Polaris and the Goddess Glorian by Charles B. Stilson - HTML preview

 

CHAPTER X
THE GODDESS GLORIAN'S DECREE

Zoar quit the straps where he had held and stood on the head of Ixstus. A triumph shone in the eyes of the master of the amalocs, and a smile spread over his mummified old-ivory features as he looked down at Glorian.

"Daughter, they told me that I would find you here—in the forefront of the battle," he said. "And so it is. Your zeal for Ruthar has carried you far—so far that Oleric the Learned could not follow, and sent Father Zoar to find you." He laughed in his bell-like tones.

"But for the King of Ruthar and these brave men here, you would have had a longer journey, Father Zoar," Glorian replied. "It might have been to the camp of Bel-Ar yonder, or—to the stars. Take me up with you, Zoar, for I am weary."

"Stekkar deen!" commanded Zoar, and Ixstus looped his trunk and swung Glorian gently to a seat beside his master.

Glorian looked around at the little circle of wearied men—so wearied that they reeled in their saddles. She looked at those others, who lay where they had fallen, and to whom the long rest had come. Her eyes filled with tears.

"I thought to thank you," she said, "but I find no words splendid enough."

Old Jastla lifted his arm in salute. "Lady, to those of us who live, it is sufficient to know that you live also. Those who are dead, died gladly to make it so. We have held our goddess safe, and our king has held himself." And he turned and saluted Polaris.

Of the hundred zinds and fifty tall hillsmen who had formed in Jastla's ring, five and twenty were left. Not one was unwounded. Jastla's beard was red with blood, where a spear-point had penetrated through the bars of his vizor and torn his mouth. In addition to the bruised and stiffening shoulder caused by the blow of Bel-Ar that had broken his armor, Polaris had been gashed on the cheek by an arrow. Otherwise he was the least harmed of the party.

It was midafternoon when Ixstus set foot in the circle. Presently Oleric arrived in his chariot. Behind him came the host of Ruthar—weary and with many of its battalions sadly thinned, but still a host, and ready to go on if need be.

Another amaloc rolled up alongside of Ixstus. Over the edge of the wicker basket it bore, a white old head bobbed up with the suddenness of a jack-in-the-box.

"Hey, son," said Zenas Wright to Polaris, "will you never quit your foolhardy ways? Look what you have made me do—come a-hunting you, riding on the back of one of these animated stacks of red hay, that should have been dead and fossilized six thousand years ago. Well, well; we've given his majesty Bel-Ar a bellyful, I'm thinking." Out of his basket and down the rope-ladder Zenas clambered to shake Polaris by the hand.

"Oh, boy," the geologist said, "you're a better king than those heathen will see again, if they all live to be as old as Father Methuselah yonder says he is. But be careful, lad, be careful."

On the head of Ixstus the Goddess Glorian stood and pointed toward the camp of Bel-Ar, and her beautiful face grew stern.

"There are still three hours of daylight, Father Zoar," she said. "Let us go and finish what we have begun."

"As well now as ever, daughter," Zoar replied. "I am minded to teach this Maeronican king a lesson that shall become a tradition in the land. What passes in the camp? My eyes are too dim to see."

"Confusion, father, and the running to and fro of many men. They are adding to the height of their earthen walls. They are piling their gateways with timbers and the fragments of broken chariots."

Zoar laughed. "Think they with walls of mud to stop my amalocs?" he muttered. He lifted his voice, and word was passed down the line that the beasts were to be advanced against the camp.

Under the orders of Polaris, the dead zinds and men of his guard were borne off the field, and those who were still living, but wounded, were carried tenderly to the rear. When he learned that the amalocs were to attack the camp, he climbed with Zenas to the turret which the geologist had occupied. Jastla and the others he urged to seek rest. But they were men of great spirit, and only one or two of them went. The most of them sent for fresh horses, determined to see the fighting through to its end.

At a word from Glorian, Jastla took up the war-standard of Ruthar and passed it to the fighting men of Zoar, who set it fast in the wicker tower on the back of Ixstus. Glorian caught its floating folds and kissed it.

"Now Ixstus bears our banner. Who shall withstand it?" she said.

A blare of trumpets, a ruffle of drums, sounded the advance of Ruthar. Louder and above all arose the roar of the thirty amalocs, strident and deafening, as the shaggy, red line surged forward.

In the camp of Bel-Ar that call found answer in the howl of hate and terror that went up from the ranks of the Maeronicans when they saw that their terrible foes were coming.

"Fire!" shouted Bel-Ar to his generals. "We must meet and turn the beasts with fire! Man the walls with torches and set a blaze before each gate."

