Rogue Sword

by Poul Anderson

  “Don’t be stupid. Of course not!”

  Orio dropped a hand to his knife. “What did you call me?”

  “Stow it. Do you want to talk like a sensible man, or--” Orio’s huge left hand shot out and grabbed Lucas by the neck. Rising, the corsair growled, “You cojoneless popinjay! Down on your knees and kiss my feet! And then get out!” Lucas chopped with the blade of his own hand. The blow cracked loud on Orio’s wrist. With an obscenity, the mariner let go. His knife gleamed forth. Lucas stood up, reached across the table, got a wrestler’s lock on that arm and threw his weight behind it. The dagger tinkled on the board. Orio gasped with pain.

  “Will you sit and hear me,” said Lucas, “or must I break a few bones?”

  Orio wheezed something. Lucas applied more pressure. “I don’t want to disable you,” he said with a measured amount of cordiality. “This is a trick I learned in Cathay, among others less gentle. But Captain Orio, my enemy has already sailed. I have no time to haggle. Will you listen to me?”

  He released the man. Orio sank shaking to the bench. Nobody had observed the brief struggle. “Drink your wine,” said Lucas, and signaled for more.

  The corsair eased. He looked ruefully at the purpling bruise on his left wrist, the right arm still lame. “I guess you’re no eunuch at that,” he said. “Were you indeed in Cathay?”

  “Yes. And I fought this summer with the Grand Company, till I fell afoul of them. That’s how I know about the treasure.”

  Orio watched him while the landlord refilled their cups. When they were alone again, the Genoese said: “You spoke of an enemy, and o’ being in haste. What d’you really want from this scheme?”

  “My woman. Nothing else.” Orio looked skeptical. “I don’t give a fig-plucking curse if you believe me or not!” snapped Lucas. “But the truth is, the Venetian merchant Gasparo Reni has sailed to get her. He claims she’s his slave.”

  “Eh? The whole waterfront’s been wondering why Tommaso, and Reni himself, should weigh anchor. For a woman? What kind o’ bewitchment has she got?”

  “She’s a Circassian princess. Her family would pay a very large ransom to get her back.”

  “Oh, so.” The suspiciousness faded from Orio’s visage. “I never heard Circassians valued their daughters that much. But a princess, aye, that might be different.”

  “She’s mine,” said Lucas. “I’ll kill the first man who touches her. But you and your crew can pick up quite enough plunder in the course of helping me rescue her.”

  “Um-m-m, What about the Venetians?”

  “I hope we can get there before they do. They’ve a head start, but your galley must be swifter than their dromond. If not, we’ll have to attack them. I hardly think you, or the Commune of Genoa, or the Kingdom of Cyprus, will care if a little Venetian blood is shed. There’ll be official protests, which will be pigeonholed. Confidentially, the Knights Hospitallers are in support of this enterprise. So no legal consequences will ensue.”

  “You’re Venetian yourself. I know the accent. Would you fight your own countrymen?”

  “That’s not my country. I only lived there a few years.”

  “What is your country, then? I know bloody damned little about you, Lucas Greco.”

  “You’ll not learn much, either. The best proof of my faith is that I’ll be on your ship. I think I’ve shown you I can fight.”

  Orio twisted his great beard. “Won’t be any light task, getting a crew together in this season. Even for so short a voyage. And into the jaws o’ the Catalans! Where’s this treasure, anyhow?”

  “On the estate where the Circassian princess is being held. It’s a lonely place with a handful of men to guard it, and the loot of half the Empire in its vaults. We can seize the grounds, bear off the gold, and be on our way home within two hours.” Lucas raised his cup. “But if we don’t sail soon, I’ll have no reason left to sail at all. You must decide tonight.”

  He drained the cup and banged it down on the table. Orio leaned forward. “D’you know this estate well?” Caution was departing, shoved out by raw greed.

  Lucas nodded.

  Oh, very well, he thought in a hidden burst of anguish. Forgive me, Jaime. There’s no blacker sin than betrayal. But whose Judas must I be, yours or Djansha’s? Forgive me, my friend, for loving her above you.

  If you draw sword on me, Jaime, I do not know if I will defend myself.

