Part 7

Even an ordinarily stalwart soul would have done his best and have been satisfied with that. But Myles Standish Cabot possessed that indomitable will which had given rise to the Porovian proverb: “You cannot kill a Minorian.”

To such a man, defeat was impossible. He _would_ rescue the Princess Lilla in the end; that was all there was to it.

So he laid his plans with precision, as he sat on the sandy shore of the Porovian river in the crimsoning twilight.

Before the velvet darkness completely enveloped the planet, the earth-man arose from the sands, and began his return up the valley of the little estuary. But, as he was hurrying along, and was passing through a small grove of trees, a dark form noiselessly dropped on him from above.

The creature lit squarely upon his back, wrapping its furry legs around his abdomen and its furry arms around his neck. Although taken completely by surprise, Cabot wrenched the creature’s feet apart and then threw it over his head as a bucking broncho would throw a rider, a jiujitsu trick which he had learned from one of the Jap gymnasts at college.

The Roy, for that is what Cabot’s assailant proved to be, scrambled quickly to his feet, although a bit stunned, and crouched, ready to spring at him again. The earth-man planted his feet firmly apart, clenched his fists, and awaited the onslaught; then, when the creature charged, he met him on the point of the jaw with a well-aimed blow. Down crashed the furry one!

Cabot was rubbing his bruised knuckles and viewing his fallen antagonist with some satisfaction, when suddenly he was seized around the knees from behind, and was hurled prone by one of the neatest football tackles he had ever experienced.

Squirming quickly to a sitting position, he dealt the Roy who held his legs a stinging blow beside the ear. The grip on his knees loosened, and he was just about to scramble erect, when a third assailant caught him around the throat and pulled him over backward. Then scores of these furry savages swarmed upon him from every side. Yet still he fought, until his elbows were pinioned behind his back, his eyes were blindfolded, and a gag was placed between his teeth.

Thereupon, he ceased struggling, not because there was no fight left in him, but rather because he wisely decided to save his strength for some time when he might really need it. So he offered no further resistance when he was picked up and thrown across a pair of brawny shoulders, and carried off, he knew not whither.

Finally, after what seemed many hours, he was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground, and then jerked roughly to his feet.

His bandage was snatched off, and he found himself standing in the center of a circle of flares, confronting a large, squat, and particularly repulsive gray-furred Roy, who sat with some pretense of dignity upon a round boulder in front of him. Beside him stood another Roy, evidently the one who had brought him thither.

This one now spoke. “See the pretty Vairking which I have brought you.”

“If that’s a Vairking,” the fat one remarked, “then I’m my own father.”

“If he _isn’t_ a Vairking,” the other countered, “then why does he wear Vairking leather armor? Answer me that.”

“Vairking or not,” the fat one declared, “he will do very nicely to string up by the heels and shoot arrows at. For quite evidently, he is no Roy. What say you to that, my fine target?”

The guard removed the gag.

“I say,” Myles evenly replied, “that you had better not take any such liberties with me.”

“And why not, furless?” the seated Roy sneered.

“First, let me ask _you_ a question,” Myles said. “Who is King of the Roies, Grod the Silent or Att the Terrible?”

“Grod the Silent, most assuredly. Why do you ask?”

“And do you know Prince Otto, his son?”

“Otto the Bold? Most assuredly.”

“Know then,” the captive asserted, “that I am no Vairking, but rather a Minorian, which is a sort of creature I venture you have never met before. Furthermore, I am a particular personal friend of Otto the Bold. He will not thank you to string up Cabot the Minorian by the heels, and shoot arrows into him. I demand that I be taken before Prince Otto.”

Thereat the fat Roy smiled a crafty smile. “I shall take you before Att the Terrible,” he said.

It thus became evident that this fat chieftain had falsely asserted his belief in the kingship of Grod for the purpose of securing from Myles an admission as to which side the earth-man favored.

The rest of the night Myles spent on a pile of smelly bedding in a tent. He was still bound, and was kept under constant surveillance by a frequently changing guard. By morning, his arms below the elbows had become completely numb, in spite of his having loosened his bonds somewhat by straining against them.

