Revolt!
As Sadu, the lion, came into full view, a collective groan rose on the afternoon air. Then came scattered boos and cries of disapproval from various points in the stands.
"Give him arrows and a bow!"
"No man can kill a lion with a knife!"
"Death to Pryak!" shouted some more hardy soul.
Scattered protests began to gather volume until they beat as a steady roar, filling the entire arena with ominous sound. Armed priests, stationed at the upper edge of the retaining wall, began to move uneasily among the seats to restore order.
Suddenly the mounting crescendo stilled, as action on the arena sands seemed imminent.
Sunlight, flooding the huge oval, bathed in golden glory the calm figure of the man and the tan coat of the jungle king. With striking clarity it picked out the corded muscles and swelling muscles of this cave-god. His handsome, finely-shaped head with its crowning mop of straight black hair; his shoulders, wide and erect; his mighty chest, narrow waist and tapering hips—all made up a picture of physical perfection that no observer was likely to forget.
And yet, invincible though this Cro-Magnard appeared, he seemed puny and pitiable when compared with the huge beast that Wotar had sent against him. Never before had so magnificent a lion appeared in Sephar's Games. Even Tharn, jungle traveler for most of his life, had blinked disbelievingly when Sadu made his entrance.
Sadu padded gently forward, the lithe sinews of his giant body rolling smoothly beneath a shimmering hide. He seemed unruffled and serene; only the angry lash of his sinuous tail told of a seething ferocity within that lordly head.
Armed only with his painfully inadequate knife, Tharn advanced slowly to meet certain destruction. He knew his chances for victory were so slim as to be almost non-existent; yet the self-confidence and resourcefulness born of a hundred battles against overwhelming odds were weapons more dependable than the flint blade he carried.
Sadu stopped his own advance when the hated man-thing started toward him. For several days now, he had been underfed, goaded about with sharp sticks and shouting voices, harassed and annoyed until he was angry enough to have charged a regiment. Yet that unfathomable sense of caution, so strong a part of every wild creature, held him motionless before the deliberate approach of this two-legged enemy.
Tharn halted. Only a few paces separated the two as they stood unmoving. The man's eyes were riveted on the lion's restless tail; by its movements could he know what was taking place in Sadu's brain.
Slowly Sadu settled into a crouching position, head flattened, hindquarters drawn beneath his taut frame, tail twitching in jerky undulations. A vagrant breeze ruffled the thick mane at his neck....
Suddenly the tail stiffened and shot erect; and voicing an ear-shattering roar, Sadu sprang at the man in his path.
Sadu, the lion, had felt man's tender flesh beneath his yellow fangs and murderous talons before this. He expected no more resistance from this one than had come from those others.
It was an astonished beast, therefore, that crashed to the sand where the man had been—and was no longer. With an uncanny agility Tharn evaded that lightning charge; then, so quickly that human eyes were hard put to follow, he leaped in and drove his heavy knife deep behind Sadu's left shoulder.
The jungle king, snarling hideously from unexpected pain and shock, wheeled and struck in one simultaneous motion; but Tharn, leaping high as the great cat turned, vaulted completely over the broad back, the dripping knife still clutched in his hand. Before Sadu could reverse himself, the blade flashed again, striking at the base of the tawny neck where lay the great spine.
The flint bit deep but missed a vital spot by half an inch. Sadu had moved in a rapid sideward maneuver as Tharn's arm was descending, and while the wound that resulted was painful, it was by no means fatal.
Worst of all, the blow had cost the Cro-Magnard his only weapon. Sadu's sudden shift had torn the knife from Tharn's fingers before he could tug it free, leaving the blade sunk deep, haft still standing upright like a miniature cross.
His blood crimsoning the white sands, Sadu whirled about, sending a shower of the fine particles high into the air. Once more he hurled himself at his elusive foe, and once more Tharn dodged aside. But this time his foot slipped a little in the yielding sand. One flailing paw struck his chest a glancing blow, the claws raking long scratches there, and Tharn was catapulted heels over head a full fifteen feet across the arena.
