Conclusion
Upon reaching the street, they started for the palace, its white walls gleaming under the mid-morning sun. No citizen of Sephar was abroad; but the marching men were conscious of watching eyes at windows of the buildings on either side.
The palace grounds, too, were deserted as they swept across the palace grounds and dashed against the great double doors. They might as well have sought to force the palace walls so strongly barred were the heavy planks.
As they stood debating their next step, a shower of spears, arrows and clubs fell suddenly upon them from above, killing several before Tharn could give the order to withdraw.
At a safe distance from the windows, Tharn, Vulcar and Katon held a brief council of war, finally agreeing upon a strategic maneuver that held promise of being effective.
Eight warriors left the group, returning with a heavy log, free of branches. This was carried, four men to a side, to within a short distance from the barred entranceway. Now, eight replacements came forward, took up the massive tree trunk and started at a run toward the doors, the log's heavy base aimed at a point where the two rough-hewn sections joined.
Within a dozen paces of their objective, they swerved sharply to their left and sent the great timber crashing through the slender stone columns of a large window.
Following the log came those who had carried it, pouring through to the hallway beyond. It was deserted; evidently the defenders were grouped at the upstairs windows, intending to stage their defense from that point.
A second later the palace doors were thrown wide and, notwithstanding a heavy barrage from overhead, the rebels soon over-ran the central hallway.
Halfway up the wide staircase they were met by a withering volley from the upper passageway and stairhead. But Tharn raised his voice once more in the awesome war challenge of his people, and which seemed to lift his followers bodily to the top of the steps.
Here, fighting was fast and furious. Although outnumbered at first by four to one, the insurgents made up that handicap by the intensity of their assault; and slowly but steadily Pryak's loyal troops were being pushed back.
Tharn was in his element! Knife and spear had been cast aside or lost; his only weapons were his mighty hands. Yet his was the most feared figure among the rebels, as was attested to by the mound of strangled and broken guards strewn about him.
Several times he saw Katon battling away close by, a long knife in either hand. Once, an enemy in a badly torn tunic was preparing to drive a knife into his unsuspecting back. Tharn had torn a spear from the fingers of a neighboring comrade and without pausing to judge distance, had thrown it across the hall to pass half its length into the side of Katon's would-be slayer. The man had fallen, while Katon, unaware of his narrow escape, was finishing the warrior with whom he had been engaged.
Of Vulcar, Brutan and Rotark, Tharn had seen nothing since the battle began. During momentary lulls he had time to wonder how they were faring—if, somewhere in this madhouse of fighting, bellowing men, they were managing to keep their skins whole.
Gradually the palace defenders were weakening, losing heart as their list of casualties grew. Already, the men of Tharn's party had sensed victory was slowly but surely passing into their hands.
And then came the unexpected, the one contingency which none of the rebel leaders had forseen.
A ringing shout sounded from the open doorway, and through the gap came priests from the temple of Sephar's God. Instead of waiting for the freedom-hungry prisoners to take their first objective, then march against the House of God, the cunning arch priest had sent every man he could muster to reinforce the palace garrison.
There must have been a hundred of them, fresh and—for priests—eager for battle. They fell upon the revolters from behind, spreading death and consternation in the thinning ranks of those from Sephar's pits.
Encouraged by aid from this wholly unexpected quarter, the palace defenders regained their fading morale and renewed the attack with reckless fury.
The end had come. Bitter was the realization to Tharn who, until now, had been certain nothing could prevent his men from taking Sephar. He smarted under the knowledge that wily old Pryak had outwitted them after all.
He might, under cover of the raging turmoil, have turned his back on friends and supporters to seek out Dylara's cell and escape with her from Sephar. But the thought was gone as it was born; and the Cro-Magnard sought to rally his shaken followers to the task of cutting a pathway back to the street. Once outside, some of them might manage to flee into the jungle—a far cry from their ambitious dream of taking Sephar!
It began to appear, however, that leaving the palace was to be infinitely more difficult than forcing an entrance had been. Again and again his men were repulsed by the white-faced but unflinching priests at the foot of the staircase. Steadily the number of rebels grew less; and while they took more lives than they gave, there were too many to outlast.
