There was nothing for it but to climb the stairway, and this they did, only to be spied by the foremost guard. He dashed after them, calling his companions to follow, and paid for his temerity with a split skull when he came up with them at the fourth level. His comrades, finding his body a moment later, set up an angry shout and redoubled their speed.
Before they reached the seventh level, Grandon was forced to turn and engage the foremost guard. The man proved a poor swordsman, and a quick thrust through the heart sent him back on his fellows, momentarily impeding their progress.
Taking advantage of this opportunity, Grandon turned and again fled up the stairs with Vernia. They passed the eighth level before noticing that they were in a narrow tower overlooking the sloping roof. The tenth level was the last, and Grandon thrust Vernia into the tower room before turning to face their pursuers. They were fairly trapped.
The first foeman, a huge coarse-featured giant, felt the weight of Grandon’s steel and toppled back with a groan. Another leaped over his body and took his place, only to go down before the bewildering swordplay of the Earthman. Then they tried rushing him two at a time, but as two men could not wield their scarbos simultaneously in the narrow passage, they quickly shared the fate of the others.
When they could no longer mount over their fallen comrades, they withdrew a little way and Grandon judged from the murmur of their voices that they were formulating another plan of attack. He took advantage of the lull in the fighting to strip a tork and belt from the nearest man. Then he lay down at the head of the stair with tork leveled and waited.
Suddenly he heard a familiar whining sound, followed by a terrific explosion that shook the floor. A mattork projectile! Could it be that they were shelling the tower? There followed another and another in quick succession —then a continuous roar, as though a hundred mattork cannon had gone into action.
Vernia called excitedly from the tower room.
“An army approaches through the forest. I can see their uniforms through the trees and they look like Fighting Traveks. Ah, they are Fighting Traveks! A company of them is charging through the camp while their mattorks shell the castle. A small band of men in Albine armor fight with them in the front ranks. Destho’s troops were momentarily thrown into confusion, but now they are rallying! Oh, they will kill all the Traveks, for they outnumber them ten to one.
“Can you see who leads the Traveks?” asked Grandon, not daring to leave his post.
“He is a big man with a gray beard. He towers above his men, urging them on to battle with a voice that roars deep and strong!”
“Bordeen!” exclaimed Grandon. So the doughty commander had disobeyed orders. Evidently Oro and his twenty marsh-men fought with them.
“The army of Destho has rallied,” continued Vernia. “They are closing in on the Traveks from two sides. They are I butchering them—it is terrible. Now the Traveks are retreating. They are cutting their way back to their comrades, but already half of their number has fallen. Now a new company charges to their rescue while the mattorks sweep the lines on both sides of them. The survivors have succeeded in reaching their comrades, but the army of Destho is surrounding them.”
“The fools—the utter fools,” moaned Grandon.
Again Vernia cried out in amazement.
“A new army approaches from the south. The camp is deserted on that side, all having gone to surround the Traveks on the north. A host of warriors in Albine armor is charging across the clearing. The army of Destho is rushing back to engage there and the men on the walls shower bullets on them without effect. They have clashed with Destho’s men and cut them down like reeds. Not a single warrior in brown armor has fallen. Now the men on the wall are training mattorks on them. The mattork projectiles tear great holes in their ranks, yet they forge steadily ahead. I can see their banners now. They are inscribed with the word `Granterra!”
“It must be Joto,” said Grandon. “Yet how could he have learned of our presence here?”
“It is Joto,” cried Vernia, joyously. “He is fighting in the front ranks with his visor raised, cheering his men between blows and laughing as he fights.”
“There is not another leader like him.”
“Now the Traveks have rallied. They are shelling the batteries on the walls. They are cutting their way through the army of Destho.”
“Would that I could help them!” cried Grandon.
“More warriors in brown armor are approaching,” continued Vernia. “They are accompanied by an army of sabits. The men have mounted on the backs of the sabits and are charging the castle. The sabits are carrying them up and over the walls which they could not have scaled unaided. They are swarming everywhere. The sabits crush the defenders in their forceps and the mounted men cut them down with their swords. Now the walls and the courtyard have been cleared of defenders! The gate has been thrown open and they are storming the castle itself; the Traveks fighting side by side with the armored warriors.”
Grandon was so engrossed in Vernia’s description of the battle that he momentarily relaxed his vigil. He nearly paid for his carelessness with his life, for a tork bullet sang uncomfortably close to his ear, and a new company of guardsmen charged up the stairs. As he quickly returned the fire he heard a voice—the voice of Destho—on the level below. “Remember. Ten thousand acres of choice land to the man who slays him, but harm not the woman.”
“Go back, fools,” shouted Grandon. “Dead men have no use for land.”
But neither his threat nor his bullets could stay them. The men who surged up the steps fired their torks as they cane and carried long-bladed spears. He was compelled to retreat to the tower room where he found momentary safety by barring the steel door.
There was a shout of baffled rage, and a rain of blows sounded on the door. “It will hold them off for awhile—a very short while, I fear.”
He was startled by a scream from Vernia. Turning, he beheld the ugly head of a red-mouthed sabit, peering in at the window. Behind it appeared the spiny crest of an Albine-armored warrior. Both squeezed through the narrow window and the warrior threw back his visor.
“Tholto!” exclaimed Grandon and Vernia simultaneously.
Leaping from his savage mount, the marsh-man prostrated himself before them, right hand extended palm downward.
“Tholto, your slave,” he said simply.
Grandon, noting that the steel door was sagging from the terrific blows of those without, leaped forward with scarbo ready. Tholto followed, drawing his sword, and, as he did so, speaking a few words to the sabit in the tone language. The creature responded by vibrating its antennae and took a place between them, directly in front of the door, where it waited expectantly with its head cocked to one side, much as a terrier waits for the leap of a cornered rat.
The door fell inward with a rending crash and a shout of triumph went up from the attackers. Then the sabit leaped, snapping to right and left with its powerful forceps and shearing a man in twain with each snap. With Grandon swinging his scarbo on one side and Tholto his sharp Albine sword on the other, the landing was cleared in a twinkling.
The bloodthirsty sabit plowed on down the stairway, and the death shrieks of the fleeing guards were terrible to hear as it caught up with them one by one.
Grandon searched for Destho among the corpses that littered the landing, but he was not among them. Evidently he had escaped or was numbered among the sabit’s victims, whose shrieks still sounded from below at intermittent intervals.
A ringing cheer floated up from the courtyard, and Grandon looked down from the tower window. Far below him he saw a straggling line of Destho’s soldiers filing out from the castle, weaponless, and with their hands held out before then in token of submission. A detachment of Traveks escorted them on one side, while a company of the brown-armored soldiers of Granterra