Bel-Ar had pitched his encampment in a loop of the River Thebascu, a broad, swift stream, now swollen by the spring freshets into a dun-colored torrent. From bank to bank across the loop, the soldiers had constructed a wall of earth and stones, ten feet high, and pierced by six wide gateways, wherein were set heavy gates of steel and oak. Inside the line of the outer wall, with some fifty feet of space intervening, was another rampart, also of earth, and a few feet higher than the first. Outside of the works the camp was protected further by a semicircular ditch, or moat, spanned at each of the gateways by a solid bridge of timbers. The Maeronican engineers had turned the waters of the river into the moat and filled it level full. At the rear of the camp was the crossing of the Thebascu—three wide bridges of stone, which had been built in the long ago.

When they saw the advance of the amalocs, soldiers swarmed from the camp with ropes and horses, and strove to pull the timber bridges away from the ditch. But the weight of the passing and repassing of the army had sunk the beams into the earth so deeply that they could not be stirred. Failing in that attempt, the Maeronicans piled débris on the floors of the bridges and set fire to it, hoping to burn away the approaches. That, too, was a failure. The water of the moat, nearly level with the side-beams, was ankle-deep on the bridge-floors, and had soaked the timbers so that they would not catch from the fires.

As Zoar and his monsters came to the moat, the men of Bel-Ar shot at them with arrows, stones, and javelins. But Ruthar could play that game, too. Oleric lined the ditch between the bridges with slingers and archers, who kept up so thick a bombardment that they killed many men, and soon drove the Maeronicans to the shelter of their walls. As they went in, Bel-Ar's men touched flames to the piles of timbers and wrecked chariots before their gateways and closed their gates.

"Shall we cross the bridges and clear the way, Father Zoar?" asked Oleric.

"Nay," the master of the beasts replied, "that would be at the expense of many men, and yon is an ill place to fight in. Methinks I know a better plan."

Under his directions, his foresters ungirthed one of the mammoths and took from its back the wicker turret. Zoar called the driver of the beast to him. Whatever it was that the old man said, the amaloc-driver blanched somewhat at the words. He cast a quick glance toward the armed camp, and under his swarthy skin his face turned pale. Then he drew himself up proudly, saluted, and went back to his beast.

Clambering to his perch, the man found and pulled two small chains connected with the armored plates which protected the skull of his ponderous steed. These drew into place and closed fast two small doors, or lids, cunningly wrought of steel, and devised to cover the eyes of the beast. So blinded, the heart within the vast bulk became uneasy, and the mammoth began to back and sway, groping before it with its trunk.

While the army stood breathless to see what he would do, the driver struck with his ankus, and with a shout launched the amaloc straight at the center gate of the camp.

Deprived of its eyesight, the mammoth obeyed the superior will expressed by the voice that it knew and loved. Across the bridge, where ordinarily it would have paused and tested the timbers carefully before trusting its immense bulk upon them, it now charged blindly, trumpeting as it went.

Showers of missiles from the camp of Ad fell on the beast; ahead of it roared the blazing pile. It screamed out with pain and terror when the flames touched it, but it did not stop. Scattering the burning tangle like fiery chaff, it tore on, and its armored frontlet clanged on the bars of the gateway.

That shock tore the gates from their hinges and brought the amaloc to its knees. For an instant it knelt on the fallen gate, then, trumpeting with rage, rose up and danced on the ruin.

On the head of the beast the driver lay flat on his belly, his arms and legs thrust under the leather bands placed there to hold him. Ahead, scarcely fifty feet away, was the second gateway. With voice and steel the man urged the amaloc on, and it crashed through that gate as it had through the first, and plunged into the center of the Maeronican camp.

Began then a mad rout for safety. No one thought of fighting the terror that had come among them; but each man for himself ran for the river, casting away anything that might weight down his legs. Soon all three bridges of the Thebascu were black with a horrid, writhing mêlée—a tangle of fear-maddened men, cursing and striking at each other for way, and screaming, terrified horses. Many soldiers, unable to fight into the jams on the bridges, threw themselves into the swift stream with all their armor on, and some swam across and others were seen no more.

To and fro through the encampment raged the now thoroughly crazed amaloc, sundering and crushing all that it met. The long, red wool had caught fire from the blaze at the gateway and burned fiercely up over its shoulders. Wild with the pain of it, the beast ran hither and thither, seeking to escape from the flames. A two-horsed chariot was in its path at one moment. It scooped it up like a toy and carried it forward on its mighty tusks, the horses dangling in their harness. Then with a heave of its vast shoulders the monster cast the wreck in the air. Lying on his face, the driver closed his eyes and prayed wildly to his stars.

At length, smelling the water of the river, the amaloc turned thither, to quench its agonies in the rushing stream. On it drove, across the camp, upsetting everything in its way. It reached the river to the left of one of the bridges. In its path a horse bearing a steel-clad rider slipped and fell. The groping trunk that sought the water found the man, plucked him from the ground, whirled him aloft, and dashed him against an abutment of the bridge so that his armor cracked like a nutshell and his blood ran down the stones.

With a final shriek of fury, the amaloc plunged into the river. The waters closed over its upthrown trunk, and its mad career was ended. With it went the driver, well content to give his life for Ruthar.

