The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “It is a pact,” answered Brian, and at that the other galloped back to his men.

  Brian swung his sword and flung it high into the air; before it had flashed down to nestle in his palm again, his men were scrambling into the road. He sheathed the sword, smiling a little, and turned to Turlough.

  “Well? To your mind or not, Wolf?”

  “My father saw the Brown Geraldine at Dublin,” responded that worthy, scratching the gray beard which had begun to sprout. “They broke his bones with the back of an ax and swung him out in a cage until he died, and after. He made pacts too easily.”

  “Well?” asked Brian again, but a dull flush crossed his cheeks.

  “I gave you my rede,” said Turlough sullenly. “I said to stand alone, receiving aid from neither man nor faction. Now there is mischief to be repaired.”

  “Then my sword shall repair it,” said Brian, and ordered the men to swing in after him. “Guide us to this tower of Cathbarr’s, for my honor is in my own keeping.”

  They swung about and headed to the south and the sea.

  The hill-paths, which Turlough Wolf seemed to know perfectly, were cruelly hard on the horses; none were as yet trodden down, for the snow was fresh, and all the west coast lay desolate. The plague had stricken Galway and Mayo heavily that year, smiting the mountains with death. Some few parties of Roundhead horse had come through, because they feared God and Ireton more than the plague, and some Royalists had fled up from the south for much the same reason.

  In any case, Yellow Brian found all the land desolate, and liked it. The more wasted the land, he reflected, the more chance for that sword of his to find swinging-room. As he had ridden, news had come from the east—news of the Wexford killing and the curse that was come upon the land. Owen Ruadh O’Neill was not yet dead, but Brian knew that he had prophesied truly. Ireland’s day was gloaming fast.

  Despite the dismal tone of Turlough Wolf, Brian told himself that he had done a good day’s work. O’Donnell Dubh would keep his word beyond any question. As for the man he was to slay, the only part of it which troubled Brian was the prediction of the Black Woman at the Dee water. She had known him, and had prophesied O’Neill’s death, and had spoken of the west and this Cathbarr of the Ax. After all, however, she might have shot a chance shaft which had gone true. Brian had no faith in magic.

  All that afternoon he rode on, Turlough Wolf ahead of him, the men behind. They feared and hated the old Wolf as much as they feared and loved Brian.

  Progress was slow, owing to the bad paths, the snow, and sundry changes of direction, so that when night fell they had covered but eight miles of the ten. Turlough suggested that they push on and finish their business at a stroke, but Brian curtly refused. So the men made camp in lee of a cliff and proceeded to feast away the last of their provisions and wine, in confidence that on the morrow they would have more, or else would need none.

  Brian and Turlough built a fire apart, and after their repast Brian broke silence with a request for information about Cathbarr. It was his first speech since the parting with the Dark Master.

  “I never heard of him,” responded Turlough. “No doubt he is some outlaw who has become a thorn in the Dark Master’s flesh. With the woman it is different.”

  “Tell me of her,” said Brian, gazing into the fire.

  “She is an O’Malley, and, like all the clan, makes much of ships and seamen and little of horses and riders. When the Dark Master came, ten years ago, he slew her father and mother by treachery, and would have slain her but that her men carried her off. She was a child then. Now she is a woman, very bitter against O’Donnell Dubh, and is allied with the Parliament so that her ships may have the run of the seas, it is said. O’Donnell takes sides with no faction, but caters to all. He lays nets and snares, and men fall into them, and he laughs.”

  “Why is Nuala O’Malley called the Bird Daughter?” asked Brian quietly.

  At this question old Turlough rose on his elbow, and in his wide, gray eyes was set mingled fear and wonder.

  “M’anam an diaoul!” he spat out. “Who are you to know this thing?”

  “Answer my question,” returned Brian, hiding his own surprise.

  “Seven years ago, master, I was at Sligo Bay with O’Dowda when Hamilton cut us to pieces. Nuala O’Malley had brought us some powder—she was but a slip of a girl then. In the evening I was down at the ship when I saw her come from below, a hooded pigeon in her hands. She whispered in the bird’s ear, set off the hood, and the bird flew into the night. I named her Bird Daughter, but no other man knew the name.”

