Chapter 10: The Siege Of Sur

Myles quickly extracted the bullet from the back of the wounded Vairking. Then tender furry female hands bore the victim away, as the earth-man stood in thoughtful contemplation of his find.

There could be no doubt of it. This was a steel-jacketed bullet, identical with those used in the rifles of the ant-men. How came such a weapon in the hands of the savage and untrained Roies?

It was inconceivable that these uncultured brutes had overwhelmed New Formia and captured the weapons of the ant-men. No, the only possible explanation was that the Formians had formed an alliance with the Roies, and were either fighting beside them or at least had furnished them with a few firearms, the use of which they had taught them.

But this last idea was improbable, due to the well-known shortage of rifles and ammunition at Yuriana, capital of the new ant empire. No, if the ant-men were in alliance with these furry savages, there must be ant-men present with the besiegers, and the shot in question must have been fired by the claw of a Formian.

This opened up new terrors for the village of Sur and its inhabitants. Myles glanced apprehensively at the southern sky, half expecting to see and hear the approach of a Formian plane, but the radiant silver expanse was unmarred by any black speck. Sur was safe for the moment.

His musings thus completed, Myles hurried to the public hall to communicate this discovery to Crota and the village authorities. He found the headman already there in conference with Crota.

Said Myles, exhibiting the bullet: “Here is one of the magic stones thrown by one of my own magic sling-shots, which is capable of shooting from the ground to the top of your cliffs and even penetrating your palisade. It is big magic! With its aid, the Roies can overcome us. Without it, I am powerless. Therefore, we must secure possession of it. What do you suggest?”

Crota replied: “It is now sunset. Let us select a squad of picked scouts and try to stalk the camp of the enemy.”

“No, no!” the headman of Sur exclaimed in horror. “Never have our men dared to attack the Roies by dark.”

“Do the Roies know this?” Myles asked with interest.

“Most certainly,” was the reply.

“Then,” he said, “all the more reason for attempting it They will be unprepared.”

The magistrate shrugged his furry shoulders with: “If you can persuade any men of Sur to attempt anything so foolhardy, I shall interpose no objection.”

Within a twelfth of a day, Crota had enrolled twenty scouts, and with Myles Cabot, they had all begun the stealthy descent of the narrow winding path down the face of the cliff. Before starting, they had observed the direction of the Roy camp-fires on one of the surrounding hills; so now they crept quietly toward that hill, and then slowly up to its crest.

In spite of the dense blackness of the Porovian night, they were able to find their way, first by starting in the correct direction and then by keeping the lights of their own village always behind them.

As Cabot had expected from the remarks of the headman, there were no sentinels on post, for the enemy were quite evidently relying on the well-known Vairking fear of the unknown terrors of the dark. Indeed, it spoke volumes for the individual courage of the twenty-one members of this venture, and for their confidence in their earth-man leader, that they had dared to come.

Finally, the party emerged from the underbrush at the top of the hill, a few score of feet from the tents and camp-fires of the Roies. There, motioning the others to remain where they were until he gave a signal, Myles crawled forward, always keeping in the shadow of some tent, until he was able to peek through a small bush beside one of the tents, directly at the group around one of the camp-fires.

Just as Cabot arrived at this observation post, a Roy warrior was declaiming: “I told you it would work, for had I not seen it demonstrated fully to me? You yourselves saw it kill. Now will you not believe me?”

Another spoke: “I cannot understand its principle. How can a weapon kill afar, and yet not resemble either a sling or a bow?”

And another: “Show us how it works, friend. Then perhaps we may be persuaded.”

And a third: “I do not believe that he has it.”

Whereat, the original speaker, nettled, spoke again: “It is in my tent there, you doubters,” indicating the one beside which Cabot crouched.

Quick as a flash, Cabot wriggled beneath the back of the tent into its interior. The campfire light, penetrating through the slit opening in front, revealed nothing but rumpled blankets on the floor, and ordinary weapons slung to the tent pole; so the intruder commenced rummaging among the bedding. The conversation outside continued.

“Prove, or be silent!” said a voice.

“You saw the Vairking fall, did you not?” the original speaker replied.

“True, but I did not see you sling any pebble.”