This one beast in the outpouring of its majestic strength had done more to shatter the power of Adlaz than had the legions of Ruthar in a month's fighting.

Soon after the death of the amaloc, night fell swiftly across the plains of Nor. The other beasts of Zoar, made uneasy by the experiences through which they had passed, and stirred by the screaming of their flame-maddened comrade, were in such a state that their master deemed it unwise to attempt to urge them farther in the darkness and against the fires. So he drove them back to the forest, and Ruthar camped on the plain.

In the night was heard a clamor as of men who fought on the other side of the Thebascu, and when morning came it was seen that the host of Bel-Ar was divided. The royal standards waved over the bridge-heads at the crossing of the river. Farther down the stream, and opposite to the camp of Ruthar was gathered by far the greater part of the Maeronican host.

When the dawn was full, a boat crossed the river, bearing messengers to Ruthar from the lords of the six cities which had fought for Adlaz. These heralds came to Oleric and asked what terms he would make them.

"For," said they, "did we have to fight with men only, we would stand firm until the end, and with our united power sweep Ruthar from the field and crush her. But against such as the great beasts no men may war."

The red captain referred them to the king of Ruthar for their answer. Polaris bade them go back to the lords of the cities and say that he wished to make war on none save Adlaz and the king thereof—but that war he would wage until the death or the submission of Bel-Ar.

"Our lords will not join ye in war against Adlaz," said one of the heralds hastily. "We be not such traitors; but our soldiers will bear arms against the terrible beasts no more."

"Ruthar asks no help in her warfare against Bel-Ar," Polaris replied. "Take your armies to their homes in peace."

That answer satisfied the lords of the cities, and they sent word that so they would do; and if Polaris in the end prevailed against Adlaz, they would bend the knee to his rule. Secretly they hoped that he would win. Bel-Ar had been a hard master, and those who had seen the tawny-haired king of Ruthar deemed him to be the better man to serve, outlander though he was.

So that host was dispersed and went its various ways homeward. The soldiers of Adlaz and the levies from the lands around the city were of a different kidney. To a man they stood firm for their king. Beasts or no beasts, they swore, they would die for him, did he wish it.

It seemed likely that their promise would be required of them. Bel-Ar, stubborn and high of spirit, was resolved to fight on. He still mustered under his banners a force of nearly sixty thousand men, veterans of his former wars and the flower of the fighting men of the land. Besides, he held the advantage of position.

When Ruthar would have gone on against him in the morning, it was found that his engineers, working through the night, had piled the bridge-heads with barricades of stones, so thick and high that no amaloc charge would beat them down. Behind those barriers the Maeronican generals reorganized their broken forces and sent in the front fresh soldiers drawn from the reserves that were waiting along the Mazanion Road.

Not for many weary miles was there another crossing of the Thebascu—if, indeed, there were any on the course of the river where were bridges strong enough to support an army and the weight of the amalocs.

Taking counsel together, Polaris and Oleric and their generals decided that they must hammer their way through at the three bridges. They might have blown up the barriers with melinite; but they dared not, for fear of destroying the structures of the bridges also; and they had not the time to build new bridges. Only a sustained frontal attack, at the cost of many men, would clear the way.

For a score and ten days and nights the furious struggle was waged at the Thebascu. Then one of the bridges was taken. Polaris, his great frame grown gaunt from continual fighting, and his face sunken and haggard with anxiety and loss of sleep, saw through hollow and burning eyes his hosts swing across the river and into the Mazanion Road.

Fourteen days were left him, and then—the Feast of Years, and the end.

Summer was coming, and with it the feast of the return of Shamar, that could not be set forward or delayed. Though the foe were hammering at its gates, Oleric said, the feast would be held in the city. Such was the ancient law laid down in the early days of Adlaz.

On the Mazanion Road they found the captain Fanaer once more, tireless and vengeful. As he had harried them all the way from the isthmian passes to the plains of Nor, so he harried them now. Every foot of the hundred miles down the Mazanion Road he fought them, and with him fought Bel-Ar, his master. Wall after wall they built and lost.

It was not until afternoon of the last day that the Rutharian vanguard, so worn with battle that it staggered as it rode, broke through the final barrier and marched through the gorgeous suburban estates to the wall of Adlaz. Under the leadership of Fanaer, the remnant of Bel-Ar's army made a last desperate stand, but was swept away.

As night came on, the Maeronican king, broken-hearted, but still defiant, entered his city and closed his gates—there to sit down and wait for the coming of the Goddess Glorian.

It was nine o'clock of a morning—the morning of the third day of the Maeronican month of Kanar, corresponding to the fifteenth of November; or, to reverse the seasons to the terms of our northern clime, the sixteenth of May. A man who bore a heavy heart within his golden armor faced a white-faced maid in the ancient audience-hall of the dead king Bel-Tisam.

