Fear lent wings to the flashing legs of Niamh the Fair. Like a frightened deer she sped through the gloom of the silent jungle, emerging suddenly into the full light of day.
Before her was spread the grassy plain on which they had alighted from their hawklike steed; beyond stretched a tawny beach and the open sea.
The hawk was still there. So was Arjala!
Crying out for her to wait, Niamh sprinted forward. Arjala turned a furious, tear-stained face in her direction. Her eyes were raging and wild, like those of a beast. She snatched at the reins without a word. The zawkaw spread its vast wings and beat the air with a sound like drumming thunder. And started to rise!
Niamh, almost by Arjala’s side, now watched as the blue hawk began to ascend. She sprang into the air, a lithe leap with all the strength and agility of her long legs.
One upreaching hand brushed the dangling stirrups—slid—caught—and held!
The hawk rose a hundred yards into the sunlit air, and circled out over the sparkling waters of the sea. With the Princess of Phaolon dangling by one hand from the stirrup, her heels kicking at empty air!
Chapter 9.
FLAME FOR FREEDOM
The thick, sticky strands of the enormous web trembled ever so slightly. Somewhere in the vast system of taut, interlocking cables, the great spider crouched like a malignant thing, waiting… waiting.
Waiting for something to land and become entangled in the huge net it had spun with slow, patient labor.
As the skysled had just become entangled!
Now, sensing the entanglement of some flying creature, the huge spider woke from its trance. Tasting the air with huge, hairy feelers, the crouching brute expanded its stalk-like, jointed legs. Behind the hideous, chitinous mask of its face was a brain; cold, calculating and emotionless it estimated the precise location of the entangled thing and its post position in the tremendous web which hung between two of the great trees.
Dappled sunlight glistened on the armored legs as the vast bulk of the spider shifted. The light of the Green Star sparkled on the crab-like chitin, which had an oily sheen. The rays that filtered down through immense leaves flashed in the great orbs of the compound eyes. Legs thrust out, clenching the sticky web-strand; now the immense spider stood, balanced on the swaying cable.
In the next moment it was moving along, claw over claw with a sidewise, scuttling motion; down the length of the anchor-cable in the direction of the foreign object whose abrupt impingement in the tightly-strung web had disturbed it from its waiting somnolence.
At some considerable distance from the rapidly-moving spider, the Prince of Phaolon and the ancient philosopher were attempting to revive their comrade, Zarqa the Kalood.
The inhumanly gaunt, golden-skinned creature had fallen forward over the control panel of the skysled, striking his bulging and hairless brow against the inner rim of the crystal windshield. They could discern no heartbeat nor pulse within his body; however, the faint traces of a shallow, ragged respiration they could detect. It was this token that life yet flickered within the body of the Winged Man that gave them hope. Thus, they persevered in their attempt to revive Zarqa.
Nimbalim of Yoth had dampened a bit of cloth torn from the hem of his robe and with this was bathing the brow of the Kalood. Janchan of Phaolon was rubbing the gaunt, skeletal wrists and chafing the forearms of the winged giant, hoping to restore his circulation.
Within a few moments their attempts at resuscitation were crowned with success. The immense purple eyes of the Winged Man opened and he stared about him vaguely. They gave him water mixed with wine to drink; he partook lightly of the beverage, coughed, and seemed stronger.
My dear friends! … What has occurred? Where are we, and why is the vehicle no longer in motion?
The cool whisper of alien thoughts within his own brain was an uncanny sensation, and one still novel enough to cause the old philosopher to shiver slightly. But Janchan was by now well accustomed to the Kalood’s telepathic mode of communication and hence, it did not disturb him as it did the Yothian.
His frank, tanned face reflected his relief and delight at the recovery of his comrade. In a few, terse words he apprised the Winged Man of their predicament, and expressed his joy that the bolt from the black superman had not slain Zarqa.
Luckily, it was but a glancing blow, Zarqa smiled. And the bulk of it was absorbed by the wind-crystal, which thus deflected most of the bolt. Otherwise I might easily have been slain… but I fear that my swoon has caused me to lose my control over the mind of Ralidux! This means that he is now in command of his wits. Our two female companions in adventure are completely at his mercies…
So swiftly had things been happening, and so concerned had he been over the condition of the Winged Man, that Prince Janchan had not yet thought of the possible consequences of Zarqa’s loss of consciousness to the Goddess Arjala and Niamh the Fair. Now the dangerous plight of the two women was brought home to him, and his eyes went blank with horror.
During their period of captivity in the Flying City, he had been thrown together with the voluptuous Ardhanese priestess, in close proximity. His innate sense of chivalry had caused him to adopt a protective manner towards the unfortunate young woman; and this, together with their enforced intimacy, had ripened (in his heart, at least) to a passion more intense and personal. He was by now deeply in love with the willful, obstinate girl; and he had reason to believe she returned his admiration.
Knowing of the frenzied desire which Ralidux had conceived for Arjala, he realized that the woman he loved was now completely in the power of the lust-maddened maniac. A chill of the utmost horror went through his robust, manly frame.
“Now, by all the Lords of The World Above, my friend, you are right! We must speed to her rescue without a moment’s delay! The vicious, depraved madman will have his will with her at the first opportunity… and Arjala is a noblewoman of high caste!” This he said in quick, gasping tones; but he said nothing more. To one familiar with the tradition-bound, age-old ways of the Laonese, there was no more to be said. A noblewoman of the highest caste may be violated against her will, subjugated by sheer force. But she does not live long after this, the ultimate indignity.
Every noblewoman on the World of the Green Star wears a tiny blade sewn into the hem of her intimate garments. The knife is called The Avenger of Chastity. Once subjected to degradation, a woman of Arjala’s caste unsheathes this hidden blade with a ritual gesture.
And sheathes it again, in her own heart!
Nimbalim cleared his throat with a trace of irritability.
“Your pardon, my friends… but may this unworthy scholar remind you that we have other, more pressing, more immediate problems to cope with than those of the missing members of our party? I refer to the hungers of the rapacious xoph, whose approach can even now be felt by the tremors along the web; I doubt not that he speeds with much alacrity in order to discern what chance visitor had entered his domain, and to discover if it should be the sort of provender his appetite demands for its assuagement…”
Zarqa had by this time recovered fully from the stunning assault of the ray bolt. In a single, all-encompassing glance he took in the details of their entanglement; wasting no time in idle words, he bent swiftly to energize the controls of their aerial conveyance.
The skysled quivered, engines thrumming; but so thoroughly were they enmeshed in the adhesive grip of the enormous net, that even the powerful magnetic flux which drove the contrivance proved insufficient to extricate them from their predicament.