Jean looked around to make sure of his bearings. “Bertram lives around here,” he told Conan.
We were starting to leave as he made this remark, but Conan halted abruptly. “That’s the charcoal burner?”
“Yes,” Jean’s gesture indicated general rather than specific, knowledge. “But it’s not far from here,” he said positively. “It might be the source.”
“We’ll find out,” Conan stated, and we advanced gingerly, coughing because of the smoke but not too much bothered by the heat. The forest was moist enough to save the big trees from firing. Only the brush and some saplings had caught…
“There’s what’s left!” one of the men exclaimed, pointing to a small, smoke-misted clearing. There were undoubtedly the ashes of a shack there. As we approached I noticed that a couple of the base logs still glowed dully. With our smarting and weeping eyes we were slow to make out details or to tell wood from other charred matter, but suddenly Jean swore with hysterical horror. Any man would have under the circumstances. He had just stumbled over the badly crisped body of a woman.
In another minute we discovered the corpse of a child. “You can’t tell whether fire killed them or not,” Conan said, coughing. “Make a good search for Bertram.”
“Maybe he went to the fort to tell you about it,” someone suggested. But he hadn’t.
We found him after awhile, half in and half out of the spring. He had a sword wound a man could put his foot in, and he was burned away in the legs. He had probably been left for dead and had somehow reached the spring in an effort to save himself from the flames. His misfortune was that he had succeeded. Terribly enough, he was still alive.
We didn’t know it at first, and Conan rolled him over to certify his identity. “It’s Bertram, all right,” he said; and the combination of the fact that he had been stirred and all the noise we made coughing brought the fellow to.
I think the stunning intensity of his pain was its own anaesthetic, for he didn’t groan. He just opened his eyes and spoke like a man just waked from a drunken stupor. “Conan.” The word had no emotional content. It was just a dull statement of realization.
I, who had never seen the man before, was hard put to look at him. It was doubly bad for Conan. As this man’s chief he owed him protection. But, too, once that had failed he owed him vengeance. He bent very close, unable to touch him again for fear of adding to his misery, but trying to reach him by force of mind. “You’re right; it’s Conan, Bertram. Who did it? Tell us, man! Who did it?”
We were afraid he wouldn’t answer, but he did finally. He was completely detached, so much so that he didn’t seem to be answering a question. Rather he gave the impression of having changed the subject after a suitable pause. “Outlaws.”
Only one local band of outlaws was known to me personally, so I naturally thought of it and of the leader who had used me as his zany. “Ask him if it was Piers,” I said.
But, whether he knew or not, he was too far gone to tell us that. Our queries, however, had apparently started a disjointed but not unrelated train of thought. And what he said hit each man of us. “They didn’t have to rape and kill the little girl.”
Conan gave me one look, and I know at that moment we were all glad of the smoke which granted us pardon for coughing, clearing our throats, and having tears in our eyes. “No,” Conan said very gently. “No, Bertram, they didn’t have to rape and kill the little girl.”
With an inhuman, writhing motion the charcoal burner twisted over on to his stomach again, and Conan rose, motioning to Jean. There was only one thing left that a friend could do for that tortured wisp of a man. Jean crossed himself, asked Christ for understanding, drew his sword, and killed him.
After giving all three members of the family shallow burial we went seeking signs of the outlaws’ path of advance. We found their tracks shortly, and after following them a little ways to make sure of where they were heading, we ran for the horses. None of us said anything lest he be guilty of crying a false alarm, but all of us had the same fear curdling our stomachs. The tracks of those murderous woods scurriers seemed to be leading toward Conan’s fort.
Suspicion became conviction down the path a way, for they had cut into it. We growled and gave our horses all they could take without breaking down short of the miles they had yet to go. Our feelings of triumph and self-satisfaction had been obliterated by Bertram’s fate, and we were soured, silent men. We had our minds on the uncompleted portion of the fort; and there was more to worry about in that we couldn’t judge just how large a force was preceding us. The tracks told only that it totaled a considerable number.