"Now am I in my heart almost a traitor to my king and land, lady," Brunar said. "For I have almost wished that your lover might prevail over Bel-Ar and save you. But the day has come and the time is at hand, and Ruthar is still without the walls. Would that I might save you, lady—I think that to do so I would willingly give my life. But Shamar's servants have watched this place by day and by night. It cannot be. Already they wait for you without the doors to lead you to the temple."

For an instant the girl's eyes swam with terror. She gazed hither and yon about the hall like a hunted thing. Then the heritage of her northern race came to her aid and saved her from collapse.

Bravely she faced and spoke to the captain.

She stepped to the cradle of the little Patrymion and kissed the babe.

"I am ready," she said, then.

At the doors of the prison a chariot waited, and with it were four of the white-robed priests of Shamar. The girl was lifted into the car. The charioteer drove up the side avenue of Chedar's Flight, past the Place of Games, now standing empty and silent, to the grounds of the Temple of the Sun. They saw many armed men in the street as they passed along. As they entered the gateway of the temple grounds they heard a dull booming that beat up with the wind from the south, where Ruthar hammered at the Mazanion gates.

The priests carried the girl up the hundred white marble steps to the western entrance to the temple and through the splendid arch of a doorway that was fifty feet from pave to vault. Within all was dim twilight, except in the mighty dome, two hundred feet aloft. There it was light, indeed.

At the doorway the party halted, and two soldiers shackled Rose with fetters of heavy gold at her wrists and ankles. Around her waist they set a girdle of the same yellow metal, to which chains were attached. That done, they placed a gag in her mouth and led her into the temple.

Here was a place of wonders, such as had its like nowhere in the world. All around the hall, supporting the ring of masonry on which the dome rested, were magnificent pillars of marble. The circle of the pavement which was enclosed by the pillars, and which was nearly a hundred feet across, was bare, except at its center. There an oblong slab of black basalt lay from west to east across the gleaming white floor. That block was the height of a man's waist from the pavement, some six feet across, and at least ten yards in length.

On one end of the slab, that which pointed west, stood a solid column of orichalcum, more than a yard in diameter and fifteen feet tall, its whole substance glowing in the half-light like a pillar of lambent flame. From base to top the surface of this marvelous plinth was carved with Maeronican characters and mystic signs. It was the ancient Column of Laws, whereon was written the prophecy of the future dominion of Adlaz over all the world.

Over across from the fiery pillar, at the other extremity of the slab, was a vase, cut out of solid rock-crystal, as tall as a man, but slenderly fashioned, and as fragile in structure as thin-blown glass.

This basalt block, with its gleaming column and crystal vase, was the altar of Shamar.

Though the light was dim in the hall below, high in the arch of the dome was a dazzling play of light and colors. Through prismatic windows the rays of the sun poured and were translated into all of the changing hues of the spectrum, and as the prisms were turned by a concealed mechanism operated from below, the multiplying and shifting color-shafts, reflected back from the marble walls, combined into a bewildering and fairy display.

Seated in a stone chair at the foot of one of the pillars in the northern arc of the circle was Bel-Ar. He was in full armor of black steel. His pallid face made a ghastly patch in the dusk. Except for the large, glowing eyes, it might have been taken for the face of a dead man. Back of the king, filling in the spaces between the pillars with silent rows of bronze, were the five companies of the palace-guard.

Immediately upon the arrival of the girl the ceremonies were opened. Followed by a train of his priests, chanting a deep-voiced hymn of praise, the arch-priest of Shamar, the aged Rhaen, entered the hall through the western portals. Thrice the procession of singing, white-robed attendants of the god passed around the circle within the pillars. Then they massed themselves in the space to the south of the altar. Rhaen retired, to come forth again, clad in a surplice of pale blue, and with a tall cap of the same color atop of his white locks. As he passed Rose, she fancied that she saw a frightened look in his keen old hawk's eyes.

Four men brought in the head of one of the sacred bulls, freshly slain in the courtyard.

This gory trophy was laid on the altar, a few feet from the crystal vase.

At a command from Rhaen, a company of the priests bore the struggling form of a man from behind the pillars and proceeded to chain him down on the basalt slab near its center. He was fettered and gagged; but even so trussed up, he fought frantically, giving the priests much trouble before they had him chained in such a fashion that he could scarcely move a limb.

Now came the turn of Rose.

As the priests bore her to the altar and lifted her, she saw that the man who lay there was Ensign Brooks, of the Minnetonka. He had been fetched from the mines by order of Rhaen to take the place of Everson. When the girl saw the young sailor, chubby and cheerful no longer, but worn to skin and bones, and with eyes that glared in their sockets, she would have cried out in horror and pity—for to the last she thought not of herself—but she was gagged and helpless to utter one word of comfort.

Brooks saw her as she was borne past him, and he struggled terribly. His utmost effort resulted only in a violent shaking of his head.

The servants of Rhaen chained Rose to the rock midway between the sailor and the head of the bull. Aided by his priests, Rhaen clambered onto the rock and took his stand at the foot of the orichalcum pillar. He bent his head in prayer. While his lips moved, the priests knelt on the pavement with lifted hands and upturned faces. Every eye was fixed on the dome. Whatever was to come, it was evident that it would proceed thence.

