Authors: George England
And though he could catch no sound in that rising, falling,
ever-roaring tumult of the flame, he knew the patriarch, with some
vague and distant remnant of the old-time and vanished religion of the
world, was striving to pray.
Stern's eyes met the girl's. Neither could speak, for she, too, was
gagged with a rough band of fabric which cruelly cut her beautiful,
her tender mouth. At sight of her humiliation and her pain, the man's
heart leaped hotly; he strained against his bonds till the veins
swelled, and with eyes of terrible rage and hate stared at Kamrou.
But the chief's gaze was now fixed insolently upon Beatrice. She, as
she stood there, stripped even of her revolver and cartridge-belt,
hands bound behind her, hair disheveled, had caught his barbarous
fancy. And now in his look Stern saw the kindling of a savage passion
so ardent, so consuming, that the man's heart turned sick within him.
"Ten thousand times better she should die!" thought he, racked at the
thought of what might be. "Oh, God! If I only had my revolver for a
single minute now! One shot for Kamrou—one for Beatrice—and after
that, nothing would matter; nothing!"
Came a disturbance in the Folk. Heads craned; a murmur of voices rose.
The patriarch, no longer trembling, but with his head held proudly up,
both hands outstretched, had stepped into the circle. And now,
advancing toward Kamrou, he spoke in quick and eager sentences—he
gestured at the engineer, raised his hand on high, bowed and stepped
back.
And all at once a wild, harsh, swelling chorus of cries arose; every
face turned toward Stern; the engineer, amazed, knew not what all this
meant, but to the ultimate drop in the arteries he pledged his
fighting-blood to one last, bitter struggle.
Silence again.
Kamrou had not stirred. Still his great hands rested on his knees; but
a thin, venomous smile lengthened his lips. He, too, looked at the
engineer, who gave the stare back with redoubled hate. Tense grew the
expectation of the Folk.
"What the devil now?" thought Stern, tautening event muscle for the
expected attack.
But attack there came none. Instead the patriarch asked a question of
those who stood near him; and hands now guided the old man toward the
place where Stern was standing, bound.
"O friend; O son!" exclaimed the old man when he had come close. "Now
hearken! For, verily, this is the only way!
"It is an ancient custom of the Merucaans that any man captive or
free, can ever challenge our chief, whosoever he be, to the
death-combat. If the chief wins, he remains chief. If he loses, the
victor takes his place. Many hundreds of years, I know not how long,
this has been our way. And many terrible combats have been seen here
among our people.
"Kamrou has said that you must die, the girl must be his prize. Only
one way remains to save her and yourself—you must struggle with
Kamrou. I have delivered to him your challenge already. Let fate
decide the issue!"
Everything seemed to whirl before Stern's eyes, and for a moment all
grew black. In his ears sounded a great roaring, louder than the roar
of the huge flame. Quick questions flashed through his mind. Fight
Kamrou? But how? A duel with revolvers? Spears? Maces?
He knew not. Only he knew that in whatever way the ancient combats
must be held he was ready!
"You affirm the challenge I have given in your behalf?" demanded the
patriarch. "If you accept it, nod."
Stern nodded with all the vigor of his terrible rage. Kamrou's eyes
narrowed; his smile grew fixed and hard, but in it Stern perceived the
easy contempt of a bully toward any chance weakling. And through him
thrilled a passion of hate such as he had never dreamed in all his
life.
Came a quick word from the patriarch. Somebody was slashing the
engineer's bonds. All at once the ropes gave way. Free and unfettered,
he stepped forward, stretching his arms, opening and closing his
cramped, numbed hands, out into the ring toward Kamrou, the chief.
Off came the gag. Stern could speak at last.
His first word was to the girl.
"Beatrice!" he called to her, "there's one chance left! I'm to fight
this ruffian here. If I beat him we're free—we own this tribe, body
and soul! If not—"
He broke off short. Even the possibility was not to be considered.
She looked at him and understood his secret thought. Well the man knew
that Beatrice would die by her own hand before Kamrou should have his
way with her.
The patriarch spoke again.