Suddenly there rose above the pandemonium within, a chorus of savage cries from outside the open doors. Tharn straightened as though struck by an unseen spear. His eyes went wide with incredulous astonishment bordering on disbelief; then from his powerful lungs broke an answering shout that paled to insignificance the tumult about him.
Swarming into the hall below, came a host of strange, warlike fighting-men, naked except for panther- and leopard-skins about their loins. Splendid, beautifully proportioned barbarians they were, heavy war-spears gripped in powerful right hands, sun-bronzed skins rippling under the play of corded muscles.
At their head was the stalwart figure of a man such as never before had been seen within Sephar's borders. Four inches above six feet he stood, slim of hip and broad of shoulder—a wealth of black hair held from his eyes by a strip of cured snakeskin.
"Father!" burst from Tharn's lips.
At sound of his cry, the leader of the newcomers looked sharply in his direction.
"Kill!" shouted young Tharn, bringing one hand out in a sweeping gesture toward the frozen ranks of priests.
In response, the Cro-Magnards threw themselves at the white-clad enemy. At the same time Tharn, the younger, leaped into action, shouting words of instruction and encouragement to his friends.
The end came quickly. Torn at from two sides, the priests broke and fled in all directions, the cave-men in hot pursuit. At sight of this, the original defenders threw down their weapons and surrendered on the spot.
Now came Tharn, the elder, striding forward to greet his son. Behind him crowded others of the tribe, wide smiles on their lips.
"We have searched long for you, my son," said the chief. "At times we were close to giving up; it was not until yesterday that one of us found where you and a girl had followed a game trail leading to this place."
"You could not have arrived at a better time!"
The chief smiled. Katon, watching from the background, marveled at the striking resemblance of father to son when both smiled.
"At first," said the Cro-Magnard leader, "we were almost afraid to leave the jungle's edge. But no one was about the openings in the walls, and as your trail led straight toward one of them, we decided to follow it. Then, too, all of us were curious to see what manner of people lived in such strange caves.
"No one tried to stop us. In fact, we saw no one at all. I was beginning to wonder if we were the only ones here until we heard sounds of fighting coming from here. The rest you know."
His son nodded. "Soon I shall tell you what I have gone through since I last saw you. But first I have something to do."
He hesitated. How should he go about telling his father? He hoped Dylara would not exhibit that temper of hers the first time she met the chief.
"What must you do?" the chief asked, glancing sharply at the face of his son.
"I have taken a mate!" There—it was out!
His father never batted an eye.
"Where is she?"
"Somewhere in this place. A prisoner, I suppose. Katon, here, may be able to find her. She—she may not seem pleased that I have come for her."
Those last words came out with an effort. But sooner or later his father was bound to learn he had taken a mate by force.
The elder man pursed his lips to keep from smiling. He was shrewd enough to come very close to the true state of affairs. But what of it? His own courtship had been none too easy. Afterward, Nada and he had been closer than words could express. He had never, nor would ever, lose the pain that had come when she had been taken captive by some strange tribe so many years ago.
Katon, at mention of his name, had stepped forward.
"This," Tharn said, "is Katon—my friend."
There was immediate approval in the eyes of both the blue-eyed Sepharian and the Cro-Magnard chief.
"Dylara probably is in the slave quarters," Katon said. "If you will come with me, I will lead you there."
And shortly thereafter, father and son stood before a great door while Katon removed its heavy bar.
They entered a huge, sunlit room crowded with women, young and old, who shrank away from them in alarm.
There was one, however, who did not draw away. Her lovely face was registering astonishment and disbelief—and hope. One hand lifted slowly to her throat as she stared into the eyes of Tharn's father.
Nor was she alone in displaying tangled emotions. Tharn, the elder, was gazing at the woman as though unable to credit the evidence of his own eyes.
And then the man found his voice.
"Nada!" It was more gasp than a word.
"Tharn—my mate!"
An instant later she was caught up in his arms.
