The A. Merritt Megapack

by Abraham Merritt

  Well, now it was our turn. The slim maids who had fallen might soon have company!

  I took the cord from Lur. Sent the signal. Felt it answered.

  We cut the cords, and knotted their ends to heavier strands. And when they had run out we knotted to their ends a stronger, slender rope.

  It crept away—and away—and away—

  And now for the ladder—the bridge over which we must go.

  It was light but strong, that ladder. Woven cunningly in a way thought out long and long ago. It had claws at each end which, once they had gripped, were not easily opened.

  We fastened that ladder’s end to the slender rope. It slipped away from us…over the ferns…out into the hot breath of the cauldron…through it.

  Invisible within that breath…invisible against the green dusk of the cliff…on and on it crept…

  The three maids had it! They were making it fast. Under my hands it straightened and stiffened. We drew it taut from our end. We fastened our grapnels.

  The road to Sirk was open!

  I turned to the Witch-woman. She stood, her gaze far and far away. In her eyes was the green fire of her wolves. And suddenly over the hissing of the torrent, I heard the howling of her wolves—far and far away.

  She relaxed; her head dropped; she smiled at me—“Yes—truly can I talk to my wolves, Dwayanu!”

  I walked to the ladder, tested it. It was strong, secure.

  “I go first, Lur. Let none follow me until I have crossed. Then do you, Dara and Naral, climb to guard my back.”

  Lur’s eyes blazed.

  “I follow you. Your captains come after me.”

  I considered that. Well—let it be.

  “As you say, Lur. But do not follow until I have crossed. Then let Ouarda send the soldiers. Ouarda—not more than ten may be on the ladder at a time. Bind cloths over their mouths and nostrils before they start. Count thirty—slowly, like this—before each sets forth behind the other. Fasten axe and sword between my shoulders, Lur. See to it that all bear their weapons so. Watch now, how I use my hands and feet.”

  I swung upon the ladder, arms and legs opened wide. I began to climb it. Like a spider. Slowly, so they could learn. The ladder swayed but little; its angle was a good one.

  And now I was above the fern-brake. And now I was at the edge of the torrent. Above it. The stream swirled round me. It hid me. The hot breath of the geyser shrivelled me. Nor could I see anything of the ladder except the strands beneath me…

  Thank Luka for that! If what was before me was hidden—so was I hidden from what was before me!

  I was through the steam. I had passed the cliff. I was above the parapet. I dropped from the ladder, among the rocks—unseen. I shook the ladder. There was a quivering response. There was weight upon it…more weight…and more…

  I unstrapped axe and sword—

  “Dwayanu—”

  I turned. There were the three maids. I began to praise them—holding back laughter. Green and black had run and combined under bath of steam into grotesque pattern.

  “Nobles you are, maids! From this moment! Green and black your colours. What you have done this night will long be a tale in Karak.”

  I looked toward the battlements. Between us and them was a smooth floor of rock and sand, less than half a bow-shot wide. A score of soldiers stood around the fire. There was a larger group on the parapet close to the towers of the bridge. There were more at the farther end of the parapet, looking at the wolves.

  The towers of the drawbridge ran straight down to the rocky floor. The tower at the left was blank wall. The tower at the right had a wide gate. The gate was open, unguarded, unless the soldiers about the fire were its guards. Down from between the towers dropped a wide ramp, the approach to the bridge-head.

  There was a touch on my arm. Lur was beside me. And close after her came my two captains. After them, one by one, the soldiers. I bade them string bows, set arrows. One by one they melted out of the green darkness, slipped by me. They made ready in the shadow of the rocks.

  One score—two score…a shriek cut like an arrow through the hissing of the torrent! The ladder trembled. It shook—and twisted…Again the despairing cry…the ladder fell slack!

  “Dwayanu—the ladder is broken? At—Ouarda—”

  “Quiet, Lur! They may have heard that shrieking. The ladder could not break…”

  “Draw it in, Dwayanu—draw it in!”

