakefulness.

"Jotan and Javan," he said, when the two had risen, "this is Fordak, one of Sephar's finest warriors. Fordak is going to help us in a little matter, aren't you, Fordak?"

The guard nodded, his broad cheeks creased with a wide smile at being treated so familiarly by a nobleman.

Jotan was staring at his friend in frank bewilderment.

"What are you getting at, Tamar?" he asked. "Why have you brought this man here?"

"Yes," Tamar went on, ignoring the questions. "Fordak is going to do a great deal for us. To begin with—" he dropped a hand lightly on the man's shoulder "—he is going to tell us what he did with the slave-girl, Dylara!"

As Tamar spoke the last few words his fingers bit fiercely into the bare flesh beneath his hand.

The speed with which Fordak lost his smile was almost laughable. He bellowed out something unintelligible and started to rise; but Jotan, his face suddenly white beneath its tan, crossed the room with a single bound and slammed him back on the stool.

Tamar flipped a knife from its sheath and pressed the point lightly against Fordak's spine. "Sit still, you!" he said frostily.

Jotan's face was haggard. "Has anything happened to Dylara?" he asked thickly. "In the name of the God, Tamar, tell me quickly."

"Just this," Tamar said. "While you and Javan were asleep I went to the palace to ... on a personal matter. While there, I learned that Dylara had been taken from the slave quarters by this man on the pretext of taking her to Urim. Another man helped him; who, I don't know. Knowing you would be interested in learning what had happened to her, I brought our friend, here, along to answer your questions."

Jotan thanked him with a glance. Then he turned to the seated Fordak.

"All right," he ground out savagely, "what have you done with her?"

Fordak looked at him sullenly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled. "You have no right to keep me here."

Jotan, his face convulsed with anger, grabbed the man by the front of his tunic with one hand and shook him savagely. Fordak, struggling to twist loose, aimed a wild blow at his tormentor, and received in return a mighty smash full on the nose that knocked him to the floor, half conscious, blood pouring from his nostrils.

"Get up!" snarled Jotan. He kicked the dazed warrior brutally in the side. "Either that tongue of yours starts to wag or it comes out—by the roots!"

He reached down, caught a handful of Fordak's rumpled hair and pulled him to his feet. The guard stood there, swaying, and would have fallen had not Jotan shoved him back on the stool.

"Where is she?"

Fordak wiped his nose with the back of one hand and stared woodenly at the crimson stains left there. He knew he must tell; he could not bear further punishment.

And then he remembered what Meltor had said. The princess Alurna had wanted the girl disposed of; to tell what he knew would bring down the wrath of Urim's daughter upon him. He shivered at the thought; for he did not want to die.

"Where is she?"

Fordak moved his head in silent negation. "I don't know."

Jotan clenched his fist to strike again. Tamar caught his arm.

"Wait," he said. "Let me talk to him." He pushed back Fordak's head. "We know you're mixed up in this, Fordak. You and another guard took the girl from her room. Tell us where she is and you shall go free—as soon as we find you have told us the truth."

"I don't know," said the man stolidly.

Jotan swore impatiently. "I'm through wasting time," he said. "Dylara may be in danger. I'll get the truth from him."

He motioned to Javan. "Get me a fire bowl."

When his friend had handed him a bowl of fat, he lighted its wick with a glowing coal from an earthen jar and came back to Fordak. The seated man watched him, apprehension in his eyes.

The flame wavered in the faint breeze from the windows. It suddenly had become very quiet in the room.

Jotan drew the flint knife from his belt and began to run the blade back and forth through the candle's flame.

"What are you going to do?" Tamar asked.

The lips of his friend were pressed into a straight line. "He's going to talk. Be ready to listen."

Another minute passed. Jotan continued to move the knife blade to and fro in the heart of the fire. Fordak could not tear his eyes from the objects in the man's hands. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

"Tie his arms and legs," Jotan said.

Those words seemed to release Fordak's paralyzed muscles. Voicing a wild cry he bounded from the stool and was nearly to the door before Tamar and Javan brought him down. He continued to struggle frantically while they bound lengths of rawhide about his arms and legs. When he was securely tied they dragged him back to the stool.

Jotan said, "Take off one of his sandals."

Fordak yelled in terror and jerked back, almost falling from the stool.

"Stuff something in his mouth before he has half the city here."

Gagged and bound, Fordak was helpless to do more than gurgle and sweat as Javan knelt and bared one of his feet.

"Now," Jotan said grimly, "we'll see what effect this will have in getting information."

With a quick movement he placed the white-hot length of flint firmly against the delicate skin of the instep and held it there.

An eerie, muffled scream pushed past the gag in Fordak's mouth. So intense was the note of animal pain that the three men felt their flesh crawl with the sound.

Abruptly the bound guard stiffened, his eyes swam in their sockets, and he fell back in a faint.

Jotan rose and tossed the knife aside. "Get some water," he said. "One treatment like that should be enough."

They removed the gag from the unconscious man's mouth and doused water in his face. After a moment he groaned weakly and opened his eyes.

"Where is Dylara?" Jotan asked, for the third time.

Words came spilling out. "I—I'll tell you. Don't burn me again. I can't stand it. I'll talk. We took her—Meltor and I. Meltor made me help him take her. He said Alurna told him to do it."

"Alurna?" Jotan was astonished. "What had she to do with it?"