Young Tharn looked on in bewilderment, not grasping, at first, the significance of that single word his father had uttered. Then, as the chief turned toward him, an arm about the woman's shoulders, he understood.
Then his arm, too, was about her: and after twelve long years, father, son, and mother were reunited.
None of the three had much to say during the next few minutes. There was an enormous lump in Nada's throat, making speech impossible. She could not take her eyes from the splendid young man who, until a few days ago, she had thought to be dead. He was everything Dylara had said he was. She remembered him as she had last seen him—a straight-backed, sturdy-legged youngster, whose inquisitive nature and complete lack of fear had given her so many anxious moments. Even at that early age he had shown promise of the extraordinary physical development he now possessed.
But her greatest pride and satisfaction came from what she could see in those frank, compelling gray eyes—eyes mirroring a fine, sensitive soul and an equally fine mind.
"Tell me," Nada said at last, "how did you know I was here?"
"I did not know," admitted her mate. "Did you, Tharn?"
Their son shook his head. "I never dreamed you were in Sephar. As a matter of fact, we came here to find a girl—Dylara, my—my mate. We thought she would be with the slaves."
Then it was that he saw a shadow come into Nada's eyes—a shadow which wiped away his smile and closed a cold hand about his heart.
"Nada!" he exclaimed. "What is wrong? Has something happened to her?"
"She is ... gone," his mother said dully.
"Gone?"
"Yes. Pryak gave her to a man from a land far to the south of Sephar. He has taken her there with him."
Tharn's face was white beneath its layer of tan. "How long since?" he demanded hoarsely.
"This is the third day."
Without another word the young man wheeled and started for the door. Before he could reach it, however, strong fingers closed on his arm.
His father had stopped him. "Wait, Tharn. Where are you going?"
"After Dylara," said his son grimly.
"Of course; but do not leave so—so abruptly. Let us talk this over before you start. Some of our men will go with you, once we have eaten and slept."
"I am neither tired nor hungry," retorted his son. "I am going alone; others would only delay me."
Katon chose this moment to intervene. "Wait a few hours, Tharn. There is much left to be done here, and we need your help. A new king must be chosen and order restored to the palace and city. Once that is done there will be a feast for all of us; then, after a good sleep, you can set out after Dylara. You can overtake those who have her within two or three suns."
Nada ended the discussion. "Stay until morning, my son," she pleaded. "I have but found you; I cannot bear to let you go so soon."
The smile came back to Tharn's face. "As you will," he conceded. "But when Dyta comes again, I must leave you."
So it was decided, and the four went down to the lower floor to join the others.
That night, in the great dininghall of Sephar's palace, a happy throng sat about a long, wide table laden to its edges with an abundance of foods. At the head sat Katon; at his right hand was Tharn, the elder; and, on his left, was Tharn, the younger, his mother beside him.
Earlier that afternoon the former prisoners and those nobles who had not fallen in defense of Pryak's government, had assembled in the great central hallway to elect a new king. Tharn, to his honest surprise, had been their instant and unanimous choice. But he had declined the honor, saying:
"There is one among you who has every right to rule over you. He, himself, is the son of a king—one who understands all those things expected of a ruler. That man is Katon of Huxla!"
The roar of approval which followed his words reached far beyond Sephar's walls. Katon would have protested but he had no chance of making himself heard, and he accepted—hiding his pleasure as best he could. He did not dream what a pang that speech had cost his Cro-Magnard friend, for with those words Tharn had relinquished his hope of taking the Sepharian back with him to the caves of his father.
Later in the day an armed force had entered the temple of Sephar's God; and while the feet of those faint-hearted members in the group had dragged somewhat, none had turned back.
However, no resistance had materialized; instead, a horde of priests, arms held high, hands empty, had welled up from the subterranean maze below the temple and begged the new ruler to accept them as his own loyal followers.
Among them was the Council of Priests, intact to a man—except for one. But that one was he whom Katon—and Vulcar!—had desired most to see: Pryak, high priest and Sephar's former king.
