At Swords' Points

by Andre Norton

  At the end of the passage was the source of the light which had led them on, a half circle of iron grating set in the wall, the bottom of it flush with the floor of the passage, which made a sharp square turn to the right.

  Kane dropped to his knees and then to his stomach to look through that window and Joris plumped down to shoulder him for room. Quinn flopped behind their legs, content at first just to sit. But at last a faint curiosity drove him to push forward into a vantage point.

  They were looking down into a square cube walled with stone—more a cell than a room. There was a ledge of rock running along one wall to serve as a rude bench and on this lolled a tall man who was overseeing, without aiding, the labors of two others prying some of the wall blocks out of their beds. A powerful battery lamp was trained on them. But they could not have been sure of the proper site for several stones had been removed at intervals along one strip.

  One of the workers was Wasburg. In spite of the chill damp he was stripped to the waist as was his fellow worker, and glistening beads of sweat ran down their faces and arms. But the man on the bench was at ease. And his face—

  "Quong, Hong or maybe Wing," Sam Marusaki's voice rang in his ears.

  This was the "very dangerous man" of van Norreys' warning!

  "Ready?" Kane's question was the merest thread of whisper to which Maartens' answer was a nod.

  Quinn padded after the other two down the sharp turn of the passage. They held guns ready. He had only the pencil weapon—and what use that might be, he decided bitterly, he didn't know.

  Within three yards was another sharp turn and steps leading down into the cell. Joris took them first. There was something feline about his swift descent, his shoulders made a slightly hunched outline as if he were preparing to spring. Kane's loose-jointed, almost casual stride was in contrast. As for Quinn, he went a step at a time, afraid of his leg, afraid of himself, but going-Even the entrance of a tank might not have attracted the attention of the workers and their overseer at that particular moment. For they had at last found what they had been seeking.

  Wasburg leaned against the wall, his ribs rising and falling, his hands hanging limply at his sides as if he had made his last possible effort. But the man who had worked beside him was still on his knees, pulling out something from the hole they had made, babbling excitedly. And Quong, Hong or Wing was up, crowding behind him.

  The man brought his find out and slipped back on his heels as it suddenly came free and banged against the floor.

  "Fool!" Methodically Quong slapped his gun down, ripping a gash along the side of the man's jaw. The blow spun him around and the man who struck it gestured to Wasburg.

  "Pick it up!"

  Moving as rigidly as a toy soldier or string-controlled puppet the Eurasian stooped for the small chest. But the other worker had looked up to see the three by the steps. His eyes went wide and his mouth fell loosely open. Quong must have seen him. He began to turn. But Kane spoke first.

  "Drop your gun, comrade!"

  Quong did not even stiffen. It was almost as if he had been expecting to hear such an order. Wasburg, paying no attention to any of them, crossed the corner of the room and set the chest down on the rock ledge.

  "I said—drop it!"

  Painfully, as if his muscles moved against his will, the other's gun hand fell, his fingers loosened, and metal clanged on the floor.

  "You—" Kane indicated the wounded man. "Kick that over here."

  When the man blinked uncomprehendingly Kane repeated the order in Dutch. The fellow scuttled forward on hands and knees and pushed at the gun. It slid behind Kane and Quinn stooped to gather it up.

  "May I be permitted to face you now?" The question came from Quong in smooth and faultless English. "I have a strange desire to meet death face to face—"

  Kane laughed then and there was no humor in the sound at all. "You are flattering yourself, Lee Quong. I am not the public executioner."

  He had been turning but the use of his name froze him. Only for an instant. Then he was around, face to face with the man from Norreys. For a long minute they eyed one another.

  Then Quong shook his head. "I do not know you," he stated flatly.

  "There is no reason why you should," began Kane in English and then slipped into another and more guttural tongue.

  Quong's hps drew back in an unpleasant quirk which might have been intended for a smile. "My fame—" he waved a hand almost airily— "it seems to have spread afar. I have not been in those islands since—"

  "1947," returned Kane.