I myself could not shake the notion that Piers and his crew were the raiders in question. I didn’t reckon them a powerful force alone, but I recalled his boast that he could muster other outlaw bands at will. That was a boast I had once laughed at, but it summoned no mirth now. Besides, who could predict what one lucky charge might accomplish against a makeshift wall? For a moment before I suppressed it, shuddering, I had a picture of that rabble pouring into the court, mad for theft and desecration.
“It’s probably Piers,” I said. Not that the remark meant anything in particular. I was merely speaking out of nervousness.
“Very likely,” Conan said. “He’s got the largest of the outlaw bands. But, of course, there’s no constancy in the size of those gangs. He may have more than we figure.”
“I’ve been enjoying thinking about that, too,” I said. “One of his scouts might have seen us riding to Oliver’s and figured it was a good time to attack.”
“Very likely,” he agreed soberly. “Well, we’ll know soon.” It was anticlimax when we did. The outlaws had made across fields to the fort, but there was now no sign either of battle or of burning. Moreover, men were stirring about outside the walls with every appearance of casualness. Faintly we heard the watchman’s cry telling a bunch of raiders was sighted, and those without started to run for shelter. But that was standard practice. We were reasonably sure that the men were ours, and we slowed down, though still puzzled as to what had become of the rievers.
We got part of the answer when we were near enough to see that some of the men we had thought harvesting had been digging holes. They were partly filled up again, but it was easy to see what they were for. “A raid beat off,” Jean said, and once more we hurried our mounts.
Our people were all on the wall when we rode up. My eyes found Marie where she stood and waved, a breeze pressing her dress closely against her body. It was a grand, lovely sight, and I was moved by pride and desire.
“You needn’t have gone off,” Rainault called down. “We just had us a fight by staying right at home.”
Now that we were relieved of anxiety about the fort we remembered Bertram. “Was it Piers?” Conan demanded.
The question surprised Rainault a little. “Yes. Why?” Conan’s tone had made it obvious that he wasn’t just asking to ascertain facts about the raid.
“We’ll tell you in a minute.”
When we were inside and gathered to talk I had my arm around Marie as if it had been a lifetime habit. “What happened here first?” Conan wanted to know.
Rainault, as garrison commander, made the report. “About two hours ago Piers and his buzzards showed up. The immediate problem was to keep them from destroying the crops.”
“Right. Well?”
“I sent out horsemen under Fulke for that. But Piers didn’t try to do anything but attack the fort. He had us split up, he saw the weak spot in the wall, and he may even have known that you were away.”
“I think he did. So?”
“So he rushed the wall at the weak point, and we were there waiting for him. If he’d won right away he would have been all right. As it was we held them off long enough for Fulke to come up and take them in the rear. They left after that. We hazed them into the forest, but with you absent and things being as they are I couldn’t spare enough men to make following worthwhile.”
“Sound, a
nd damned good work!” Conan praised him. The elbow of the arm that wasn’t holding Ann jabbed Fulke in the ribs, and the youngster gasped for breath. “What did you drive ‘em off with,” the chief asked, “that viol of yours?”
“Let us have no mock of minstrels,” I said in my deepest voice. “Minstrels are the preservers of fame.”
“And the prime destroyers of all known drinks,” Conan rejoined. Then we were serious again.
“Did we lose any men?”
“Nah,” Rainault said. “I’ve been making the business out for more than it really was. Those outlaw bands never plan anything; they just do it, and if it doesn’t work they quit. We’d roughed ‘em up so by the time they’d got across the moat that there wasn’t much left of their ambition to take the wall. Some of the lads were cut up, of course, but only one got a bad dose.” He looked at me. “Raymond wasn’t fit to go on the wall, but he did it against my orders. He’ll be all right, Finnian, but he got another nasty wound simply because he wasn’t strong enough to ward blows.”