  “Then a woman did,” chuckled Brian dryly. “It was but a carrier pigeon, Turlough; I have seen them used in Spain. Now listen to me.”

  With that he told him of the Black Woman and his weird meeting at Dee water. Old Turlough listened in no little amazement, for he was full of superstitious fancies, but Brian said nothing of his own name. The uncanny prophecies, however, which now seemed on the road to fulfilment were enough to give any man pause.

  When he had finished, a very subdued Turlough Wolf stated that the Black Woman was an old hag who wandered all over the land, that some called her crazy and others thought her inspired, and that his own belief was that she was a banshee, no less.

  At this Brian saw the thing in a more rational light. The old woman knew of this nook in the west, and, attracted to him by his resemblance to the long-dead earl, she had endeavored to steer him thither. After all, it was quite simple.

  Of course, old Turlough swore that he had never breathed his name of Bird Daughter to a living soul, and that it was but a name he had used in his own mind for the slim girl who had fetched powder from the south. Brian chuckled, guessing that Turlough was not the only one who had seen carrier pigeons used, and who had ascribed the thing to higher powers.

  The incident served the purpose of establishing a firmer intimacy between Brian and the old man, however, and convinced Turlough that his master was destined to fly high. Nor through all the storm of men that befell after did Turlough again breathe reproof as he had dared that day.

  “I begin to see that your advice was good, Turlough Wolf,” said Brian the next morning, as he rode shivering from camp. “As to making my men know me for their master, that troubles me little; but I think it will be a hard matter to avoid making pacts, and to stand alone.”

  “Lean on your sword,” grunted old Turlough. “To my notion, such friendship as that huge blade of yours can give is better than good. Order men ahead.”

  Brian nodded and sent two of the men ahead as scouts, with the Wolf himself. For the better part of an hour they made slow headway among the rocks, and then emerged suddenly on the slope leading down to the cliffs and sea. Turlough pointed to the left.

  “There lies the tower, if I mistake not.”

  Drawing rein, Brian saw at once why he had been sent on this errand. Cathbarr’s tower was an old ruin at the end of a long and narrow headland—indeed, at high tide most of the headland would be covered, for it was low and yet beyond shot of the cliffs. Except from the water, it was almost impregnable; cannon might have reached it from shore, but two axmen could have held the narrow way against an army.

  Brian laughed softly and ordered the men to remain where they were.

  “What are you going to do, master?” queried old Turlough anxiously.

  “I am going to lean on my sword, as you advised me,” chuckled Brian, and rode on alone.

  CHAPTER IV

  BRIAN LEANS ON HIS SWORD

  As he had foreseen, Brian was allowed to ride across the narrow neck of land where his men would have had to battle for progress. It was from no mere bravado that he had gone forward alone to the tower, but because men were worth saving, and he believed that his own sword was a match for any ax. If this ruffian Cathbarr was a freebooting outlaw, he would be willing enough to stake his ten men on his prowess, and Yellow Brian was very anxious to have those ten axmen behind him.

  At the top of
the tower men watched and steel glistened, and as Brian rode up to the low gateway, it was flung open and a man strode out. This man hardly came up to Brian’s conception of an outlaw, except as to stature.

  He was a good six feet four, reflected Brian as he drew rein and waited, and was built in proportion—or, rather, out of proportion. His shoulders and chest seemed tremendous, and a long mail-shirt reached to his knees; his hair was short-clipped and brown, and beneath his curly brown beard Brian made out a massive face, wide-set brown eyes, and an air not so much ruffianly as of cheerful good-humor.

  Brian had no need to ask his name, however, for in one hand he carried a weapon such as had seldom seen the light since powder had come to Ireland. It was an ax, some five feet from haft to helve; double-bladed, each blade eight inches long, curved back slightly, and two inches thick by twice as much wide. The edges, which came down sharply from the thickness, were not overkeen, and were not meant to be so. When the thing struck, that was the end of what stood before it.

  “Cead mile failte!” cried Cathbarr of the Ax in a deep, rumbling voice, his white teeth flashing through his beard in a smile. “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, swordsman! Are you come to capture my lordly castle?”