  "Now I wonder—" Quong's long fingers caressed his chin. "Why do I not remember you?"

  "We never met. But I helped to stamp on a nest of snakes—the chief cobra not being at home at the time. He then sailed under the name of 'Red Turban'—"

  The faint smile disappeared. The eyes watching Kane were now dangerous black slits without emotion—hard glassy beads. Cobra—King Cobra—Quinn could almost visualize rippling coils—an expanding hood raised in menace and the threat of death.

  Quong spat—not liquid poison but a stream of biting words. And Kane laughed again, this time with a humor which stung.

  "Sure. I'm probably all of that to your kind. But now the game is up, Lee Quong—or whatever you call yourself this time. There are quite a few people who will be pleased to talk to you—and after that you will come to the end you’ve been heading toward for years—never fear about that!"

  Kane started to approach his captive. And Joris edged along the wall toward the man who still nursed his bleeding face. But no one had been paying attention to Wasburg. And now he moved.

  As if he were the cobra Quong had been compared to, the Eurasian launched himself at Kane, bringing his hand down in a vicious chop across the American's wrist. At the same time Quong hurled himself in a dive at Kane's knees and the three went down in a struggling heap.

  Quinn leaped toward the muddle, the gun he had picked up from the floor clubbed in his hand. He dared not shoot but he might just— But, before he could reach the fighters, what he had feared from the first happened. His leg buckled and he fell sidewise, rolling, in spite of his struggles, to sweep Joris off his feet.

  The Netherlander as he went down aimed a backhanded blow at the man by the wall. But it did not land true. As Quinn and Maartens came up against the ledge the huddle on the floor broke apart.

  Quong was out of it and in his hand was the automatic Kane had dropped. Wasburg lay flat, face down and un-moving. The American had reached his knees and was about to throw himself at Quong when he looked down the black mouth of his own automatic.

  "At this range," Quong's voice cut through the heavy panting of the others as evenly as if he had not been trading blows on the floor a moment before, "even a poor shot could not possibly miss. And I am not a poor shot.

  "You, gentlemen," he spoke to Joris and Quinn without turning his head, "will immediately toss your guns over to Kammer or I shall put a neat hole through this friend of yours—"

  And that was no bluff; it was a promise. Quinn knew that Quong would shoot Kane with the careless assurance j with which one might crumple a piece of paper and toss it aside.

  So, biting deep on the sourness of his own failure, Quinn pitched the weapon he held across the room. And Joris' followed it.

  "Kammer!"

  The little man stopped nursing his jaw and came to life. With an evil grin he scooped up Luger and automatic.

  "And now, gentlemen." Quong moved back lithely. "I am sorry but we must part. I have hngered altogether too long over this business as it is. Kammer!"

  He snapped some order in the other language. The small man pocketed the Luger and went to pick up the chest. As he passed Wasburg he kicked the prostrate man hard in the ribs. Then he went up the stairs without a backward glance.

  "Do not move or entertain any pleasant hopes of turning tables. If you will look up at that grating you will see Kammer's gun ready. He is well armed—thanks to your generosity. And h
e will stay on guard there, to pick you off, until I join him—"

  "Why don't you just fire now?" asked Kane in the tone of one making polite conversation. "It would be simpler."

  "Why should I waste ammunition?" returned Quong. “The fate I leave you to is so much more rigorous and reasonable. When you are found—if you ever are—per-laps some centuries from now your skeletons will serve to provide one of those intriguing historical mysteries which engage the minds of scholars and keep them busy or years. Because, when Kammer and I leave this very unhealthy spot, you are going to remain—probably forever!"

  He turned to go, hesitated at the foot of the steps, and came back. With his toe he prodded Wasburg viciously.

