CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN THE WOLF-MEN’S HAUNTS.
SEYMOUR’S dread was not lessened by the discovery that the bodies were those of wolf-men. Where were his friends? Evidently they had returned, the corpses bore witness to that, for upon each and all the mark of Chenobi’s axe was plainly visible.
He shouted, but no answering hail broke the stillness of the underworld city. Hurriedly he descended the steps and tried the door of the kennel chamber. It was locked, and from within came the howling of the hounds. With half a dozen lusty blows Seymour shattered the lock, then strode through the doorway. Unloosing the hounds he ordered them outside, himself following a moment later, leading Muswani.
“The wolf-men must have carried them off,” he muttered, “but I’ll track the brutes down.”
He was about to mount, when a thought came to him. If his friends were alive, and he was able to effect their rescue, they would be entirely defenceless unless he took them weapons.
With him to think was to act, and he rapidly made his way back to the armoury. Here, selecting half a dozen great double-edged swords, he strapped them together with a girdle taken from a mail suit; then, slipping a serviceable dagger into his own belt, he returned to the square.
Within three minutes he was galloping through the gloomy streets, the mighty elk obeying every touch as it did Chenobi’s; seeming to know by some subtle instinct that its master’s fate hung upon its speed. And in front, hot upon the trail of the wolfish kidnappers, bounded the great hounds.
At full speed they swept forward, having to round the end of the great fire gulf as they went; then on around the base of the hills within whose wild valleys Seymour and his friends had so nearly met their deaths. As he rode on the baronet wondered how far ahead of him the savages were. He knew that he had wandered for many hours in the vaults beneath the city, but for how long he had no means of telling. One fact was borne in upon him as he settled down to his ride—that he was ravenously hungry, and he was glad to note a number of edible fungi growing beside the track.
On these he quickly satisfied his hunger, pausing only for a few moments, then pressed forward at the utmost speed of the elk upon the trail of the savages.
Never once were the hounds at fault in the course of the chase. The magnificent brutes were as certain of the trail as though the wolf-men had been within sight all the time. Past cavern after cavern in the hills they swept, Seymour exhilarating in the mad gallop. His mail was not the easiest of riding suits, yet he was gradually becoming used to it, and the prospect of a scrimmage with the savages in the near future filled him with a wild delight. He even went so far as to break into the first few bars of an old hunting song, but checked himself as he realised the folly of thus advertising his presence.
Suddenly the hounds stopped before a great double gateway of stone, set in the face of the cliff, and began to scratch furiously at its base.
“Quiet, you brutes!” Seymour cried, dismounting; repeating his command in Ayuti as he saw that the hounds did not understand his English words, whereat they immediately ceased their efforts.
“No chance here,” he said to himself, examining the gates. “I must go round the back way, I suppose.”
With some difficulty he got the hounds to leave the neighbourhood of the gateway, and pushed on towards the gully, through which he and Haverly had passed to the rescue of Mervyn. Here he left his animals, and plunged into the tunnel, the light from his jewel enabling him to make rapid progress. Soon he stood once more upon the ledge above the den of Rahee, gazing down into the temple which he had hoped never to look upon again.
Removing his mail hose that he might descend the more easily, he slung them around his neck, and scrambled over the brink down to the enclosure. Thankful he was to see that the bars had been lowered over the mouth of the spider’s cave, that Rahee was again a prisoner.
As he crossed the den the hideous brute leapt forward, his remaining eye glaring ferociously. Furiously he gnashed his great jaws, and shook the metal rods which imprisoned him; but they defied even his great strength.
“Steady, you devil!” cried the baronet, as he drew on his hose; then shook his axe menacingly towards the spider.
The action only increased the diabolical creature’s rage, and he reared to his full height against the barrier in his mad but futile efforts to reach his foe. But Seymour’s mission was of too great importance for him to waste time over the sacred beast. Leaving him to rattle the bars at his leisure, he threw open the gate of the enclosure, and passed into the amphitheatre. Across this he strode boldly, axe and shield in hand, the bundle of weapons intended for the use of his friends being slung at his back.
As he went he strove to recall Mervyn’s description of the position of the fire cell, in which he had no doubt his friends would be confined; but the scientist had not been able to explain very clearly. All that Seymour could remember was that a long passage, crossed by many more passages, led from the fire cell to the temple, and with this meagre knowledge of the geography of the wolf-men’s caverns he had to be content. He was determined, come what might, that he would not return without his friends if they still lived; and if Nordhu, in his devilish hate, had destroyed them, he would act as their avenger.
