But Vail read only distress for Enoch in his face. "Enoch," she repeated softly. "He loved me in his sour way, Hull, but once I had known you, I had no thoughts for him."
Hull slipped his arm about her, cursing himself that he could not steal his thought away from Margaret of N'Orleans, because it was Vail he loved, and Vail he wanted to love. Whatever spell the Princess had cast about him, he knew her to be evil, ruthless, and inhumanly cold – a sorceress, a devil. But he could not blot her Satanic loveliness from his inward gaze.
"Well," he sighed, "let it be tonight, then. Was it four hours past sunset? Good. The Empire men should be sleeping or gaming in Tigh's tavern by that time. It's for us to pray for our gunpowder."
"Gunpowder? Oh, but didn't you hear what I told File Ormson and the Harriers, back there on the ridge? The casters of the spell are gone; Joaquin Smith has taken them to Selui. I watched and listened from the kitchen this morning."
"The sparkers? They're gone?"
"Yes. They called them reson – resators–"
"Resonators," said Hull, recalling Old Einar's words.
"Something like that. There were two of them, great iron barrels on swivels, full of some humming and clicking magic, and they swept the valley north and south, and east and west, and over toward Norse there was the sound of shots and the smoke of a burning building. They loaded them on wagons and dragged them away toward Selui."
"They didn't cross the ridge with their spell," said Hull. (5) "The Harriers still have powder."
"Yes," murmured Vail, drawing his arm closer about her. "Tell me," she said suddenly, "what did she want of you last night?"
Hull grimaced. He had told Vail little enough of that discreditable evening, and he had been fearing her question. "Treason," he said finally. "She wanted me to betray the Harriers."
"You? She asked that of you?"
"Do you think I would?" countered Hull.
"I know you never would. But what did she offer you for betrayal?"
Again he hesitated. "A great reward," he answered at last. "A reward out of all proportion to the task."
"Tell me, Hull, what is she like face to face?"
"A demon. She isn't exactly human."
"But in what way? Men say so much of her beauty, of her deadly charm. Hull – did you feel it?"
"I love you, Vail."
She sighed, and drew yet closer. "I think you're the strongest man in the world, Hull. The very strongest."
"I'll need to be," he muttered, staring gloomily over the valley. Then he smiled faintly as he saw men plowing, for it was late in the season for such occupation. Old Marcus Ormiston was playing safe; remembering the Master's words, he was tilling every acre across which a horse could drag a blade.
Vail left him in Ormiston village and took her way hesitantly homeward. Hull did what he could about the idle shop, and when the sun slanted low, bought himself a square loaf of brown bread, a great slice of cheese, and a bottle of the still, clear wine of the region. It was just as he finished his meal in his room that a pounding on the door of the shop summoned him.
It was an Empire man. "Hull Tarvish?" he asked shortly. At Hull's nod he continued, "From Her Highness," and handed him a folded slip of black paper.
The mountain youth stared at it. On one side, in raised gold, was the form of a serpent circling a globe, its tail in its mouth – the Midgard Serpent. He slipped a finger through the fold, opened the message, and squinted helplessly at the characters written in gold on the black inner surface.
"This scratching means nothing to me," he said.
The Empire man sniffed contemptuously. "I'll read it," he said, taking the missive. "It says, Follow the messenger to our quarters,' and it's signed Margarita Imperii Regina, which means Margaret, Princess of the Empire. Is that plain?" He handed back the note. "I've been looking an hour for you."
"Suppose I won't go," growled Hull.
"This isn't an invitation, Weed. It's a command."
Hull shrugged. He had small inclination to face Black Margot again, especially with his knowledge of the Harriers' plans. Her complex personality baffled and fascinated him, and he could not help fearing that somehow, by some subtle art, she might wring that secret from him. Torture wouldn't force it out of him, but those green eyes might read it. Yet – better to go quietly than be dragged or driven; he grunted assent and followed the messenger.