  Chapter XVIII

  When they passed Maditos castle, at the mouth of the Boca Daner, they saw campfire smoke to landward. A few horsemen trotted along the heights. Tiny at this distance, they reflected sparks of sunlight off jinete corselets and the kettle helmets of mounted Almugavares.

  “So the Catalans have opened siege,” Lucas murmured. “Not many here, judging from the smoke. But they’ll keep ten times as many Imperialists bottled up.”

  “If they come out after us--” said Orio uneasily.

  “No. They’re too weak at sea. We’ve not been challenged yet, have we? I tell you, this will be a lazy man’s pirating.”

  Inwardly, Lucas wondered. But he dared not show anything except confidence. The galley’s crew were frightened enough at their own audacity. When a storm hit them on the way, they rode it out with small trouble; but wind and hail broke a badly strained courage and they demanded to turn home. Lucas and Orio had to put down a near mutiny with scornful talk and drawn swords.

  And yet those men had warred all their lives, without bothering to reckon odds. Venetian, Pisan, Byzantine, Turk, Arab, Moor knew their pikes. Their reluctance now was a measure of that fear which radiated from the Grand Company.

  Like the terror of lightning and earthquake, Lucas thought. Was that not, indeed, what the Grand Company was: a vast, roaring, brainless natural force? Were all war and conquest anything else?

  He stiffened. The time was past for such questionings. If death and treachery were all the instruments he had, then let him use them, save what he held dear and descend without complaint into Hell.

  The galley rowed on. Near sunset, it passed En Jaime’s home. The villa could barely be seen from the water, a glimpse of walls and tile roofs among trees; the landing, with a boat tied at the dock and a path winding upward, was not much different from any other. But Lucas would have recognized those steeps in worse light. His heart sprang and his hands grew cold. There was a buzzing deep in his head.

  “They’ll have seen us from above,” said Orio. “If we turn inland now, they’ll muster their folk.”

  Lucas had difficulty speaking. “Certainly. So we’ll continue on out of sight. After dark we’ll come back.”

  Orio grunted and gave orders to the steersmen. From the poop where they stood, they looked across decks less cluttered than on a merchantman. The craft was small for a fighting galley; it had not been easy to recruit mariners. But oars walked down the length of the hull and a good ten men sat in the open, whetting their weapons. When the palomer up in the crow’s nest called down what he saw, another vessel or a hamlet, he larded the report with oaths and was apt to add, “Be simple to capture and strip ’em, skipper.”

  “What the blue-bottomed devils d’you want?” Orio retorted. “A few Greek coppers, or a houseful o’ gold?”

  His words were dissipated above rising waves, steel-colored and streaked with foam. The ship was headed directly into the weather, which came out of Asia with high, hasty clouds and a gathering chill. The mast rocked against sky and cliffs. A good omen--a useful one, at least--for it did not portend a real storm but did promise a full sail and swift escape once the raid was finished.

  If it is, thought Lucas. Remembering how the Catalans fought, he wondered if he would not leave his bones here.

  No matter, if only Djansha was freed.

  Unless Gasparo had already arrived and taken her--No!

  For the thousandth time, Lucas repeated his calculations. They had not spotted the Venetian dromond. He dared not assume they had passed it without seeing it. That was too unlikely, the coastwis
e route being so narrow a sea lane. By the same token, the other ship could not have completed its errand and started back without being seen. Therefore it was still hereabouts: doubtless at Gallipoli, where Gasparo would have to go first. He would need a while to discover Djansha’s location and persuade the Catalan officials that she belonged to him. Muntaner would not willingly override En Jaime’s opposition. Gasparo might well have to go over the governor’s head, visiting Rocafort in Rhedestos. . . This would all take time. And allowing for the corsair galley’s greater speed, Lucas was only two or three days behind.

  So if Gasparo had not yet gotten possession of the girl, the task was to seize the villa and take her. If he already had, though, then somehow Orio must be persuaded to fall on him at sea.

  Yet in that case, when the man he hated more than Satan came storming aboard, would Gasparo not thrust his sword into Djansha’s womb? Lucas jammed his teeth against each other till they ached.

