The Greatest Works of Otis Adelbert Kline - 18 Books in One Edition. Otis Adelbert Kline
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“We have no definite knowledge of its location, but the belief that it lies to the south has arisen from the fact that pirate fleets, leaving a scene of pillage, have almost invariably been observed to sail southward.”
“I believe my flyers can locate it,” said Zinlo, toying with his kova cup.
“It’s a big world,” boomed the gruff Aardvan, “and it will take a deal of flying, sailing, and marching to explore it all.”
“Perhaps Mernerum will help us,” suggested Ad.
“I take it,” replied Grandon, “that you are unaware of the strained, or rather severed relations between Mernerum and Reabon. This morning I ordered diplomatic relations severed with Zanaloth of Mernerum, because of his affront to my wife when she passed through his dominions some time ago.”
“We can do well enough without that dissolute, old rake,” said Zinlo. “But we’re keeping you from that honeymoon trip, Grandon. I understand that your expedition was ready to march when Ad and Aardvan arrived.”
“We’ll give it up,” Grandon assured them. “I’m sure Vernia won’t mind for such, a worthy cause.”
“See here,” Ad protested. We don’t want any such sacrifice. Allow us to take a few of your ships for the present, and perhaps some warriors and munitions in case a landing party is required. Go on your honeymoon. Later, when we’ve discovered the port of peril, we’ll notify you, and let you in at the kill.”
“But your daughter has been stolen. Every man on this planet, worthy of the name, should be willing to assist in the search.”
Ad sighed deeply, musingly. “Alas,” he replied, “I fear all search for her will be vain. She has been gone for so long now that I can only hope to avenge her. But, of course, I, her father, shall continue to search.” He arose, and continued: “My friends and allies, we have imposed long enough on this patient, young bridegroom. I’m sure you will all agree with me when I say that we don’t want his help until after the honeymoon. Let him lend us a few ships and men now, and we’ll call on him later.”
“Those are precisely my sentiments,” roared the deep-voiced Aardvan, also rising.
“And mine,” echoed Zinlo. “And so, Grandon, we’ll go down and join the group outside that’s waiting to see you off. By the way, where are you bound?”
“It was a toss-up whether to go to the wild mountain fastness of Uxpo, or enjoy the bathing, fishing, and boating of the Azpok coast. But the seashore won, and we chose a camping-place on a wild and unfrequented part of the coast.”
“Splendid! We’ll see you outside.”
A half-hour later, speeded by an immense multitude that had lined the streets of Reabon to see them off, Grandon and his young bride, Vernia, Princess of Reabon, stepped into the waiting, one-wheeled motor vehicle, and with their guard of Fighting Traveks, left for the coast.
In the imperial tent of scarlet silk, decked with cloth-of-gold insignia and edged with golden fringe, Grandon opened his eyes as the first faint dawnlight appeared, for he had planned an early morning fishing-trip. He arose and dressed silently, so as not to disturb the slumber of his bride, but she heard the slight clank of his sword as he was about to step through the doorway, and wakened.
“Bob.”
He turned as she softly pronounced the name by which he had been known to his friends on Earth, the name he had taught her to call him and which he loved to hear her say with her quaint, Reabonian accent.
With three steps he was at her bedside. She smiled up at him the pink and white oval of her face framed in the wealth of golden ringlets that all but concealed her silken pillow. Then she held up both arms.
“Would you leave without kissing me good-bye?” she asked reproachfully.
Contritely, he knelt beside the bed and took her in his arms.
“I did not wish to disturb your morning sleep my dear,” he said, and added: “I was only going out for a little while—to have a try at a killer-norgal. I’m told they bite best at daybreak.”
She took his face between her palms, drew it down to hers, and their lips met.
“Never leave me,” she said, “without first kissing me good-bye. Who knows how long any separation may be? Even though we may expect to be parted for but a few moments, the hand of Providence may intervene and separate us for a long time—perhaps for eternity.”
He buried his face in the soft curve of her neck as she ran her fingers through his black curls. Nor did he dream, as he held her thus for a few moments, how soon the dire prophecy in her words was to be fulfilled.
“Ill be back in a jiffy,” he said, as he stood erect a few moments later.
She watched him, love and pride in her eyes, as he strode through the door. Handsome, strong, and gentle, he was an emperor—every inch of him.
Throwing a shimmering wrap of scarlet material around her, she went to the door of her tent to watch him depart. Two guards saluted stiffly as she appeared. They were members of a company of Grandon’s crack troops, the Fighting Traveks from Uxpo. Each was armed with a tork, a rapid fire weapon that shot needle-like glass projectiles, a scarbo a cutting and thrusting weapon with a basket hilt and a blade curved like that of a scimitar, and a long-bladed spear.
Vernia watched him for a few moments as he stood beside his small fishing- boat in earnest conversation with Huba, mojak or captain of the company of Traveks who were guarding the camp. Six men stood on each side of the little craft, holding it’s nose into the breakers. In the prow of the boat was Kantar the Gunner, carefully shielding his mattork—a weapon resembling a tork, but of considerably heavier caliber and longer range, and mounted on a tripod —from the spray that was breaking over the bow, by holding a waterproof silk cover over it.
The rest of the crew consisted of six oarsmen, a man who had charge of the sail, and another who held the tiller.
Having finished his conversation with Huba, Grandon leaped into the craft and the twelve men who were standing in the water launched her. When they reached water up to their necks, they let go, and the rowers plied their oars vigorously. Presently the sail went up, and the little boat tacked into the breeze which was just lively enough to stir the fog that hung low over the surface of the Azpok.
The princess watched the boat until the mists had swallowed it up, then turned and re-entered her tent. But scarcely, it seemed, had she crept once more beneath her warm covers, and closed her eyes in sleep, before there sounded outside the crack of a mattork, the shouts of men, and the clank of weapons, followed by a fusillade of shots that told her the camp was being attacked by a considerable body of armed men.
Jumping out of bed, Vernia called to the guard outside.
“What is it?” she asked. “What has happened?”
“Pirates, Your Majesty!” replied the guard excitedly. “We are attacked by the raiders of the coast.”
She dressed as swiftly as possible, buckling the jeweled belt which held her small tork and scarbo around her slender waist. Meanwhile, the sounds of fighting drew closer and closer to the scarlet tent.
As soon as she was dressed, Vernia drew her scarbo and stepped fearlessly from the tent. Descended from a thousand fighting Torrogos, or Emperors, of Reabon, she was fully as brave as her mighty husband, even though she lacked his strength and skill in swordsmanship. With flashing eyes she surveyed the scene before her. Tugging at their anchors, less than a quarter of a mile from land, were a score of vessels which she instantly recognized from pictures she had seen as the ships of the dreaded yellow pirates, the scourge of the Azpok Ocean. Their peculiar sails branching out on either side of the mast like the wings of bats instantly identified them. And coming rapidly shoreward were no less than fifty boats loaded with armed men, each mounting a mattork in the bow. But this was not all, for converging on the camp from both sides and the rear was an immense