He found the house quiet. The lower room where Joaquin Smith had rested was empty now, and he mounted the stairs again steeling himself against the expected shock of Black Margot's presence. This time, however, he found her clothed, or half clothed by Ormiston standards, for she wore only the diminutive shorts and shirt that were her riding costume, and her dainty feet were bare. She sat in a deep chair beside the table, a flagon of wine at hand and a black cigarette in her fingers. Her jet hair was like a helmet of ebony against the ivory of her forehead and throat, and her green eyes like twin emeralds.
"Sit down," she said as he stood before her. "The delay is your loss, Hull. I would have dined with you."
"I grow strong enough on bread and cheese," he growled.
"You seem to." Fire danced in her eyes. "Hull, I am as strong as most men, but I believe those vast muscles of yours could overpower me as if I were some shrinking provincial girl. And yet–"
"And yet what?"
"And yet you are much like my black stallion Eblis. Your muscles are nearly as strong, but like him, I can goad you, drive you, lash you, and set you galloping in whatever direction I choose."
"Can you?" he snapped. "Don't try it." But the spell of her unearthly beauty was hard to face.
"But I think I shall try it," she cooed gently. "Hull, do you ever lie?"
"I do not."
"Shall I make you lie, then, Hull? Shall I make you swear such falsehoods that you will redden forever afterward at the thought of them? Shall I?"
"You can't!"
She smiled, then in altered tones, "Do you love me, Hull?"
"Love you? I hate–" He broke off suddenly.
"Do you hate me, Hull?" she asked gently.
"No," he groaned at last. "No, I don't hate you."
"But do you love me?" Her face was saint-like, earnest, pure, even the green eyes were soft now as the green of spring. "Tell me, do you love me?"
"No!" he ground out savagely, then flushed crimson at the smile on her lips. "That isn't a lie!" he blazed. "This sorcery of yours isn't love. I don't love your beauty. It's unnatural, hellish, and the gift of Martin Sair. It's a false beauty, like your whole life!"
"Martin Sair had little to do with my appearance," she said gently. "What do you 'feel for me, Hull, if not love?"
"I – don't know. I don't want to think of it!" He clenched a great fist. "Love? Call it love if you wish, but it's a hell's love that would find satisfaction in killing you!" But here his heart revolted again. "That isn't so," he ended miserably. "I couldn't kill you."
"Suppose," she proceeded gently, "I were to promise to abandon Joaquin, to be no longer Black Margot and Princess of the Empire, but to be only – Hull Tarvish's wife. Between Vail and me, which would you choose?"
He said nothing' for a moment. "You're unfair," he said bitterly at last. "Is it fair to compare Vail and yourself? She's sweet and loyal and innocent, but you – you are Black Margot!"
"Nevertheless," she said calmly, "I think I shall compare us. Sora!" The fat woman appeared. "Sora, the wine is gone. Send the eldarch's daughter here with another bottle and a second goblet."
Hull stared appalled. "What are you going to do?"
"No harm to your little Weed. I promise no harm."
"But–" He paused. Vail's footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she entered timidly, bearing a tray with a bottle and a metal goblet. He saw her start as she perceived him, but she only advanced quietly, set the tray on the table, and backed toward the door.
"Wait a moment," said the Princess. She rose and moved to Vail's side as if to force the compari
son on Hull. He could not avoid it; he hated himself for the thought, but it came regardless. Barefooted, the Princess Margaret was exactly the height of Vail in her lowheeled sandals, and she was the merest shade slimmer. But her startling black hair and her glorious green eyes seemed almost to fade the unhappy Ormiston girl to a colorless dun, and the coppery hair and blue eyes seemed water pale. It wasn't fair; Hull realized that it was like comparing candlelight to sunbeam, and he despised himself even for gazing.
"Hull," said the Princess, "which of us is the more beautiful ?"
He saw Vail's lips twitch fearfully, and he remained stubbornly silent.
"Hull," resumed the Princess, "which of us do you love?"
"I love Vail!" he muttered.
"But do you love her more than you love me?"
Once again he had recourse to silence.
"I take it," said the Princess, smiling, "that your silence means you love me the more. Am I right?"
He said nothing.
"Or am I wrong, Hull? Surely you can give little Vail the satisfaction of answering this question! For unless you answer I shall take the liberty of assuming that you love me the more. Now do you?"