  "I forgot my thanks to you, my so stupid friend. But I am moved to be generous and merciful and so will relieve your mind. After all you should have some pay for your hard labor here—"

  Wasburg rolled over slowly—as if to move caused him maximum effort. But he did not try to rise. His face was as emotionless and controlled as it always had been.

  "I would not have you worry concerning your father's fate. After all a bargain is a bargain. Let me reassure you as to his future—he has none. He has been dead since that first night. Old men do not long survive our questioning methods—"

  Wasburg's face came alive. And Quong hurried to the steps as if even he had never seen before such naked hatred blazing raw and open in a victim's eyes. He was gone with a couple of loping bounds. Maartens had kept his eyes on the grating. Now he spoke.

  "They are gone—"

  Together he and Kane made for the stairs. Quinn levered himself up with the aid of ledge and wall.

  The sounds of pounding feet faded away, the last echoes swallowed up by a sharp clang. Both Kane and Joris paused to look up again at the grating.

  "That was the portcullis," Wasburg said flatly. "He has now sealed the passage—"

  But neither of the others accepted that. They were gone before he uttered the last word. Quinn lowered himself onto the ledge and rubbed his leg. If he hadn't been such a crock—if he could have knocked out Quong as he intended—! He should have known from the beginning that this kind of thing wasn't for him. He had done nothing—but maybe sign their death warrants. He was sick—unable to raise his head or move.

  Vaguely he was aware of Wasburg. The Eurasian was on his feet getting into his shirt and coat.

  Without looking up Quinn asked the question,

  "Why did you do it?"

  Help Quong, he meant—throw away their chances-just as he, himself, had done by not owning up at the start that he could not keep his feet in an emergency.

  "It is of no matter now—" Wasburg replied absently, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Something in the tone of his voice drew Quinn's full attention.

  The Eurasian had gone to the far wall and was walking along, counting stones with a finger tip. At the comer he shook his head and went on to the next section where the ledge was placed. He was counting aloud and as he reached "ten" he stopped—one stone beyond where the American crouched.

  Then the counting began again from the roof of the cell to the floor. At "ten" he halted for the second time. The block he had located was but one above the level of the rough bench.

  Before Quinn could demand an explanation there was a clatter on the stairs and the other two were back. He looked up eagerly but in their faces he could see no hope. Kane spoke first.

  "They cut the rope over that drop. Maybe we could have fixed that. But there is an iron portcullis in place on the other side and we can't force that while dangling from a rope—at least we can't see how to do it yet—"

  "You could not," returned Wasburg without looking around. He was counting again up and down. "That portcullis can be locked on the other side and there is no reason why they would not take advantage of doing so."

  Kane went over to him.

  "That reminds me, friend. Just why did you upset the applecart and let Quong get the jump on us—"

  "For now—no matter." Wasburg dismissed the immediate past. "Here is something of greater importance. The river entrance is not the only way into this place. By fortune's favor perhaps the other one may be found—"

  Maartens' question was a single word.

  "How?"

  "It lies here." Wasburg tapped his nails against the stone. "And it leads to the wine cellar of the hunting lodge. But whether it is still clear and usable I do not know—"

  "We can try anything once! How do you get it open?" Kane wanted to know.

  Quinn shoved along the bench to the end farthest from their explorations. He had begun to wonder about that ledge bench. Why had it been put there in the first place?

  No one would use it for a bed and why would the owners want to come here and sit down for any length of time? He slewed around and tried to see how it was fitted to the wall. Surely that was a crack—!

  "Look!" In the excitement he forgot about being sick and how miserably he had failed. “This bench—it doesn't fit tight!"

  Joris jerked the lamp around, bringing it to bear full upon the ledge.

  "Now let's see about that," said Kane briskly.

  Quinn got to his feet to watch.

  CHAPTER 17

  BEHOLD—THE BISHOP'S MENIE!

  "Just a minute—" Kane felt along under the edge of the slab. "There seem to be some holds here—''

  But Joris had already gone down on his knees at the other end to make the same discovery. He grunted in agreement.

