It was Zarkandu who answered for them all.
“No child of our blood would wish to be spared by such a mean bargain,” he cried. “Rather that all die together, so that they die with honor!”
“Well spoken!” Raul shouted, and caught the tall Nomad’s answering grin.
The Arthon was not impressed.
“Brave words—stupid words, oh penniless princeling! You have yet to learn, on the gaming-board of the universe, ‘honor’ and ‘justice’ and ‘mercy’—and such-like terms as these, are but pawns—and he who would truly win to greatness must learn to sacrifice these pawns when need calls! Words—empty air, they are, no more—yet fools such as you choose to die for these words! Die then, if so thou wilt!” Ringed by his dull-faced guards who stood about him with bared steel, the Arthon gave a mocking laugh—and jammed home the stud that sent a call winging across neospace faster than light to summon his waiting ships. He closed the connection with a vicious twist of his hand.
There was a long moment of quiet—and then Shaxl the Yellow-Eyed laughed, a short bark of pure joy.
“No—no—of gentility, my lords, my brothers, truly I think none need think about dying—not just yet, at least!” He withdrew his hand from under his robes, exposing a crystal rod beaded within with tiny micro-circuits.
“Good man, Sharl! The ‘dampener’—of course!”
The Rilké chieftains did not know of the function of the vokarthu instrument, but intuited something of its nullifying influence on electronic devices from the expressions of savage joy on the grinning faces of Zarkandu, Linton and Sharl— and from the flash of white-lipped panic which convulsed the Arthon’s face when he realized his tightbeam communicator was totally “dead.”
“Take him!” Linton shouted.
They fell upon the stolid ring of guards with shouting joy and war-cries that rang like bugles—young and old alike, those weaponed and those without arms, who seized up platters or wooden taborets to use as clubs against the Pelaire guard. Perhaps it was the exuberance and war-joy of their exultant mood, or the savagery of their detestation for the truce-breaker, or just that lack of fighting-space jammed the Arthon’s guards into so small a space they did not have armspace to fight properly—but, whatever the cause, they overwhelmed the guards and the Arthon within moments.
There were no casualties on the side of Valadon, save for a bruise or two, a broken tooth, a blackened eye—which none of them felt for sheer, singing joy. Nor were any of the guards killed or even disabled, save for one who suffered from a dislocated shoulder (he had come up behind Linton and was about to put a yard of steel through him, but that Gundorm Varl laid hold of his right arm and nearly tore it loose from its socket in disarming him).
The most injured of all—in esteem, at least—was the Arthon, who had been clubbed over the head with a heavy silver platter. This platter, at the time, had served as receptacle for a quantity of vrome—a variety of fruit, soft of skin and liquescent of interior meat, never eaten until overripe nearly to the point of putrefaction. As a result of this blow, the Arthon currently presented a rather sorry—or charming spectacle (depending on the point of view, of course), being splattered, stained and beslimed with stinking, wet, slimy fruit-pulp, from head to foot—particularly head —and most particularly-of-all, his curled, perfumed and dyed hair, beard and mustachios, which were now one dripping smear, stiff with drying and rotten-smelling vrome.
Oh, it was a splendid tussle!
And when it was done, and the Arthon and his men were disarmed and standing under guard, Sharl came up to Linton grinning savagely. One eye was blackened and a line of blood drew thin scarlet down his cheek, but his eyes were alight with the joy of battle as he saluted Linton grandly with a bare sword.
“Hail, Shakar! I am glad thou hast come to thy senses at last—and if thou wilt truly be my lady’s Shakar, I am with thee to the death—command me!”
“We have much yet to do,” he said swiftly. “This is only a handful of the squad the Arthon brought with him— where are the others?”
“Six or eight guard the skimmer down in the cavern-mouth, where it is securely cradled beside the Kahani’s yacht. The rest of them—three or four—remain in the Arthon’s quarters.”
Linton thought swiftly. “Can you rouse a dozen or two warriors—without alarming the entire base?”
“Yes! There is a guard-barracks down the corridor from here, only a few steps away.”
“Do so at once—Lord Zarkandu!”
The Nomad Prince stepped swiftly to Linton’s side, saluting him with a broad gesture.
“Command me, Shakar!” he said with a flashing grin. Linton noted that his crested cap was thrust askew and that half of his black tunic was torn from his brown, muscular torso. But he was unhurt and eager for more.
“Of honor, go with the chieftain Sharl. One of you take half the guards and go swiftly to the cavern to seize the Pelairi there—come upon them quietly, without showing weapons, and take them by surprise. They can have no hint of what has transpired here. The other must go with the rest of the warriors to the quarters of the Arthon’s party and perform the same deed with those guards left to watch his property. Swiftly, now!”
They saluted and left. Linton ran a swift glance over the others, and called the Shann of Kartoy to him. He had noted the old warrior-prince during the melee and had seen the vigor and sword-skill he displayed, which belied his gray beard.
“Lord Shann, may I require you to conduct the Warlord of Pelaire and his suite to a suitable and well-guarded suite?”
“Aye, and with joy in the task!” the old warrior rumbled happily. “A more pleasant quarter-hour than the last I have not known for twenty years. Command me, Shakar!”
Raul suppressed a grin.
“Right. And make certain, of gentility, the quarters are sizable enough—for we shall shortly add the dozen or so remaining Pelairi to these.”
The patriarch snapped a crisp command to those warding the crest-fallen Arthon and his battered soldiers, and marched the party from the hall.
Linton looked around absently—had he forgotten anything? No—that was it for the present. He turned to go, Gundorm Varl at his side, when—
“A word with you, my lord Shakar?” A voice spoke sweetly from the dais behind him. For some absurd reason he flushed pinkly to the ears.
At which Gundorm grinned hugely.
“What are you leering at, you old buffoon?” Raul snapped. The Bamassian shrugged.
“Then get back to our quarters—find Wilm Bardry and I’ll meet the two of you shortly. Lift off!”
Then he turned to the Kahani.
“You lack something of the first requisite of a model Shakar, Lin-ton,” she said with deadly softness. “For in the first twenty minutes of your command, you have wrecked the entire war and ended my chances of success. What have you to say for yourself?”
He swallowed, took a deep breath, and turned to join battle with an opponent more dangerous than half a planet full of Arthons—the woman he loved!
TEN
“THE BEST DEFENSE is a strong offense”—this ancient and immemorial rule of military tactics still held true after countless millennia of combat. Linton turned to face his Queen— she was pale but calm, and radiantly lovely.
“Do you trust me?” he demanded. Surprised a little, she eyed him curiously.
Then, after a minute, she replied: “Yes, I think that I may trust you.”