Renegade of Callisto

Whatever the means whereby he had entered Sargol, Bozo could hardly have entered the bloody game at a better time. Now he raised his gory and dripping jaws from the corpse of Norga and lifted his deep-chested voice in a baying call.

From the pens of the Zajjadar some distance away there arose a mournful howl. A moment later wood shattered, and the gaunt form of Fido the othode came awkwardly gallumphing across the Darza field, trailing a broken length of chain. The two beasts sniffed each other warily, then Bozo, like an anxious parent, began licking his pup as if to make certain that he was unharmed. Fido wriggled ecstatically.

While the beasts cavorted, the humans and the arthropods stood in grim confrontation, measuring each other with their eyes, weapons drawn and brandished nakedly in the daylight.

Kamchan shakenly recovered his shattered composure. Stooping, he snatched up the whip-sword young Taran had knocked out of his hand, and, without deigning to so much as glance at the young boy who had come so perilously close to besting him in the duello, he stalked with chilly composure back to his own end of the field.

The only living persons on that field were Koja and the five members of his team. All of Kamchan’s warriors of the Black had been slain.

“I declare that Koja’s players have forfeited the game,” said Kamchan in loud tones―once he was clear and out of reach. “The penalty is, of course, death. Archers, strike them down!”

The bowmen, who stood along the forefront of the throng gathered to view the strangest game of Darza ever played, there to keep order and to see that the game was played according to the rules, now stepped forward at their Arkon’s command, raising their bows.

And lowered them, hesitantly, uncertainly.

For this was against the rules.

Again Kamchan in a loud voice commanded them to perform their duty. But this time a tall, plumed warrior stepped forth. It was Gorja, high chief of the Angkang Clan.

“One moment, my Arkon,” said this personage in cool, level tones.

“Why this interruption, O Gorja?” snarled Kamchan.

Imperturbably, the Angkang chief turned to address the other chiefs of his rank, the leaders of the Horde―excluding, for the moment, Koja himself.

“I am no more expert in the game of Darza than are many here,” said Gorja, “but to my eye it does not seem that the Reds forfeited the game, for it had already been forfeited by the Blacks.”

“What do you mean?” Kamchan demanded, glowering.

“My meaning is that when Gorpak the Haroob struck down the Red Swordsman there”―and he pointed to the fallen Valkar, who lay with his head pillowed on the lap of Xara while the Ganatolian girl strove to stanch his dreadful wounds―“that Gorpak struck out of turn. It was not the Blacks’ turn to move. By moving, he broke the rules of Darza, and it seems to my judgment that the game is forfeited and that the victory must go to the Reds.”

Kamchan literally foamed at the mouth in maniacal rage and fury. Then, mastering himself, he said:

“And I suppose the Reds did not forfeit the game by employing their beast to strike down the Black Bowman?” he sneered, nodding to where the faceless corpse of Norga lay sprawled in a pool of reeking gore.

“Who has established that the beast belongs to the Reds?” replied Gorja calmly. “It seems to me that the appearance of the othode upon the field was as much a surprise to the Reds as it was to the unfortunate Norga.”

Kamchan could answer only with a strangled grunt, so choleric was the emotion which gripped him by the throat.

“In such an event as this,” suggested Gorja equably, “it seems only fair that the opinions of the chiefs of the Horde be consulted, excluding only Koja of the Kandars, since his own fate is involved. And, of course, excluding also the Haroobs, who have no chief, since Gorpak has been slain.”

That left only three other Clans whose leaders were to be consulted, the Angkang, the Zajjadar, and the Thorome. And the Zajjadar Clan, of course, was the Clan to which Kamchan had originally belonged.

The vote was quickly taken.

Erza of the Thoromes gave as his opinion that the Blacks had forfeited the victory when Gorpak treacherously struck out of turn, and declared the Reds to be the winners.

Yazar of the Zajjadars, however, believed that the Reds had lost when they employed Bozo the othode. His position was precisely contrary to the facts; however, he proved adamant.

Gorja of the Angkangs announced that, in his opinion, the Blacks had cheated and had forfeited the victory to the Reds.

Then it was that, entirely unexpected, a fourth voice spoke up:

“I, Fanga of the Garukhs, declare with Yazar that the Reds have forfeited their victory!”

Koja and the others stared about with amazement. For, insofar as they had known, Fanga, their former captor, had been trampled to death beneath the thundering hooves of the stampeding vanth. How, then, came he here alive?

However he had escaped the almost certain doom, there he stood, with a half a dozen of his warriors ranged about him. And he could not possibly have entered the Sargol at a less opportune time―from the viewpoint of Koja and the others, that is. For there were now four chiefs to vote on the forfeiture, and Fanga’s malice toward his former captive, who had since risen to the highest position among the despised and hated Kandars, was so vehement that he had sided instinctively with Koja’s enemies.