The Return of Tharn Part 30

Steel fingers closed about his throat, a naked leg tripped him up and he was flat on his back before his lips opened to a cry that was never uttered. Blindly the guard sought to reach the knife at his belt; but Trakor, antic.i.p.ating this, ground a knee into that wrist.

The man's heels hammered spasmodically against the stone in mute agony and fear and his by no means weak body thrashed and bucked. But those fingers only tightened their hold.

Trakor, his face only inches from that of the enemy, saw those fear-filled eyes start from their sockets, saw lips and cheeks turn dark with constricted blood, felt the broad chest beneath his rise and fall wildly as the lungs fought for air.

For several minutes after the Ammadian warrior lay limp and still beneath him Trakor kept his fingers buried in that lifeless throat.

Finally he rose shakily to his feet and looked down upon the body of his first kill. Exultation filled him, and pride--and a strange sense of sadness....

He shook his head briefly as if to clear away such thoughts. Guided by the dim light from candles in wall brackets set at wide intervals along the corridor, he bent and stripped the corpse of its tunic and drew it over his own shoulders. His late foe had been a tall man and the tunic came a bit higher on Trakor's legs than Ammadian fas.h.i.+on dictated, a grievous matter which he ignored. A keen-edged knife of stone went under the tunic's belt; the heavy spear he left where the warrior originally had placed it.

Trakor went back along that corridor with long swinging strides, his naked feet soundless against the stone, his head erect, his ears and eyes alert for the slightest sound or movement.

Ascending the same flight of stairs he had descended a few minutes earlier, he paused at the top and looked carefully at the twin lines of closed doors. The seventh on his left; he had counted them off carefully while on his way to the floor below.

For a full minute he stood motionless outside that barred portal, listening for some indication that others were up and about the palace.

Then he turned back, lifted the bar and pushed open the door with slow care.

A flicker of motion from within the darkened room caused him to leap sharply back, just in time to keep a heavy wooden chair from caving in his head. Unchecked, the chair struck the floor with a resounding crash, the impact tearing it loose from Dylara's hands.

By the time she had bent to pick it up for a second try, Trakor was inside and the door closed. He threw out a hand to ward off Dylara's impromptu club, whispering, "No, Dylara! It is I--Trakor!"

A m.u.f.fled sob of relief and thanksgiving was torn from her throat, then she was in his arms.

At the feel of her body against his, the heady scent of her hair in his nostrils, Trakor felt his heart leap within him and his arms tightened suddenly about the girl's smooth, softly rounded shoulders.

Then the moment was gone and they drew apart.

"I can't believe it, Trakor!" Dylara whispered. "How did you manage to get away?"

"There's no time for that now," he said. "We've got to get out of this place and back to the jungle where we belong. Tharn is out there somewhere and we must find him before he enters Ammad in search of us."

"But how...."

"I don't know--yet. If we can reach the streets without being seen...."

He went to the door, pressed an ear against its planks for a moment, then very gently drew open the heavy section of wood and put his head cautiously out. The corridor, in either direction, was deserted.

"Come," he whispered, and hand in hand they stole silently toward the head of those stairs Trakor had recently climbed.

From somewhere below them a door slammed heavily and sandaled feet, several pairs of them judging from the sound, approached the base of that same flight of steps.

Without speaking Trakor and Dylara turned and, on tiptoe, raced in the opposite direction. As he ran, Trakor drew his knife in preparation for any enemy who might suddenly loom in their path.

A turn in the corridor brought them to a second flight of steps, down which they raced at full speed. Past landings at the third and second floors they fled, stopping at last in front of a closed door marking the main level of the palace.

"Wait!" Trakor breathed, placing a restraining hand on the girl's arm.

Silence seemed to press down upon them, a silence so complete they could hear the breath rustling in their nostrils.

With almost exaggerated care Trakor drew back the door. Moonlight streaming in at several stone-barred windows revealed a large hall, its walls hung with rich tapestries and a long wide table, lined with chairs, running almost its entire length.

Dylara, familiar with such scenes from her days in Sephar, said, "The palace dining hall." She pointed to an open doorway in the opposite wall. "That should lead to the kitchens. No one will be there at this time of night."

"Good!"

They crossed quickly to the designated opening, along a short narrow hall, through a second doorway and on into a low-ceilinged room whose furnis.h.i.+ngs bore mute testimony that Dylara's guess had been right.

"Look!" whispered Dylara, pointing.

Thin lines of moonlight formed a rectangle on the far wall, marking a doorway leading to open air. Quickly Trakor was across the kitchen and straining to lift the heavy bar from its catches.

And in that moment a sudden chorus of deep-throated shouts of alarm from beyond that door reached their ears.

CHAPTER XII

NO DEEPER DUNGEON

Jaltor, king of all Ammad, rose from his chair as his four visitors entered the apartment. Straight and tall he stood, his magnificent body in its purple-edged tunic seeming to dwarf all else within the room.

No one spoke. Curzad, captain of the palace guards, closed the door softly and stood with his back against it, arms folded and his rugged features empty of all expression.

It was Jotan, son of Garlud, who was the first to speak. The anger that showed in his burning eyes and the thrust of his chin thickened his words until they were more nearly a growl.

"What means this, Jaltor? Why was my party intercepted outside Ammad's walls and dragged here in secrecy? Why are we thus treated like common criminals? I demand an explanation!"

"You may request an explanation, Jotan," Jaltor said calmly. "As Ammad's king I answer no man's demands."

In the strained silence following his words, Jaltor's gaze moved on to where Alurna, daughter of Urim and princess of Sephar, stood staring at him in wonder and uncertainty. His expression softened and when he spoke his voice had lost completely its former edge.

"Curzad has told me of your father's death. We have both suffered a great loss, for Urim was my brother--my only brother. Later I should like to know the details of his pa.s.sing; but first I wish to explain my reasons for what has happened tonight."

There were mixed emotions evident in the expressions of his listeners.

Tamar was clearly worried and puzzled, Javan appeared even more dazed and uncomprehending than usual, while Jotan was close to bursting with outright anger and injured pride.

Jaltor indicated chairs with a wave of his hand. "Be seated, please.

This may take some time."

They obeyed in silence, and even though sitting none of them was relaxed. Jaltor remained on his feet, legs spread, his keen eyes somber.

"A little less than half a moon ago," Jaltor began, "an attempt was made to a.s.sa.s.sinate me. The reason it was not successful lay in the peculiar clumsiness of the a.s.sa.s.sin. He was captured immediately and put to torture in an effort to learn the names of others, if any, involved in the plot. He was an old man, strangely enough, and before he died he told me who had hired him."