A little murmur of protest came from the ranks of spectators. They had witnessed what had promised to be an ineffectual struggle develop into a battle between giants, with its ultimate outcome very much in doubt. Now, through a quirk of fate, the grim battle was ended; the favorite they had acclaimed was doomed.
Sadu leaped forward to make his kill.
Tharn, helpless, knew life had run its course. Nothing could save him now.
And then fickle fate shifted once more. Tharn's right hand, pressing against the ground in a last futile effort to throw himself to one side, closed purely by chance about a hard object which he instantly identified as the hilt of a stone knife, dropped there, doubtless, by some warrior earlier in the day.
Recognition and action came together. Tharn raised the weapon, hilt between thumb and bent forefinger, and, while still in a sitting position, flung it with all the concentrated strength of his powerful arm point foremost at the on-rushing bulk.
As in a dream he saw the sliver of flint streak through the sunlight to meet the great head. Full into Sadu's right eye sank its entire length; then a crushing weight came down on Tharn's chest and he knew no more.
He could not have been unconscious for long; for his eyes opened in time to see Sadu's lifeless body being dragged away. Two guards were standing over his own supine figure, evidently seeking to learn the extent of his injuries.
"He lives!" ejaculated one in surprise, as Tharn's eyes fluttered open.
In answer the cave man got unsteadily to his feet, and while the effort sent a spasm of pain through his bruised chest and aching ribs, his face betrayed nothing of his suffering.
Leisurely he brushed sand from his back and legs, then turned and walked toward the western gate. Heedless to the thunder of acclaim beating against his ears, he disappeared through the arms-room door.
Once within the common cell, Tharn told enough of his adventure to dull the prisoners' curiosity, then edged away to join Katon.
Thus the day wore on. Now and then guards would enter, pick out a man or two and depart. Once, Brutan came back from the arena with his left cheek laid open from an animal's claw. But the wound had dulled no part of his braggardism and he told a highly colored tale of an encounter against nearly impossible odds.
Later in that afternoon, Katon had been summoned, to be absent for what seemed an age to Tharn. But return he did, unscathed, a broad smile lighting up his face as the cave lord came forward to welcome him.
A bond of friendship, based on mutual respect and admiration, had formed between these two men; a bond which passing days but served to augment. It was destined to be that rare understanding known only between men, wherein each finds within the other something of himself.
Just before the day's end, Brosan went out, a quip on his lips and a careless wave of his hand to the others. That joking remark and carefree gesture remained with every man in the cell, for Brosan never came back....
Darkness came at last, and for a second time the roaring of beasts and shrieks and moans of dying men ceased in the oval above. Food was brought and the weary gladiators ate and drank, doing their best to forget tiredness and strain.
Sleep came slowly that night to most of them. Within every heart was strong desire for the morrow to come—the new day for which all had waited. There were some here who would never see a second sunrise; but, as is usual under such conditions, each man looked for death to single out any one other than himself.
Less than a day's journey to the north of Sephar's walls a party of fifty warriors supped on the freshly-killed meat of Neela, the zebra, shortly before Dyta slid below the western earth-line. All that day they had traveled slowly along a thread-like game trail leading directly south. At times, for hours on end, they had walked through sombre depths of brooding jungle, beneath grotesque shadows of forest kings. Again, their way was across wide reaches of gently undulating prairie, where thick yellow grasses, deep to a tall man's thighs, stirred beneath the touch of baking winds.
Always, however, they had moved into the south, and ever in the lead was he whose decision, based solely on a vague premonition, had brought them so far from home. On this man's left forearm was the painted insignia of a chief....
With the sudden coming of night, the entire party took to the safety of high branches on either side of the trail. When Dyta returned on the morrow, they once more would take up their march into the mountains to the south ... always to the south.
Once more, dawn poked gray fingers through the overhead grill-work of the great cell beneath Sephar's amphitheater. And from the same point came sounds of Sephar's thousands, filing again into their seats for another day of grisly entertainment.