He had no fear, although he was alone—one against a myriad. He had a strong belief in the ultimate triumph of right, and he knew that his mission was a righteous one; therefore he did not shrink from penetrating into the very midst of the savage’s haunts to fulfil his purpose. He dared all to rescue his comrades from the hands of the wolfish fiends who, for no reason save their own savage lust for slaughter, had taken them captives—to give them back life and liberty, sweeter than ever now that they knew there was a way of escape from this ghostly underworld to the daylight.
He lifted his heart in a prayer for Higher help as he went on—for Divine guidance upon his all but impossible task. Past the great idol he strode, ears alert for the least sound that should tell of the presence of an enemy. But the vast natural amphitheatre was deserted, silent as the grave. Neither priest nor savage showed himself.
At length he reached the skin curtain which veiled the mouth of the passage, and, lifting this, passed through. And now the real difficulties of his task became apparent. The heart of the hills seemed literally honeycombed with passages and tunnels. Every few yards he would pass the mouth of some gallery leading off from the one he was following, and from each of these came sounds of life and movement—the clanging of metal, the rattling of chains, and, sounding high above all, the booming strokes as of some huge hammer.
What work was being carried on down there in the bowels of the hills? Seymour wondered. Was it the making of weapons for the use of the savages? His musings broke off short, as a dark form flitted across the passage ahead of him. For an instant he thought his presence was discovered, and that he particularly wished to avoid until he had found his friends; but the savage disappeared as silently as he had come, and once more Seymour breathed freely. The encounter taught him the necessity of haste, however, and he pressed on with increased speed.
His jewel—without which he would have been in total darkness, save for the occasional flashes of flame which leapt up from the side galleries—he could not dispense with, yet he knew that its brilliant light would betray his presence in these dismal caverns should any passing savage sight it. And the alarm once given, farewell to all hope of accomplishing his mission. In a moment he would be surrounded by a shrieking horde of savages thirsting for his blood.
He did not think that—strange, unearthly figure as he looked in his gleaming mail—the wolf-men, in their barbarous ignorance, would probably take him for a supernatural being, some demi-god who had fallen from his place, and had entered their haunts with intent to destroy them.
Yet such was the case; for, of a sudden, rounding a curve in the passage, he came full upon a savage, who at sight of him dropped flat upon his face, moaning with terror. What to do with the creature Seymour did not know. Natural prudence suggested that he should silence him for ever; but all the chivalry in his nature revolted against the idea of killing him in cold blood.
The decision was mercifully taken out of his hands, however. As he stood considering what course to pursue, the moaning of the wolf-man ceased. Stooping, Seymour discovered that he was dead. The superstitious terror inspired by the baronet’s appearance had proved too much for the savage.
“It’s saved me a nasty job,” Seymour muttered as he resumed his progress; “I should have been obliged to kill him, or he’d have raised the very deuce in a few seconds.”
Some hundred yards further a brilliant flare came into view, and the baronet at once conjectured that he was nearing his goal.
And so it proved. Within a few moments he stood before a cell, across the doorway of which stretched a barrier of fire. His armour saved him somewhat from the heat, so that he was able to approach fairly close to the flaming wall.
For a while he could see nothing within the cell beyond; but, as his eyes became more accustomed to the glare, he made out three figures standing motionless against the wall.
“Mervyn!” he called softly, and at the word one of the figures moved.
“Mervyn!” he repeated louder.
“Who calls?” came the weary reply.
“I, Seymour!” the baronet answered.
“Seymour!” in an incredulous whisper, “how can that be?”
“Never mind that now. Tell me how this fire dodge is worked, and soon have you out of that.”
“It’s William right enough,” Haverly’s voice returned, “and I guess he was never more welcome than at the present moment. Just enlighten him how the fire trick works, professor.”
“There is a knob in the floor somewhere there,” Mervyn explained. “Nordhu stamped upon it to raise the flames. If you were to pull it——”
Almost before the words had left his lips Seymour had found the knob he mentioned, a small, round projection in the rocky floor. Grasping it, he gave a mighty tug, and immediately the fire disappeared into its trench, leaving the cell open.
“Jupiter!” gasped Silas as the baronet crossed the threshold, “wherever did you get that rig-out?”