That was foolish of Raymond, albeit a nice kind of foolishness. Yet seeing that he had been accepted on my word I felt pretty good about it. “That’s a good whelp of yours,” was Conan’s recognition.
Ann looked at me with an unwonted trace of archness. “Marie’s looking after him for you,” she stated.
Her words combined with Conan’s made me know a chief’s pride for the first time in my life. My grip tightened on the girl’s waist. “I’ll see him,” I said. “Where is he?”
“I had him put in your bed, Finnian. He needed comfort.”
“Naturally,” I conceded cheerfully, “and I won’t be needing a bed tonight, anyhow.” I glanced at Conan. “I’ll be ready to ride by the time a fresh horse is saddled.”
“We’ll leave in five minutes,” he said, as I led Marie off by the hand. Raymond was awake and smiled at me in weak apology. “I always seem to be no good for anything when you come around,” he complained.
His courage in the face of actual incapacitation had really moved me, and I told him Conan’s remark to cheer him up. He didn’t have much, if any, fever this time, nor a very bad wound. Loss of blood on top of weakness due to the same cause was his only real trouble.
“I’ve got to leave again,” I told him after briefly sketching our success and the wherefores of the new business in hand. I was holding Marie to me, strong with the happiness that comes to a man from knowing that the full use of himself is drawing him toward the attainment of known and worthy goals. “You’ll look after him for me?” Unwittingly I was making a question with the identical words of Ann’s statement, but the ostensible meaning was unimportant. In reality I was hinting to her of a life to be, during which we two as leaders should be holding ourselves responsible for the lives and well being of our followers.
“I’ll take care of him,” she promised me. “Will you take care of yourself?”
“I’ve always made that my earnest concern,” I declared, “but now I see more sense in so doing than ever before.” It isn’t hard to get a woman to take any remark personally, and the look I gave her left her in no doubt that she was pointedly referred to in that one.
She flushed, half smiling and half serious. “I can count on you for that?”
“You can,” I assured her, wishing that poor Raymond could take up his bed and walk. Then I heard Conan’s shout and made hasty farewells.
It was not only the thought of what had been done to Bertram and his family that impelled this new expedition. The real point was that when Piers grew bold enough not only to run wild on our territory but to attack the stronghold itself something had to be done about him. The next time, should he strike, for instance, while the garrison was drained of men for the fight with Chilbert, he might do some real damage.
“They won’t go very far,” I spoke from my knowledge of this feckless band. “As long as Rainault didn’t follow them into the woods they’ll settle down before sunset. And as long as they have no reason to expect us they won’t have watchers —ones that will stay awake, that is. The only thing they’ll keep on the alert for is loot.”
Within the trees their trail was plain as a road, but we halted after about a mile, and Conan sent my old host, Thomas the hunter, ahead to scout. The afternoon was well gone, and if our calculations were correct they would be camped somewhere comparatively near. As for our horses, though they’d enable us to catch up with the outlaws, they would be no good to us when it came to an actual attack in the forest. We had agreed upon the obvious course of jumping the enemy on foot and by night.
A couple of hours passed during most of which we lay on our backs talking drowsily. We hadn’t had a great deal of sleep recently, and once or twice I, at least, was on the verge of dozing off. Finally, however, speculations as to what was delaying Thomas roused us, then made us restless. We were sitting up, watching with disturbed impatience, when he eventually reappeared.
We jumped to our feet and met him. “They’re about three miles ahead,” he told Conan. “Less, if anything.”
“You’re sure they’re going to stay the night there?”
“Sure. They were already making fires and rowing over soft places to bed down.”
“Anybody see you?”
“Them see me if I didn’t want ‘em to?” Thomas snorted with a craftsman’s offended pride. “Hell, I went all around ‘em and scouted ‘em good, and they ain’t even worried enough to have guards around.”
