The Greatest Works of Otis Adelbert Kline - 18 Books in One Edition. Otis Adelbert Kline

and the tork and mattork fire from all directions was rapidly decimating the ranks of those who remained.

      A dozen of the boats were sent down by Huba’s mattork gunners before the landing-party reached the shore. As their prows grounded, the remaining pirates leaped out and charged the camp, and it was the signal for a general advance from all directions.

      The camp had been guarded by two hundred men, but by the time of the charge, a scant forty remained. They formed a hollow square around the Princess, and met the shock of the attack with a resistance worthy of the traditions of the Fighting Traveks, though it was obvious from the beginning that there could be but one outcome.

      In the hand-to-hand fighting that followed there was no report of tork or mattork—only the clash of blades, the war-cries of the fighters, the groans of the wounded, and the shrieks of the dying. Vernia and Huba fought bravely with the others, time and again leaping into the gaps left by fallen men until the line could be closed. But they were waging a hopeless fight, and presently only the Princess and the mojak were left, fighting back to back. The latter, battling three adversaries at once, was suddenly cut down by a blow from one of the pirates, and Vernia was left alone. When a man leaped in from behind, pinioning her arms, her weapons were quickly taken from her.

      The looting of the camp was already in progress as she was dragged kicking and struggling, into one of the pirate boats. Everything in the camp was seized in the way of booty except the bodies of the fallen Traveks, and even these were stripped of their clothing, weapons, and accouterments. The pirates also took with them all of their own dead and wounded.

      Rowed to the largest of the looters’ vessels, Vernia was carried aboard and taken before an officer whose insignia proclaimed him romojak, or commander, of the fleet. Like most of the members of his race, he was short, scarcely taller than the Princess herself, but with an exceptionally long body and arms. His round, yellow face was seamed and wrinkled, and his equally round eyes, wide open and staring, were without irises. The pupils were perpendicular slits that opened and closed like those of felines. His short nose resembled the tip of a pig’s snout, and there were no teeth in the chinless mouth beneath it, from the corners of which drooled saliva reddened by the juice of the kerra, the spores of a narcotic, fungoid growth chewed almost incessantly by the yellow pirates. Nor was there a sign of beard, eyebrows, or hair on the face or head, the skin of his body being covered with a greasy exudation, evidently nature’s protection for these totally hairless people. Judged by the standards of his hairless, toothless race, he was probably not unhandsome. But to Vernia, facing him as his prisoner, he was a monstrosity.

      “I presume you are the Torroga of Reabon,” he said in Patoa, with the peculiar pronunciation that a lack of teeth induces.

      “You have already presumed too much,” replied Vernia, spiritedly. “For this day’s work, I can promise you the annihilation of the Yellow Pirates.”

      The gums of the romojak showed in a toothless grin. He expectorated a red stream of kerra juice, then turned to a short, bow-legged, pot-bellied mojak who stood beside him.

      “Do you hear that, San Thoy?” he mouthed sneeringly. “I, Thid Yet, Romojak of the navies of Huitsen, have presumed too much!”

      The mojak duplicated his kerra-stained grin.

      “The Huitsenni never presume too much,” he replied.

      “Well said, San Thoy,” approved the romojak. Then he addressed Vernia once more. “Your Majesty, the Huitsenni presume often, but never too much. Have they ever been beaten in battle? Has one of them ever been led to your court, a prisoner? Have their cities ever been found by pursuing battle fleets? Your Majesty is aware that history can answer but one word to these questions, and that word is: `No’.”

      “There is only one reason why it must be so answered,” replied Vernia. “Cowardice. You never attack unless your overwhelming numbers assure you of victory. For this reason you never lose battles or prisoners. Your cities have not been found because you are adepts at flight from an enemy. In this there is nothing of which to be proud.”

      “Your Majesty calls it `cowardice’,” said Thid Yet, “but we of the Huitsenni have a better word. We call it `cleverness’. However, I am not here to bandy words with you, nor dispute terms. You are my prisoner, captured not for myself, but for another. If you are reasonably docile and do not attempt to escape, you will be treated with gentleness and courtesy. If not— whatever misfortune befalls will be upon your own head.” He turned to the greasy, pot-bellied mojak beside him. “Take her to her cabin, San Thoy.”

Chapter 2. Grandon Pursues

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      Far out into the morning mists that shrouded the surface of the blue-gray Azpok, Grandon sailed in search of the largest and most ferocious of all Zorovian game fish—the killer-norgal. Fishing for the norgal was royal sport indeed, and fraught with great danger to the fisherman. Hunting a full- grown man-eating tiger with a lariat could be no more dangerous, and as often as not, the man who lacked skill fell a prey to the fish.

      Grandon had never seen a killer-norgal, and so when he felt a sharp tug at his trolling-line, and a magnificent specimen broke water, leaping high in the air and shaking its head to dislodge the hook, he had one of the greatest thrills that had ever come to him, intrepid adventurer though he was. Its body, covered with glistening blue scales and bristling with sharp spines, was about twenty-five feet in length. Its enormous jaws, when distended, revealed row upon row of sharp, back-curved teeth in a maw large enough to take in a dozen men at a single snap.

      Kantar the Gunner jerked the oily cover from his mattork, but before be could bring it to bear on the huge fish, it dived out of sight.

      Grandon kept a taut line on his quarry while the crew skillfully maneuvered the little craft to follow its eccentric and exceedingly swift motions as it dragged the boat farther and farther out to sea. After more than an hour of this, the struggles of the monster became slower, indicating that it was beginning to tire. During this time, it did not once expose itself to the deadly aim of the watchful Kantar.

      Suddenly, without warning, the line slackened, and although Grandon reeled in with all his might, he was unable to pull it taut. He thought at first that the fish had become unhooked, but the flash of a dorsal fin, for a moment visible above the waves and coming swiftly towards the boat, showed him the true situation. Kantar’s mattork spoke, and the fin disappeared, but it was not evident whether he had registered a hit.

      One of the older sailors, an experienced norgal fisherman, said:

      “Beware, Majesty. The killer is about to strike.”

      Dropping his tackle, Grandon seized an eighteen foot lance which lay along the gunwale beside him, and poised it expectantly. He had not long to wait, for the enormous jaws suddenly emerged from the water not ten feet from him. He plunged the keen point down the cavernous maw, and Kantar’s mattork spoke again and again, while the mighty jaws ground the thick shaft of tough serali wood into splinters. Hurling the useless butt from him, Grandon whipped out his sword, but he sheathed it again as the great spiny body turned over and floated belly up after a few convulsive flops. The blood which poured out through one of the gills showed that the lance point had found the heart, and several round holes through the head attested the marksmanship of Kantar.

      The sailors were making the prize fast, chattering and laughing all the while, when the keen-eared Kantar suddenly cried: “Listen, I hear shooting!”

      Every voice was instantly hushed, and there came, distinctly now, the sounds of a terrific bombardment from the north.

      “The camp is attacked,” cried an old sailor.

      “To the oars,” ordered Grandon, “and crowd all the sail on at once. Cut that fish loose. We must get there as soon as possible.”

      The huge, spiny carcass was cast adrift, and sails and oars were speedily put into use. Yet, it seemed to Grandon that the swift little boat, which fairly leaped over the