If so, their plans went awry. For, baffled, and infuriated by the stinging arrows, the great serpent headed back into the safety and darkness of its jungle home.
Carrying me with it!
Branches whipped my bare legs; tangled lianas slid over my face. The wet smell of the jungle closed about me; a curiously pungent perfume composed of the reek of rotting leaves and the sickly-sweet odor of jungle flowers. As the serpent bore me deeper and deeper into the jungle, the walls of foliage closed behind us; the shouts and cries of my comrades were muffled and faded out.
For an interminable period, the immense snake slithered through the depths of the tropic forest. My lungs half-crushed, my legs and arms going numb from the lack of circulation, I fell into a daze. Perhaps I swooned for a time, for my memories of this horrible experience are few and dim.
Then it seemed to me that we emerged into the open air again; that my reptilian captor was ascending some manner of inclined plane, like a stone stairway. Was there some ancient stone ruin amidst the jungles of this unknown isle; did the giant serpent make his home within the structure?
If so, my comrades might never find me in time to rescue me alive. For surely, once within its noisome lair, the gigantic snake would sate its hungers upon my flesh!
The serpent entered the temple ruin, and I lost all hope. The last memory that passed through my fading consciousness was of Shann.
And then I knew no more.
While the Barbarians stationed at the gate of the citadel of Komar were taken completely by surprise, they were trained to be vigilant and wary. The stunning shock of finding themselves suddenly under attack held them frozen only for a moment; then their own steel flashed in the torchlight, and the battle was joined in earnest.
Men yelled and cursed, scuffling hand-to-hand; steel blades rang in the echoing clamour. By sheer weight, the Komarian charge battered through the guard-ranks and reached the barbican of the gate without the loss of a single man. Andar, having slain both the captain and his lieutenant, turned to spring through the gate and into the courtyard; gaping men stood frozen in astonishment near the heavy wheel that could bring down the grille to block the entryway. Once it occurred to them to release the heavy barrier and bring it down, all would be lost and the only entrance into the fortress palace would be sealed.
His dancing sword point flashed in the ruddy glare of the torches, as Andar engaged two swordsmen at once. The most brilliant swordmasters in his royal father’s kingdom had tutored the young prince in the art of fencing; every last trick, feint and parry of this manly art was familiar to him. By contrast, his opponents, although burlier and heavier men, were rude savages; their notion of swordplay was the crude business of cut-and-slash. In the first five seconds after the death of the lieutenant, Andar’s blade laid the first of his adversaries grovelling in the dust with a thrust through the abdomen, while the second followed him mere moments later, his throat cut from ear to ear by a single stroke of Andar’s agile, darting point.
On the voyage hither, Andar and his barons had planned out the assault every step of the way. Thus, even as the Prince gained control of the entryway, his men came pouring through the gate on his very heels. They did not pause to engage the troop of guards stationed outside the citadel wall—their main objective was to gain entry to the citadel itself.
A few moments more and all of them were within the courtyard. Then, with the aid of two strong barons, Andar let the gate come down, crushing the forefront of the guards, who came storming through the gateway after the invaders. Men shrieked and screamed as the great iron grille came inexorably down, crushing skulls, smashing limbs, driving heavy spikes through chest, back and belly.
The gate was down to stay. Andar saw to that! He smashed the wheel with a huge war axe, breaking the gears so that only with difficulty could the entryway be cleared again.
By this time, more guards had come pouring into the courtyard from the main hall of the citadel; his men had formed a line to engage them. Once again it could be seen that superior skill at swordsmanship wins out over brute strength; for beneath the flickering blades of the Komarians, the roaring mob of cursing, bellowing Barbarians melted away like a snowbank in the hot breath of a furnace.
“Forward, men! Make a spear-head! Tryphax, hold our rear!”
His clear voice rising like a trumpet over the noise and tumult, the Prince of Komar delivered his commands. The ranked nobles hurried into a war-formation and charged the main doors of the hall, which the last, fleeing remnants of the Barbarians were desperately trying to close upon them. The point of Andar’s spear-head formation smashed the great doors open and bowled over the cursing savages. In a moment the hall was slick with blood, and filled with groaning, dying men. The flashing swords of Komar made a shambles out of the disorganized mob which challenged them.
Now the way opened up before them, and Komar seized the momentary advantage. On flying feet he charged through, sliding between the embattled, struggling men, rushing into the great hall itself. There, throned upon a dais, a smooth-faced man of indeterminate years sat with a table of maps drawn up at his knees.
The Warlord—!
Andar paused only for a moment, then hurled himself upon the military genius who had trampled his kingdom into the mire. He found the other was no mean swordsman; in truth, the blade his point engaged was as agile as his own.
Steel rang against steel as they fought. The Warlord was a man whom he had never met, so Andar regarded him curiously. He was of indeterminate age, blue-skinned and black-haired as were all of his Barbarian race; but his features were not as coarse and heavy as were those of his fellow-savages. Indeed, he was handsome in a smooth, sleek way, with quick clever eyes hooded beneath drooping lids. His fine-boned features, as well as the lithe, supple lines of his trim, slender figure, denoted birth and breeding superior to his oafish compatriots.
Andar’s features seemed familiar to him, it quickly became apparent; for as they fought, the Warlord smiled negligently, and addressed the Prince by name.
“I am surprised and pleased to learn that the Prince of Komar yet lives,” purred the other, in tones of silken mockery. “I had feared the ancient dynasty of Komar had been rendered extinct by the perhaps over-zealous action of my warriors! But where in the world have you been hiding all this time, Andar? Certes, ‘twould not be seemly for the princely heir of this throne to skulk in the sewers, or hide like a rodent in the back-alleys of his kingdom, while my men and I raped, burned and looted that very kingdom! I am surprised to discover that you did not make so rash and suicidal an attempt at liberating your realm long before this…”
He laughed; Andar virtually ached to wipe that sneering smirk of amusement from his calm, pleasant features.
“Save your breath for dying with!” the Prince snarled, as his blade flashed to ward off a stroke. With careless ease, the other eluded the flashing point of Andar’s sword, and engaged him anew.
“I have no intention of dying just yet,” he laughed. “But—may I suggest you make your peace with your gods? This duel bores me, and I plan to end it soon—”
Even as he spoke, Andar realized the trap his opponent had so cunningly maneuvered him into. His boot-heel slipped in a pool of ink, spilled from the desk when the Warlord had come to his feet to fight Andar.
Now he slipped, staggered, and for a brief moment was off balance. In that brief instant, his guard wavered and dropped.