Warrior of the Dawn Part 17

And then, without warning, something caught at her ankle, plunging her headlong to the ground with terrific force. Half-stunned, she made a weak effort to regain her feet, when a strong hand grasped her roughly by an arm and jerked her upright.

The rage-distorted face of Meltor swam hazily before her. She blinked rapidly in an effort to dispel the fog.

"You little fool!" The words seemed to come to her from across a great distance. "Try that again, and I'll--"

There sounded a sharp ringing "crack," and Dylara staggered back, her left cheek flaming from the force of an open-handed blow.

The slap transformed the girl from a dazed, bewildered child into an infuriated tigress; and for the next few moments Meltor had all he could do to keep from being badly mauled.

Exhausted, she finally sank to her knees and burst into a storm of tears. Meltor stood by, more or less winded himself, fingering a long scratch alongside his nose, waiting for the girl to regain composure.

At last he pulled her to her feet, and urged her along the path into the west. Dylara, her once spotless tunic grimy and torn, accompanied him docilely now, too weary to resist. She knew by this time that Jotan had nothing to do with her abduction; no hireling of his would dare handle her so roughly.

An hour later they entered a small clearing, deep in the heart of the jungle. In the center of the open ground stood a rambling, one-storied building of gray stone, weather-beaten and unkempt, its unprotected windows staring vacantly like the dull lifeless eyes of a corpse.

Despite the flame-tipped rays of the mid-afternoon sun which flooded the clearing, Dylara shivered, conscious of the miasmatic atmosphere of the place.

Nor was Meltor entirely unaffected by the eerie aspect of dead Rydob's former residence. Details of stories he had heard about the old hermit came to him now, and he caught himself glancing nervously about.

A short series of stone steps led to the half open door. A profusion of vines and creepers had sprung up unchecked, partially covering the stairway. Meltor cautiously kicked the vegetation away, aware it might be the hiding place of little Sleeza, the snake--Sleeza, whose bite meant a lingering, painful death.

Suddenly the man jumped back, voicing a yell of terror, and almost upsetting Dylara. His prodding foot had torn away a curtain of foliage, disclosing the bleached skeleton of a man, stretched out on one of the steps. The skull had rolled a few paces away, and lay there grinning malevolently up at them.

Dylara shuddered, shrank back. She had seen the bones of man before; but under present conditions and surroundings the gleaming skeleton seemed a horrible prophecy of her own fate.

"Who could it have been?" she asked in an awed whisper.

Meltor forced a grin. He had managed to regain control of his shattered nerves.

"Old Rydob, the hermit," he replied. "And no prettier in death than he was in life. Some say he was the brother of Pryak, the high priest."

Taking Dylara by the elbow, he urged her past the pile of bones and over the threshold.

They came into a huge, high-ceilinged room, well-lighted by the sun.

From its appearance the girl judged that Rydob had spent most of his time here; the ruins of a bed stood in one corner, while a large table in the center of the room held a jumbled collection of stone dishes and bowls. Several tunics, rotten with mildew, hung across one of the three chairs about the table.

And over everything was a thick layer of dust and cobwebs and the droppings of countless rodents.

Meltor kicked over two of the stools to clear them of dust, replaced them, then cleared the table top in the same way.

"Sit there," he said, pointing to one of the stools.

Dylara obeyed without a word, watching the man seat himself across the table from her.

There followed a period of silence. Thus far, Meltor had carried out his plan to the letter. But now, faced with the unpleasant part of his task, he was beginning to feel decidedly qualmish.

How truly beautiful she was! Not the empty loveliness of perfect features alone; there was personality and fire and a keen, alert mind mirrored in those grave brown eyes and the sweet curve of sensitive lips.

And then he thought of Alurna and the secret she held, and the memory put an abrupt end to growing misgivings.

Dylara, who was trying to fathom what lay behind the man's cold expressionless face, broke the silence.

"Why have you brought me here?"

Meltor hesitated. Why not tell her? Perhaps the knowledge would drive her into making a second attempt to escape. And then....

"I suppose there is no reason why you should not be told," he said slowly. "It will make no difference--now.

"You have made an enemy in Sephar. How it happened, I do not know--nor does it matter. It is enough that you are in the way--and must die."

The calm emotionless statement brought no sense of shock to Dylara. She had known what was coming--known it as surely as though he had said the words an hour ago. In a curiously detached way she was conscious of the brilliant sunlight streaming through the windows; of the strident voices of many birds in the nearby jungle; of the slow-moving wind among many leaves....

"I do not want to kill you," Meltor continued. "You are too young to die. I would like to let you go--to leave you in the forest to go back to the caves you call home."

As he spoke, his hand dropped below the table's edge, fumbled there, then reappeared, a long knife of stone in his fingers.

"But I dare not do that," he went on, in the same flat monotone. "You might turn up again in Sephar and ruin everything. I cannot risk it."

Was he, Dylara wondered, trying to goad her into some act of resistance, that he might escape the stigma of cold-blooded murder? Fascinated, unable to look away, she watched him lift the keen-edged blade.

Suddenly he rose and lunged across the table toward her. Dylara knew the moment had come.

CHAPTER IX

Torture

Jotan pushed back his plate and sighed wearily.

"I can't eat in this heat," he complained. "Besides, I have no appet.i.te."

"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 appet.i.te, 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.