Lying on the black altar, doomed to be the first sacrifice to Shamar in the Feast of Years, Rose for a time was dazed and near to fainting. Then her mind cleared, and a mad whirl of tortured thought began. What of Polaris? With the memory of her lover came a stab of grief so keen that it banished all fear of the priests and what they could do. No pain that they could bring to her body could be so terrible as this anguish that made her very soul quail.

Minutes passed. Again she became calm and fell to studying her surroundings. What manner of doom was coming? Fire in some shape, she was sure. She had noticed that the surface of the basalt slab was deeply scored down its center, where she and Brooks were chained, and its substance was crumbled and calcined as if by the passing of a fierce heat many times repeated. She besought her God that before Shamar struck, her senses might leave her, so might she die in peace.

Rhaen prayed on. Above in the dome the brilliant colors played and shifted. Their magnificence hurt the girl's eyes, and she closed them. Would the end never come? Out in the city the din of war swelled louder.

Bel-Ar spoke harshly, bidding Rhaen delay not. The arch-priest quit his mumbled prayer long enough to reply with some show of spirit that the doings of the god could not be hastened.

The truth of the matter was, Rhaen was proceeding slowly, and with a reason. Rhaen was a politician. He had watched through the long weeks the course of war, and he did not find it hard to guess whose would be the ultimate victory. When that time came, what mercy would the king of Ruthar show to those who had given his lady to the tortures of Shamar? He lifted his hands high above his head, finally, and led his priests in a sonorous chant.

As the notes of the song arose, the prismatic colors ceased in the dome. The prisms disappeared. Doors glided back in the golden roof, and an immense circular plate, or lens, of crystal made its appearance. So high was the arch of the dome where the crystal lens was hung, that it was impossible from the floor to judge its size; but it must have been at least thirty feet in diameter. It was set in a metal rim, and the whole was swung into place by chains, the mechanism doubtless operated by servants of Rhaen concealed in the vault of the dome.

Tilted slightly to the east, the crystal hung. Above it a round aperture suddenly appeared in the roof. Through that opening shot a splendid shaft of sunshine that pierced the gloom of the temple-hall like an arrow of light. Blinding in its radiance, it cut downward and struck on the basalt altar, full on the head of the bull.

Immediately arose the stench of burning hair and sizzling flesh. The power of the crystal lens so condensed the light-ray that where it fell its heat was all-consuming. Within half a minute naught was left of the head of the sacred bull save a few cinders and bits of calcined bone and charred tips of the horns.

Where the head had been, the basalt rock glowed ruby-red in the path of that awful lance of fire. Inch by inch, and very slowly, the consuming ray crept along the altar toward the head of the girl.

Rose had been nearly blinded, even through her closed lids, by the flash of light from the dome. Although she could not turn her head to see, she could smell the scorching flesh of the bull, and could guess what was coming.

"Good-by, my love, good-by," she said in her heart. Then He to whom she had prayed made answer, and she fainted.

Louder rose the chant of the priests. The merciless finger of their god moved on. Bel-Ar strained forward in his stone seat and stared at the sacrifice as though fascinated.

Some five feet were yet to be traversed by the ray before it would reach the girl, when a soldier ran up the southern steps of the temple and hurled himself through the kneeling ranks of the priests. Behind him a wild clamor of battle arose in the street.

"Adlaz is lost!" shouted the soldier, as he broke into the open space before the king. "Already is the foe at the very gates of Shamar!"

Without stirring in his seat, hardly removing his eyes from the altar, Bel-Ar gave an order to the captains behind him. The silent files of the palace-guard came from behind the pillars and ranged themselves before the four entrances of the temple.

Across the face of the altar the relentless fire-beam seared its way.

Meanwhile, at the walls of Adlaz the Rutharian army had halted.

Night had found the men of the hills battering at the Mazanion gates. Urged on by the tireless energy of Polaris and the equally indomitable zeal of Oleric—for the red captain had made a promise—the zinds mustered their weary legions for a night of sleepless battle. War-worn by a quarter-year's conflict, the echoes of which would go whispering down their history for centuries to come, the king's battalions did not fail him. Every man in the army knew the terrible stake that was set for the game. None faltered. None complained.

Assault on assault was directed at the gates, but still the southern doors of Adlaz remained unshaken. Riders had made the round of the city and had reported that the other three gateways had been walled up with stone masonry that it would be a work of days to dislodge—and they had only seventeen hours to reach the temple of Shamar. Oleric, who knew, said that the sacrifice of the Feast of Years would begin at noon of the next day, and not one moment sooner.

Fanaer, Ruthar's most dreaded antagonist, was manning his last barricade. As soon as he had drawn his shattered army within the gates before the advance of his foemen, the captain ordered great rocks, which had been brought to the top of the walls in preparation for his purpose, cast down until they formed a jagged but powerful defense before the gates. That was to keep back the amalocs.