He was in utter torment. His white lips twisted in anguish as he muttered finally, "Oh, God! Then yes!"
She smiled softly. "You may go," she said to the pallid and frightened Vail.
But for a moment the girl hesitated. "Hull," she whispered, "Hull, I know you said that to save me. I don't believe it, Hull, and I love you. I blame – her!"
"Don't!" he groaned. "Don't insult her."
The Princess laughed, "Insult me! Do you think I could be insulted by a bit of creeping dust as it crawls its way from cradle to grave?" She turned contemptuous green eyes on Vail as the terrified girl backed through the door.
"Why do you delight in torture?" cried Hull. "You're cruel as a cat. You're no less than a demon."
"That wasn't cruelty," said the Princess gently. "It was but a means of proving what I said, that your mighty muscles are well-broken to my saddle."
"If that needed proof," he muttered.
"It needed none. There's proof enough, Hull, in what's happening even now, if I judge the time rightly. I mean your Harriers slipping through their ancient sewer right into my trap behind the barn."
He was thunderstruck. "You – are you – you must be a witch!" he gasped.
"Perhaps. But it wasn't witchcraft that led me to put the thought of that sewer into your head, Hull. Do you remember now that it was my suggestion, given last evening there in the hallway? I knew quite well that you'd put the bait before the Harriers."
His brain was reeling. "But why– Why–?"
"Oh," she said indifferently, "it amuses me to see you play the traitor twice, Hull Tarvish."
(5. The field of the Erden resonator passes readily through structures and walls, but it is blocked by any considerable natural obstructions, hills, and for some reason fog-banks or low clouds.)
CHAPTER NINE
THE TRAP
THE PRINCESS STEPPED close to him, her magnificent eyes gentle as an angel's, the sweet curve of her lips in the ghost of a pouting smile. "Poor, strong, weak Hull Tarvish!" she breathed. "Now you shall have a lesson in the cost of weakness. I am not Joaquin, who fights benignly with his men's slides in the third notch. When I go to battle, my beams flash full, and there is burning flesh and bursting heart. Death rides with me."
He scarcely heard her. His gyrating mind struggled with an idea. The Harriers were creeping singly into the trap, but they could not all be through the tunnel. If he could warn them– His eyes shifted to the bell-pull in the hall beside the guard, the rope that tolled the bronze bell in the belfry to summon public gatherings, or to call aid to fight fires. Death, beyond doubt, if he rang it, but that was only a fair price to pay for expiation.
His great arm flashed suddenly, sweeping the Princess from her feet and crashing her dainty figure violently against the wall. He heard her faint "O – o – oh" of pain as breath left her and she dropped slowly to her knees, but he was already upon the startled guard, thrusting him up and over the rail of the stair-well to drop with a sullen thumb below. And then he threw his weight on the bellrope, and the great voice of bronze boomed out, again, and again.
But Black Margot was on her feet, with the green hell-sparks flickering in her eyes and her face a lovely mask of fury. Men came rushing up the stairs with drawn weapons, and Hull gave a last tug on the rope and turned to face death. Half a dozen weapons were on him.
"No – no!" gasped the Princess, struggling for the breath he had knocked out of her. "Hold him – for me! Take him – to the barn!"
She darted down the stairway, her graceful legs flashing bare, her bare feet padding softly. After her six grim Empire men thrust Hull past the dazed guard sitting on the lower steps and out into a night where blue beams flashed and shots and yells sounded.
Behind the barn was comparative quiet, however, by the time Hull's captors had marched him there. A closepacked mass of dark figures huddled near the mouth of the ancient tunnel, where the bushes were trampled away, and a brown-clad file of Empire woods runners surrounded them. A few figures lay sprawled on the turf, and Hull smiled a little as he saw that some were Empire men. Then his eyes strayed to the Princess where she faced a dark-haired officer.
"How many, Lebeau?"
"A hundred and forty or fifty, Your Highness."
"Not half! Why are you not pursuing the rest through the tunnel?"
"Because, Your Highness, one of them pulled the shoring and the roof down upon himself, and blocked us off. We're digging him out now."
