Sterner yet they looked when Brian cried that Golam Head was veiling in fog behind them, and with that the wind swerved almost in a moment and swept down out of the east, bearing fog and snow with it. Nor was this all, for the shift of wind bore against the seas and swept down currents and whirlpools out of the bay, and after the snow and black fog shrieked down upon them, the seamen straightway fell to praying.
“Get up and bail!” shouted Brian, kicking them to their feet, for the seas were sweeping over the counter. The helmsman groaned and bade him desist, and almost at the same instant their mast crashed over the bow, breaking the back of one seaman, and the galley broached to.
With that the O’Malleys ceased praying and fell to work with a will, getting out the sweeps and bailing. The mingling of snow, shrieking wind, and black fog had been too much for their superstitious natures, but made no impression on Brian, for the simple reason that he did not see why fog and wind should not come together. After he understood their fears better he shamed them into savage energy by his laughter, and since the broken-backed man had gone overboard, took his sweep and set his muscles to work.
They made shift to keep the craft before the wind, but presently Brian found that half the men’s fear sprang from the fact that the fog and snow blinded them, shutting out the land, and that the shifting wind had completely bewildered them. When he asked for their compass, their leader grunted:
“No need have we for a compass on this boat, Brian Buidh, save when warlocks turn the fog and wind upon us. I warrant that were it not for the fog, we would be safe in port ere now. As it is, the Virgin alone knows where we are or whither going.”
“This is some of the Dark Master’s wizardry,” growled out another. “Before we hung those men of his last night, they said that the winds would bear word of it to the dark one, cead mile mollaght on him!”
“Add another thousand curses for me,” ordered Brian, “but keep to the bailing, or I’ll give you a taste of my foot! And no more talk of warlocks.”
The five men fell silent, and indeed they needed all their breath, for the struggle was a desperate one. Instead of lessening, the fog only increased with time, and even Brian began to perceive the marvel in it as swirl after swirl of darkness swept over them. Yet, since the wind was from the east, he reasoned, it would naturally blow out the fog from the bogs and low lands. But this explanation was received in dour silence by the men, so he said no more.
There was no doubt that Cathbarr had reached home safely, since the night had been fair enough for the winter season. An hour passed, and then another, still without a lessening of the eery storm; and the nerve of the seamen was beginning to give way under the strain, when the helmsman let out a wild yell:
“A light ahead! A beacon!”
The rowers twisted about with shouts of joy, and Brian perceived a faint, ruddy light against the sky. Also, the fog began to lessen somewhat; and upon making out that the beacon undoubtedly came from a high tower or crag, the shout passed around that they had headed back to Gorumna with the shifting wind.
This heartened them all greatly, the more so since the gale drove them straight onward toward the beacon. The fog closed down again, but the ruddy glare pierced through it; and of a sudden there was no more fog about them—only a blinding thick snow, which made all things grotesque. Then two more beacons were made out, lower than the first, and the men yelled joyously that fires had been lighted on either side the harbor to guide them in. And so they had been, but otherwise than the men thought.
Half frozen with the cold, they drove on through the snow and spray until at length they swept in between the guiding fires and scanned the shores for landing. Then the snow ceased, though the hurricane howled down behind them with redoubled fury; and as they floated in against a low, rocky shore, silence of wild consternation fell on them all. For they had come to Bertragh Castle, and fifty feet away a score of men were waiting, while others were running down with torches.
Even in that moment of terrible dismay, Brian noted their muskets, and how the lighted matches flared like fireflies in the wind.
“Trapped!” groaned one of the men, and they would have rowed out again into the teeth of the storm had not Brian stayed them.
“No use, comrades. They have muskets, and there are cannon up above. Row in, and if we must die, then let us die like men and not cowards.”
Seeing no help for it, the men growled assent, and they drifted slowly in, all standing ready with drawn swords, while Brian’s Spanish blade flared in the prow. Then in the midst of the gathered men he saw a dark figure with hunched shoulders, sword in hand. As he turned to the seamen behind him, there was a glitter in his blue eyes colder than the icy blast behind them.