When the velvet night had given place to silver day, the guard brought some coarse porridge in a rough stone bowl, which he held to the prisoner’s lips until it was all consumed. Myles thanked him politely, and then asked if he would mind chafing the numbed arms.

For reply, the soldier kicked him savagely.

“Get up!” he ordered. “The time is here to start the march. You’ll wish the rest of you were numb, too, when Att the Terrible starts shooting arrows into your inverted carcass.”

Presently, Myles was driven into the open, the tents were struck and loaded onto carts—probably stolen from the Vairkings—and the furry warriors took up the march, with their prisoner in their midst. The fat chief alone rode in a cart; all the others walked.

By straining at the thongs which bound his arms, Myles further loosened them sufficiently to relieve the pressure on his blood vessels, and then by wiggling his fingers, he managed finally to restore the circulation.

After that he began to take some interest in his surroundings.

His captors were a coarse-looking lot of brutes, with long gangling arms, thickset necks, low foreheads, and prognathous jaws. In general, they more closely resembled the anthropoid apes of the earth than they resembled the really human, although furred Vairkings.

Their weapons—wooden spears and swords, and flint knives—were like those of the Vairkings, only cruder. They marched without any particular order or discipline, and jested coarsely with each other as they ambled along.

After taking in all this, Myles next turned his attention to the country through which they were passing. The trail led upward into mountains. This at once aroused his interest. Here and there he noted what he felt sure must be zinc-blende. Yes, and cropping out of the rocks on the left was an unmistakable rosette of galena crystal!

The radio man was sincerely glad that he had been captured. And so he even joked jovially with the soldiers around him, until they became quite friendly.

At one point, their route lay across a foaming mountain stream, by means of a log bridge. As they were crossing over, one of the furry soldiers had the misfortune to stumble, and in another instant completely lost his footing and plunged headlong into the stream below. He happened to be one who had recently become particularly chummy with the captive.

“Poor fellow,” one of the guard casually remarked. “It’s too bad he can’t swim.”

“_I_ can,” Myles shouted. “Quick, some one cut my cords!”

And, before any one could interfere, a young and impetuous Roy had drawn his knife and severed the earth-man’s bonds, thus permitting him to dive after the poor creature who was rapidly being washed down stream by the swift current.

It had all happened in an instant. A few swift strokes brought Myles up to the other. But it became no easy matter to reach the shore. However, the troop of Roies showed much more interest in regaining their captive, than they had shown in rescuing their comrade; and thus, by the aid of their spears, finally dragged the two ashore.

Then Cabot was bound again, and the march resumed. The carts had detoured, and so the fat chief had not seen the episode.

“Better not tell him, any one,” one of the guard admonished, “or it will go hard with the youngster. Our leader would not relish any chance of not being able to present this furless Vairking to Att the Terrible.”

“And will Att shoot arrows into me?” Myles asked.

“Most assuredly.”

Myles thought to himself: “I guess they are right, especially if Att knows how I was befriended by Arkilu, whom he covets!” Then he asked: “And when am I to see the Terrible One?”

“To-morrow morning,” was the reply.

However, Myles Cabot fell asleep at the encampment that night wondering when he would get that radio set finished for a talk with Lilla and wondering whether that really was galena crystal which he had passed on the road.

But galena crystal wasn’t going to help him any with Att the Terrible.

XII COMPANIONS IN MISERY

In the morning Myles Cabot was to be brought before Att the Terrible, king of the Roies—for execution in the diabolical manner common to these furry aborigines, namely by being strung up by the heels and then used as a target for the archery of the king.

In spite of this, he slept soundly and dreamed of radio sets and blast furnaces and galena mines, until he was awakened by a soft furry paw shaking his shoulder.

A voice spoke close to his ear: “A life for a life.”

“So you have that proverb on this continent as well as in Cupia?” was his reply. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I am the soldier whom you saved from the raging mountain torrent, and what I want is to repay that favor. It is really true that you are a friend of Otto the Bold?”