Tharn rolled over, sat up and ran tanned fingers through his heavy shock of black hair. For a moment his eyes ran over the sleeping scores, picking out many whom he had learned to respect. There was Katon, head pillowed on the biceps of a strong right arm, a half smile discernible on his firm mouth; he was sleeping soundly. Near him lay Brutan, the red edges of his wound showing through black stubble covering his cheek. There was Rotark, his long face even more solemn in sleep; and next to him, Gorlat, blond hair unruffled, his tunic, still nearly immaculate, neatly folded and placed close beside him.
Tharn got to his feet and set about awakening the sleepers. Before Wotar arrived, he meant to speak once more to the prisoners; to go over for the last time, those few vital points which all must know perfectly if his plans were to be carried to a successful conclusion.
When all were assembled, he spoke briefly, asking questions again and again that none might fail to understand what was expected of him. The men listened intently, hanging on his every word and drinking deep of the inexhaustible fund of courage and surety possessed by the gray-eyed young man.
When he had finished he knew they were with him heart and soul, that every man present would charge, without hesitation, a hundred spear points if the need arose. If Vulcar could manage as well with the group across the hall, then Sephar could have a new ruler before nightfall.
He had no more than finished speaking, when the door opened, admitting Wotar and six guards. Quickly, ten prisoners were singled out and taken from the cell, among them Tharn and the golden haired Gorlat.
Upon reaching the arms-room, Wotar sent four prisoners, with as many guards, into the chamber, the others being forced to wait until the tiny room could be cleared. And of the four who entered, two were Tharn and Gorlat.
The door was closed and barred. The prisoners stood quietly, waiting for the attendant to parcel out weapons to them.
The crisis was at hand. Now that it had come, Tharn felt his muscles tense, his nerves grow taut, a deadly coolness steal through him. His eyes narrowed, as do the eyes of Tarlok preparing to leap upon unwary prey.
The air of the small chamber seemed suddenly charged with something electrical; a hushed breath of expectancy made the stillness strangely unbearable....
A guard cleared his throat uneasily, sending a harsh rasping note against the silence. He said, "Give each man a bow, ten arrows and a spear."
Removing a stone-tipped spear from a pile in one corner, the attendant offered it, butt foremost, to the cave-man, who reached forth a steady hand to take it. As his fingers closed on the haft, and before anyone could guess his intention, Tharn drew back his arm and drove the triangle of flint into the man's throat, changing a scream of terror into a gasping whisper.
As the dying guard slumped forward, the other captives snatched weapons from the supply about them and leaped upon the dazed soldiers, three of whom went down before they could lift a hand in defense.
Tharn, farthest from the group, was forced to cross the entire room before he could lay hands on the fourth guard. That one, instead of standing his ground, was seeking to reach and unbar the corridor door.
As he fumbled with the heavy timber, iron fingers closed on one shoulder and tore him away. Up and back he swung, high above Tharn's head; then his thrown body struck head foremost against the far wall, crushing the skull like a blown egg.
Turning to his comrades, Tharn found two of the three remaining guards were already accounted for. The third, however, had killed one rebel, and using the dead body as a shield, was successfully standing off all efforts of the two men seeking to reach him. In one hand he grasped a long spear, its darting head having already inflicted slight wounds on the menacing pair.
A thunderous pounding warned Tharn that the sounds of combat had aroused Wotar and his two men. The entire rebellion was being threatened by one courageous man; and unless this delay was speedily ended, the break for freedom was destined to end here and now.
Stooping, Tharn grasped the dead body of the attendant, straightened, and hurled it with all his giant strength full against the lone defender's human shield. So terrific was that impact, that the guard was swept completely from his feet. Before he could recover, Gorlat had slipped a knife into his heart.
Bounding forward, Tharn unbarred and threw open the door, and sprang into the corridor, his two friends at his heels. He had a brief glimpse of Wotar's hanging jaw and stupefied expression before the two factions closed in battle.
Wotar was no coward. As Tharn leaped toward him he whipped a knife from his belt and swung it savagely at the Cro-Magnard's broad chest.