"My son," said he, "there is but one way for all these combats. It has
been so these many centuries. By the smooth edge of the great boiling
pit the fights are held. Man against man it is. Verily, you two with
only your hands must fight! He who loses—"
"Goes into the pit?"
The old man nodded.
"There is no other way," he answered. "The new, terrible weapons you
cannot use. The arrows, slings and spears are all forbidden by ancient
custom. It is the naked grasp of the hands, the strong muscles of two
men against each other! So we decide our chief!
"I, alas, can help you in nothing. I am powerless, weak, old. Were I
to interfere now and try to change this way, my own body would only go
to the pit, and my old bones hang, headless, in the place of captives
and criminals. All lies in your hands, my son!
"All; everything! Our whole future, and the future of the world! If
you lose, the wonderful machine will be destroyed and all its metal
forged into spears and battle axes. Barbarism will conquer; darkness
will continue, and war, and death. All will be forever lost!
"The last ray of hope, of light, from the great past of the upper
world, will vanish forever! Your own death, my son, and the fate of
the girl, will be as nothing beside the terrible catastrophe, if you
are beaten.
"For, verily, it will be the death of the world!
"And now, my son, now go to battle—to battle for this woman, for
yourself, for us, for the future of our race, for everything!
"Kamrou is ready. The pit is boiling.
"Go now! Fight—and—and—"
His voice was lost in a great tumult of cries, yells, shouts. Spears
brandished. Came a sound of shields struck with clubs and axes. The
copper drums again began to throb and clang.
Kamrou had risen from his seat.
Stern knew the supreme moment of his life was at hand.
Kamrou flung off his long and heavy cloak. He stood there in
the flamelight, broad-chested, beautifully muscled, lean of hip, the
perfect picture of a fighting man. Naked he was, save for his
loin-cloth. And still he smiled.
Stern likewise stripped away his own cloak. Clad only like the chief,
he faced him.
"Well, now," said he, "here goes! And may the best man win!"
Kamrou waved the circle back at one side. It opened, revealing the
great pit to southward of the flame. Stern saw the vapors rising,
bluish in that strange light, from the perpetual boiling of the black
waters in its depths. Oddly enough, even at that moment a stray bit of
scientific thought nicked into his consciousness—the memory that
under compressed air water boils only at very high temperatures. Down
here, in this great pressure, the water must easily be over three
hundred degrees to seethe like that.
He, too, smiled.
"So much the better," thought he. "The hotter, the sooner it's all
over for the man who goes!"
Up rose numbers of the two-pronged torches. Stern got confused
glimpses of the Folk—he saw the terrible, barbaric eagerness with
which they now anticipated this inevitable tragedy of at least one
human death in its most awful form.
Beatrice he no longer saw. Where was she? He knew not. But in a long,
last cry of farewell he raised his voice. Then, with Kamrou, he strode
toward the steaming, boiling pit in the smooth rock floor.
Two tall men broke through the tensely eager throng. In their hands
they bore each a golden jar, curiously shaped and chiseled, and
bearing a whimsical resemblance to a coffee-urn.
"What the devil now?" wondered Stern, eager to be at work. He saw at
once the meaning of the jars. One of the bearers approached Kamrou.
The other came to him. They raised the vessels, and over the
antagonists' bare bodies poured a thin, warm stream of some
rank-smelling oil. All over the skin they rubbed it, till the bodies
glistened strangely in the flamelight. Then, with muttered words he
could not catch, they withdrew.
All seemed confused and vague to Stern as in a painful dream. Images
and pictures seemed to present themselves to his brain. The light, the
fog and heat, the rising stream, the roaring of the flame, and over
all the throb-throb-throb of those infernal copper drums worked
powerfully on his senses.
Already he seemed to feel the grip of Kamrou, the pangs of the hard
struggle, the sudden plunge into the vat of scalding death.
With a strong effort he flung off these fancies and faced his sneering
foe, who now—his red-wealed face puckered into a malicious
grin—stood waiting.
Stern all at once saw the patriarch once more.
"Go, son!" cried the old man. "Now is the moment! When the drums
cease, lay hold of him!"
Even as he spoke, the great drums slowed their beat, then stopped.
Stern, with a final thought of Beatrice, advanced.
