About the same time that Klygon and I, together with that smooth-tongued traitor who called himself Delgan of the Isles, had escaped from the underground cavern-world of the albino troglodytes, my friends were also escaping from the clutches of the ebony-skinned rulers for the Flying City. One of the black princelings, named Ralidux, had conceived a violent and irresistible passion for Arjala, the beauteous Incarnate Goddess of Ardha. To Ralidux, who shared the madness of his race, his passion was a bestial, loathsome thing; for he believed Arjala to be only an animal, though one shaped in a cunning simulacrum of humanity. The depravity of his lust had driven him completely mad; this had provided Zarqa a chink through which to gain mental ascendancy over the black immortal.
For Zarqa, like all of his kind, did not communicate by spoken words but by thought-waves. There is very little difference, it seems, between insinuating telepathic messages into the mind of another intelligent being, and inserting commands. By exerting his extraordinary mental powers to the fullest, he had gained command of the black princeling, forcing him to assist in their escape from the Flying City. Holding Ralidux helpless under what I can only term telepathic hypnosis, they fled from the Flying City. The skysled was unable to bear the combined weight of them all; so the ebon princeling, under control of Zarqa’s mind, had taken Niamh the Fair and the Goddess Arjala on the saddle of one of the gigantic blue hawks the Skymen used for riding purposes; Janchan, Zarqa and an aged philosopher they had rescued from the slave-pens of the Flying City accompanied them aboard the skysled.
Their escape, however, was soon discovered. Armed with curious electrical weapons which projected stunning beams of force, the black warriors pursued them through the night. A chance beam from one of their weapons struck the aerial vehicle a glancing blow sufficient to disable it temporarily, and stunning Zarqa into unconsciousness. Freed from the mind control of the Kalood, Ralidux flew off into the darkness, with Arjala and Niamh his helpless captives.
Now it is appropriate that we follow the adventures of the skysled and its hapless riders.
As Zarqa sprawled across the controls, his arm struck a lever and the vehicle sped off in a giddy curve that carried it down into the dense foliage of the sky-tall trees.
Janchan uttered a warning cry, but it was too late by moments. Had it not been for the restraining straps that held them securely, they might all have been flung out when the skysled swerved, and fallen to a terrible death in the unknown depths below. However, this did not occur. But now they were flying blind through pitchy darkness, great pallidly-golden leaves whipping by them. At any moment the skysled might careen into a branch; and at their present speed such a collision would demolish their vehicle, hurling them all to their doom.
His locks streaming in the wind, Janchan tore away the straps that held him in place and fought his way over to the controls. He was forced to crawl on his belly, inch by inch, seeking handholds; for to stand erect would mean he could be torn from the sled by the wind. Luckily, the ancient Kaloodha sages who had designed the flying craft had foreseen just such an accident; it had been planned for such an eventuality. Hand-rings were set at intervals in the floor of the vessel. By means of these, while dangerous in the extreme, it was not impossible for a lithe, athletic young man such as he to make his way forward.
Once at the controls, Janchan fumbled for the power lever. When the bolt had struck him and he had collapsed across the panel, Zarqa’s arm had accidentally thrust the lever forward as far as it would go. The vehicle was now hurtling through the upper foliage of the great trees at full speed, completely out of control. Gritting his teeth, Janchan clenched the hand-grip of the lever, pulling it back to slow the flight of the craft.
Unfortunately, however, the Prince of Phaolon was only a novice at the art of flight. Instead of bringing the lever back notch by notch, thus slowing the forward thrust of flight gently, he pulled it back all the way into the socket. The vehicle halted its flight with such abruptness that he was flung forward, striking his head against the crystal windshield. He knew no more for a time.
When he awoke, and came groggily to his senses, he found the old philosopher bending over him, bathing his brows with a bit of cloth dampened with water from their canisters.
“Where are we?” he murmured. “What has happened?” Raising himself on one elbow, he peered around at the stupendous vista.
There were gigantic trees whose boles lifted miles into the silver-misted skies; the maze of interlocking branches were broader than six-lane highways, thrusting out in every direction, terminating in huge clusters of leaves brilliant as lucent golden foil in the rays of the distant sun.
Dawn was upon them, he saw; their only hope of escape had been to elude their pursuers in the dense blackness of the moonless night. It was a miracle that the uncontrolled skysled, hurtling at full speed into the treetops, had not shattered itself by colliding with one of the branches of the immense trees. But this had been narrowly averted.
“It is as you can see, Prince Janchan,” the old philosopher said, gesturing about them. Janchan blinked bleary eyes and looked again… and his heart sank within him. They were caught fast in the sticky meshes of a colossal spider-web which stretched between two of the immense trees of the forest.
Such a fate would have been merely ludicrous on my own distant planet; but here, in the world of the giant trees, it was anything but ridiculous. For, on the World of the Green Star, where moths, bees and dragonflies grow larger than men, the great predatory spiders who build these titanic webs grow larger than elephants. They are more dangerous and deadly than a dozen tigers.
Janchan looked about, measuring the extent of the web with his eyes. Some of the strands were all of five miles long, and were as thick as a ship’s anchor-cable. From past experience, Janchan knew all too well the terrible adhesive grip of the sticky web-strands; their incredible toughness was like woven nylon cables, very nearly as unbreakable as steel.
The skysled, completely weightless and floating free once he had shut off the power of its thrust, cancelling the magnetic waves which energized the craft, had drifted into the grip of the mighty web. Janchan knew all too well that even the magnetic force which powered the vehicle would prove insufficient to break the grip of those sticky strands; that even the keen edge of sword or dirk or dagger would not be able to cut them loose.
They were hopelessly stuck in the web; here they must wait helpless until the arrival of the monstrous spider-thing which had built the web. The brute might well be miles away, he knew; but it would be apprised of their presence by the vibrations of the impact, whose tremors would travel along the tightly-stretched strands to the spider’s hidden lair.
The spider might be hours—or merely minutes—away!
And how does a single man, armed only with a sword, kill something larger than an elephant?
There were many things to do. But Janchan’s first concern was the condition of Zarqa the Kalood.
“What of our winged friend?” he inquired anxiously. “Has he stirred?”
“Alas, I fear not,” sighed Nimbalim of Yoth. The ancient philosopher cast a worried glance at the Winged Man, who hung limp and seemingly lifeless in the restraining straps. “He hath not evinced a single sign of life since struck by the beam of force. I do not know the strength nor the resources of his kind, but the bolt struck with great vigor. I saw the flash of the explosion and the long sparks it cast. Perhaps ‘twas but a glancing blow touched him, and not one of killing force.”