Like the striking head of an angry snake, Tharn's hand shot out and closed on Wotar's wrist. Mighty fingers contracted, and the knife dropped from his nerveless grasp to clatter against the stone floor. Tharn's free hand closed on the hapless leader's jaw, tightened, then wrenched the head in a vicious half-circle that left a broken neck in its wake.
When Tharn released the clay that once had been Wotar, master of Sephar's Games, he found no other foe alive within the corridor. Dead on the floor were the two guards, torn and mangled from the savage fury of those who had snuffed out their lives. Eight men, eyes alight, stood before him, awaiting instructions.
The cave dweller singled out two of them.
"Go back and open both cells. First, free those in our own room; Vulcar may not have convinced the others to join us. If so, our men can help in convincing them!
"Tell them the way is open to this room. Caution all to silence, that none overhears us and warns those we hope to surprise."
Tharn then motioned the remaining six into the arms-room. There, each armed himself with a bow, arrows, knife and a spear.
Soon they heard sounds of naked feet within the corridor, and into view, three abreast, came the former prisoners. At their head was Katon; beside him strode Vulcar, once captain of Urim's guards.
Tharn halted them just short of the arsenal. He ran his eyes along the ranks, and what he saw brought a smile of satisfaction to his lips.
As far back as his eyes could make out in the dimly lighted passageway were men. There were at least a hundred and fifty—perhaps more; all eager for weapons and a chance to use them.
The Cro-Magnard held up one hand to gain their attention. "Remember," he said, "march into the arena quickly and in silence. Do not so much as glance at the spectators until I give the signal. And when that signal comes, seek to kill only priests and warriors. To attack the people of Sephar without cause would only make them hate and fear us. We cannot fight an entire city.
"Come forward now—three each time. Once within the arena, take the places I give you."
Three entered the arms-room. To each went a bow, quiver of arrows, complete with shoulder band; a knife and a spear. Tharn then opened the outer door and passed them through, then pulled it shut and aided in arming the next three.
In that fashion twenty-seven were sent into the amphitheater before Tharn called a halt. Dimly, he could hear the rustling murmur from the packed stands, and he knew that all was well—thus far, at least.
He summoned Vulcar and Katon, now, gave them weapons identical to those issued to the others, and went with them into the arena, Rotark acting as door-keeper.
In a wide semi-circle at the far end of the sandy field stood the twenty-seven who had gone before them. They made a thin line, their backs close to the retaining wall, one end of which was almost directly below the loges occupied by Pryak and the Council of Priests. It was toward this section that Tharn and his two companions bent their steps.
The cave lord took a position less than four paces from the stone barrier at his back. Above him sat Pryak, high priest and ruler of Sephar, deep in conversation with Orbar.
Now, the second contingent of warriors began to issue from the arms-room. In groups of three, seconds apart, they emerged and took up positions near the wall at the arena's opposite end.
When an equal number were at either end of the enclosure, the influx of armed men became heavier. In groups of five, now, they appeared and formed a second row a few feet in front of the others and facing in the same direction. There were fully four score in the open by this time—and still they came.
Tharn knew the moment was fast approaching when suspicion would become aroused by this unprecedented concentration of warriors. Already a few priests were peering down at them, puzzled expressions on their faces. The buzz of conversation began to fade; and here and there spectators were rising to their feet.
Pryak stood up, suddenly, and leaned over the railing.
"What means this?" he asked of Orbar. "Does Wotar mean to end the Games with one battle? There are too many men on the sands; send someone to investigate."
Tharn, overhearing, knew he dared wait no longer. Throwing back his head, he sent the hair-raising battle cry of his tribe reverberating throughout the entire structure. As the notes of that horrendous cry rose on the still air, he pivoted about and sent a slender arrow leaping from his bow full at the head of Pryak, king of Sephar!
It is no mean tribute to Pryak's nimbleness to tell that he dodged that arrow. And dodge it he did—falling back into the arms of his retinue as death passed a finger's breadth above his sparse locks to transfix an unfortunate under-priest.