  “No; your men,” laughed Brian, liking this huge, merry giant on the instant. “I am come from O’Donnell Dubh to reduce you and fetch you to him.”

  The smile froze on the giant’s face.

  “I am sorry for that, yellow one! I like your face and your thews, and to find that you serve the black traitor of Bertragh is an ill thing.”

  “I serve no man,” answered Brian easily. “I need men. If I conquer you, O’Donnell lends me twoscore men for three months; also, by conquering you I win your men to me, which makes fifty. With my seventy men, I shall fall to work.”

  “By my faith, a ready reckoner!” and Cathbarr grinned again. “Get down and fight.”

  Brian swung out of the saddle and led his horse to one side. They were not so badly matched, he reflected. Cathbarr’s head was bared, while he had steel cap and jack; but for some reason he felt hesitant at thought of killing this merry giant.

  “Not so bad,” he said, baring his five-foot blade and holding it up against the huge ax. “Not so bad, eh?”

  Cathbarr burst into a laugh.

  “It will grieve me to crush your skull, dear man,” he rumbled. “What a pair we would make, matched against that Dark Master! But enough. Ready?”

  Brian nodded slightly, and the long ax flashed up.

  Now, Brian O’Neill had served a stiff apprenticeship at weapons, and had faced many men whose eyes boded him death, but here, for the first time in all his life, he felt the self-confidence stricken out of him.

  As Cathbarr heaved up his ax, he became a different man. All the good cheer fled out of his face; his curly brown beard seemed to stand out about his head like snakes, and the massiveness of his body was reflected in the battle-fury of his face. He needed no blows to rouse him into madness; but with the ax swinging like a reed about him, he came rushing at Brian, a giant come to earth from of old time. His men on the tower set up a wild yell of encouragement.

  Brian leaped swiftly aside and, thinking to end the fight at a blow, brought down his sword against the descending ax-haft. Sparks flew—the haft was bound with iron; Brian only saved himself from falling by a miracle.

  Then began a strange battle of feet against brawn, for Cathbarr rushed and rushed again, but ever Brian slipped away from the falling ax, nor was he able to strike back. The play of that ax was a marvel to behold; it was shield and weapon in one, and it seemed no heavier than a thing of wood as it whirled. Twice Brian got in his point against the mail-coat without effect, and twice the ax brushed his shoulder, so that he gave over thrusting. He knew that he was fighting for his life indeed.

  An instant later he discovered that fact anew as a glancing touch of the ax drove off his steel cap and sent him staggering back a dozen paces, reeling and clutching at the air. To his amazement Cathbarr did not follow him, but stood waiting for him to recover; he had not looked for such courtesy on the west coast.

  He sprang back into his defense, desperate now. Again the ax whirled, seeming a part of the giant himself, and Brian knew that he was lost if he waited for it. So, instead of waiting, he leaped under the blow, dropped his sword, and drove up his fist into the bearded chin, now flecked with foam.

  It was a cruel blow. Cathbarr grunted, his head rocked back, and he swayed on his feet. Before he could recover, Brian had set his thigh against him, caught his arm, and sent him whirling to the ground, ax and all. Then he picked up his sword and stood leaning on it, panting.

  Cathbarr sat up and gazed around blankly, until his gaze fell on the waiting figure. Brian looked at him, smiling slightly, and the eyes of the two men met and clinched. As if he had been a child caught doing wrong, the giant grinned and wiped the foam from his beard.

  “Was that fair fighting, yellow man?” he asked.

  “No,” laughed Brian. “It was unfair, Cathbarr; but I think my fists can best your ax yet.”

  Slowly the giant got to his feet. To Brian’s surprise he left his ax where it lay and came forward with extended hand.

  “Had you claimed that blow as fair,” he rumbled, “I would have slain you. Now I love you, yellow man. Let us make a pact together. What is your name?”

  They struck hands, and Brian felt a great thrill of admiration for this man whose terrible strength enclosed the simple heart of a child. But he shook his head.