“Yes.”

“Then come. The forces of Grod the Silent, Prince Otto’s father, are encamped but a short distance from here. I am on guard over you for the moment. Come, while there is yet time.”

Cabot arose in haste. The other promptly severed the cords which bound his elbows. Oh, how good it felt to have his arms free once more! He held them aloft, and flexed and reflexed the lame and bloodless muscles. Excruciating pain shot through the nerves of his forearm, but it was pleasant pain, easy to bear, for it portended peace and rest to his tired members.

He wiggled all his fingers rapidly, and the pain gave way to a prickly tingling, which in turn gradually faded off as the blood coursed freely through his veins and arteries once more. He drew a deep sigh of relief.

“Come!” the guard commanded.

Together the two left the tent, and threaded their way among the other tents out of the camp, and down a rocky hillside path, the Roy in advance, with Myles following, holding the other’s hand for guidance.

Myles lost all sense of direction in the jet black starless night, but the other, born and reared on Poros, and hence used to the daily recurrences of twelve hours of absolute darkness, walked sure-footedly ahead, and seemed to know where he was going.

Finally, after about two hours of this groping treadmill progress lights appeared ahead, and presently there came the sentry’s challenge: “Halt! Who is there?”

“Two messengers with word for Grod the Silent,” Cabot’s conductor replied.

In an aside, Cabot interestedly inquired: “How does it happen that this camp is guarded, whereas the camp which besieged the village of Sur was not?”

“There is no need to post sentinels when fighting against the Vairkings, for Vairkings never go out in the dark, but we Roies are different.”

“Why, then, did we meet no sentinels when leaving your camp?”

“Because we were going _out_. We passed one but he did not challenge us. Coming _back_ would be different.”

At this point the hostile guard interposed: “Stop that whispering among yourselves. Ho there, a light!”

Whereat a small detachment arrived on the double quick, with torches. The leader shaded his eyes with one palm, and inspected Myles and his companion carefully.

“This is a Vairking,” he said in surprise, noting the leather trappings of the earth-man. “You are spies. Seize them!”

In an instant they were seized and bound, and thrown into separate tents under guard.

When morning came, Myles was fed and then led before Grod the Silent. The earth-man smiled ingratiatingly as he entered, but there was no sign of recognition on the stern face of the King of the Roies.

“Who are you?” the latter asked, “and what are you doing here?”

“I am Cabot the Minorian,” was the reply, “a recently escaped prisoner of Att the Terrible.”

“Do not mention that accursed name in my presence!” thundered the king; then: “I do not seem to recall your name, but your face looks familiar. Where have I seen you before?”

“In the ravine near Sur.”

Grod’s brow clouded.

“I remember. You felled me with your fist,” said he, darkly; then brightening a bit: “But you spared me. Why?”

“Because your death would please the Roy whose name you do not permit me to mention.”

“You improve,” Grod declared, smiling. “Know, then, that we Roies hold to the maxim, ‘A life for a life.’ Accordingly, I shall set you free, and shall content myself with shooting arrows into merely the soldier who brought you here.”

“You give me a life for a life unconditionally?” asked Myles.

“Yes.”

“Then give me the life of the poor soldier who saved me from the unmentionable one. Shoot your arrows into my body instead.”

“Very magnanimous of you,” Grod said. “And really, it makes but little difference to me just whom I practice archery upon. Ho guard! Bring the other prisoner in.”

One of the soldiery accordingly withdrew, and presently returned with—Quivven! Quivven, of all persons!

Cabot gasped, and so did the golden-furred Vairking maiden; then both uttered simultaneously the single word, “You!”

The savage chief smiled. Said he, “A slight mistake, guard; I meant you to bring the Roy soldier who was captured with this furless one early this morning. But evidently it has turned out to be a fortunate mistake, for it has brought to my attention the fact that this common Vairking man and this noble Vairking lady are acquainted.”