  Together we pulled upon it. It was heavy. We drew it in like a net, and swiftly. And suddenly it was of no weight at all. It rushed into our hands—

  Its ends were severed as though by knife slash or axe blow.

  “Treachery!” I said.

  “But treachery…how…with Ouarda on guard.”

  I crept, crouching, behind the shadow of the rocks.

  “Dara—spread out the soldiers. Tell Naral to slip to the farther end. On the signal, let them loose their arrows. Three flights only. The first at those around the fire. The second and the third at those on the walls closest to the towers. Then follow me. You understand me?”

  “It is understood, Lord.”

  The word went along the line; I heard the bowstrings whisper.

  “We are fewer than I like, Lur—yet nothing for us but to go through with it. No way out of Sirk now but the way of the sword.”

  “I know. It is of Ouarda I am thinking…” Her voice trembled.

  “She is safe. If treachery had been wide-spread, we would have heard sounds of fighting. No more talking, Lur. We must move swiftly. After the third arrow flight, we rush the tower gate.”

  I gave the signal. Up rose the archers. Straight upon those around the fire flew their shafts. They left few alive. Instantly upon those around the towers of the bridge whistled a second arrow storm.

  Hai! But that was straight shooting! See them fall! Once more—

  Whistle of feathered shaft! Song of the bow-string! Gods—but this is to live again!

  I dropped down the rocks, Lur beside me. The soldier women poured after us. Straight to the tower door we sped. We were half-way there before those upon the long parapet awakened.

  Shouts rang. Trumpets blared, and the air was filled with the brazen clangour of a great gong bellowing the alarm to Sirk asleep behind the gap. We sped on. Javelins dropped among us, arrows whistled. From other gates along the inner walls guards began to emerge, racing to intercept us.

  We were at the door of the bridge towers—and through it!

  But not all. A third had fallen under javelin and arrow. We swung the stout door shut. We dropped across it the massive bars that secured it. And not an instant too soon. Upon the door began to beat the sledges of the tricked guards.

  The chamber was of stone, huge and bare. Except for the door through which we had come, there was no opening. I saw the reason for that—never had Sirk expected to be attacked from within. There were arrow slits high up, looking over the moat, and platforms for archers. At one side were cogs and levers which raised and lowered the bridge.

  All this I took in at one swift glance. I leaped over to the levers, began to manipulate them. The cogs revolved.

  The bridge was falling!

  The Witch-woman ran up to the platform of the archers; she peered out; set horn to lips; she sent a long call through the arrow slit—summoning signal for Tibur and his host.

  The hammering against the door had ceased. The blows against it were stronger, more regular-timed. The battering of a ram. The stout wood trembled under them; the bars groaned, Lur called to me:

  “The bridge is down, Dwayanu! Tibur is rushing upon it. It grows lighter. Dawn is breaking. They have brought their horses!”

  I cursed.

  “Luka, sent him wit not to pound across that bridge on horse!”

  “He is doing it…he and Rascha and a handful of others only…the rest are dismounting…”

  “Hai—they are shooting at them from the arrow slits…the javelins rain among them…Sirk takes toll…” />
  There was a thunderous crash against the door. The wood split…

  A roaring tumult. Shouts and battle cries. Ring of sword upon sword and the swish of arrows. And over it all the laughter of Tibur.

  No longer was the ram battering at the door.

  I threw up the bars, raised axe in readiness, opened the great gate a finger’s breadth and peered out.

  The soldiers of Karak were pouring down the ramp from the bridge-head.

  I opened the door wider. The dead of the fortress lay thick around tower base and bridge-head.

  I stepped through the door. The soldiers saw me.

  “Dwayanu!” rang their shout.

  From the fortress still came the clamour of the great gong—warning Sirk.

  Sirk—no longer sleeping!

  CHAPTER XX.

  “TSANTAWU-FAREWELL!”

  There was a humming as of a disturbed gigantic hive beyond Sirk’s gap. Trumpet blasts and the roll of drums. Clang of brazen gongs answering that lonely one which beat from the secret heart of the raped fortress. And ever Karak’s women-warriors poured over the bridge until the space behind the fortress filled with them.