“There is the Dark Master, comrades! Let him be first to fall.”
They drove up on the shore, and Brian leaped out, with the men behind him. Still the group above stood silent until the voice of O’Donnell sheared through the gale. “Fire, and drop Yellow Brian first.”
So there was to be no word of quarter! As the thought shot like fire through Brian’s mind, he leaped forward with a shout. A ragged stream of musketry broke out from the men gathered on the higher rocks, and he heard the bullets whistle. He paid no heed to the seamen who followed him, however. His eyes were fixed on the Dark Master’s figure, and with only one thought in his mind he plunged ahead.
More and more muskets spattered out; a bullet splashed against his jack, and another; something caught his steel cap and tore it away, and a hot stab shot through his neck. But the group of men was only a dozen paces from him now, and a wild yell broke from his lips as he saw O’Donnell step forward to meet him.
Then only did he remember Turlough’s speech on the day of that first meeting with the Dark Master—“The master of all men at craft and the match of most men at weapons”—and he knew that, despite the hunched shoulders, this O’Donnell must be no mean fighter. But the next instant he was gazing into the evil eyes, and their blades had crossed.
Flaming with his anger, Brian forced the attack savagely; then a sharp thrust against his jack showed him that O’Donnell was armed with a rapier, and he fell to the point with some caution. With the first moment of play, he knew that he faced a master of fence; yet almost upon the thought his blade ripped into the Dark Master’s arm.
Involuntarily he drew back, but O’Donnell caught the falling sword in his left hand and lunged forward viciously. Just as the blades met again, Brian saw a match go to a musket barely six paces away. He whirled aside, but too late, for the musket roared out, and a drift of stars poured into his brain. Then he fell.
Like a flash the Dark Master leaped at the man who had fired and spitted him through the throat; the others drew back in swift terror, for O’Donnell was frothing at the mouth, and his face was the face of a madman. With a bitter laugh he turned and rolled Brian over with his foot. The five seamen had gone down under the bullets.
“He is only stunned,” said Red Murrough. “Shall I finish it?”
“If you want to die with him, yes. Carry him in, and we will nail him up to the gates to-morrow.”
And the clouds fell asunder, and the stars came out, cold and beautiful.
CHAPTER IX
THE NAILING OF BRIAN
Brian woke in darkness, with pain tearing at his head and heaviness upon his hands and feet. When he tried to put his hand to his head, that heaviness was explained; for he could not, and thick iron struck dull against stone.
He lay there, and thought leaped into his brain, and he felt very bitter of spirit, but chiefly for those men who had come with him, and because he had failed before the Dark Master’s hand.
It was cold, bitterly cold, and thin snow lay around him, so that he knew that he was in some tower or prison that faced to the east. It was from that direction that the snow had driven, as he had sore cause to know, and he wondered if the Dark Master had had any hand in that driving. But this he was not to know for many days.
It was the cold which had awakened him from his unconsciousness, he guessed. By dint of shifting his position somewhat, he managed to get his back against a wall, and so got his hands to his head. In such fashion he made out that his hair was matted and frozen with blood, and his neck also, where a bullet had plowed through the muscles on the right side. His head-wound was no more than a jagged tear which had split half his scalp, but had not hurt the bone, as he found after some feeling. Then he dropped his hands again, for the chains that bound him to the wall were very heavy. It must be night, for light would come where snow had come, and there was no light.
Now, having found that he was not like to die, at least from his wounds, he set about stretching to lie down again, and found some straw on the floor. He drew it up with his feet and gathered it about him; it was dank and smelled vilely, but at the least it gave his frozen body some warmth, so that he fell asleep after a time.
When he wakened again, it was to find men around him and a narrow strip of cold sunlight coming through a high slit in the wall of his prison. From the sound of breakers that seemed to roar from below him, he conjectured that he was in a sea-facing tower of the castle, in which he was right.