It was still light, but dusk had already arrived there under the trees, and the birds cheeped with that aloofness they manifest at day’s end only. “That’s fine,” Conan pronounced. “We’ll move up a couple of miles or so, then eat. By that time it’ll be dark, and we’ll see what can be done to educate them.” Thomas took us as near to our quarry as he thought feasible. Then while the meal was being prepared he went over the remaining ground once more to make certain that he could guide us through the imminent night. “They’re making more racket than a herd of hogs,” he chuckled when he returned.
I grunted, remembering. One of the hardest things that I had had to bear during my sojourn with those people was that there was never a moment of silence among them. Once they were settled around their fire or fires it would be no trick to steal upon them. Nevertheless, we waited the little while till full dark before we got under way.
Thomas went first, with Conan, then myself and the others in single file behind. We could see well enough to keep from stumbling or bumping into each other, and the hunter, spotting his landmarks and signs with amazing precision and swiftness, considering, led us at a fair rate of speed. After a little, though, he was relieved of the necessity of exercising his skill. Faintly at first but soon drowning out all other noises of the forest, we could hear the voices of the outlaws. Bred to yelling each other down, they invariably spoke several times more loudly than need be, and in harsh, far-carrying tones.
This notwithstanding, we did not grow careless. On the contrary we slowed our rate of advance, and if one of us happened to cause any extra-sharp snapping of branches we all halted, trusting that thus the sound would seem to blend with the inevitable cracklings and rustlings of any forest. Then at last we caught sight of their fires, two huge ones.
“See which one Piers has settled down by,” Conan whispered, and once more the woodsman was off, marvelous in his silence. We waited, listening to the mouthings of the unsuspecting folk ahead. They were making an ugly, patternless racket, and from where we stood it sounded all but inhuman.
“Now I know why a hawk dives down on a bunch of magpies,” I muttered to Conan. “It’s just to shut ‘em up for a minute.”
“Some of these magpies will shut up for a long time,” he prophesied.
A minute later Thomas stole out of a shadow. “He’s by the fire to the right,” he reported.
In relation to our position it was the furthest away, and we set patiently about the task of quietly reaching an attacking point. From then on our orders were
to keep together and work as near to the outlaws as possible.
For a while I had hopes that we would be on them before they knew it, but one of the men tripped and fell headlong when we were still about fifty yards short. They hushed instantly, and my skin prickled with a hunter’s excitement as Piers himself called: “Hey! Who’s there?”
Conan was not the man to give him a chance to find out by easy degrees. “At ‘em!” he yelled, slamming through the underbrush. We obeyed as well as circumstances would permit, and after a few strides they weren’t so adverse. The firelight picked out obstacles for us, and I can recall stumbling only once.
Of course, what with dodging trees, we couldn’t go at top speed, but we were still able to reach them before they were sure what they were going to do. Or rather before Piers was sure what he was going to do. Most of them followed the animal instinct of their kind to duck for cover first and ascertain the exact extent of the danger later. There was much squawking and shrieking as women chivied their young into the dark, cursing betimes as men shoved past them.
Piers and a few fellows had tried to organize resistance, but when they found nobody was listening to them they also turned to escape. It was too late to avoid us then, though. We were already in their camp and in full career, while they were just getting in motion. Conan cut down one man from behind; and as the others whirled on us desperately, I leaped past him to get at Piers. I had promised myself that I would do that as soon as I knew we were on his trail.
His eyes told me that he recognized me, but for once he had no time for words. There was great strength in that frame of his, but he was not a skilled swordsman. The rest of the skirmish was over, but Conan knew that I wanted to handle this fellow myself. “But don’t kill him, brother,” he begged. “I have something for him.”
Acquiescing, I turned Piers and worked him toward the soaring fire. He still hacked manfully until the intense heat began to singe and blister him. Then he suddenly dropped his blade with a groan. “Get him!” Conan barked and four men sprang to drag him to a cooler spot.
The Harp and the Blade Page 22