  The Smith wheeled his steed—faced me. “Gods—Tibur! But that was well done!”

  “Never done but for you, Dwayanu! You saw, you knew—you did. Ours the least part.”

  Well, that was true. But I was close to liking Tibur then. Life of my blood! It had been no play to lead that charge against the bridge end. The Smith was a soldier! Let him be only half loyal to me—and Khalk’ru take the Witch-woman!

  “Sweep the fortress clean, Anvil-smiter. We want no arrows at our backs.”

  “It is being swept, Dwayanu.”

  By brooms of sword and spear, by javelin and arrow, the fortress was swept dean.

  The clamour of the brazen gong died on a part stroke.

  My stallion rested his nose on my shoulder, blew softly against my ear.

  “You did not forget my horse! My hand to you, Tibur!”

  “You lead the charge, Dwayanu!” I leaped upon the stallion. Battleaxe held high I wheeled and galloped toward the gap. Like the point of a spear I sped, Tibur at my left, the Witch-woman at my right, the nobles behind us, the soldiers sweeping after us.

  We hurled ourselves through the cliffed portal of Sirk.

  A living wave lifted itself to throw us back. Hammers flew, axes hewed, javelins and spears and feathered shafts sleeted us. My horse tottered and dropped, screaming, his hinder hocks cut through. I felt a hand upon my shoulder, dragging me to my feet. The Witch-woman smiled at me. She sliced with her sword the arm drawing me down among the dead. With axe and sword we cleared a ring around us. I threw myself on the back of a grey from which a noble had fallen, bristling with arrows.

  We thrust forward against the living wave. It gave, curling round us.

  On and on! Cut sword and hew axe! Cut and slash and batter through!

  The curling wave that tore at us was beaten down. We were through the gap. Sirk lay before us.

  I reined in my horse. Sirk lay before us—but too invitingly!

  The city nestled in a hollow between sheer, unscalable black walls. The lip of the gap was higher than the roof of the houses. They began an arrow flight away. It was a fair city. There was no citadel nor forts; there were no temples nor palaces. Only houses of stone, perhaps a thousand of them, flat roofed, set wide apart, gardens around them, a wide street straying among them, tree-bordered. There were many lanes. Beyond the city fertile field upon field, and flowering orchards.

  And no battle ranks arrayed against us. The way open.

  Too open!

  I caught the glint of arms on the housetops. There was the noise of axes above the blaring of trumpets and the roll of the kettle-drums.

  Hai! They were barricading the wide street with their trees, preparing a hundred ambushes for us, expecting us to roll down in force.

  Spreading the net in the sight of Dwayanu!

  Yet they were good tactics. The best defence I had met with it in many a war against the barbarians. It meant we must fight for every step, with every house a fort, with arrows searching for us from every window and roof. They had a leader here in Sirk, to arrange such reception on such brief notice! I had respect for that leader, whoever he might be. He had picked the only possible way to victory—unless those against whom he fought knew the countermove.

  And that, hard earned, I did know.

  How long could this leader keep Sirk within its thousand forts? There, always, lay the danger in this defence. The overpowering impulse of a pierced city is to swarm out upon its invaders as ants and bees do from their hills and nests. Not often is there a leader strong enough to hold them back. If each house of Sirk could remain linked to the other, each ever an active part of the whole—then Sirk might be unconquerable. But how, when they began to be cut off, one by one? Isolated? The leader’s will severed?

  Hai! Then it is that despair creeps through every chink! They are drawn out by fury and despair as though by ropes. They pour out—to kill or to be killed. The cliff crumbles, stone by stone. The cake is eaten by the attackers, crumb by crumb.

  I divided our soldiers, and sent the first part against Sirk in small squads, with orders to spread and to take advantage of all cover. They were to take the outer fringe of houses, at all costs, shooting their arrows up in the high curved flight against the defenders while others hammered their way into those houses. Still others were to attack farther on, but never getting too far from their comrades nor from the broad way running through the city.

  I was casting a net over Sirk and did not want its meshes broken.

  By now it was broad daylight.