Meanwhile, Cabot continued his frantic search. At last, it was rewarded. In one corner of the tent, his groping fingers closed upon a Formian rifle and a bandolier of cartridges. A thrill ran through him at the touch.

“To prove it to you,” the voice outside was saying, angrily, “I will get it for you; and if you do not believe me, I shall slingshot you with it. That ought to be proof enough even for a stupid one like you. I have said it!”

“The signal for my exit,” Myles said to himself, as he hastened to crawl out through the back of the tent, but then he reflected: “No, I want more than this gun and ammunition; I want information.”

So he remained.

As the Roy entered the tent and felt for the rifle, the crouching earth-man flung himself upon him; and before the startled furry one could utter even a gasp, strong fingers closed upon his windpipe, throttling off all sound. The struggle was over in a few moments.

When Myles Cabot finally crept out of the enemy tent, it was with a limp form under one arm, and a bandolier and a rifle slung across his shoulders.

The conversation at the camp fire continued.

One of the warriors was saying: “Our friend takes long to find his wonderful sling-shot. Methinks he was lying and does not dare to face us.”

Said another voice: “Let us pull him from his tent and confront him with his perfidy.”

At this, Myles sprang to his feet and ran to the cover which concealed his followers.

“Rush in among them as we planned,” he urged, “while you two come with me.”

Then on he sped down the hillside towards the lights of Sur with his captive and trophies and two previously-picked members of the band, while Crota and the remaining eighteen charged yelling into the midst of the Roy camp, upsetting tents, scattering camp fires, and laying about them with their swords. Straight through the camp they charged, shouting: “Make way for Att the Terrible!” Then they circled the hill under cover of the darkness and rejoined Myles.

The startled Roies were taken completely by surprise. From the cries of Crota and his followers, they assumed that the intruders were Roies, partisans of Att the Terrible, attacking them for being partisans of Grod the Silent. As they came rushing out of their standing tents, or crawled from beneath such tents as had been wrecked, they met others of their own camp, similarly rushing or crawling, and mistaking them for enemies, started to fight.

The confusion was complete, and never for a moment did the naked furry savages suspect that the whole trouble had been caused by a mere handful of Vairkings.

Truly, as Poblath the Philosopher has said, “While enemies dispute, the realm is at peace.”

While the Roy followers of Grod the Silent fought among themselves until they gradually discovered that there was no one there except themselves, Myles Cabot and his Vairkings safely regained the Village of Sur with the rifle, the ammunition, and the still unconscious Roy warrior.

In the public hall, under the tender ministrations of Vairking maidens—who would far rather have plunged a flint knife into him—the captive finally regained his senses and looked around him in bewilderment.

“Where am I?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“In Sur,” some one replied.

“Then are we victorious? For never before has a Roy set foot in Sur.”

“No, your forces are not victorious,” Crota answered. “You are a prisoner. And it is only by the grace of Cabot the Minorian that you are permitted to come here even as a prisoner. For the men of Sur take no prisoners, and give no quarter.”

In reply, Myles himself stepped forward.

“I myself, am Cabot the Minorian,” he said.

To which Crota added impressively: “The greatest magician of two worlds!”

The prisoner shook his head.

“I know of only one world,” he asserted, “and this man before me is dressed as a mere common soldier, as are all of you.”

“Know then, O scum of Poros,” the earth-man admonished, “that there are other worlds beyond the silver skies, and that in the world from which I come, all soldiers are gentlemen.”

But the Roy warrior was not to be subdued by language. “How did I come here?” he asked.

“You did not come here,” Myles answered. “You were brought. I brought you.”

“But how?”

“By magic.”

“What magic?”

“My magic cart which swims through the air as a reptile swims through the waters of a lake.”

“True,” the Roy mused, “there be such aerial wagons, for I have seen them near the city of the beasts of the south.”

“Mark well!” Myles interjected to the assembled Vairkings, then to the prisoner again: “I captured you because you possessed the magic sling-shot, and presumed to use it on one of my own men. This effrontery could not be permitted to go unpunished; hence your capture. The offending weapon is now mine, and you are my prisoner.”

“What do you propose to do with me?” the captive asked. “I propose to ask you some questions,” Myles evaded. “First where did you get the magic sling-shot?”

“The great magician knows everything,” the Roy replied, with a sneer. “Why, then, should I presume to tell him anything?”