"That is better. Now everyone can see what you used to ensorcel my son
Rorik. Behold, my people, that the chieftainess of Cragsfell is nothing but a common harlot with a talent for witchcraft.''
Her cheek was pressed against the floor, but Aelfrith's words were clear: "Do you think you humiliate me? Naked as I am, I am still ten times the chieftain you are, you degenerate swine. How long do you think you will last, when it is seen how you treat royal blood?"
"Royal blood?" shouted Atzel. "Is that what flows in your veins? Well, let us see some of it!" He strode to his throne and came back with a long lash of cunningly plaited black leather. With a swift motion of his arm it hissed through the air and slashed across Aelfrith's back. Her muscles jerked but she did not scream. With a demented howl Atzel laid two more stripes beside the first, then he was seized by his counselors.
"Restrain your just wrath, my king," shouted one so all could hear. "Let her death be according to ritual and carried out before the assembled chiefs." He leaned close and whispered: "If the King Bull kills her, you are safe, Atzel. If you flog her to death here, all your neighbors will unite to destroy you."
Atzel needed several minutes to calm himself. His courtiers saw with relief that his color gradually faded from apoplectic crimson to its usual unhealthy pallor. "Very well.
That is how it must be." He looked down at the bare, bleeding chieftainess and nudged her with his toe. "Chain her to my dais. I need a footwarmer. Prepare the holy enclosure. She shall be sacrificed upon the morrow."
They had been riding hard for half the day when Conan and his men came upon a small group of warriors sitting despondently by the side of the road. He recognized them as the men who had been left behind to guard Cragsfell while he rode forth with the others. He reined in near them, knowing that they would have ill news.
"We almost had her," said one mournfully. "We rode so hard, half our horses are foundered. We were almost within bowshot of her when she rode into a party of Atzel's guards. We charged them, but they were on fresh horses and outdistanced us easily. What is to become of our chieftainess?"
"I'll not bend the knee to that ancient swine!" swore a young warrior of no more than seventeen years. "I'll turn outlaw first, and I'll know no rest until Atzel's head decorates our standard!" The others shouted assent.
Despite the desperate situation, Conan had to smile his approval of this show of spirit.
"That's for later," he said. "For now, all is not yet lost. First we must try to get Aelfrith out of that place. I've been in there already, and it is not too difficult for a skilled climber. Who among you is clever in the woods, and good at climbing, and game for a little raid and some dirty dirk-play?"
Several limber young men strode forward, their faces wreathed in broad grins. The prospect of action and vengeance was bringing the men out of their despair.
"We go in at nightfall," Conan said. "Atzel's men will be out in force on the roads, but they'll not be patrolling the woods. Get some rest in the meantime. Let us find a good camp well away from the road and set up guard. Tonight we make Atzel bleed."
They found a favorable spot within an hour, and Conan dismounted to lie on the ground. He was asleep almost immediately. He woke as the moon rose and went to where a small, smokeless fire was burning. The volunteers were already assembled and smearing one another with soot.
Conan did the same.
"No swords," Conan directed. "Just dirks or short-handled axes. It's cramped inside that fort. If we need swords on our way out, we will take them from dead men." He saw teeth flash white in the darkened faces at the prospect of killing Atzel's men. "Is all ready?" he asked. He was answered by curt nods. "Then let's go."
They moved swiftly and quietly through the woods. Although, to Conan's keen ear, the men rustled noisily, he knew that most men would not hear them if they were to pass within ten feet. The moon was high by the time they reached the fort. He could just make out the shapes of two guards above them on the battlement. He tapped the youth who had vowed outlawry and vengeance rather than submission. They drew their knives and placed them carefully between their teeth. Warily, they began to climb.
On Conan's last entry to this fortress he had easily evaded the guards.
This time they would have to be eliminated. The guards seemed to be
scanning the approaching road rather than the walls below them. So much the better. Conan and the young warrior climbed to within five feet of the top of the battlement; then they waited. The guards were directly above them, talking in low voices. Soon the sound of shuffling footsteps and the fading of the voices told them that the guards had turned and were walking toward the opposite side of the roof.
Swiftly, the two raiders swarmed over the battlement. Their bare feet made no sound upon the timber roof. Their loincloths, belts, and dagger sheaths could make no rustle or click. Silent as ghosts, the two fell upon the guards. It was the quick, brutal work of a moment to jerk the two heads back and plunge steel into the exposed throats. In the supposed safety of the fort, neither man had bothered to come on duty with helm or gorget. Now they paid for their complacency with their blood.
The bloody dirks were quickly cleaned, and Conan went to the battlement to signal the others. Soon they were joined by the rest. Conan detailed two men to impersonate the guards and to deal with any guard relief that might appear, thus keeping their principal line of retreat open.
