It seemed to consume an interminable length of time- clattering down the coil of stone steps—but at last they burst into a central corridor.
“This way!”
They came out into the vast caven-mouth, echoing with the clatter of their feet. Across the wide, flat floor, spotted here and there with oil-stains, and stacked with crated machinery, including some sections of hull-plating from a partially-dismantled ship—they saw the skimmer.
And in the same moment, from the opposite side of the cavern, a crowd of disheveled Pelairi burst out of another entrance. The two groups spied each other simultaneously.
Raul raced across the cavern, followed by the others. Asloth flashed nakedly in his fist, glistening in the dim illumination.
There was a soundless flash, a puff of white fire—a long, thin, intensely brilliant needle of energy speared past his shoulder to strike a man behind him. He heard the horrible sizzling sound of human flesh searing in a laser-beam and a full-throated cry of agony as the man fell.
“They have energy-weapons! Quick—take shelter behind these hull-plates!” he bellowed, scrambling behind one of the curving shields of proton-steel. Panting hoarsely, gasping for breath, the others followed his lead. Another laser-beam flared in a dazzling shower of sparks as it raked the shield, but the heavy metal was sufficient to block the ray.
They were safe—but trapped! Helplessly pinned down, with the Axthon’s warriors free to advance to the skimmer. Raul felt a terrible bottomless pit of despair open up within him, draining his will to fight.
“Are any of you armed?” he snapped. It was the small, plump Chahuna, Bar-Kusac, the man who had been his guide when first he arrived on Ophmar, who replied for them all.
“Only with steel blades, kazar.”
Raul clenched his teeth, grinding savagely. Beside him, the huge blond hulk of Gundorm Varl crouched. “Say th’ word, commander, and we’ll rush ’em!”
He shook his tousled thatch.
“No good, Gundorm. They could pick us off before we could get halfway across the cavern.”
Another sizzling beam played over the shield, spitting up a rain of blinding sparks.
“Listen!”
They huddled there, ears straining, as a shuffling, slapping sound came to them.
Sharl cursed vividly. “They are crossing the cavern! They will reach the skimmer within a moment—”
Suddenly Raul reached out and seized his arm.
“The dampener—you still have it?”
Sharl’s eyes widened with delight.
“Aye!—but will it work on energy-weapons?”
Raul shrugged. “Arion knows! But try it—quick—time’s running out!” while the chieftain fumbled, searching in his robes for the indispensable little tool, Raul whispered swift instructions to the others.
“If the gadget works, it will kill their lasers. We’ll have only a few seconds to rush them, before they discover their guns don’t work. Every man must be ready—sword in hand!”
“Here!” Sharl breathed. “Shall I-?”
Raul nodded vigorously.
“Ready, warriors! Make every second count—”
As Sharl activated the crystal rod, Raul rose to his feet and shouted to attract the Pelairi’s attention.
One of them snapped a bolt at his head—or tried to. But nothing happened. The pistol would not fire!
In a flash, Raul was over the barrier and hurtling upon the astounded guards—the others pelting along at his side. Faces mirroring shock and astonishment, the Pelairi leveled the deadly snouts of laser pistols at the oncoming men— to no result.
Then Asloth sank to the hilt in one guard’s bulky chest. Ripping the sword clear, Raul snapped a quick chop-cut at the lifted arm of a second, half-severing the limb. Shouts and cries of the assaulted Pelairi mingled with fierce, triumphant war-cries of the Rilké. His slim blade flashed out, piercing the throat of one of the Arthon’s pet wizards. Beside him, bellowing out a wordless song of joy, Gundorm Varl was battering in the head of another with a length of iron pipe he had snatched up from the litter of spare parts and miscellaneous machinery.
All was turmoil—utter confusion. They had come upon the guards as they stood in a clump, and the two groups now intermixed—dangerous for close-quarters fighting, when it is hard to tell friend from enemy. Luckily, the Pelairi were garbed in the saffron livery of the Arthon’s private guard, and were thus distinguishable. Through the confusion of strike, recoil, thrust, parry, strike again, Linton caught glimpses of what was going on about him.
He saw Zarkandu, nude to the waist, save for tattered ribbons of black cloth which still adhered to his intact collar, his bare brown torso laced with scarlet blood from a shoulder-cut, grinned with a fighting snarl that revealed the flash of bared teeth, as he struck away a sword with his bare arm and drove his dirk home in a Pelairi heart. Beyond him, the old Shann of Kartoy, shouting the savage rhythms of a Rilké war-song, was dueling with two grim-faced Pelairi at once, swords flickering as agilely as serpents’ tongues. In the brief glimpse Raul caught before surging, battling figures obscured his view, he saw the graybeard parry a stroke and strike—sinking his steel through his opponent’s heart with a flawless stroke of superb swordsmanship.
And behind them all, straddling the steel barricade, Sharl stood aiming the dampener at the knot of struggling men—and cursing ferociously that he was doomed to stand “idly” by, and miss so glorious a battle!
But then suddenly Raul was too busy to note what the others were doing, for two swordsmen engaged him, too, as the Sharui. Asloth sang and rang in the thrilling song of steel beating upon steel, as the golden blade wove a sparkling web of steel between him and the two enemies. Truly was the “Golden Girl” forged in a fortunate hour—a sharbaré, in very truth—nor did ever Mnardus God-Smith beat out a finer blade on his divine anvil! In his grip, she seemed to come to life with a strange power of self-movement.
Almost without action of his own will or sword-skill, her saber-blade and rapier-point flashed through the deadly air—drawing a thread of scarlet across one man’s belly and toppling him to the floor, feet tangled in his own bowels—sinking a foot in the heart of his second opponent—and then flashing free to engage the steel of a third.
He fought in a timeless small continuum, occupied only by himself and Asloth, and endless Pelairi who arose to confront him—and fell in a gush of arterial crimson. Sound of the combat around him faded—vision smeared into a gray blue—exhaustion seeped through his dancing body like a slow, heavy fluid, weighing down his arm, dulling his brain, slowing his motions. One blade sped past his heavy guard to draw a red line across his cheek—another slim épée sank painlessly (and without harm) through the flesh part of his thigh. Another sword, swept in a vicious, back-handed disemboweling stroke, cut through the fabric of his tunic and grazed his middle as he sprang clumsily back to elude it.
Although fatigue numbed him like a drug, the training of years of sword-skill sustained him … or was it the fierce, singing spirit that inhabited the sword, pouring vitality into his exhausted body from its slim, living length of steel? He did not know. He fought on, as one in an endless dream.
And then, colors emerged from the dull haze that enwrapped him, and he suddenly found himself alone, staggering but still on his feet, fighting for breath, lungs heaving and throat on fire as if with every gasping breath he drew in fiery vapors. But—miraculously—no enemy faced him.
As the spinning mists faded from his vision, and he looked around with keener comprehension—he saw one figure racing across the floor towards the skimmer.
Yaklar!