Torture
Jotan pushed back his plate and sighed wearily.
"I can't eat in this heat," he complained. "Besides, I have no appetite."
"It is hot," Javan agreed through a full mouth; "but then it's always hot at this time of day."
Tamar helped himself to another serving from the pot on the table. "It's not the heat alone that's taken his appetite, Javan," he observed disagreeably. "Our friend is so eager for evening to come that he can think of nothing else. It is then, you know, that he will become the laughing-stock of all Sephar by asking Urim for a cave-girl to take as his mate."
An hour before, the three visitors from Ammad had left the palace audience hall and returned to their quarters. After bathing and getting into fresh tunics, they had sat down to food brought from the palace kitchens.
Rising, Jotan crossed the room, sank down on a pile of sleeping furs and pulled off his sandals. Then he lay down, covered his eyes with one arm and was soon asleep.
Presently Tamar and Javan finished eating. The latter at once sought his own couch; but Tamar remained at the table, deep in thought.
Two hours went by, and still Tamar remained there, head bowed in his hands. The slaves had long since cleared the table and departed, leaving the three men to themselves.
Abruptly the seated man raised his head, his expression that of one to whom a momentous idea has come. For a long moment he remained thus, then got silently to his feet and tip-toed to the door, let himself out and, despite the withering heat, started briskly toward the palace.
The four guards stationed at the entrance stiffened to attention as he approached. Tamar halted a few yards away and beckoned to one of them.
"Do you know me?" Tamar asked haughtily.
"Of course!" replied the young warrior humbly. "There is none in all Sephar who does not know Tamar of Ammad."
"Good. Take me at once to the quarters of the female slaves."
The eagerness in the young man's face was replaced by doubt.
"I am not permit—" he began hesitantly.
Tamar cut him short with a gesture. "Do as I say," he snapped. "The responsibility will be mine."
The warrior bowed. "Follow me."
They entered the great hall and ascended to the third floor. Outside the twin doors leading to the slave quarters they were stopped by two guards on duty there.
Tamar's guide addressed one of them. "Rokor," he said, "this is the noble Tamar of Ammad. At his command I have brought him here."
Rokor bowed deeply. "It is an honor to meet Urim's guest. How may I serve you?"
"By taking me to see one of the slave-girls here—the cave-girl, Dylara."
Something akin to a leer crept into Rokor's expression. "Oh, yes; I know the one you mean. If you will come with me...."
Tamar dismissed the first guard and followed Rokor through the twin doors and down the corridor. Halting before one of the numerous doors, Rokor unbarred and opened it, then stepped aside that Tamar might enter.
A tall slender woman of early middle-age rose from a bed in one corner. But for her tunic of a slave, the visitor would have taken her for the mate of some Sepharian noble.
At his appearance, the eager expectant air she had at first assumed, faded, replaced by one of questioning doubt.
Tamar turned to Rokor. "She is not the one," he said testily. "This is not Dylara."
The guard scratched his head, baffled. "She should be here. This is her room. Urim told Nada, here, to teach her our customs."
Nada came forward and placed a hand on Tamar's arm.
"Do you seek Dylara?" she asked tensely.
Tamar nodded. "Do you know where she is?"
The woman looked meaningly at the staring guard. "If I may speak with you alone...."
Tamar sent the man out, and closed the door.
"Well ..." he prompted.
Nada looked at him searchingly. Since Dylara had been taken from the room over three hours ago her concern for the girl's safety had steadily grown. She was convinced Urim had not sent for Dylara, but realized she was powerless to act in her aid.
Why Tamar had come here puzzled her; but he might be of assistance in clearing up the mystery surrounding Dylara's absence.
"What do you want of Dylara, noble Tamar?" she asked.
Tamar showed his surprise. "You know me, then?"
Nada smiled. "There is not a slave in the palace who does not know of you and your two friends."
Tamar hesitated. Something told him he would lose nothing in being frank with this woman. And there was something amiss here; Dylara's absence and this woman's concern made that evident.
"I can think of no reason why you should not know," he said. "You see, my friend Jotan has the mad idea he is in love with this Dylara. I have tried to make him see that one in his position cannot mate with a barbarian; but he will not listen. He means to ask Urim for her tonight. I came here to talk to the girl—to make her understand she could never be happy as the mate of a man so far above her. If she promises to have nothing to do with my friend, I will promise to arrange for her freedom, to return her to her own people."
It took an effort for Nada to repress a smile. "Does anyone else," she asked, "want to keep Jotan from having her?"