While the Roy was speaking an idea occurred to Cabot: He was entitled by the code of honor of this savage race to save a life. Chivalry demanded that he save the life of this maiden rather than that of himself, or even the soldier who had rescued him from Att the Terrible. Yet what would Lilla think?

Did he not owe it to Lilla to save his own life in order that he might some day return across the boiling seas to save _her_ from the unknown peril which menaced her? For him to sacrifice himself and her, or even merely himself, for the sake of some strange woman, would fill Lilla with consuming jealousy.

Luckily Lilla was not here to see him make his choice. He was an officer and a gentleman, to whom but one course lay open. And if he decided in the way that would displease Lilla, then that very decision would forever prevent Lilla from knowing.

So, his mind made up, he spoke: “O king, you still owe me a life. Inasmuch as your guard has made the mistake of substituting this young lady for the Roy warrior, whose life I had elected to save, I now accept the substitution, and elect that you shall spare her life in place of mine.”

Quivven the Golden Flame stared at him with tears of gratitude and appreciation in her azure eyes. Grod the Silent smiled knowingly in a manner which infuriated Myles, but fortunately Quivven did not notice this, so Myles let it pass.

Then the Roy king spoke: “We shall see about that later. Meanwhile, guard, bring in the _right_ prisoner.”

The guard sheepishly withdrew, and soon returned with the soldier who had befriended Myles.

“Why did you rescue this furless Vairking, who was a prisoner of your forces?” Grod asked the newcomer.

“Because he rescued me from a mountain torrent, O king,” was the reply. “A life for a life.”

“Quite true,” Grod admitted, nodding his head contemplatively. “But was it altogether necessary to that end that you leave your own forces?”

“No, O king,” the soldier replied, “but I fain would battle on your side. I have had quite enough of the fat one who commands our outfit.”

“Good!” cried Grod, clapping his hands. “We shall need every man we can muster. Thus have you bought your own life and freedom. Unbind him, guards, and give him weapons, so that he may fight for us. As for you, you yellow minx, the quicker you get out of here the better it will suit me. We are at war, and women have no place in warfare. Therefore I gladly give you your life, which this furless one had purchased.

“Do not think,” he continued, “that I do not know who you are, or that I do not realize that I could hold you for high ransom. But for the present it suits my purposes to release you; for my mind is a one-cart road, and at present I am engaged in an important and highly personal war.

“Besides, if I were to keep you, my enemy might get hold of you and collect the ransom himself, which would never do. Twelve days from now, if I should be in need of carts, a messenger from me will call at the palace of Theoph the Grim; and if you are at all grateful, you will make me a present of about twenty sturdy wagons.

“As for you,” turning to Myles, “your life is mine, since you failed to redeem it. Some day I may call upon you for it, but for the present I wish to use it. You are detailed, as my personal representative, to escort this lady safely to Vairkingi. Now both of you get out of here, for I have more important things to do. I must put my army on the march.”

One of the guards stepped up to Myles and cut his bonds. Quivven had not been bound.

“May I have arms, O king, so that I can fulfill your mission with credit to you?” Myles asked, with a twinkle in his gray eyes.

“You keep on improving,” Grod replied. “Yes, you may. Here, take my own sword. You are a brave man and an able warrior, as my chin well remembers. May the Builder grant that some day we shall fight side by side.”

This gave Cabot an idea. “Why can that not be now?” he suggested. “Why not form an alliance with Vairkingi against the unmentionable one?”

But Grod the Silent shook his head. “No,” he said positively, “it cannot be. In the first place, the unmentionable one is himself seeking to make such an alliance against me; and in the second place, this is my own private fight. I have spoken.”

Then Cabot had a further idea. “About the wagons,” he said, “would you mind sending for them to my brickyard north of Vairkingi? That would be more convenient.”

“Very well,” Grod replied.

Roy warriors then supplied the two prisoners with portable rations, and escorted them for quite a distance from the camp, until they struck a mountain trail. This, the escort informed them, led to Vairkingi. There the Roies left Myles and Quivven alone.

The first thing that she asked was, “With all these mountains full of warring Roies, do you believe that we shall be safe?”

