Chapter VII: The Fighting Traveks

Grandon halted. There was nothing else for him to do. As he did so, the leader ordered his men to lower their torks, for it was plain to be seen that he was unarmed. The leader advanced toward him.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Are you friend or foe of Uxpo, and what do you in these woods at this hour, unarmed and alone?"

The Earth-man first thought of giving the name of Prince Thaddor, and was on the point of doing so, but checked himself in time when he remembered that these men apparently did not know him, and replied:

"I am Grandon of Earth."

"Grandon of--Erg?" said the leader. "I have never heard of that country. It must be a great way from here. You wear the color of royalty, yet you travel alone and unarmed. It is strange."

He turned and held a whispered council with his men for a few minutes. Then he swung on Grandon.

"My men are of the same opinion as I," he snapped. "You have not told us the truth, and you masquerade in the color of royalty. However, that is not what principally concerns us. We wish to know if you are friend or foe of Uxpo."

Grandon thought quickly before he replied,

"Since I know nothing of Uxpo or its people, I cannot truthfully say that I am either."

"Very well. You may go your way in peace if you so desire, or you may remain with us by demonstrating your fitness to associate with the Fighting Traveks. We have no weaklings in our ranks. No doubt you are aware that, in the shadows about us, lurk the hahoes, and hundreds of other man-eating monsters for which, unarmed, you would be a most tempting and easily dispatched morsel. Make your decision quickly.

"In what way may I prove my fitness to bivouac with the Fighting Traveks?" asked Grandon.

The leader seemed surprised.

"Indeed you must hail from a far country," he said. "There is only one way and that is by demonstrating your ability with the scarbo. You may choose which one of us you shall fight. All are expert scarbomen, with many dead warriors to their credit."

"In that case, I choose the scarbo, and shall feel honored if you will consent to be my opponent," said Grandon boldly.

If the leader was either pleased or displeased by this decision he gave no sign. One of the men handed a scarbo to Grandon and a circle was formed.

* * * * *

As he grasped the hilt of his weapon and stood facing his opponent, Grandon tried to recall the various tricks of Zarovian swordsmanship that had been taught him by Vorn Vangal, but it seemed that they had been totally obliterated from his memory. Instead, he beheld a vision of Le Blanc, his old fencing master, who had instructed him in his early youth.

Fencing, as it is practiced on Earth, was an unknown art in Zarovia. The scarbo, as its shape indicated, was primarily a cutting weapon, and the point was seldom used in combat.

How the Earth-man was enabled to parry the bewildering rain of blows that followed the first clash of metal, he never knew. For several minutes he fought as one in a trance, often escaping the death blow by the merest fraction of a second. It seemed that some alert, subconscious force from within directed his sword-arm.

Gradually, however, he regained complete control of his faculties. He found himself combining the sword-play of Vorn Vangal with the fencing technique of Le Blanc. A look of bewilderment came over the face of his opponent as Grandon made several quick thrusts, any one of which would have terminated the duel had he held a straight-bladed sword. It was this change in the style of fighting that turned the tide of battle in Grandon's favor. He was not slow to follow up his advantage, and shortly after, a well directed lunge stretched the leader of the Fighting Traveks at his feet.

Two men picked up their fallen commander and carried him to a couch of moss which had been prepared near by. He was breathing faintly, and one of the band, evidently a surgeon, stated that while the wound was not necessarily a mortal one, the man would not wield a scarbo for many days to come, if ever.

Then, to Grandon's surprise, a personage who was apparently an officer of rank, came before him and saluted, while every man in the band stood at attention.

"What is the will of our new mojak?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I don't quite get your meaning," answered Grandon.

"You have overcome our mojak--our leader--in single combat. By so doing you have won the right to command in his place. I am the second in command. I await your orders."

"Let each man go about his camp duties as before. We will remain here for the night. See that your former captain has the best of medical attention."

The lieutenant saluted. "Did you say your name was Grandon of--Urgg? I cannot pronounce it!"

Grandon thought quickly, remembering, for some reason or other, a few tag-ends of Latin. Earth--_terra_. "Well, you may call me Grandon of Terra," he suggested. There was no use in making his leadership needlessly difficult for the Fighting Traveks, simply because of their habits of speech. Besides, Grandon of Terra had a ring to it--it could, he reflected as he looked about this band of fighters, become a resounding war-cry.

"Grandon of Terra!" the lieutenant repeated. "We salute you."

In a moment the band was busily preparing for the bivouac as if nothing of consequence had happened. The men were divided into three groups, one to prepare a shelter, one to bring moss for couches, and a third to build fires and cook the evening meal.

It was some time before Grandon could compose himself for slumber, and it seemed to him that he had slept but a minute or two when a deafening din assailed his ears. He sat up, bewildered for an instant, while a hail of tork bullets pattered against the tree-trunk. All about him men were fighting, shouting, cursing, groaning.

"What is up?" he asked the man nearest him.

"It's the Reabonians," replied the man, stanching the blood from a cut in his shoulder. "We are surrounded by the soldiers of the princess."