And the Warlord, seizing upon the opportunity he had awaited, struck! His point flashed for the Prince of Komar’s heart—
Chapter 23.
TO THE DEATH
As his foot slipped in the wet pool, Andar momentarily lost his balance. In that flickering instant, as he strove to regain it, the point of his sword wavered and fell; this exposed his breast to the blade of his opponent—who struck for his heart!
Andar threw himself over backwards, fell down the steps of the dais, sprawling on the tiles of the hall floor, well out of reach of the Warlord’s blade. He came scrambling to his feet again, snatching up his fallen weapon, hot to re-engage his hated enemy. But it was evident that the Barbarian monarch had lost his taste for swordplay.
” ‘Tis a pity you were so clumsy as to deny me the pleasure of spitting you upon my blade,” the Warlord jested, with a mocking salute. “But I have other, more pressing matters which demand my attention at the moment. We shall have to postpone, for the moment, the pleasure of a re-match. ‘Till we meet again, then, my boy!”
Andar growled an oath, and sprang up the steps to tackle him, but the Warlord raised one booted foot and kicked over his desk-like table. It fell directly in Andar’s path, spilling parchments and tangling his limbs. While the Prince cursed and struggled to untangle himself, the older man slipped behind a tapestry and seemingly vanished into the solid stone wall.
A moment later, Andar had gained the dais and stepped behind the throne to pull aside the hanging. A black opening was thus revealed—a sliding panel in the wall!
He ground a bitter curse and reluctantly, let the tapestry fall back into place again. He knew that panel well, it and the others like it; his ancestors had honeycombed the walls of the citadel with secret passages and hidden doors; he had memorized the system of hiding-places at his father’s knee. The Warlord must have discovered the secret during his long tenancy here, and made the system a secret of his own.
Andar knew only too well how complex was this labyrinth of passages hollowed within the walls, and how long it would take him to search through every one for his enemy. He could not spare the time. But he made a silent vow as he stood there, glowering.
“We shall meet again, my enemy, and I shall make you swallow your laughing words,” he growled between gritted teeth. “When next our swords cross, it shall be… to the death.”
Then he turned to see his men come spilling into the hall, pressed by a charging line of Barbarians. For a moment he stood there on the dais, watching the scene grimly. His men fought with cool precision, making every stroke count. But the blue-skinned savages fought with histrionic yells and grimaces, bellowing curses, shaking their fists and stamping their feet; contorting their faces in ferocious scowls as if to frighten their adversaries by the noise and violence. It was almost amusing—perhaps it would have been, had the occasion not been so fraught with life-or-death importance for the kingdom of Komar.
For all their rage and fury, the Barbarians proved to be no match for the master-swordsmen of Komar. Their line melted away as if by magic; they bolted the hall, fleeing into the corridor beyond, leaving a dozen corpses sprawled in their gore upon the pavement. Swiftly, the loyalists reformed and turned to Prince Andar for instructions.
The Prince gnawed his lip. The time had already passed for the arrival of Prince Parimus of Tharkoon and the diversion they had planned between them. Some unforeseen occurrence must have delayed the arrival of the sky yacht. That delay might well prove fatal to the hopes of Andar and his barons; however, they were in the thick of it now. There was nothing to do but to carry on as best they could, for as long as they could.
“Whither now, sire?” puffed Eryon, red-faced with exertion through his blue paint.
“We have no way of ascertaining how many guards are in the citadel,” Andar said rapidly. “But the chances are that we are the smaller in strength. It occurs to me that the Pits of Komar will contain many of our friends; those dungeons lay beneath this floor, tunneled into the bowels of the cliff. Take ten warriors and descend—you know the way, and also the method of unlocking the cells. Free as many of our friends as you can, and arm them with whatever comes to hand. Meet us on the height. I mean to clean out the citadel, room by room, until the fortress is ours; or we will die in the attempt. Quickly, now!”
Eryon nodded grimly, marshaled his men and left the hall.
“Now, my lords,” smiled Andar to the remainder of his force, “we have a deal of man-killing to do. Are you with me?”
“Komar! Andar and Komar!” came the roof-shaking shout in reply. The Prince grinned, saluted with his sword, and led them forth to shed more enemy blood.
And still Parimus did not come.
The roof of the fortress-palace was a vast, flat plaza-like area, tiled with smooth stones and surrounded with a battlement all its own. Naught broke the smoothness of the roof, save for a colossal idol of Koroga, the many-armed and many-faced national god of the island realm.
It was here that Andar and the remnant of his swordsmen met the last stand of their adversaries.
They had gone through the mighty citadel room by room, chamber by chamber, suite by suite; killing all they encountered, save for servants and slaves, whom they freed, armed and added to their ranks. The many lords and chieftains of the Horde who were housed in the suites and apartments of the citadel stood, fought and died bloodily, one by one. All the time beyond the outermost wall, the Barbarians surged in their thousands, yelling with rage and brandishing weapons; but they were unable to penetrate the defenses of the fortress, and unable to come to the aid of their chieftains.
Of the Warlord himself, Andar had seen no sign. Perhaps he lurked in one of the secret passages within the thick walls of the fortress, cowering in hiding. If so, they would root him out, once the last defenders of the citadel had been cut down; Andar did not believe that he had been able to escape from the gigantic edifice and flee to safety, for the only exit to the outer city was well blocked and sealed.
The terrible killing went on and on. Andar’s sword-arm was weary now; his bare torso gleamed with perspiration and blood. Some of the blood was his own, for innumerable scratches and small cuts scored his bare body; but most of it was the blood of the many men he had slain this night.
The smoke of burning buildings drifted up to them, there on the rooftop of the citadel. Riots and pitched battles had broken out in the streets and squares of the city, Andar guessed. The Komarian citizenry, seizing the opportunity, had turned upon their conquerors, snatching up tools, staves and whatever lay to hand.
But without the aid of the Tharkoonian archers, and the scientific weapons of Prince Parimus, he seriously doubted if the Barbarians could be defeated.
Well, if he must die here, at least he would die fighting! Far better to perish with a sword in his hand, ringed about with the foemen he had slain, than any other death he could envision.
He fought on, wearily, without hope.
And then, very suddenly, it was over. The manner of the battle’s end was uncanny and terrifying.
To Prince Andar’s right hand there fought a grizzled baron who was named Ozad. He had served the Princes of Komar for a lifetime with loyalty. That lifetime ended abruptly.
The pitch-black darkness suddenly split open with an unearthly blaze of light!
Lightning smote the baron Ozad and burnt him to a cinder. The hideous stench of charred flesh was heavy in Andar’s nostrils, and the intolerable flash of light blinded him. He blinked dazedly, through swirling after-images, at the blackened body stretched out on the smoking tiles… a thing that only a moment before had been a man.