Vainly the infantry of Ruthar charged over that irregular wall. Did any of them reach the gates, their battle-axes were but puny weapons against the bronze and steel of the doors. In vain they tried to carry in and place the melinite with which Zenas supplied them. Fanaer showered them with stones and blazing timbers. Three times men carrying the deadly cakes of explosive were stricken so that the melinite blew up and tore them to shreds.

All night long the attack was maintained. All the night Polaris raged helplessly before that stubborn barrier of stone. In the morning light he counseled with Oleric, Zenas, and Zoar.

"If you could but clear a way for my beasts!" groaned Zoar. "Then I would send them against the gates, though it killed them—which might well happen, for those gates are heavy enough to challenge even the strength of an amaloc."

Zenas sprang up and beat himself on the forehead.

"Doddering fool that I am!" he cried. "Here we have wasted men and time, and because my wits were sleeping in my boot-heels. Get your amalocs ready, Zoar."

While Oleric sent one more assault against the gates, the geologist directed his engineers, under the cover of the attack, to mine, not the gates, but the pile of stones itself, with the melinite. Four big charges of the explosive they placed in Fanaer's barricade, and Zenas, with a tap of his finger on the battery, blew the barrier against the wall.

Hardly had the stones quit falling when an amaloc rushed the gateway. Zoar spoke truly when he said those gates were strong. Fearful as was the impetus of the beast's charge, and though it cracked the great steel plates which protected its head with the impact, it did not shatter the gates. It withdrew from the onset somewhat sick and groggy—if that word may be applied to the mental condition of the amaloc. Zoar sent in another.

Four of the monsters were launched successively against the portals before the gates crashed down. The last shock was so fearful that the beast which delivered it fell just beyond the gateway and died with a broken skull in the midst of the ruin it had made.

Through the gap and into the Mazanion avenue, almost under the lee of the falling mammoth, flashed Polaris, mounted and in full armor. Hard behind him rode Oleric. Ahead of them the wide street was choked with Maeronican soldiery, and the son of the snows would have charged without pause; for the time that was left him was reduced to minutes now. Taking of the gates had not been quick or easy, and Shamar was high in the heavens.

But the red captain caught at his bridle-rein.

"Hold, friend and king; you will peril your life needlessly," he shouted. "Leave this desperate scum to Zoar, and follow where he leads. Ah! here he comes! Now see them scatter!"

Oleric threw back his head and laughed. But Polaris, with that sun riding high above him, was in no mood for laughter.

In through the rifted gateway thrust Ixstus. The giant amaloc was in his full panoply of war. On his head he bore proudly his master, Zoar the aged, and in the turret behind Zoar rode the Goddess Glorian—Glorian coming to the end to take what gift fate had in store.

Under the swaying tusks of Ixstus terror shouted aloud in the street. Behind him, his sons and grandsons were pushing in through the gap in the wall. Bel-Ar's battered soldiers had had enough and full measure of Ixstus and his family. They did not wait now for the first screaming trumpet-call, but cast down their arms and scampered away—anywhere, so that they might put strong walls between themselves and the tribe of Ixstus.

Then the general Fanaer rode forward and surrendered his sword to Oleric. He was a small, thin man, this famous warrior, with a twisted nose between pale-blue eyes, and curling, yellow beard.

"I have fought you my best for the king, my master," he said. "But you have taken Adlaz, and my work is done." He glanced curiously at Polaris. "Haste you, king of Ruthar," he said, not unkindly. "They are doing sacrifice in Shamar's temple."

Like an arrow from a bow, Polaris shot forward, spurring his horse. Oleric galloped after him. Behind them thundered Ixstus, shaking the pavement with his tread. Nor, strive as the fleet horses might, could they more than barely keep ahead of the amaloc. A race with death had begun.

Lest harm befall, the zind Maxtan led a squadron of his mounted hillsmen in the wake of the speeding riders. Gray Jastla rode in the front rank.

Before Polaris's galloping steed leaped and barked the great dog Rombar, who was more fleet of foot than any horse. To keep him out of harm's way in the battles, Rombar had been chained in hateful captivity for months. When the Mazanion gates were down and the amalocs cleared the street, the man who had charge of Rombar slipped his leash and let him go.

They rode madly through the splendid grounds of the temple, where the sacred bulls fled bellowing before the approach of Ixstus. At the foot of the long stairway, Polaris and Oleric threw themselves from their steeds, and, drawing their swords, dashed up the marble steps. But Zoar with a word of command, set Ixstus to the ascent, and the amaloc distanced the running men.

Scarce two feet of Shamar's black altar separated the head of Rose Emer from the fiery danger, and the rock where she lay was almost blistering hot, when Ixstus, with a scream of triumph, burst through the ranks of the guard at the southern door and strode into the lofty shrine. As the beast paused, blinking and stretching out an inquiring trunk in the direction of the puzzling shaft of light, two armored men ran around his ponderous bulk and leaped onto the altar.