It was then that the new king displayed his ability to make sensible decisions. Before leaving the temple he had appointed Cardon as high priest to the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken. Nor could he have made a wiser choice; for Cardon was possessor of a rugged honesty as well as a lack of ambition beyond his position. The long-standing feud between Church and State was ended.
Once these matters had been disposed of, Katon had sent his soldiery to assemble the residents of Sephar at the palace grounds. When a huge throng had filled not only the grassy expanse but the street as well, Katon, as ruler of Sephar, had proclaimed the new government and asked that they acknowledge, as their king, a warrior in place of a priest.
The thunderous, welcoming roar which greeted his words was all that was needed to make of Sephar a unified community. Katon had immediately proclaimed a two day holiday, to be given over to feasting and drinking; and, because he was a shrewd judge of human nature, he had announced that every citizen must sacrifice some valued article to the God, whose help had made the revolt a success.
And so it was that on this night all Sephar, from palace to city walls, was in a merry-making mood. Within the palace dininghall, there was only a single tiny cloud to mar the clear sky of happiness; a cloud fast losing the dark hue it at first had assumed.
This bit of gloom was caused by the absence of Dylara. But when young Tharn had had an opportunity to reflect, there had come the certainty that Dylara would be back with him before many suns. Tharn knew he could cover in one day three times the distance that the slow-moving men from Ammad could travel in that same period of time. And while they must camp while Dyta slept, Tharn could go on across nocturnal jungles and plains without being forced to slack his speed.
Vulcar, earthen goblet in hand, was bellowing out an anecdote of the days when he had been a young warrior, when the hangings behind Tharn's bench swayed as though touched by a random current of air.
Because all eyes were fixed on the speaker, and because the faint candle light failed to reach much beyond the table, none saw the half crouched figure that stealthily pushed aside the curtain and tip-toed into the room. The intruder's lips were curled in a crazed grimace of hate; in one hand was clutched a long blade of polished stone.
Nada, pausing in her eating from time to time to gaze fondly at her broad-shouldered son, caught a glimpse of something moving among the shadows directly behind the young man. What was it that lurked there?
Suddenly Nada screamed—a high-pitched, tearing sound that cut through the babble of voices about the table.
With the first notes of the scream, a figure behind Tharn bounded forward and drove a flint knife deep into the naked back of the surprised Cro-Magnard.
Nada's terrified cry was all that saved Tharn from instant death. For he was rising from his stool and turning as the scream left her lips. As a result, the knife point entered his back at an angle, ripping through the muscles there to enter the lower tip of one lung.
Tharn, despite his agony, reached for the would-be assassin. But another was there before him—Vulcar, the hawk-faced.
The one-time captain of Urim's guards had vaulted the table in a flying leap and with a powerful sweep of his arm, knocked away the knife. Then he caught the man about the neck and forced him into a kneeling position.
"So, Pryak," cried the hawk-faced one, "you would add another killing to your list! Long have I waited for this—now comes your reward for the death of Urim!"
Pryak opened his lips to plead for mercy, but before the words could come he was whirled up from the floor as though he were a figure of straw. Then, as the others watched in awe, Vulcar brought the screaming man down on the edge of the massive table.
There was a crunching sound from splintering bones, one last nerve-tearing cry of agony and fear—and Pryak, the ambitious, was gone to his reward.
As the guests stood staring down at the broken form, a thin trickle of blood appeared at one corner of Tharn's mouth and coursed to his chin. Dazedly he lifted a hand to wipe away the stain, then his knees gave way, and before the paralyzed company could prevent, Tharn, the son of Tharn, had pitched to the floor.
When complete consciousness first returned, he was aware of a great mound of soft skins beneath him; and he opened tired eyes to a sun-flooded room. For a little while he was content to remain so, staring at the stone ceiling.
Later, he slowly turned his head and looked into the eyes of Nada. For a few minutes mother and son did not speak; then she reached out to touch his hand.
"You have come back to us, Tharn," she said softly.
Tharn pondered over her remark. When he spoke he was startled by the feebleness of his voice.
"How long have I lain here?"
"Half a moon."
"Half a—!" He sought to sit up, but sank back as a stabbing pain shot through his chest.
