— and then I saw!
Out of it, through the long transverse slit through which the Silent Ones kept their watch on cavern, bridge, and abyss, a torrent of the opalescent light was pouring. It cascaded like a waterfall, and as it flowed it spread whirling out, in columns and eddies, clouds and wisps of misty, curdled coruscations. It hung like a veil over all the islands, filtering everywhere, driving back the crimson light as though possessed of impenetrable substance — and still it cast not the faintest shadowing upon our vision.
“Good God!” breathed Larry. “Look!”
The radiance was marching — MARCHING— down the colossal bridge. It moved swiftly, in some unthinkable way INTELLIGENTLY. It swathed the Akka, and closer, ever closer it swept toward the approach upon which Yolara’s men had now gained foothold.
From their ranks came flash after flash of the green ray — aimed at the abode! But as the light sped and struck the opalescence it was blotted out! The shimmering mists seemed to enfold, to dissipate it.
Lakla drew a deep breath.
“The Silent Ones forgive me for doubting them,” she whispered; and again hope blossomed on her face even as it did on Larry’s.
The frog-men were gaining. Clothed in the armour of that mist, they pressed back from the bridge-head the invaders. There was another prodigious movement at the ends of the crescent, and racing up, pressing against the dwarfs, came other legions of Nak’s warriors. And re-enforcing those out on the prodigious arch, the frog-men stationed in the gardens below us poured back to the castle and out through the open Portal.
“They’re licked!” shouted Larry. “They’re —”
So quickly I could not follow the movement his automatic leaped to his hand — spoke, once and again and again. Rador leaped to the head of the little path, sword in hand; Olaf, shouting and whirling his mace, followed. I strove to get my own gun quickly.
For up that path were running twoscore of Lugur’s men, while from below Lugur’s own voice roared.
“Quick! Slay not the handmaiden or her lover! Carry them down. Quick! But slay the others!”
The handmaiden raced toward Larry, stopped, whistled shrilly — again and again. Larry’s pistol was empty, but as the dwarfs rushed upon him I dropped two of them with mine. It jammed — I could not use it; I sprang to his side. Rador was down, struggling in a heap of Lugur’s men. Olaf, a Viking of old, was whirling his great hammer, and striking, striking through armour, flesh, and bone.
Larry was down, Lakla flew to him. But the Norseman, now streaming blood from a dozen wounds, caught a glimpse of her coming, turned, thrust out a mighty hand, sent her reeling back, and then with his hammer cracked the skulls of those trying to drag the O’Keefe down the path.
A cry from Lakla — the dwarfs had seized her, had lifted her despite her struggles, were carrying her away. One I dropped with the butt of my useless pistol, and then went down myself under the rush of another.
Through the clamour I heard a booming of the Akka, closer, closer; then through it the bellow of Lugur. I made a mighty effort, swung a hand up, and sunk my fingers in the throat of the soldier striving to kill me. Writhing over him, my fingers touched a poniard; I thrust it deep, staggered to my feet.
The O’Keefe, shielding Lakla, was battling with a long sword against a half dozen of the soldiers. I started toward him, was struck, and under the impact hurled to the ground. Dizzily I raised myself — and leaning upon my elbow, stared and moved no more. For the dwarfs lay dead, and Larry, holding Lakla tightly, was staring even as I, and ranged at the head of the path were the Akka, whose booming advance in obedience to the handmaiden’s call I had heard.
And at what we all stared was Olaf, crimson with his wounds, and Lugur, in blood-red armour, locked in each other’s grip, struggling, smiting, tearing, kicking, and swaying about the little space before the embrasure. I crawled over toward the O’Keefe. He raised his pistol, dropped it.
“Can’t hit him without hitting Olaf,” he whispered. Lakla signalled the frog-men; they advanced toward the two — but Olaf saw them, broke the red dwarf’s hold, sent Lugur reeling a dozen feet away.
“No!” shouted the Norseman, the ice of his pale-blue eyes glinting like frozen flames, blood streaming down his face and dripping from his hands. “No! Lugur is mine! None but me slays him! Ho, you Lugur —” and cursed him and Yolara and the Dweller hideously — I cannot set those curses down here.
They spurred Lugur. Mad now as the Norseman, the red dwarf sprang. Olaf struck a blow that would have killed an ordinary man, but Lugur only grunted, swept in, and seized him about the waist; one mighty arm began to creep up toward Huldricksson’s throat.
“‘Ware, Olaf!” cried O’Keefe; but Olaf did not answer. He waited until the red dwarf’s hand was close to his shoulder; and then, with an incredibly rapid movement — once before had I seen something like it in a wrestling match between Papuans — he had twisted Lugur around; twisted him so that Olaf’s right arm lay across the tremendous breast, the left behind the neck, and Olaf’s left leg held the Voice’s armoured thighs viselike against his right knee while over that knee lay the small of the red dwarf’s back.
For a second or two the Norseman looked down upon his enemy, motionless in that paralyzing grip. And then — slowly — he began to break him!
Lakla gave a little cry; made a motion toward the two. But Larry drew her head down against his breast, hiding her eyes; then fastened his own upon the pair, white-faced, stern.
Slowly, ever so slowly, proceeded Olaf. Twice Lugur moaned. At the end he screamed — horribly. There was a cracking sound, as of a stout stick snapped.
Huldricksson stooped, silently. He picked up the limp body of the Voice, not yet dead, for the eyes rolled, the lips strove to speak; lifted it, walked to the parapet, swung it twice over his head, and cast it down to the red waters!
Chapter XXXIV.
The Coming of the Shining One
The Norseman turned toward us. There was now no madness in his eyes; only a great weariness. And there was peace on the once tortured face.
“Helma,” he whispered, “I go a little before! Soon you will come to me — to me and the Yndling who will await you — Helma, mine liebe!”
Blood gushed from his mouth; he swayed, fell. And thus died Olaf Huldricksson.
We looked down upon him; nor did Lakla, nor Larry, nor I try to hide our tears. And as we stood the Akka brought to us that other mighty fighter, Rador; but in him there was life, and we attended to him there as best we could.
Then Lakla spoke.
“We will bear him into the castle where we may give him greater care,” she said. “For, lo! the hosts of Yolara have been beaten back; and on the bridge comes Nak with tidings.”
We looked over the parapet. It was even as she had said. Neither on ledge nor bridge was there trace of living men of Muria — only heaps of slain that lay everywhere — and thick against the cavern mouth still danced the flashing atoms of those the green ray had destroyed.
“Over!” exclaimed Larry incredulously. “We live then — heart of mine!”
“The Silent Ones recall their veils,” she said, pointing to the dome. Back through the slitted opening the radiance was streaming; withdrawing from sea and island; marching back over the bridge with that same ordered, intelligent motion. Behind it the red light pressed, like skirmishers on the heels of a retreating army.
“And yet —” faltered the handmaiden as we passed into her chamber, and doubtful were the eyes she turned upon the O’Keefe.
“I