"Not that I know of," Tamar said, puzzled by the question. "Why do you ask?"
"Because one of the guards took Dylara from here shortly before you came. He said Urim wanted her, but I think he lied."
Tamar stiffened. Was this some of Jotan's work? Had his friend suspected one of his companions might seek to interfere, and to thwart them, had the girl removed to another place?
He would go back and confront Jotan with this evidence. To think the man did not trust his own friends!
But what if Jotan had had nothing to do with taking the girl? Would it be better to remain silent, so that when he did learn she was missing it would be too late to discover what had become of her?
And then, cutting through the fog of selfishness and snobbery like rays of the sun through mist, came a new trend of thought, far more worthy of the real Tamar.
Jotan was his friend! They had fought side by side against a common foe; they had hunted together, traveled vast distances together, sought adventure together, gone hungry and cold—together. Ever since boyhood they had been companions—closer than brothers. And now he, Tamar, was on the verge of disloyalty to his own best friend!
His eyes blazing, he caught the astonished Nada by an arm.
"Who took her?" he demanded hoarsely. "Where is he, now?"
"It—it was Fordak," Nada stammered, staring wide-eyed at the man's taut face, "—Fordak and another whose face I could not see."
Tamar let go of her arm, threw open the door and went out. He found Rokor leaning against the opposite wall, waiting.
The man from Ammad masked his emotions by resuming an air of indifference.
"Come, Rokor," he said easily, "I am ready to go. The girl I came to see has been taken to another part of the palace. I have decided not to see her, after all."
As the two men walked along the corridor, Tamar said, "By the way, Rokor, do you know a guard called Fordak?"
"Why, yes," Rokor said. "He stands watch at the entrance to the slave quarters. I, myself, relieved him shortly before you came up."
"Do you know where he can be found at this time of day?"
"Probably in his room, sleeping."
"Will you take me there? I have something for him."
In his eagerness to please the noble visitor from Ammad, Rokor quite forgot to be curious.
"Gladly," he said. "Come this way."
Tamar was led to the second floor of the palace, and along a corridor to the wing housing the warriors of Urim. Rokor stopped before a narrow opening and pounded heavily on a closed door.
"Fordak!" he bellowed; "open up here! You have a visitor."
They heard someone moving about inside, and a second later the door swung back.
A thick-shouldered man, inclined to fatness about the middle, stood there, his coarse black hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep.
"Who wants me?" he grunted.
"This is Tamar of Ammad," Rokor explained. "He has something for you."
Tamar interrupted. "You may leave me here, Rokor. I can find my way out when I have finished with Fordak."
When the guard had gone, Tamar turned to the man Nada had named. He found the fellow eyeing him respectfully.
"Fordak," said the man from Ammad, "I have need of a fearless warrior to do something for me. One who can do as instructed and, at the same time, keep his mouth shut. You were recommended as such. Will you help me?"
Fordak rubbed one side of his bull neck with a calloused palm. "What do you want me to do?" he asked warily.
"I cannot tell you, here," Tamar said. "Come with me to my quarters and I will explain. You will be well rewarded for your work."
The guard's wide face lighted up. "Then I'm your man," he rumbled. "Lead the way."
A few minutes later, Tamar, with Fordak in tow, opened the door of the building set aside for him and his companions.
Jotan and Javan were still sleeping. Tamar closed the door and dropped the bar into place.
"Sit down," he told Fordak, pointing to a stool. He crossed the room and prodded the sleeping pair into wakefulness.
"Jotan and Javan," he said, when the two had risen, "this is Fordak, one of Sephar's finest warriors. Fordak is going to help us in a little matter, aren't you, Fordak?"
The guard nodded, his broad cheeks creased with a wide smile at being treated so familiarly by a nobleman.
Jotan was staring at his friend in frank bewilderment.
"What are you getting at, Tamar?" he asked. "Why have you brought this man here?"
"Yes," Tamar went on, ignoring the questions. "Fordak is going to do a great deal for us. To begin with—" he dropped a hand lightly on the man's shoulder "—he is going to tell us what he did with the slave-girl, Dylara!"
As Tamar spoke the last few words his fingers bit fiercely into the bare flesh beneath his hand.
The speed with which Fordak lost his smile was almost laughable. He bellowed out something unintelligible and started to rise; but Jotan, his face suddenly white beneath its tan, crossed the room with a single bound and slammed him back on the stool.
Tamar flipped a knife from its sheath and pressed the point lightly against Fordak's spine. "Sit still, you!" he said frostily.
