But the gate itself blazed with the light of many torches. Half a company of Barbarians stood about, guarding the entryway. To approach meant that Andar and his men must expose their flimsy disguises to the hard, measuring stares of two-score alert, wary guardsmen, in the full glare of these torches.
From the dark mouth of the alley-way, the Prince and his warriors gathered for their planned assault on the citadel. This was the rendezvous-point at which they had determined to meet, when they had split into three groups back at the harbor. Now, breathless with suspense, Andar’s party hovered in the black mouth of the alley, waiting to see if the rest of their comrades would make their way safely to join forces with them.
No out-cry had yet been raised in the sleeping city, which was a good sign. No ringing shouts of alarm, no scuffle of swordplay; the island city slept heavily, under the lightless heavens.
Then the man at his left seized the Prince’s arm.
“A group of men, coming from the merchants’ quarter,” he whispered. Andar nodded, saying nothing. The clump of booted feet on the cobbles came to him on the night air, with the muffled ring and clank of accouterments. A darker mass appeared in the gloom, and a muttered password was exchanged, Andar relaxed with a sigh and began to breathe again. He had not been aware that he was holding his breath until he released it.
Agonizing minutes crept by, one by one, leaden-footed. Then, another group of men appeared. This time he recognized Eryon at their head, by the silver in his grizzled beard and the proud way he held his shoulders. With as few words as possible and as little noise, the Komarians joined forces and waited Andar’s signal to assault the gate. By a great stroke of good luck, none had noticed them as they had slunk furtively through the city’s darkened ways.
From the dark mouth of the alley, they peered out at the well-lit entry-port of the citadel, estimating their chances of capturing it by a sudden attack.
” ‘Tis too risky, my prince,” growled the grizzled Eryon. “Let’s await the arrival of Prince Parimus and his airship, to divert their attention…”
Andar shook his head. “There is no time. We will arouse suspicion by merely lingering here. The next troop of guards to pass will notice and investigate such a mass of men lurking in the shadows. And ‘tis not yet time for Parimus to launch his attack.”
“What’s best to do, then, before the gods?” muttered Eryon, chewing on his beard in a torment of indecision.
“Let’s risk all on one turn o’ the dice,” Andar grinned recklessly. “One man may go where fifty would be helpless. Wait for my sign—”
Before Eryon could grasp the import of his words, or so much as lift a hand to stop him, the Prince of Komar strutted out into the well-lit square before the main portal of the citadel. He swaggered brazenly up to the guard-captain.
“What ho, comrade!” he bawled in a coarse tone affecting the crude accent of the Horde. “Be there thieves skulking in the night, that you guards be out in such strength?”
The captain eyed him warily.
“Where have you been hiding, friend, that you remain ignorant of the miracle?” he demanded. Andar, pretending to weave on his feet because of strong drink, blinked belligerently.
” ‘Miracle,’ ‘Miracle,’ is’t? Well, friend, I’ve been to sea on the Council’s business, all the long, weary way to far Tharkoon an’ back, that’s where! And I bear news of mighty import to the Council, this very hour; aye, that I do.”
“The Council is disbanded,” said the captain in harsh, level tones. “And the miracle I spoke of is that the Warlord has returned out of the very jaws of the grave, to lead us once again.”
This was news, indeed; and not to Andar’s liking; but, for reasons of his imposture, he must feign otherwise. He blinked and swayed gaping slack-jawed in astonishment, mumbling oaths he had heard from the former masters of the Xothun.
“You will take your news to the Warlord himself, who sits up late on matters of punishment and reward,” the captain cut in. “And, as you seem to have taken aboard a drop or two of wine, let me advise you to speak soberly and to the point. Hath been too much relaxing of discipline amongst us during his absence, says our master … already nine clan-chieftains dangle from courtyard gibbets, as token of his displeasure! Give me your name, sept and clan to set down in my book, and you shall be escorted within.”
“By the bowels of Yhorx, I need no escort!” roared Andar, pretending rage. Blustering and mouthing oaths, he lurched nearer to the captain; all the time his mind was racing keenly, trying to recall the names of one or another of the septs and clans the Warlord had welded together into his Horde. For the very life of him, he could not bring a single one to mind… and time was running out!
Chapter 22.
FLASHING SWORDS!
The captain of the gate uttered a short bark of laughter at Andar’s blustering words.
“You’ll have an armed escort to take you within the citadel, my man, or the Warlord will add my corpse to the many who dangle from his gibbets,” he said inflexibly.
His hand rested lightly upon the hilt of his sword, and his eyes were hard and suspicious. They rested unblinkingly on the disguised Prince, searching his half-hidden features in the bright glare of the many torches. Andar felt cold perspiration break out on his body, trickling down his ribs and belly.
It could all end here and now, he thought to himself. His blood ran cold at the thought. Stumbling and blustering, he came a few steps closer to where the captain of the Barbarians stood.
The captain was still staring at him with alert, wary eyes.
“Come now, you wine-soaked fool, name your sept,” he growled. “The ship dispatched to Tharkoon, I seem to recall, was the Xothun, captained by my old comrade, Hoggur, of the Devil-Wasp tribe… how comes he not here to report in person, if the news you bear be so damned important—uhh!”
His eyes widened suddenly, as a lock of Andar’s hair escaped from the bright kerchief he had wound about his brows. At the same instant, Andar had whipped out his sword and driven the blade through the captain’s heart.
“I’ll name my nation, Barbarian! ‘Tis Komar! Komar!” roared Prince Andar, now that his imposture was exposed. Whirling on his heel, he withdrew his steel from the chest of the corpse to drive it singing into the throat of the gate-captain’s second-in-command, who stood nearby, staring without comprehension at the corpse which fell to the tiles spouting gore.
“Komar! Komar!” The cry rang up from half a hundred throats. Suddenly, the square was filled with yelling, running men, naked swords flashing in the torchlight.
Cold coils crushing my chest and pinning my arms to my sides, the gigantic serpent held me helpless as it prepared to feast upon the puny manlings who dared defy its sovereignty of this jungle realm.
Blind, I could see nothing of what occurred. But to my ears came the shouts and cries as the archers of Tharkoon scattered. And then came to my ears, there is the clammy embrace of the monster Ssalith, the twang of bows and the hiss of arrows as they flashed through the air. I knew that the archers had returned to the decks of the aerial yacht to secure the weapons they had left behind. Now, as the coils tightened spasmodically about my body and the huge serpent hissed in rage and pain, I guessed that shaft upon shaft was being loosed from those powerful bows. They sank into the giant coils of the creature which held me captive.
The Ssalith hissed and struck, fanged jaws closing upon empty air, snapping at the flying darts which plagued it. But this mode of battle was something new in the serpent’s experience; its small, sluggish brain could not cope with pointed things which flew to cause it pain. Obviously, the Tharkoonian archers hoped to make it release me.