No one could say for how many days the terrible serpent-monster had slithered through the jungle aisles, in search of warm flesh and hot blood wherewith to appease its snaky hungers.
In time, however, the sensitive, flickering tongue of the Ssalith had scented man-flesh on the breeze… and the trail had led the slithering horror to the beach, where tiny manlings toiled to unearth a vehicle fallen from the skies.
The manlings had fled in terror from the gliding monster, as it burst suddenly upon them from the dense wall of jungle foliage—
All but one blind boy, who could not see the fanged monster as it poured its glistening, scaly coils out of the jungle depths.
Now the slithering thing had fastened upon me.
Part V.
THE BOOK OF DELGAN OF THE ISLES
Chapter 21.
THIEVES IN THE NIGHT
Night had fallen; the west was a glimmering pyre of gold and crimson. The last level rays of sunset flashed from the roof-tiles and crystal windows of Komar and bathed the upper tiers of the citadel in ruby light, while drowning the alleys and squares below in purple shadows.
The Xothun had lingered out to sea, awaiting the sunset hour, well out of the sight of any tower-top sentinel. Now, as darkness gathered upon the waters, the high-prowed galley glided stealthily into the harbor of the port-city. Prince Andar and his nobles looked, for the first time in weeks, upon the capital of their conquered kingdom.
The harbor was virtually a landlocked bay, with a steep sea-wall encircling it; rank on rank of buildings rose beyond. Warehouses where the merchants stored their goods, waterside inns and taverns, lined the harbor wall; beyond them rose the houses of artisans and workmen; then the mansions of the nobles and the merchants, with their rooftop gardens and armorial blazonry.
Beyond and above all, the royal citadel lifted its vasty, tiered height. Built on the cliff-crest above the city, the seat of the Princes of Komar was both a fortress and a palace. And now, for many months, the old black throne-chair of the Sea Kings of Komar had groaned beneath the weight of a Blue Barbarian. Andar gritted his teeth at the thought of this desecration; but he consoled himself with the thought that the hour of reparation was almost at hand.
The Xothun crept into the gloomy harbor on swinging oars, sails furled. Here and there about the decks strolled Andar’s warlike lords—the exiled barons of Komar, chained into slavery by their brutal conquerors. Those very conquerors were, at the same time, doubtless watching the great galley come into harbor. But not a single man among them felt the slightest suspicion. For every man visible upon the decks of the galley had the azure skin-coloration of a true Barbarian, and wore the soiled, gaudy finery affected by the conquering savages.
At the end of the long stone quay, the Xothun berthed. Blue warriors in piratical garments swarmed over the side to make the vessel fast, with her lines securely tethered to the great verdigris-eaten bronze rings which studded the surfaces of the wharf.
Then, leisurely, without attracting undue attention, the crew of the galley began to debark. By this time it was almost completely dark; the dense black of the Green Star World, lightened by no ray of moonlight, was the essence of blackness itself.
Those who went about at night in the harbor of Komar, under the reign of the Barbarian conquerors, commonly carried horn lanterns or oil-soaked torches. But the troop of bedraggled, grim-faced seamen who trooped down the gangplank of the Xothun bore neither lantern nor torch. To them, the darkness was a friendly shield; they knew well that the blue pigment with which their arms and faces were smeared would not stand up to prolonged, careful scrutiny under strong light.
By pre-arranged plan, they split into three groups of even strength. One group made for the main thoroughfare, which led by ascending stages from the harbor to the citadel on the heights. The two other groups of seamen headed for other exits. In this manner, if one group was stopped by guards or watchmen, the other two would at least have an even chance of reaching the rendezvous-point without raising an alarm.
They moved through the gloom-drenched streets, silent masses of unspeaking men, fully armed with long cutlasses and borrowed rapiers and dirks. Most kept their faces down as they passed the infrequent street-lights, or the bright-lit windows of wine-shops or inns. Others had muffled their features with scarves, or the turned-up collars of their long sea-cloaks. All wore some manner of headgear, to disguise the fact that their locks were the gossamer silver of the denizens of the treetop cities; not the lank, greasy, locks of the Blue Barbarians.
They strode through the gloom, keeping to the inkiest of the shadows, trying not to make more noise than could be helped. In the forefront of the first group strode Prince Andar himself; his lean-jawed, handsome visage was masked by his upturned collar, his fierce gaze roamed restlessly from side to side as he marched up the main avenue.
Beneath a fold of his cloak, he clenched the hilt of a naked sword.
By great good luck, the streets of the lower city were virtually deserted at this hour. Since the yet-unexplained death or disappearance of the Warlord many months before, Andar knew, the Barbarians had grown lax in their vigilance. Few guards patrolled the lower city, and little watch was kept on the movements of the captive Komarians themselves. In part, this laxity was due to overweening confidence on the part of the Barbarians. They swaggered about, fancying themselves irresistible warriors with naught to fear from a cowed, crushed, leaderless and captive citizenry. But for the most part, it was explained by the intrinsic nature of the conquerors; barbarians are a lazy, unruly mob who dislike taking orders and shirk an orderly regimen whenever they can. The absence of that brilliant military genius whom they hailed as Warlord gave them a chance to slump into a slovenly, disorganized horde-life again.
Only his miraculous genius had forged them into a warrior legion of unparalleled power. Lacking his tight hand on the reins, they would slowly crumble into jealous, quarreling, rival clans.
As Andar and his men prowled the dark streets of the conquered seaport, they saw at every hand the unmistakable signs of the conquerors’ brutality and callousness. Shops gaped, mere empty shells, their windows smashed, their shelves looted bare; bodies dangled from street corner gibbets, or rotted in alleys choked with garbage. Rows of homes were charred ruins, burnt to the ground through carelessness or malicious spite. Palaces and mansions were gutted, their gardens trampled and despoiled, fragile statuary lying in wreckage. And everywhere there were corpses—corpses of men, of women—even of children.
His lips tightened; so did his grip on his sword. But Andar did not pause or linger. Step by step he marched through his raped and littered city, up to the citadel on the height. Once that fortress was in his hands, he could hold it with only a few men against a nation of enemies.
The upper city was better lighted, and better patrolled. Often Andar and his men hid in the shadows at the mouths of alleys, holding their breaths in an agony of suspense, while guard-troops marched by on their rounds. No drunken slackers, these were a grim, sharp, wary lot; they marched with drawn swords and eyes that dug into every shadow.
Something had happened to tighten up the lax security in the upper city, Andar surmised. He wondered what it was.
But there was no time now to ponder on what had taken place here, since he and his men had sailed from Komar chained to the oars of the Xothun. For now they were approaching the gate of the mighty citadel itself; its beetling walls towered above them, frowning battlements of heavy stone lifted against the black, murky heavens.