Jotan's face was haggard. "Has anything happened to Dylara?" he asked thickly. "In the name of the God, Tamar, tell me quickly."
"Just this," Tamar said. "While you and Javan were asleep I went to the palace to ... on a personal matter. While there, I learned that Dylara had been taken from the slave quarters by this man on the pretext of taking her to Urim. Another man helped him; who, I don't know. Knowing you would be interested in learning what had happened to her, I brought our friend, here, along to answer your questions."
Jotan thanked him with a glance. Then he turned to the seated Fordak.
"All right," he ground out savagely, "what have you done with her?"
Fordak looked at him sullenly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled. "You have no right to keep me here."
Jotan, his face convulsed with anger, grabbed the man by the front of his tunic with one hand and shook him savagely. Fordak, struggling to twist loose, aimed a wild blow at his tormentor, and received in return a mighty smash full on the nose that knocked him to the floor, half conscious, blood pouring from his nostrils.
"Get up!" snarled Jotan. He kicked the dazed warrior brutally in the side. "Either that tongue of yours starts to wag or it comes out—by the roots!"
He reached down, caught a handful of Fordak's rumpled hair and pulled him to his feet. The guard stood there, swaying, and would have fallen had not Jotan shoved him back on the stool.
"Where is she?"
Fordak wiped his nose with the back of one hand and stared woodenly at the crimson stains left there. He knew he must tell; he could not bear further punishment.
And then he remembered what Meltor had said. The princess Alurna had wanted the girl disposed of; to tell what he knew would bring down the wrath of Urim's daughter upon him. He shivered at the thought; for he did not want to die.
"Where is she?"
Fordak moved his head in silent negation. "I don't know."
Jotan clenched his fist to strike again. Tamar caught his arm.
"Wait," he said. "Let me talk to him." He pushed back Fordak's head. "We know you're mixed up in this, Fordak. You and another guard took the girl from her room. Tell us where she is and you shall go free—as soon as we find you have told us the truth."
"I don't know," said the man stolidly.
Jotan swore impatiently. "I'm through wasting time," he said. "Dylara may be in danger. I'll get the truth from him."
He motioned to Javan. "Get me a fire bowl."
When his friend had handed him a bowl of fat, he lighted its wick with a glowing coal from an earthen jar and came back to Fordak. The seated man watched him, apprehension in his eyes.
The flame wavered in the faint breeze from the windows. It suddenly had become very quiet in the room.
Jotan drew the flint knife from his belt and began to run the blade back and forth through the candle's flame.
"What are you going to do?" Tamar asked.
The lips of his friend were pressed into a straight line. "He's going to talk. Be ready to listen."
Another minute passed. Jotan continued to move the knife blade to and fro in the heart of the fire. Fordak could not tear his eyes from the objects in the man's hands. Great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.
"Tie his arms and legs," Jotan said.
Those words seemed to release Fordak's paralyzed muscles. Voicing a wild cry he bounded from the stool and was nearly to the door before Tamar and Javan brought him down. He continued to struggle frantically while they bound lengths of rawhide about his arms and legs. When he was securely tied they dragged him back to the stool.
Jotan said, "Take off one of his sandals."
Fordak yelled in terror and jerked back, almost falling from the stool.
"Stuff something in his mouth before he has half the city here."
Gagged and bound, Fordak was helpless to do more than gurgle and sweat as Javan knelt and bared one of his feet.
"Now," Jotan said grimly, "we'll see what effect this will have in getting information."
With a quick movement he placed the white-hot length of flint firmly against the delicate skin of the instep and held it there.
An eerie, muffled scream pushed past the gag in Fordak's mouth. So intense was the note of animal pain that the three men felt their flesh crawl with the sound.
Abruptly the bound guard stiffened, his eyes swam in their sockets, and he fell back in a faint.
Jotan rose and tossed the knife aside. "Get some water," he said. "One treatment like that should be enough."
They removed the gag from the unconscious man's mouth and doused water in his face. After a moment he groaned weakly and opened his eyes.
"Where is Dylara?" Jotan asked, for the third time.
Words came spilling out. "I—I'll tell you. Don't burn me again. I can't stand it. I'll talk. We took her—Meltor and I. Meltor made me help him take her. He said Alurna told him to do it."
"Alurna?" Jotan was astonished. "What had she to do with it?"
"She wanted it done. Meltor said she ordered him to take the girl to the house of Rydob outside Sephar. He was to take her there and kill her, then hide the body so no one would know what had happened to her."
Jotan paled. "Where is this house of Rydob?"