All the advantage lay with Kamrou. Familiar with the place was he, and
with the rules of this incredible contest. Everywhere about him stood
crowding hundreds of his Foll; owing him their allegiance, hostile to
the newcomer, the man from another world. Out of all that multitude
only two hearts' beat in sympathy and hope for him; only two human
beings gave him their thoughts and their support—a helpless girl; a
feeble, blind old man.
Kamrou stood taller, too, than Stern, and certainly bulked heavier. He
was in perfect condition, while Stern had not yet fully recovered from
the fight in the Abyss, from the great change in living conditions
there in the depths, and—more important still—from the harsh blow of
the rock that had numbed his elbow on the beach.
His arms and hands, too, still felt the cramping of the cords that had
bound him. He needed a few hours yet to work them into suppleness and
perfect strength. But respite there was none.
He must fight now at once under all handicaps, or die—and in his
death yield Beatrice to the barbaric passions of the chief.
Oddly enough there recurred to his mind, as he drew near the waiting,
sneering Kamrou, that brave old war-cry of the Greeks of Xenophon as
they hurled themselves against the vastly greater army of the
Persians—"Zeus Sotor kai Nike!—Zeus Savior and victory!"
The shout burst from his lips. Forward he ran, on to the battle where
either he or the barbarian must perish in the boiling pit—forward,
to what? To victory—to death?
Kamrou stood fast till Stern's right hand had almost gripped his
throat—for Stern, the challenger, had to deliver the first attack.
But suddenly he slipped aside; and as Stern swerved for him, made a
quick leap.
With an agility, a strength and skill tiger-like and marvelous, he
caught Stern round the waist, whirled him and would have dashed him
toward the pit. But already the engineer's right arm was under
Kamrou's left; the right hand had him by the throat, and Kamrou's head
went sharply back till the vertebrae strained hard.
Eel-like, elusive, oiled, the chief broke the hold, even as he flung a
leg about one of Stern's.
A moment they swayed, tugging, straining, panting. In the old days
Stern would not for one moment have been a match for this barbaric
athlete, but the long months of life close to nature had hardened him
and toughened every fiber. And now a stab of joy thrilled through him
as he realized that in his muscles lay at least a force to balk the
savage for a little while.
To Stern came back his wrestling lore of the very long ago, the days
of Harvard, in the dim, vanished past. He freed his left arm from the
gorilla-like grip of Kamrou, and, quick as lightning, got a
jiu-jitsu stranglehold.
The savage choked, gurgled, writhed; his face grew purple with
stagnant blood. Then he leaped, dragging the engineer with him; they
fell, rolled, twisted—and Stern's hold was broken.
A great shout rose as Kamrou struggled up and once more seized the
American. He raised him like a child, and took a step, two, three,
toward the infernal caldron in the rock floor.
Stern, desperate, wrenched his oiled arms clear. A second later they
had closed again about the chief's throat—the one point of attack
that Stern had chosen for his best.
The barbarian faltered. Grunting, panting, he shook the engineer as a
dog shakes a rat, but the hold was secure. Kamrou's great arms wrapped
themselves in a formidable "body-scissors" grip; Stern felt the breath
squeezed from his body.
Then suddenly the chief's oily heel slipped on the smooth-worn rock,
not ten feet from the lip of the bubbling vat—and for the second time
both fell.
This time Stern was atop. Over they rolled, once, twice, straining
with madness. Stern's thumbs were sunk deep in the throat of the
barbarian at either side. As he gouged harder, deeper, he felt the
terrific pounding of the chief's jugular. Hot on his own neck panted
the choking breath of Kamrou. Oh, could he only hold that grip a
minute longer—even a half-minute!
But already his own breath was gone. A buzzing filled his ears;
sparkling lights danced, quivering before his eyes. The blood seemed
bursting his brain; far off and vague he heard the droning of the
flame, the shouts and cries of the great horde of watchers.
A whiff of steam—hot, damp, terrifying—passed across his face, in
which the veins were starting from the oily skin. His eyes, half
closed, bulged from the sockets. He knew the pit was very close now;
dully he heard its steady bubbling.