The cave-man's cry was the awaited signal, releasing all the pent-up hate and fury within the hearts of those who acknowledged him as leader. As one man, a hundred warriors turned and loosed a shower of arrows at the thin line of guards and priests above them. The instant those flint-tipped messengers were released, those rebels nearest the walls knelt, braced themselves and became living ladders over which their comrades swarmed to gain the seats above.
A living wave of blood-hungry men swarmed into the stands and fell upon the already wavering ranks of defenders. The entire bowl was now a maelstrom of swirling bodies, legs and arms. Panic-stricken spectators, few of them armed, rose from their benches and rushed headlong for the exits, trammeling, pushing, fighting to gain the streets, to escape the raving horde of crazed demons.
And, seemingly everywhere at the same time, Tharn, Katon and Vulcar fought shoulder to shoulder, their knives rising and falling, their spears licking out to take lives and spread further the reign of terror they had fostered.
Twice, Tharn caught sight of Gorlat, blond hair finally disarranged, weaving among the tiers like a cat, his only weapon a long, thin knife. And as priest after priest sought futilely to keep that long blade from his throat, Tharn knew, now, why Vulcar had said few could equal that young man with such a weapon. How many died that day with throats slit by that knife, only Gorlat knew—and he was never to tell.
It had happened shortly after Tharn had caught his second glimpse of the steadily smiling youth. Gorlat had just made a kill, and as he stood erect, a thrown spear came from nowhere to catch him full in the chest. Gorlat had staggered back to sink into a sitting position on an empty bench. Dazedly he had raised a hand to wipe away the red stains of his own blood from that once spotless tunic—then slumped back and moved no more.
There were other men of Tharn's force who fell, never to rise again; but for each who died, five enemies went to join him. Bodies of slain priests were everywhere—draped across seats, hanging over the arena wall, lying in the aisles. Warriors loyal to Pryak had died in droves and lay glaring at the sky with sightless eyes.
At last there was none within the amphitheater other than the dead, the wounded, and the blood-splashed figures of the rebels who stood panting from their efforts, their eyes on Tharn and his two lieutenants.
Of those three, Vulcar alone had been wounded. An arrow had creased his shoulder close to his neck, and blood from the cut had stained one side of his chest a fast-darkening crimson. But his eyes were bright with satisfaction and his lips were curled in grim content.
"Urim would have enjoyed this!" he said, and his smile widened. "Now, on to the palace and the temple to clean out the rest of Pryak's men. That done, the city is ours!"
Katon bent and took up a stray spear. "Come, then," he remarked; "if we wait, they will have gotten over their panic and will be that much harder to rout a second time."
Tharn nodded agreement. "First, the palace; then we can invade the temple and take Pryak and his men."
A warrior spoke from the ranks. "Dare we enter the temple?" he asked doubtfully. "If we offend the God, He may destroy us."
"He is right!" declared another. "Why should we chance angering our God. Once the city is ours, Pryak will have to do as we say. Let us not attack the House of the God."
"Pryak dies!" Vulcar roared, grinding the butt of his spear savagely against the stone flooring. "Let the God be offended—Pryak must die! If the rest of you brave warriors are afraid, I will go alone into the temple and drag out Urim's murderer by the few hairs left on his ugly head!
"Did Pryak's God save these priests who lie about us, here, their bodies cut by our spears and knives? Did He, seeing Pryak in danger, hide him with His sky-fire? No; they were men like us; and since they deserved to die, they did die! Pryak is next!"
Tharn, listening with silent admiration and approval, thought of something that snatched the half-smile from his lips.
"Where is Pryak?" he asked. "He was here when the fighting started. How did he and those with him get away?"
The others could furnish nothing toward clearing up this minor mystery. Nor was there a single body of the missing group in the vicinity.
"Let us go on," suggested Tharn finally. "After the palace is taken, we can set about finding Vulcar's good friend Pryak!"
Still chuckling at the cave-man's sally, the insurgents formed into a column, three abreast, and marched toward a nearby exit that led from the shambles they had created.