Hand in hand the boy and girl crept through the almost-deserted outskirts of the village, thankful that still virtually every member of the tribe was gathered around the council fire.
At first Ylana seemed little impressed by Tomar’s bravery and daring in entering the camp of the River People alone in order to free her, armed with but his knife. The reason for this was that at first she did not realize that he had accomplished this feat unaided But as they approached the last few huts, and still Jugrid her father had not appeared as she had expected him to, she turned wide eyes upon her companion.
Her repeated questions on this point at length elicited from the reluctant lips of the boy the information that he had indeed performed the daring rescue by himself. “Daring,” of course, is an editorial comment by the humble narrator of these events. Tomar himself would have stammered and blushed scarlet, had he been so unthinking as to apply the adjective in description of his exploit. The boy felt it immodest to praise one’s own actions, and claimed no particular valor for the deed. But Ylana was impressed, and it was always her way to show her true feelings, and to yield to impulse.
Therefore, when they had almost reached a place of safety, and only a few steps remained before they could put the village of the River People behind them and seek refuge among her father’s warriors, she came close to where the boy was standing and looked up into his face with eyes suddenly shy and demure.
They could, in fact, be described as “starry,” those eyes. And there was an expression in them of tenderness and wonder, the sort of expression which may be seen in the eyes of any young girl when she looks upon a young man whose appearance or demeanor or conduct are not displeasing to her.
“Tomar,” she breathed.
“What?” the boy murmured absently, peering about, his keen eyes probing the shadows. In the light of the many moons, which floated in the sky like enormous colored lanterns, it seemed to Ylana that she looked upon him for the very first time. And perhaps the moonlight, gleaming upon the long and supple muscles of his bare arms and shoulders and torso, made him seem different to her. Certainly the moonlight bronzed his features very handsomely, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the height of his brow, and the alert and capable seriousness wherewith he examined the darkness and weighed their chances of flight.
“Tomar,” she breathed again. And this time he turned his head to look at her. Their eyes met, their gaze mingled, and it was as if suddenly, by a magic older than magic, older than the world itself, each of them was able to look into the other’s heart.
Without hesitation, the boy put his strong arms around the girl and drew her to him. She nestled against his breast, her cheek warm upon his heart, and she seemed to fit into his embrace so perfectly that it was as if the two of them had been designed for this moment.
No longer mocking or fiercely contemptuous, the eyes of Ylana looked dreamily into his earnest and probing gaze, and her being was suffused with an emotion so tremulous, so warm, so overpowering, that it was a revelation to her that she had never felt it before.
She raised her lips to be kissed and he lowered his mouth to hers and for a long, endless moment during which it seemed that time itself hung suspended, reluctant to tick away another of the world’s store of seconds, they clung together breathlessly, each feeling the tumult of the other’s heart, the racing of the other’s pulse, the heady drunkenness of the other’s emotion.
But the moment ended at last, as all such moments must if the world is to continue.
A nasty, snarling laugh sounded from behind them.
His arm still about the girl’s slim, bare shoulders, Tomar spun about, his knife held at the ready in his right hand.
But there was a spear in the hands of Charak, and there was red murder in his eyes.
Chapter 17
FIRST BLOOD
TOMAR FROZE, one arm encircling Ylana’s slender shoulders, his other hand clutching the knife wherewith he had cut his way into her hut.
The expression on the boy’s face was resolute, unafraid―but undecided. Charak grinned wickedly. Having caught the girl from the Cave Country in the act of escaping, and having also seized her accomplice, he knew, would reflect great credit upon himself. It might do much to restore him in the esteem of his fellow-tribesmen.
He expected no trouble, of course. For one thing, he was a full-grown man in the burly strength of his prime, while his opponent was a skinny, half-grown boy. And, for another, he was armed with a long spear, while the boy held only a knife.
He was in for a surprise, was Charak. For Tomar had just been kissed by a lovely young girl, and as every one of my readers who has ever experienced that thrilling emotion knows, he felt filled with fortitude. In his present mood he knew or believed himself to be unconquerable. He was in the mood to dare impossible dangers, to attempt absurdly quixotic deeds. In short, he felt like fighting dragons or giants. None of these were presently to hand, of course, being about as rare on Callisto as they are on our own planet. But Charak was to hand, and, as his bull-chested, beefy-thewed form towered impressively over the boy’s aver. age height, he made a passable stand-in for a giant.
Without the slightest change of expression or flicker of warning, he hurled himself at Charak’s throat.
With one forearm he knocked aside the spear. Its point grazed the smooth skin of his tanned breast, drawing a narrow scarlet line from nipple to shoulder. The sting of this slight wound Tomar ignored, if, in fact, he felt it at all.
Charak went over backwards, crashing to the ground, completely astounded. To his further discomfiture, the breath was knocked out of him by the boy’s unexpected leap. The spear went flying.
Tomar had just enough time to smash his balled fists into Charak’s heavy-jawed, ugly face―a belting left and a powerful right―before the burly hunter recovered his wits. Then, with a choked growl of fury, Charak exploded into action. His hairy arms closed about Tomar’s waist, as the boy locked his hands in a throttling grip about the older man’s throat. The two struggled to their feet, grunting and straining. Tomar felt the breath squeezed out of him by the other’s bearlike grip, but as for Charak, he was in somewhat more severe straits. For the wind had been knocked out of him by his fall and he had still not entirely filled his air-starved lungs before the boy clamped strong hands about his windpipe. Purpling with effort, gasping and half-strangled, Charak threw all of the massive strength of his beefy arms and shoulders into an allout attempt to break the boy’s back before his youthful assailant succeeded in throttling him.
In agony from the man’s crushing grip, Tomar in desperation did the only thing he could have done under the circumstances. He kicked Charak’s legs out from under him and down they went for the second time. Again Charak landed on his back, and this time the not-inconsiderable weight of his opponent landed on his belly.
What little breath he had went whooshing out as he thudded to the ground, measuring his length upon the beaten earth. His head swam and a red mist rose before his eyes to dim his vision. Then his powerful hold on Tomar’s waist loosened. Able to breathe again, and no longer suffering the excruciating pain of that crushing and viselike grip, Tomar threw all his remaining strength into a savage uppercut to Charak’s slack and gaping jaw. The impact of that crashing blow was clearly audible, like the sound a butcher’s mallet makes when it smacks into a side of beef.
Blood trickled scarlet from Charak’s mashed lips. His eyes glazed and rolled up into his skull, revealing the bloodshot whites. And the big man subsided with a groan, out cold.