"By then they'll have left their burrow. Where does this tunnel end?" She strode over to Hull. "Hull, where does this tunnel end?" At his silence, she added. "No matter. They'd be through it before we could reach it." She spun back. "Lebeau! Burn down what we have and the rest we'll stamp out as we can." A murmur ran through the crowd of villagers that was collecting, and her eyes, silvery green in the moonlight, flickered over them. "And any sympathizers," she added coldly. "Except this man, Hull Tarvish."
File Ornison's great voice rumbled out of the mass of prisoners. "Hull! Hull! Was this trap your doing?"
Hull made no answer, but Black Margot herself replied. "No," she snapped, "but the warning bell was."
"Then why do you spare him?"
Her eyes glittered icy green. "To kill in my own way, Weed," she said in tones so cold that it was as if a winter wind had sent a shivering breath across the spring night. "I have my own account to collect from him."
Her eyes blazed chill emerald fire into Hull's. He met her glance squarely, and said in a low voice, "Do you grant any favors to a man about to die?"
"Not by custom," she replied indifferently. "Is it the safety of the eldarch's daughter? I plan no harm to her."
"It isn't that."
"Then ask it – though I am not disposed to grant favors to you, Hull Tarvish, who have twice laid hands of violence on me."
His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "It is the lives of my companions I ask."
She raised here eyebrows in surprise, then shook her ebony flame of hair. "How can I? I remained here purposely to wipe them out. Shall I release the half I have, only to destroy them with the rest?"
"I ask their lives," he repeated.
A curious, whimsical fire danced green in her eves. "I will try," she promised, and turned to the officer, who was ranging his men so that the cross-fire of execution could not mow down his own ranks. "Lebeau!" she snapped. "Hold back a while."
She strode into the gap between the prisoners and her own men. Hand on hip she surveyed the Harriers, while moonlight lent her beauty an aura that was incredible, unearthly. There in the dusk of night she seemed no demon at all, but a girl, almost a child, and even Hull, who had learned well enough what she was, could not but sweep fascinated eyes from her jet hair to her tiny white feet.
"Now," she said, passing her glance over the gr
oup, on my promise of amnesty, how many of you would join me?"
A stir ran through the mass. For a moment there was utter immobility, then, very slowly, two figures moved forward, and the stir became an angry murmur. Hull recognized the men; they were stragglers of the Confederation army, Ch'cago men, good fighters but merely mercenaries, changing sides as mood or advantage moved them. The murmur of the Harriers became an angry growl.
"You two," said the Princess, "are you Ormiston men?"
"No," said one. "Both of us come from the shores of Mitchin."
"Very well," she proceeded calmly. With a movement swift as arrow flight she snatched the weapon from her belt, the blue beam spat twice, and the men crumpled, one with face burned carbon-black, and both sending forth an odorous wisp of flesh-seared smoke.
She faced the aghast group. "Now," she said, "Who is your leader?"
File Ormson stepped forth, scowling and grim. "What do you want of me?"
"Will you treat with me? Will your men follow your agreements?"
File nodded. "They have small choice."
"Good. Now that I have sifted the traitors from your ranks – for I will not deal with traitors – I shall make my offer." She smiled at the squat ironsmith. "I think I've served both of us by so doing," she said softly, and Hull gasped as he perceived the sweetness of the glance she bent on the scowling File. "Would you, with your great muscles and warrior's heart, follow a woman?"
The scowl vanished in surprise. "Follow you? You?"
"Yes." Hull watched her in fascination as she used her voice, her eyes, her unearthly beauty intensified by the moonlight, all on hulking File Ormson, behind whom the Harrier prisoners stood tense and silent. "Yes, I mean to follow me," she repeated softly. "You are brave men, all of you, now that I have weeded out the two cowards." She smiled wistfully, almost tenderly at the squat figure before her. "And you – you are a warrior."
"But–" File gulped, "our others–"
"I promise you need not fight against your companions. I will release any of you who will not follow me. And your lands – it is your lands you fight for, is it not? I will not touch, not one acre save the eldarch's." She paused. "Well?"
The Lost Master - The Collected Works Page 20
