T. C. Bridges
Martin Crusoe (22) (A Boy’s Adventure on Wizard Island)

XXII. A Battle of Giants

Martin had no weapon of any sort with which to meet the rush of the mad giant, so leaped towards the plane to get a bomb. In a flash he had one but to his horror and despair he found that the slow match had burned out. Though he had matches about him it was useless to dream of lighting one in this furious gale.

There was a clatter of metal on metal. He spun round, to see Odan and the priest fighting furiously. The priest had drawn his bronze sword, and was defending himself against the terrific onslaught of the rebel chief.

At first sight the combat was terribly one-sided. Odan towered a foot and more above the short, squat figure of Hymer. His reach was double that of the priest, and his sword half as long again. On the face of it the priest was utterly outmatched.

Martin rushed desperately forward. He was prepared to fling himself into the fray, bare handed, rather than see his friend murdered before his eyes.

“Stand back!” cried Hymer, in his great, deep, rolling voice. “Stand back. Think you that I cannot deal with this son of evil?”

Martin paused, and suddenly realized that the combat was not so one-sided as he had at first supposed. If Odan had the height and reach, the priest had the strength of a bull, marvelous skill and complete confidence. While Odan fought like a mad beast, Hymer was cool and complete master of himself.

In the red glare of the blazing house the bronze swords flashed and wheeled like flames. Overhead the thunder bellowed like the crack of doom, and the gale shrieking across the island formed a fit accompaniment to this battle of giants.

Odan’s followers were thick on the turf behind him. But they did not offer to interfere. They stood as still as Martin himself, watching the tremendous duel with fascinated eyes.

Odan’s sword rose and fell like a hammer as he strove with all his might to beat down his adversary’s guard. But the priest’s wrist was wrought steel, and his skill of fence something to marvel at. With his short, stiff sword he wove around himself a ring of defense which even Odan’s mighty muscles could not penetrate.

Odan’s face was a terrible sight. The man had gone berserk—fighting mad. His pale eyes glared horribly, there was foam upon his lips. He looked like nothing human.

Suddenly he sprang back. Raising his sword above his head he brought it down with a force that would have cloven a horse in twain. Hymer warded the blow, yet its weight brought him to his knees. With a wild roar of triumph Odan swung up his sword once more to give the finishing blow.

What happened next was so swift that Martin’s eyes could hardly follow it. In a flash Hymer was on his feet again, and, instead of springing away, or dodging aside from Odan’s next fearful hammer stroke, he leaped in after him. Odan’s flaming blade came whizzing downwards and sparks flew as it clashed on Hymer’s helmet, felling the priest to the ground. But at the self-same instant the giant too staggered back with a choking grunt, to drop full length upon the grass with a thud like that of a falling tree. For an instant there was silence. Even the fury of the storm seemed quelled for an instant. The only sound was the crackle of the flames devouring Odan’s palace.

Odan tried to rise, but the blood was streaming from him, and Martin saw that Hymer’s sword had passed clean through his body just below his corselet. Then, with a hoarse cry, he fell back, dead.

And then the heavens opened, and down came the rain, not in drops, but in solid sheets.

For the time Martin stood quite still. He was like a man under a shower-bath, gasping for breath. Everywhere around him was a gray sheet of falling water. He could not see a yard.

But the cold douche quickly pulled him together. A flash of lightning shone livid through the gloom, and showed Hymer lying where he had fallen, flat on his back on the streaming ground.

Martin sprang towards him, seized him, and with a great effort of strength pulled him back under the nearest tree. He hardly knew why he did so, for he fully believed the splendid old priest to be dead. No human skull could have stood the crushing force of Odan’s last terrific blow.

Though Odan was dead, though his men had vanished, though the rebellion would now, no doubt, rapidly come to an end, yet Martin was sick at heart. During these days of stress and trial he had come to love the brave, resourceful priest, and to feel that in him he had a real friend.

Not since the news of his father’s death had he felt so miserable.

The lightning flashed again, and in its blue glare Martin saw that Hymer’s eyes were open!

He caught his breath, and with trembling fingers began to loosen the clasps that held the helmet.

He heard a deep sigh.

“Hymer!” he cried. “You are not dead?”

“Dead?” repeated the priest; and Martin fairly gasped as Hymer raised himself to a sitting position. “Think you that Odan could kill me?” he asked scornfully.

“I—I did think so,” stammered Martin. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to find that he has not.”

The priest stretched out his great hand, found Martin’s, and gave it a crushing grip.

“I would that I had a son like you,” he said.

Then, as if ashamed of showing even a trace of his real feelings, he rose to his feet.

“Where is Odan?” he demanded.

“Dead,” replied Martin. “His body lies where it fell.”

Hymer laughed. It was the first time that Martin had ever heard him laugh out loud, and the sound positively startled him.

“Then we have done that which we set out to do,” said the priest. “The King is safe, and my life’s work is not wasted.”

He stepped forward, and as the lightning flashed again found Odan’s body and stood over it.

“So this is the end of all your scheming,” he said as he bent over the dead man. “Bitter it must be to fall by the hand of the man you most despised. Yet the souls of the dead cry for vengeance, and the punishment is just.”

He turned back to Martin.

“The storm is passing,” he said. “We must return to the palace and fetch help. Odan’s body must be shown to his followers, and for that reason a bier must he brought to carry it into the city.”

“But what about the plane?” asked Martin.

“Trouble not. None will dare lay hands upon it. Let us go quickly.”

Martin had learnt to trust Hymer, and the two started away together. The rain still fell heavily, but the wind had dropped, and the storm was passing quickly.

The priest knew every inch of the ground, and, dark as it was, led Martin by a short cut to a gate at the back of the palace gardens. Here he knocked in a peculiar fashion, and at once one of their own guards opened the heavy doors.

The man’s face glowed with delight as he saluted Hymer in the Lemurian fashion.

“We feared for you, my lord,” he said respectfully.

“Fear not,” answer Hymer gravely. “Odan is dead.”

The man gave a shout of joy, and, falling at Hymer’s feet, embraced his knees.

Hymer raised him. “Lock the gate, Valkar,” he said; “then go and inform your companions. And be ready as speedily as possible with a litter and twenty guards. We go to fetch the body of our enemy.”

The man darted away. Hymer and Martin went on into the palace.

At the gate they met Akon, his fine face white and drawn with anxiety. His relief at seeing them was touching, for, like the guard, he had not believed they could have survived the tempest.

But when they told him that Odan was dead, he shouted with gladness and rushed away to tell the king.

Like magic the news was all over the palace, and such a din of cheering rose that Martin, who had looked on the people of the island as a grave and solemn race, could hardly believe his ears.

Akon himself went out in charge of the party who were to bring home the body, and in about an hour the corpse of the rebel leader lay in state in the temple.

But by this time Martin, who was almost dead from fatigue, was sound asleep in his bed.