  “I make no pacts, Cathbarr. My name is Brian Buidh. I made pact with the Dark Master, and now I am sorry for it; yet it must be held to, for I see no way out of it. But wait—I have a cunning man whose wit may help us here.”

  He turned and flung up his sword in the air. His men rode down to the narrow causeway, while from the tower came shouts warning Cathbarr against treachery. But the giant only grinned again, and Brian shouted to Turlough Wolf to come on alone.

  Old Turlough obeyed in no little wonder. When he came up Brian told him what had chanced—that out of enmity had arisen friendship.

  “But,” he concluded, trouble in his heart, “you must find me a way out, Turlough. I have passed my word to O’Donness to reduce Cathbarr; to do that I must slay him, or he me. I see little honor either way.”

  “Few men find honor in their dealings with the Dark Master,” grumbled Turlough, looking from Cathbarr to Brian. “Yet, if you want a way out, it is an easy matter. Cathbarr of the Ax, give service to my master. Thus, Brian Buidh, you shall reduce Cathbarr; yet the Dark Master said naught of giving up this man to him.”

  “Good!” cried Brian, eagerness in his blue eyes, and swung on the giant. “Will you give me your service, friend, and follow me? There shall be a storm of men—” He paused abruptly as the words fell from his lips, but he had said enough.

  “I give you service, Yellow Brian,” rumbled Cathbarr, taking his hand again, and his strong, white teeth flashed through his beard. “I will follow you, and my men, and there shall be firm friendship between us. Is it good?”

  “It is good!” exclaimed Brian, his heart singing. But Turlough laughed harshly.

  “So you have again broken my rede, Brian Buidh, for this man knows you not as his master, but names you his friend. I bade you take, not give.”

  “It was your own advice,” retorted Brian, laughing.

  “Aye, since you asked it, I found the way out. But you have not conquered him.”

  “He conquered me by not telling a lie,” said Cathbarr simply. “I serve him.”

  Turlough eyed them keenly, heard how the fight had gone, and then suddenly comprehended what manner of man this huge, bearded fellow was. His face cleared, and without a word he clasped Cathbarr’s hand, and asked Brian for orders.

  “How far from here is Bertragh Castle?” questioned Brian.

  “It overlooks Bertraghboy Bay,” answered the giant. “Bide here till noon, while my men bring in their horses
from the hills, and with the night we can arrive there.”

  To this Brian assented, well pleased that Cathbarr had horses. Turlough went back to bring up his men, and Brian entered the tower that served Cathbarr for castle. It was a small place, but strong; the ten men who took his hand and gave him service were cut after the pattern of their master—huge fellows all, O’Flahertys from the mountains who had followed Cathbarr down to loot the coast, with no ill success.

  It was a strange tale that he heard, while he and his men ate and drank with their new comrades. For some months Cathbarr had maintained himself here, raiding O’Donnell’s lands chiefly and making his ax feared through all the coast. In fact, the giant had attempted his own errand—to set himself up in power; but he had gone about it like a child.

  The Dark Master had come against him with a hundred men, and after losing a score and more at the causeway, had tried to starve him out. At that Cathbarr had calmly stolen away by boat, raided O’Donnell’s choicest farms overnight, and was back with his plunder before the Dark Master guessed his absence. After this O’Donnell had kept watch and ward upon his lands, with better results; Cathbarr occupied himself with raiding against the scattered parties of plunderers in the hills, and had won some booty.

  Brian discovered many things during the hour or two he waited for the horses to be fetched in. Chief of these was that he had set himself a difficult nut to crack. The Dark Master held a strong castle, with rich farms around it, and could summon at need some three hundred men to his standard. In short, Brian found that O’Donnell held the very position he himself wanted to hold—and was like to keep it.

  “Of course,” he thought soberly, reflecting on his future course, “if I come off clear to-night I can ride with my seventy men to a better place. And yet—I don’t know! What better place than this? It will be no long time before hoofs are in the land, for Royalist and Roundhead and Ulsterman will be storming through the hills; Galway will be the last to give in to Cromwell, of a certainty. When the hurricane falls, I want a roof to shelter me—and whom could I turn out better than this O’Donnell?”