Rhaen would have given the word then to close the dome and stop the ray; but the strain of his anxiety had been too much for the aged priest. As he opened his mouth to shout, his knees loosened, and he fell in a swoon at the base of the orichalcum pillar.

With four strokes of his sword, Polaris severed the golden chains and swept the senseless form of Rose from the altar. Oleric the Red did the like service for Brooks. Now might the finger of Shamar move on unheeded.

Polaris knelt with his love in his arms. As he bent over her, Oleric shouted in warning. The son of the snows leaped to his feet in time to catch on his sword the blade of Bel-Ar, the king.

Once again Ruthar and Ad, personified in their two rulers, were face to face.

From the four doorways came the devoted men of the palace-guard. Bel-Ar, who had fallen back a pace, lifted his hand.

"There is that between this man and me which only death may take away," he said. "Let none interfere—unless the slave is afraid to fight." He fixed his burning eyes on Polaris. At that last remark Oleric the Red laughed loudly.

Under other circumstances, Janess might have been minded to let Bel-Ar go free. Whatever were his faults, the Maeronican king was a brave man, one who did not bow down and weep when misfortune overtook him. But Polaris had just seen his dear lady chained to the horror of the sacrificial stone because of this man, and his fell religion and relentless practices against strangers. Minos, Memene, Everson, the company of the Minnetonka, the fallen of the hosts of Ruthar and of Ad—for all those deaths Bel-Ar was responsible. Surely his doors were haunted by many ghosts!

With no word in answer to the king's taunt, Polaris swung his sword, and the fight began. Bel-Ar pressed in with a shower of blows, seeking to bear his adversary down by the sheer weight and fury of his attack. He was a powerful man, perhaps the strongest warrior in all his broad lands, as he had boasted—but he had met a stronger now.

With the skill in fence that had been taught him by Jastla, the son of the snows guarded himself against those lightning blows, letting Bel-Ar weary himself until an opening should come—as his patience had told him it always would, no matter how hardy the fighter.

Jastla himself stood by the altar and watched his pupil fight. For Maxtan and his cavalry had reached the temple. On one side of the altar stood the men of Ruthar and Ixstus. On the other were ranged the gleaming bronze lines of Bel-Ar's guard.

Harder and harder the Maeronican pressed the fight. His blade swung like a circle of flame. Warily Polaris fended. Came a clash and a clang of falling steel, and a cry of dismay from the Rutharians. Under the stout bronze of Bel-Ar their champion's sword had snapped short off at the hilt.

With a yell of exultation, Bel-Ar sprang in to make an end. And those who watched the fray were bound by honor not to interfere. Oleric groaned, and Jastla tugged at his white beard and ground his teeth in dismay. Then he sent up a roaring shout:

"Well thrown! Oh, well thrown!"

Under the vengeful sweep of the singing blade Polaris had leaped and caught the Maeronican around the middle. The blow of the sword fell harmless. But Polaris swung Bel-Ar up to his shoulder, aye, and over it, and dashed him down on the marble floor.

One of the golden captains of the guard ran to the king's side and unhelmed him. Bel-Ar was dead, his back broken by the terrible fall.

"Heard ever a man the like?" roared Jastla. "The strongest warrior in Adlaz tossed like a toy and slain by an unarmed man!"

Through the fierce fray Glorian had sat like a statue, unable to stir or speak. As the Rutharians shouted in triumph, she roused and cried out:

"Look to the priest! Haste! He burns!"

Unnoticed in the stir of the combat, the ray of Shamar had moved on down the length of the altar. The priests in the dome had fled their posts in terror, and there had been none to stay the mechanism. In the path of Shamar's finger lay Rhaen, Shamar's priest, swooned and helpless. The ray struck him. Aid was too late.

Rhaen was a horrid sight when he was pulled from the altar. His soul had gone—perhaps to seek the god whom he had served.

On Ixstus's head stood Glorian in her silver armor.

"So ends the religion of Shamar!" she cried. With the battle-ax she carried, she bent over and struck the crystal vase and shattered it.

At the other end of the altar of basalt the great ray beat on the pillar of orichalcum, so that the surface of the metal was melted and the cruel laws of Ad were effaced. With the laws perished the prophecy.

Water was dashed on the face of Rose Emer, and presently she opened her eyes and sat up and realized that she was not dead. Before them all, Polaris took her into his arms and kissed her—for such is the privilege of kings. Glorian, watching from Ixstus's back, turned white with agony and clenched her slender fingers so that the nails bit into her palms.

"Oh, be strong, my heart," she whispered to herself. "My soul has said it—my time will come!"

Zenas Wright came soon, and at the altar of Shamar was held a reunion where hearts were too full for talking, until Ensign Brooks spoke up and Said:

"Lead me to a dinner-table, somebody. First they worked the flesh off my bones. Then they tried to roast me along with a bull's head and a pretty woman—but never once did they give me a decent meal."