"No, no, Tharn!" cried Nada. "You still are not well. The wound in your back is not completely healed, and the jungle fever left you only a little while ago."
Tharn frowned. He was so very tired. "But—Dylara ... I must go after her. I should have found her before this. I must not lie here while she—"
Then, as an unsupportable weariness flooded his body, he closed his eyes. In another moment he was sleeping soundly.
Another half moon had passed. Today had dawned bright and fair. Dyta, the sun, had pulled his blazing head above the eastern earth-line an hour before, tearing the jungle fog into rapidly dissolving streamers of mist.
A group of three—two men and a woman—walked through twin gates in Sephar's rock walls and moved slowly toward the somber shadows of the jungle south of the city. A few yards short of the green wall they came to a halt on a slight, grass-covered elevation.
"I must leave you here," said young Tharn. "Within a few suns—a moon, at most—I will return. Dylara will be with me."
The older man nodded. "Your mother and I leave for home before long. We shall wait there for you and your mate."
"You will not need to wait long," said the young man confidently.
He placed an arm about the man's wide shoulders, pressed the hand of his mother in silent farewell, then turned and strode toward the wall of verdure and towering forest giants to the south.
Together, Tharn, the elder, and Nada, his mate stood on the little green mound, watching the lithe figure of their only son until it disappeared into the forbidding jungle. Beyond that first rampart of lofty trees, of tangled vines and creepers, lay a mysterious land, never before trod by any known member of their world. What hidden dangers lurked there? What savage tribes? What unknown and terrible beasts?
A shudder passed through the woman's slender body. The man at her side slipped a strong arm about the trembling shoulders in unspoken understanding.
"He will come back?" she asked, her voice unsteady. It was half question, half statement; and in those words ran an undercurrent of mingled hope and fear.
"Yes," said the man, his own voice strong and very certain. "He will come back."
[A] Probably no race of man in all history has so stimulated the imagination of scientists as that of Cro-Magnon Man. The origin of the race is lost in antiquity, although its arrival on the scene was supposed to have taken place between 35,000 and 20,000 B.C. It is established, however, that hordes of the white-skinned, strong-thewed cave-dwellers over-ran, long before the dawn of history, what today is southern Europe and the Mediterranean Basin. This section of the earth's surface was sparsely populated, at the time, by Neanderthal Man—the last of the sub-human fore-runners of Homo Sapiens.
Immediate warfare raged between the two. The Cro-Magnards, while lacking the tremendous muscles and long, ape-like arms of the Neanderthaloids, were far more intelligent (as witness the dimensions of their heads; a brain-case exceeding in size that of present day man), and gradually eliminated the native Neanderthals. Between the two, there was little difference in man-made weapons. The principal weapon of both was the club; but, in Cro-Magnon's case, this was augmented by the flint knife, clumsily shaped but effective. It is entirely possible that the latter people made use of the rope, both as one of the amenities and as a weapon of offense.
Cro-Magnon Man was the proud possessor of a virtue both new and startling in a world given only to the struggle for survival. This virtue was Leisure—a period in which he was free to do things other than kill his enemies, hunt, and eat. He used his leisure to develop an artistic sense that found its expression in the painting of everyday scenes from his life. The walls of his cave served as a canvas; his materials, principally ochre, he took from the earth. He was the first Artist; and his paintings, still admirable considering the lack of guiding precedence, have endured to this day.
In appearance, Cro-Magnon Man was ruggedly handsome, both in figure and face. He was long-headed, with a short face patterned on the diamond. The width was extreme, with high cheek-bones slanting up to a narrowing forehead, and down to a short, firm chin. Above a long, finely moulded mouth, the strong, usually prominent nose jutted out imperiously.
The female was considerably smaller than her mate, often reaching no more than to his shoulders. Possibly she was lovely of face and figure; we of today have no evidence to the contrary.
There are authorities who insist no finer specimen of humankind ever existed than the Cro-Magnard. Whether or not this is true, does not alter the fact that he was able to carve a secure niche in a savage and implacable world, and, at the same time, place the feet of his descendants on the path to civilization and a more sheltered life.—Ed.