The men, who were led by Red Murrough, gave him bread and meat and wine, but they offered no word and would answer no questions. So he ate and drank, and felt life and strength creeping back into his bones. He concluded that it must be the day after his arrival.
Now Red Murrough beckoned to the hoary old seneschal, whose red-rimmed eyes glittered evilly. The old man shook his keys and stooped over Brian, unlocking the hasp which bound him to the wall-ring. The oppressive silence of these men struck a chill through Brian, but he came to his feet readily enough as Murrough jerked his shoulder.
He followed out into a corridor, and the men closed around him, going with him down-stairs and along other passageways. Brian wondered as to his fate and what manner of death he was going to die; yet it seemed to him that death was an impossible and far-off thing where he was concerned.
He expected no less than death from the Dark Master, but at the same time it was very hard to believe that he was going to that fate. He was by no means afraid to die, but he felt that he would like to see the Bird Daughter once more. Also, he had always thought of fate as coming to him suddenly and swiftly in battle or foray; and to be deliberately done to death in cold blood by hanging or otherwise was not as he would have wished.
“At least,” he thought without any great comfort, “Cathbarr and Turlough will avenge me on the Dark Master—though I had liefer be living when that was done!”
In one of the larger and lower corridors they came on two men bearing a body, sewed for burial. Murrough stopped his party and growled out something.
“It is the seanachie,” answered one of the bearers. “Since the Dark Master struck him yester-morn he has not spoken, and he died last night.”
Upon this Red Murrough crossed himself, as did the rest, muttered into his tangle of red beard, and motioned Brian forward.
This wider passage gave through a doorway upon the great hall. There was no dais, but the Dark Master was seated before the huge fireplace, his wolf-hound crouched down at his side. The hall was pierced near the roof with openings, and lower down with loopholes, so that when the sun shone outside it was bright enough.
Red Murrough led Brian forward, the clank of the heavy chain-links echoing hollowly through the place, but O’Donnell Dubh did not look up until the two men stood a scant four paces from him. Then his head came out from between his rounded shoulders and his eyes spat fire at Brian.
“A poor ending to proud talk, Brian Buidh!”
Brian tried to smile, but with ill success, for he was chilled to the bone and there was blood on his face.
“I am not yet dead, O’Donnell.”
“You will be soon enough,” the Dark Master chuckled, and the hall thrilled with evil laughter. In the eyes of all Brian had proven himself the weaker man and therefore deserved his fate. “What of this O’Malley journey of yours, eh?”
Brian made no answer, save that his strong lips clamped shut, and his blue eyes narrowed a little. O’Donnell laughed and began to stroke his wolf-hound.
“I have many messengers and many servants, Yellow Brian, and there is little my enemies do which is not told me. Even now men are riding hard and fast to trap Cathbarr of the Ax and your following.”
At that Brian laughed, remembering Turlough Wolf and his cunning.
“I think this trapping will prove a hard matter, Dark Master.”
“That is as it may be. Now, Brian Buidh, death is hard upon you, and neither an easy nor a swift one. Before you die there are two things which I would know from your lips.”
Brian looked at him, but without speaking. The Dark Master had thrust out his head, his hand still lingering on the wolfhound’s neck, and his pallid face, drooping mustache, and high brow were very evil to gaze upon. Brian, eying that thin-nostriled, cruel nose, and the undershot jaw of the man, read no mercy there.
“First, who are you, Brian Buidh? Are you an O’Neill, as that ring of yours would testify, or are you an O’Malley come down from the western isles?”
At that Brian laughed out harshly. “Ask those servants of which you boast, Dark Master. Poor they must be if they cannot tell you even the names of your enemies!”
“Well answered!” grinned the other, and chuckled again to himself as though the reply had indeed pleased him hugely. “I would that you served me, Brian of the hard eyes; I suppose that you are some left-hand scion of the Tyr-owens by some woman overseas, and the O’Neill bastards were ever as strong in arm as the true sons. Yet you might have made pact with me, whereas now your head shall sit on my gates, after your bones are broken and you have been nailed to a door.”