Fordak gave directions. When he had finished, Jotan said: "Tamar, get three or four of our men and meet Javan and me at the Gate of the Setting Sun. Hurry!"
Tamar went out.
"Get our weapons together, Javan," Jotan ordered. "We'll meet the others at the gate."
Javan was slow to comprehend. "Where are we going?"
"Into the jungle," said Jotan evenly. "To the house of Rydob!"
Alurna had slept well during the mid-day heat. When she awakened, her first thought was of Meltor and his errand. Lying there, the room darkened against the blazing sun, she allowed herself to think of Jotan, smiling when she realized he was free, now, to fall in love with her. No longer was there a barbarian slave-girl to blind him to the beauty and charm of Urim's daughter.
After a while she sat up, stretched her soft muscles with all the sleek satisfaction of a jungle cat, and summoned Anela.
The slave-girl was aiding her in effecting a leisurely toilet a little later, when a brief rap sounded at the door.
"That must be Meltor," Alurna said contentedly. "Let him in, Anela."
But when the door was opened, it was another man who stood there, his tunic torn and stained, his broad plump face lined with suffering.
"It's Fordak!" cried Anela.
The man staggered to a stool and dropped onto it, exhausted.
"I came as soon as I could, princess," he babbled. "I came to tell you so you would not punish me. They forced me to tell; they burned me until I told them. I would have come sooner, but the ropes were tight."
Alurna shut him off with a gesture. "What are you trying to tell me?" she demanded. "Who made you tell what?"
"The men from Ammad." Fordak was beginning to gain control over his shaken nerves. "Jotan and Tamar and Javan. They tortured me until I told them where Meltor had taken the slave-girl."
Rapidly he related all that had taken place in the visitors' apartment. Being no fool, he exaggerated the amount of suffering he had endured; thus might the heart of Alurna be touched with pity.
When Fordak was done, Alurna went to the window and stood there, her back to the others, staring into the grounds below. What was she to do? Jotan was already on his way to the house of Rydob. If Meltor had wasted no time, Jotan could not possibly arrive soon enough to save Dylara from death.
But would Meltor do his work promptly? There was a cruel streak in the man—the same characteristic that made a leopard toy with a victim for hours before putting an end to its misery. And that girl had been very beautiful....
She turned. "You may go, Fordak."
The man was worried. "I could not keep from telling, princess. They burned—"
"Get out!"
Fordak got unhappily to his feet and limped from the room.
"Quick, Anela!" said the princess. "Get to Vulcar at once. I want five of his most trusted men to meet me at the Gate of the Setting Sun. Should he ask questions, tell him I will explain later. Go!"
"Where are you going, princess?" the slave-girl asked as she started for the door.
"Into the jungle," was the calm reply. "To the house of Rydob!"
Seven men stood in a group at the mouth of a trail. Behind them lay a tract of matted jungle, over them towered the branches of forest kings, and directly before them was a small clearing containing a rambling, one-storied building of gray stone, weather-stained and unkempt.
"That must be the place, Jotan," said one of the men. "It answers the description you gave us."
Jotan nodded. "They must still be in there. Otherwise we should have met this Meltor on his way back. If only we have arrived in time.
"We must spread out, then come up to the house from all sides. Two of you go with Tamar and circle around to the east. Keep within the jungle's fringe that you may not be seen from the house. The rest of us will close in from this side. You have five minutes to reach your places. Go."
The minutes dragged by. None of the four appeared to feel an urge to talk. A heavy silence had fallen on the jungle about them. Even the hum of insects, the voices of the gaily-colored birds, the chattering monkeys, were stilled. The same strange tenseness that precedes a tropical storm, an atmosphere of impending conflict, seemed to hang over them.
Jotan straightened. "They've had time enough. Come on."
The four men stepped into the clearing, spread fan-wise, and headed for the building, moving at a half-trot.
The door was closed. In absolute silence they stepped over the heap of bones that once had been Rydob, mounted the steps and halted there.
Carefully Jotan closed his fingers about the latch. The heavy planks swung inward enough to satisfy him that there was no bar in place.
Suddenly Jotan drew back and drove his shoulder against the wood with all his weight behind it. The door flew open and the four men came piling into the room, knives of stone held in readiness.
That mad rush came to an abrupt halt, and what the men saw brought a chorus of astonished exclamations from their lips.
Flat on his back in the center of the room, partially hidden behind an overturned table, lay Meltor of Sephar. From his left breast stood the hilt of a stone knife, its blade buried deep. He was quite dead.
The girl was gone.