  At nightfall he forced down a little bread, entered the cabin and put on the equipment Hugh had found for him--conical helmet, with nose guard and cheekpieces; hauberk and breeches of mail, reinforced with plate at the critical points; steel-capped leather boots; a light strong targe to hang on his left arm; dagger and sword of Damascus work. When he stepped out on deck again, he heard an envious mutter. Orio had a morion helmet and a rusty corselet; the others were fortunate if they owned leather cap and three-ply doublet.

  But their weapons were excellent.

  “I think we can turn about now,” said the captain.

  Lucas agreed. The drumbeat changed pattern under him. Waves smacked the hull as it wallowed around. The deck canted sharply and Lucas took a dash of salt spray in his face. Wind hooted in the shrouds; the waters rushed and rumbled; timbers creaked. A partial moon stood halfway toward the zenith, flying between clouds whose grayness it turned hoar. Europe and Asia were black walls on either side of the strait, which caught what light there was in metallic gleams. With all lanthorns doused, the ship became a well of night.

  Human voices sounded long-drawn, lonesome, as steersmen, leadsman and lookouts fumbled half-blind among the waves. There was no danger they would be heard from shore. The wind devoured all sounds except itself and the waters.

  Orio joined Lucas in the bows. “If we don’t pile on any rocks, we’ll soon be there,” he rumbled.

  He was a blocky animal shadow. Beyond him poised one of his men, lean, half-naked even in this cold, clasping a pike whose head shimmered under the fugitive moon. Surely, thought Lucas with a flash of his old japery, no damosel ever had unlikelier rescuers.

  He strained his vision ahead. “Lights up there.” He pointed. “Must be from the house. Steer by them.”

  Orio bawled a command to the palomer, who directed the helmsmen. The galley bucked its way toward land.

  Somehow, thought Lucas, a man gets through intervening time, until at last he sees the wished-for one. Or dies. He felt no eagerness, his mood was merely an unbendable resolution, he lacked the courage to hope.

  “Hard a-port! Row, you bastards! Steady as she goes! Stand by the hawser! In, starboard oars!”

  The boat boomed against the ship’s prow. A sailor poised on the rail gauged his distance, sprang, and made fast the line he carried to a bollard. The ship swung about, crunching against the piles. Other lines were tossed. Some dropped in the water; oaths fumed after them.

  “Make fast, you whoresons!”

  Up on the trail, a firefly light bobbed. Someone had heard and was coming to investigate.

  “All ashore!”

  In his armor, Lucas could not jump like the crewmen. He cut the gangplank lashings, dragged it to the rail and shoved it across. When he arrived on the dock, Orio had formed the two score mariners into a double line. Pikes slanted. The captain’s own bordon sword flashed free. By a sudden shaft of moonlight, Lucas observed one man more closely: squat, barefoot, crouched in fluttering shirt and trousers, teeth grinning from a greasy beard, a light ax in his hand and two knives in a sash. He spat to leeward and hefted the ax with murderous pleasure.

  Orio peered ahead. The lanthorn was closer now, but only one man could be seen, in cuirass and helmet, and a hint of others. “Shall we rush ’em?” he asked.

  “Wait,” said Lucas. “Let them debouch down here. The path’s so narrow they could hold us off for a long while.”

  His glaive slid forth. He heard the clack of crossbows being wound.

  The Catalans stepped onto the beach. Now Lucas could count six. The big man in the lead cupped hands to mouth and called, “Who are you? Why’re you landing armed?”

  “Fire!” cried Orio.

  “Stop, you fool--!” Lucas’ protest was too late. The bowstrings twanged at his back. He heard the quarrels go by.

  Someone bellowed in pain. The leader’s voice lifted: “You sneaking dogs! St. George for the right!”

  “God’s wounds!” Lucas yanked Orio around. “Have you a fever? Or did you never own any wits?”

  “Should I stop and parley?”

  “It’d be more honorable. . . . But did you think we could hit anything at this range in this murk? Your archers winged a single man. And now they’re warned!”

  Lucas raised his sword and broke into a run. “Charge!” he shouted. “Cut them down before they get away!”

  The crew howled and swept after him.

  The Catalan leader snatched the lanthorn from its bearer. Light streamed over his face, bearded, broken-nosed, scarred and pocked. So Asberto Cornel came back to the master I forsook, thought Lucas. Then there was no chance to think. Asberto flung the lanthorn. It struck one pirate on the breast. Burning oil splashed over his skin. He screamed. The moon burrowed into a cloud and darkness blew over the world.