“Fools talk over-much of killing, but wise men smite first and talk after,” Brian said contemptuously. He saw that the Dark Master was somewhat in doubt over slaying him, since if he were indeed an O’Neill there might be bitter vengeance looked for, or if he belonged to any other of the great families.
“Quite true,” countered the Dark Master mockingly, and with much relish. “Therein you were a fool, not to slay when first we met, instead of making pacts. Who will repay me my two-score men, Brian of the hollow cheeks?”
“The Bird Daughter, perhaps,” smiled Brian, “since two days ago she hung ten of those men I took in my ambuscade.”
This stung O’Donnell, and his men with him. One low, deep growl swirled down the hall, and the Dark Master snarled as his lips bared back from his teeth. Brian laughed out again, standing very tall and straight, and his chains clanked a little and stilled the murmur. He saw that O’Donnell wore his own Spanish blade, and the sight angered him.
“There is another thing I would know,” said the Dark Master slowly. “Tell me this thing, Brian Buidh, and I will turn you out of my gates a free man.”
Brian looked keenly at him and saw that the promise was given in earnest. He wondered what the thing might be, and was not long in learning.
“You came hither from Gorumna Castle,” went on O’Donnell, fixing him with his black flaming eyes. “Tell me what force of men is in that place, Brian of the hard eyes, and for this service you shall be set free.”
“Now I know that you are a fool, O’Donnell Dubh,” and Brian’s voice rang out merrily. “I have heard many tales of your wizardry and your servants and your watchers, but when an unknown man comes to you, his name is hidden from you; and all your black art cannot so much as tell you the number of your enemies! Now slay me and have done, for you have wasted much breath this day, and so have I, and it goes ill in my mind to waste speech on fools.”
“You refuse then?” O’Donnell peered up at him, but Brian set his face hard and made no reply. With a little sigh the Dark Master leaned back in his chair and motioned to Red Murrough to come forward.
“Strip him,” he said evenly, and at the word a great howl rang out from all the w
atching men, like the howl of wolves when they scent blood in the air.
Murrough in turn signed to two of his men. These came forward and stripped off what clothes had been left to Brian, so that he stood naked before them. In that moment he was minded to spring on the Dark Master and crush him with his chains, but he saw that Red Murrough held a flint-lock pistolet cocked, and knew it would be useless. Also, if he had to die, he was minded to do it like a man and not to shame the blood of Tyr-owen, either by seeking death or by shrinking at its face.
Now there passed a murmur through the hall, and even the Dark Master’s evil features glowed a little; for Brian’s body was very fair and slim and white, yet these judges of men saw that he was like a thing of steel, and that beneath the satin skin his body was all rippling sinew. Red Murrough drew out a hasp, brought his chained hands together, and caught the chain close to his wrists, so that his hands were bound close.
“Now,” said the Dark Master, settling back and stroking his wolfhound as if he were watching some curious spectacle, “do with him as we did with Con O’More last Candlemas. But let us work slowly, for there is no haste, and we must break his will. In the end we will nail him to the door, and finish by breaking all his bones. It will be very interesting, eh?”
A fierce howl and clash of steel answered him from the men. At another sign from Red Murrough, Brian felt himself jerked to the floor suddenly, and his hands were drawn up over his head. His wrist-chains were fastened to an iron ring set in the floor, and his ankles to another, and he stared up at the ceiling-rafters of the hall, watching the motes drift past overhead in the reaching sunbeams. It all seemed very unreal to him.
“First that long hair of his,” said the Dark Master quietly.
Murrough went to the fire and returned with a blazing stick. Brian’s gold-red hair had flung back from his head, along the floor, and presently he felt it burning, until his head was scorched and his brain began to roast and there was the smell of burnt hair rising from him. Then Murrough’s rough hand brushed over his torn scalp, quelling the fire, but it did not quell the agony that wrenched Brian.
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 66