“Explanations must wait,” Seymour returned, rapidly forcing the chains which secured the captives to the wall.
“Where’s Wilson?” he asked an instant later, as he observed that the engineer was absent.
“Heaven alone knows!” replied the scientist. “The priest’s still got him hypnotised, and he’s taken him off somewhere.”
“Hypnotised!” exclaimed Seymour. “Ah, yes. I remember you told me before that Nordhu was a hypnotist. But, wherever Wilson is, we must find him. See here, I have brought some weapons”—unslinging them from his back as he spoke—“do you and Haverly take a sword apiece and make your way out through the temple. Chenobi and I will seek for the engineer.”
At first the two comrades demurred a little at this order, but, on Seymour pointing out that four would be far more likely to attract notice than two, they consented to this arrangement; and, with their weapons ready for action, strode off down the passage. Then the baronet, handing his axe and shield to his Ayuti friend, armed himself with another of the swords, and the twain left the cell. An instant they paused to raise the barrier of fire again by stamping upon the knob that the escape of the prisoners might not be so readily discovered. This done, they moved off on their errand.
As they went, Chenobi, in low tones, gave his friend an account of the method of his capture, telling how Nordhu had cast a spell upon him while he fought at the head of the steps.
“Which road shall we take?” Seymour asked, as they came to the mouth of a gallery.
“Let us try this,” Chenobi answered, and, with that, they passed into the tunnel. In silence they strode onward now, fully realising the dangerous nature of their enterprise. What Seymour had hitherto accomplished was mere child’s play to the task upon which he and the Ayuti were now set. They were about to penetrate into the heart of the wolf-men’s caverns, to enter the busy thoroughfares through which flowed the life of the savage community, and on a quest apparently as hopeless as ever one could be.
The clanging noises grew louder and louder as they advanced, but Seymour noticed with some astonishment that Chenobi seemed not at all surprised at the queer sounds. Did he know the nature of the work which was being carried on? The baronet was about to put the question, when the king pulled up, pointing ahead with his axe.
Far away down the passage rose a red glare, and amid it flitted numerous dark, grotesque figures.
“Have a care!” Chenobi warned in a whisper, as they resumed their way. Warily they crept forward, step by step, towards the light, unseen by the ghoulish creatures who passed to and fro bearing huge burdens.
Reaching the end of the tunnel, the two men crouched there a while, Seymour marvelling at the scene before him. It was stupendous, amazing! A vast cavern, immense beyond description, seeming to stretch away into infinite distance, all ablaze with a crimson glow which burst from the mouth of a yawning pit; and in the midst of it—a medley of flying rods and clanging levers—loomed a machine, indistinct by reason of the rapidity of its motion, and vaster than aught Seymour had ever seen before.
To and from this miracle of mechanism toiled a multitude of wolf-men, each staggering beneath a mighty load. In the glare from the pit they looked like demons, the illusion being heightened by the weird cries to which they gave utterance, and which rang high above the clash and rattle of the machinery.
“See!” roared Chenobi suddenly, his voice almost lost in the din of the clanging levers, “our friend!”
Across the floor, walking as one dazed, came Wilson. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and in his hand he held a hammer of curious make.
“Wilson!” Seymour almost screamed the word in his eagerness to attract the notice of his friend; but the lad strode on, utterly oblivious of the close proximity of the two who had come to save him.
“Wilson! Tom”
Still no sign from the engineer. Like one walking in his sleep, he moved on over the floor of the cavern. Then Seymour did a bold thing. Rising from his concealment, he stepped into the glare after his friend, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.
At the touch the lad swung round sharply, and the light of intellect came back into his dull eyes.
“Seymour.” His lips framed the word, but no sound passed them, and he staggered as though about to fall.
“Steady, old man,” cried the baronet, supporting him to the mouth of the passage. Each instant he expected to hear a yell from the savages, telling that his presence was discovered. But they appeared too intent upon their work to note his movements, and hope rose high within him that he would be able to get his friend away unobserved.
“We have succeeded,” he burst out rapturously to Chenobi, as he rejoined him.
“Not so,” thundered a voice behind him; “by Ramouni, ye have failed!”
Quick as thought Seymour turned. Almost at his shoulder, a grin of malignant triumph making his features fiend-like in their expression, stood Nordhu, priest of the wolf-men.