  "Suppose we try pulling it forward. Steady now—" ordered the American.

  At first nothing happened. And then, as if the inertia of centuries had been bested, the ledge came out from the wall an inch or two.

  "A couple of quick pulls should bring it—" suggested Kane.

  They gave it a couple of jerks. The resistance gave way and the stone slab moved so fast that the men fell back to escape the crash with which it met the floor.

  "That did it!"

  But they didn't need Kane's words. All could see that the removal of that weight from the grooves in the walls had activated a counterweight and that there was now a black hole facing them, a hole through which a man could crawl on hands and knees.

  "What's beyond?" Kane demanded of Wasburg.

  "How do I know? It is supposed to lead, as I said, to the wine cellar of the hunting lodge—" '

  "Which means," Joris observed, "that it must pass under the river bed on the way there."

  Kane rubbed his bristly chin with the palm of his hand.

  "Under water—eh? That could mean cave-ins and other fun and games. And how much of it do we have to do on our bellies?"

  Joris flashed the light into the darkness.

  "Not much—there's a good space on the other side—"

  "Well, we don't have any choice left." Kane glanced up at the Eurasian and his tone was that of an order. "Suppose you act as guide here."

  Without answering Wasburg picked up one of the crowbars he had been using to dig out the treasure. Then he went down on his hands and knees and crawled through, Joris hard on his heels. Kane passed them the lamp and turned.

  "Next, Anders—"

  Quinn lowered himself stiffly to the floor and pushed his body through the hole. Then he was being helped to his feet in a narrow passage.

  Single file, Wasburg in the lead, they went on. Within three or four yards they were at what might pass for steps—notches cut in the wall into which one could only set toes and fingers.

  That downward climb was a nightmare for Quinn. He could use his leg again. But, sweating, his nerves tearing at him, he wondered how long the muscles would continue to work. If he fell here he would carry others down with him. He prayed desperately, his body taut with fear and effort, as they descended what seemed endless miles into the dark maw of a raw rock pit.

  When he reached a level passageway again Quinn reeled to the nearest wall and leaned against it limply.

  "Can you make it?" Kane's voice came out
of the rusty mist which was fast closing about him.

  He couldn't, of course, he would slip to the ground right there. He could not force himself to take another step. Only neither could he admit that, he discovered with dull surprise. And he did keep going, one hand on the guiding wall beside him.

  The rest of the journey was a mixed dream. Once they stumbled across a section where water ran in sluggish, evil streams down the walls and puddled in rank pools through which they must splash. Luckily there was no more climbing to be done and Quinn continued to keep his feet after a fashion.

  Because he was so occupied with his own battle against the weakness of his body he was only thankful when they paused at last. Before them was a mass of earth and stone walling off the tunnel. He watched as the others picked and dug and felt no thrill when the crowbar prodded through. Nor did he care how long it took them to dig out of the debris a hole through which a man might wriggle.

  But when a cold fresh wind suddenly blew full in his face and he found himself looking up into the night sky he came fully awake.

  "The wine cellar—" That was Wasburg. "Two of the Menie were kept here. The luck of Sternlitz was left to guard the last holding—. The rest were hidden, as you saw, in the tower—"

  ''Were in the tower was right!" Kane returned. "Quong has them now."

  "Whether he will continue to keep them is another matter—" There was the ice of a terrible driving hate in that answer.

  "What chance is there of stopping him?" Joris wanted to know.

  Quinn was fast coming alive. He began to take an interest in matters at hand. How could anyone stop Quong?

  "There is but one road leading to this place. And earlier it was reported that a tree had blown down across it. Unless that one chooses to go back through the caverns —which for many reasons he may not care to do—he must clear the road—or have his men do it for him. That should require time—" Wasburg talked almost as if he were thinking aloud.

  "Where is the road?" asked Joris.