  The soldiers moved forward. I saw the arrows stream up and down, twisting among each other like serpents…I heard the axe-blows on the doors…By Luka! There floats a banner of Karak from one of the roofs! And another.

  The hum of Sirk shot higher, became louder, in it a note of madness. Hai! I knew they could not long stand this nibbling! And I knew that sound! Soon it would rise to frenzy. Drone from that into despair!

  Hai! Not long now before they came tumbling out…

  Tibur was cursing at my elbow. I looked at Lur, and she was trembling. The soldiers were murmuring, straining at the leash, mad to join battle. I looked at their blue eyes, hard and cold; their faces beneath the helmet-caps were not those of women but of young warriors…those who sought in them for woman’s mercy would have rude awakening!

  “By Zarda! But the fight will be done before we can dip blade!” I laughed.

  “Patience, Tibur! Patience is our strong weapon. Sirk’s strongest—if they but knew it. Let them be first to lose that weapon.”

  The turmoil grew louder. At the head of the street appeared half a hundred of Karak’s soldiers, struggling against more than equal number which steadily, swiftly, was swelled by others of Sirk pouring from side lanes and dropping from roofs and windows of the beleaguered houses.

  It was the moment for which I had waited!

  I gave the command. I raised the battle-cry. We drove down upon them. Our skirmishers opened to let us through, melting into the shouting ranks behind. We ripped into the defenders of Sirk. Down they went, but as they fell they fought, and many a saddle of the nobles was empty, and many were the steeds lost before we won to the first barricade.

  Hai! But how they fought us there from behind the hastily felled trees—women and men and children hardly big enough to bend the bow or wield the knife!

  Now the soldiers of Karak began to harry them from the sides; the soldiers of Karak shot into them from the tops of the houses they had abandoned; we fought Sirk as it had planned to fight us. And those who fought against us soon broke and fled, and we were over the barricade. Battling, we reached the heart of Sirk, a great and lovely square in which fountains played and flowers blossomed. The spray of the fountains was crimson and there were no flowers when we left that square.

  We paid heavy
toll there. Full half of the nobles were slain. A spear had struck my helmet and well-nigh dropped me. Bare-headed, blood-flecked I rode, shouting, sword dripping red. Naral and Dara both bore wounds, but still guarded my back. The Witch-woman, and the Smith and his scarred familiar fought on, untouched.

  There was a thunder of hoofs. Down upon us swept a wave of horsemen. We raced toward them. We struck like two combers. Surged up. Mingled. Flash swords! Hammers smite! Axes cleave! Hai! But now it was hand-to-hand in the way I knew best and best loved!

  We swirled in a mad whirlpool. I glanced at right and saw the Witch-woman had been separated from me. Tibur, too, was gone. Well, they were giving good account of themselves no doubt—wherever they were.

  I swung to right and to left with my sword. In the front of those who fought us, over the caps of Karak which had swirled between us, was a dark face…a dark face whose black eyes looked steadily into mine—steadily…steadily. At the shoulder of that man was a slighter figure whose clear, brown eyes stared at me…steadily…steadily. In the black eyes was understanding and sorrow. The brown eyes were filled with hate.

  Black eyes and brown eyes touched something deep and deep within me…They were rousing that something…calling to it…something that had been sleeping.

  I heard my own voice shouting command to cease fighting, and at that shout abruptly all sound of battle close by was stilled. Sirk and Karak alike stood silent, amazed, staring at me. I thrust my horse through the press of bodies, looked deep into the black eyes.

  And wondered why I had dropped my sword…why I stood thus…and why the sorrow in those eyes racked my heart…The dark-faced man spoke—two words—

  “Leif!…Degataga!”

  That something which had been asleep was wide awake, rushing up through me…rocking my brain…tearing at it…shaking every nerve…

  I heard a cry—the voice of the Witch-woman.

  A horse burst through the ring of the soldiers. Upon it was Rascha, lips drawn back over his teeth, cold eyes glaring into mine. His arm came up. His dagger gleamed, and was hidden in the back of the man who had called me—Degataga!