  Lucas reached the bottom of the path. Steel clashed above him. He lifted his targe. A blow shocked his arm. He struck back. One man stood across the trail, a vague hairy shape. Dimmer forms stirred behind. To the left the cliff rose straight; on the right, a slope overgrown with brambles plunged downward.

  “Desperta ferres!” shrieked the Almugavare. Asberto rapped at his back: “Up to the house, Juan, and tell them. The rest of you, stand fast with me.”

  The Almugavare dodged Lucas’ sword and glided in. His knife flickered. Lucas had expected the tactic. He guarded himself with his buckler. His long blade chopped at a leg, struck leather and flesh and bone. The Almugavare lurched off the path. Orio, pressing close behind Lucas, assailed him. The Almugavare invoked his patron saint, stood swaying, and fought till he was killed.

  Lucas was already beyond him, up to the next man. He couldn’t make out that face either, but the size and the hoarse breathing told him who it was. A monstrous blow crashed on his shield. He felt his arm go numb, heard the wooden frame splinter. He staggered. The Catalan broadsword swung high again.

  The moon broke free. “Do you know me, Asberto?” Lucas called.

  It was done with unmerciful deliberation. Cornel almost dropped his sword. “Greco!”

  In that unguarded moment, Lucas hewed, once, twice, thrice, with all the speed and power he owned. Blood sprang from Asberto’s thigh and left arm. He stumbled backward, off the trail and down the thorny slope. Lucas pursued, his iron belling on cuirass and helmet and defending sword.

  “You swine of a sorcerer--!” Asberto groped with his feet, seeking a firm place to stand. “You put that spell on her!” he screamed. “You took away her soul! Satan rot me if I don’t kill you! “

  The mariners went past, thrusting with pikes, battering with axes, pushing back the last three Catalans by sheer weight. But the work was slow and savage.

  Asberto recovered himself. His weapon blurred. The edge flew past Lucas’ face, chopped at hands and knees, stabbed at his mouth. He parried, riposted, driven yard by yard down the hillside. Only his armor saved him. But when Asberto nearly fell in a rabbit hole, Lucas attacked once more. For a space their swords raged against each other.

  They broke away, panting i
n the wind and the moonlight. Lucas dropped his ruined buckler. Asberto clutched his haft in both gashed hands; the blade trembled. “Where’s Djansha?” Lucas demanded.

  Asberto did not hear. “She gives herself to all who’ll ask,” he said. Tears mingled with the blood and sweat on him. “Violante who was so beautiful is any dirty soldier’s who’ll give her a bottle of wine. Each night when she’s senseless drunk, she mumbles about her father. What have you done with her soul?”

  “Where’s Djansha, you creature?”

  Asberto darted forward. His sword rose and fell. Lucas twisted aside. The steel buried itself in the ground. Lucas’ glaive took Asberto across the wrists.

  The Catalan fell on his face in the brambles. He rolled over, sat up, and raised his arms. Both hands were gone.

  Lucas stood aside and sobbed for air. When he regained awareness, he saw Asberto still seated among the thorns, under the moon, rocking back and forth. Blood spurted from his arm stumps, which he had folded into a cross on his breast. He would quickly die, Lucas thought. Certainly that was best: death for the warrior who was crippled, and for the knight’s daughter whose mind was drowning.

  There was no more hatred in Lucas, nor even the revulsion he once knew. He thought, Christ have pity on them, whom the Grand Company also destroyed.

  The path seemed empty. He plowed back through the brush and hurried upward.

  The three Catalan guards had not had time to close the rear gates. The raiders forced them into the garden. But there they counterattacked so ferociously that forty corsairs scattered, giving them a chance to join their aroused comrades at the house.

  Lucas followed the rising terraces to the courtyard. There was more light here, not only the weak moon but candlelight glowing in the villa windows. He could see a few men, hastily equipped, behind the colonnade at the top of the staircase. Orio’s band had formed ranks. Just as Lucas arrived, the pirates charged.

  “Stop!” yelled Lucas. “You utter idiot! Stop!”