“I think so,” Myles replied. “The very fact that they are at war will keep them much too busy to bother about us. Come on.”

As they hurried down the trail, each related his or her adventures to the other. Cabot’s have already been set down. As for Quivven, she had gone with a few soldiers to hunt for Myles after his prospecting party had returned and reported his disappearance by the river; but her party had been killed, and she had been taken prisoner.

“Did Grod treat you with respect?” Myles asked, with clenched fists.

“Absolutely,” she replied, tossing her pretty head. “I never knew a man so impersonal. I am accustomed to have men recognize my presence and pay some attention to my existence. But this brute—why, I might just as well have been a piece of furniture or one of his servants. I don’t believe he knows now what color my eyes are, or whether I’m pretty or not. And you’re just as bad as he is,” she added somewhat irrelevantly.

“Your eyes are blue, and you are very pretty,” Cabot replied. “In fact, you closely resemble my own wife, the beautiful Princess Lilla, who waits for me far across the boiling seas.”

“Which reminds me to ask,” Quivven said abruptly. “How successful was your expedition, apart from your being captured and getting yourself into all kinds of trouble?”

So he told her about the glistening metallic particles in the sands of the river. Also how he had found what were probably zinc-blende and galena. Then they discussed in detail his plans for his various factories. From time to time they munched some of the food which had been given them.

The day quickly sped, and evening drew near, yet still they were upon the mountain road with no sight of Vairkingi or of any landmark familiar to either of them. Quivven was for stopping and resting, but Myles urged her on.

“No matter how tired you are,” he said, “it is not safe to stop in this strange country.”

So still she struggled on. The sky darkened without the usual pinkening of the west. All too well they knew what that portended—one of the heaven-splitting tropical storms so common on Poros. And they were right. The storm broke, the thunder roared in one continuous volume of sound, the lightning and the rain alike poured down in continuous sheets. The trail became a mountain torrent, so that they had to cease their journey and crawl upon a huge boulder, in order to avoid being engulfed by the water.

The rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Again the silver sky appeared overhead. The extempore brook rapidly disappeared, but left in its wake a wet, muddy, and slippery trail, down which the two took up their journey once more.

Several times Quivven stumbled and fell, until at last her companion had to help her in order to keep her going at all. But, in spite of this assistance, she finally broke down and cried.

“I shall not go one step farther,” she asserted.

Myles seated himself beside her and talked to her as one would soothe a child. And that was what she was, a tired little child.

“You can’t stay here,” he urged, “the ground is damp, the night is coming on, and your fur is sopping wet.”

“I don’t care anything about anything,” she sobbed. “All that I know is that I positively cannot go on.”

So he decided that it would be necessary to change his tactics. “I am ashamed of you,” he replied, “You, the daughter of a king, and can’t stand a little exercise! Why, I believe you are just plain lazy.”

For reply she jumped to her feet in a sudden rage. “Oh, you beast!” she cried. “You insulting beast! You common soldier, you! I’ll show you that I can stand as much hardship as the pampered womenfolk of your Cupia, though the men of my country, even our common soldiers, would be gentlemanly enough not to force a lady to endure any more than is absolutely necessary. Oh, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

“You are not being forced to endure more than is necessary,” her escort harshly replied. “In the first place it _is_ necessary to go on; and, in the second place, I am not forcing you. _You_ can go on or not, just as you see fit, but as for me, I don’t intend to spend the night here in this wet valley. Good-by!”

For reply Quivven raced ahead of him with, “Oh, how I hate you!” and disappeared around a turn in the trail.

XIII FURTHER PROGRESS

His change of tactics had worked, although it made him feel like a brute. But only by arousing Quivven’s anger could he stir her to continue the journey; and to remain would have menaced her safety and her health.

She had a good head start of him. The silver sky was turning crimson in the west. Night was coming on. So he hurried after her down the wet and slippery trail.

At last it became so dark that he had to slow down and walk; and finally merely grope his way, shoving his feet ahead, one after the other, in order to be sure to keep to the trail and not to stumble.