Chapter 12: 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.”