"You shall have your dinner," said Polaris. "But first there is something which I will have done, here and now, if may be." He turned to Oleric, while Rose Emer's cheeks, that had been so wan, flamed rosy red.

"Has one of these priests here the power to perform a marriage ceremony?" Janess asked.

"Surely," replied Oleric. And then the red captain smiled broadly as he caught the import of the question. "Hale one of them here, Jastla," he said.

Jastla came soon, gripping a sadly scared priest of Shamar by the slack of his gown. "Do you, Oleric, who understand more of his jargon than I do, listen that he does a good job of it," grumbled the chieftain. "For if he doesn't, I'll flay him."

But Glorian was great-hearted, even befitting her title of goddess. She now stepped down from the amaloc to the altar.

"In this let Glorian of Ruthar serve you," she said. "I have the power, and the knot that I shall tie, though it shall be more gentle than if done by this dog of Shamar, yet will it be as binding."

So, after the long years and their perils, Polaris and his Rose-maid were wedded, Oleric the Red producing the ring. And when she had pronounced the words which made them one, Glorian took Rose in her arms and kissed her on the forehead.

"May you be very happy, my sister," she whispered.

Now here the pen that has written this history ceases, to give place to that of one of its chief actors, who has a parting word to tell.

I, Zenas Wright, now in my sixty-seventh year, and being in full possession of my health, mind, and faculties (as lawyers write it in the wills) having been asked by the writer of the foregoing work to make some comment on it, do hereby aver, asseverate, maintain, etc., that it is in the main a faithful account of certain events in which it has been my privilege to play a small part. In fact, I cannot well do otherwise, seeing that I furnished him the information.

Such changes as I might be tempted to make in the history he has written would only vex the writer, and so I'll let it be. They would be in the nature of scientific details, anyhow, and I fear would make only dry reading for any but brother scientists.

I have told the author that he has made altogether too much of my part in the events which he has described. I am not a hero, and never will be; but in this description of that brush in the Kimbrian defile—which was altogether a matter of chance—he has made me almost heroic. I have asked him to amend the account; but he will not listen to it, and so I suppose that it will have to stand. I hereby disclaim it.

It is more than six months since the fademe Oaron dropped anchor in the Potomac (where its arrival created a fine sensation), and I landed once more in Washington. With me came Lieutenant Everson. He did not get to Adlaz until some weeks after it had been taken, and he's not the man yet that he was before he got that jab from Atlo's spear. But he's improving. He had the loss of a cruiser to report; but he brought with him a sum in gold and gems, sent by the king of Ruthar and Maeronica, sufficient to reimburse the Government for the loss of the ship, and with a splendid sum left over to be distributed among the relatives of those who went down with her. The king is a man who doesn't do things by halves.

Ensign Brooks came with us also. He was pining for a peep up Broadway and a whiff of "America's strongest cigarette." I hope that he has had enough to eat since he came back.

Through the kindness of Oleric, I was enabled to bring with me a splendid pair of mammoth's tusks, which I took great pleasure in adding to the collection of the Smithsonian Institution. Some time I hope to be the means of bringing to these shores specimens of the Elephas primigenius themselves, which the Rutharians call amalocs.

Before this history comes to the eyes of the world—if it ever does, of which I have some doubt—I shall have gone back to the south. I thought that I wanted to end my days in my home in Buffalo and be buried there; but I don't. I'm going back to be with my boy. He is making a wise ruler there in Adlaz. Perhaps an old man's life will not be altogether useless there, where there is so much to be done.

Before I left Adlaz, two small princes were playing in the royal palace—Patrymion, the boy of Minos, who eventually will be king if he lives, and another youngster, who must stagger through life under the burden of the name of Polaris Zenas Janess. Guess that's pretty good for an old rock-splitter—to have the first-born son of a real king named after him. Constituting himself the special guardian of the two little chaps is a simple-minded little cockney sailor, whom Polaris found in prison, Jack Melton by name. Sunlight has cured him of some of his hallucinations, and he no longer hates Rombar.

There is one thing more, which I did not find in the history, and will now add here. It concerns that remarkable woman, Glorian of Ruthar. One day when we were discussing the power which she and Oleric declare they have to prolong their lives (privately, I think it is rank bosh), Glorian told me that it was possible for one who knew the secret to make use of it to keep another person alive, and without that person knowing about it. Now Glorian is living in Adlaz, where she has had the temple of Shamar fixed over to suit her. She sees Polaris often. I am of the opinion that, if she has any such power—mind you, I'm not admitting she has—she is using it on Polaris, and is planning to outwait Mrs. Janess (Queen Rose, I suppose I should call her) and eventually have him for herself. The outcome of this, only time will tell, and I shall not live to know it. I have not the means to prolong my life—and would not if I had.

By the way, Zoar of the Amalocs died shortly after the taking of Adlaz. The excitement of the war was too much for his heart.

Oh, yes! And Oleric married Bel-Ar's widow, the Queen Raissa; and that is all.

Good-by.

 

END