Conan led the way into the bowels of the fortress, feeling his way carefully in the dimness. Only the main rooms of the fort would have torches or candles at night. This upper floor was divided into rooms by timber walls, and a system of trusses supported the roof over all of them.
It was possible, by crawling along the trusses, to go from room to room without having to touch the floor.
Like rats, the men progressed from one place to another, seeing little and hearing nothing but snores. A faint glow against the ceiling told Conan of a room in which a fire burned, so he crawled toward it. He found a system of beams above a very large room, and guessed that he had found the main hall of the fort. His guess was confirmed when he looked down upon the throne of Atzel. He heard a strangled noise beside him and he clamped a hand hard on the man's shoulder to keep him silent.
Below them, Atzel was contentedly resting his feet on Aelfrith's bloody back. Her hands and feet were bound to bronze rings sunk into the stone of the dais, and her luxuriant tan hair was so tumbled about her face that it was impossible to tell whether she was conscious. At least, she was still breathing. Of the child there was no sign.
Conan examined the room carefully. There were two guards at the door.
He could hear voices from without that door which meant that at least five more guards waited there. It was probably a guardroom, which meant that there might be as many as a score more of the guardsmen within easy call. Surprise might make up for bad odds, but there was a more difficult matter: How to get Aelfrith out. She appeared to be in seriously weakened condition, and it might be impossible to get her up to the roof. She was a substantial woman for a man to carry while fighting. That meant fighting their way downward through the fort to freedom. He tapped the men nearest him and began to belly-crawl backward into the next room. It galled him to admit it, but there was no way to rescue her without putting her in even greater danger.
They were making their way back the way they had come when the youth who had first ascended with Conan came crawling along a beam, signaling frantically for the others to follow him. Silently, they went with him until they were looking down into a smaller room.
By the light of a candle two men were dicing desultorily to pass the time. In a corner of the room, upon a heap of straw, slept Aelfgifa. A ferocious grin split Conan's countenance, and he could see the same expression on other faces. This, at least, they could do something about.
They crawled along carefully until they were directly above the two men.
The guardsmen did not even glance up as death d
ropped upon them from above. Conan landed upon his man like a thunderbolt. Seizing him by a shoulder with one hand and by the jaw with the other, he broke the man's neck with a single, savage wrench. Two of Aelfrith's men landed upon the other and sank their dirks into his body. All was over in an instant. The child did not even waken. Conan picked her up gently and mounted a table, handing her up to the outstretched arms above.
The raiders crawled back along the beams and out onto the roof, where their two comrades still patrolled the parapet. Descending the wall was a trickier business than climbing it had been, especially while carrying a child who might wake up at any moment and give them away. They made it down safely in time, and the moon was still well above the horizon, lighting their way conveniently as they trotted through the woods, back to their camp.
There were sounds of joy when those at the camp saw that they had rescued Aelfgifa, and sounds of rage when word spread of the indignity being inflicted upon Aelfrith. Conan went down to a little stream to wash
off the soot he had rubbed over himself. He was full of a seething rage, unable to wipe from his mind the picture of Aelfrith, stripped and bound, flogged and forced to grovel at the feet of a pig like Atzei.
He vowed silently but sincerely that he would rescue Aelfrith if that were in any way possible, and if it were not, he would slay Atzel, as the man deserved to die.
Aelfrith returned to consciousness slowly, and discovered herself to be inhabiting a world of pain when she was fully aware. Her wrists and ankles were bound tightly, the ropes biting into her flesh, her shoulders and hips stretched to near-dislocation. Worst of all was her back. From neck to buttocks it felt as if molten iron had been poured over it. She was stretched facedown against the rough stone, and her cheek rested in a puddle of her own blood. Her mental torment was, if possible, everr worse.
What were these swine doing to her daughter? Had they killed her already, since she had served her purpose as bait?
There was a sudden increase in the agony of her back and she knew that Atzel was, indeed, using her as a footstool. The pain increased as he dug in his toes. She would not satisfy him by screaming, but burning tears of rage flowed down her cheeks.
"Are you awake, Aelfrith?" Atzel crooned. "Good. How can you suffer properly when you are asleep. Let us see―what shall we try next? My counselors insist that I should not damage you further. We must keep you beautiful for your sacrifice, you know. Can't have my fellow chiefs thinking that I mistreat noble ladies. On the other hand, it is truly amazing how much pain may be inflicted without leaving a mark on the body. For instance, with a simple cow's horn, open at both ends, and a hot iron, one may cause incredible agony, and the body must be cut open in order to see the damage."
Aelfrith shut her eyes tightly and gritted her teeth as the insane litany went on, Atzel detailing with relish the obscene torments he planned to inflict upon her. A child of the North, she was accustomed to lust for vengeance, but this went beyond even the most excessive of ancient legends. When he began on his plans for Aelfgifa, she was sure she would go mad before a merciful death could overtake her.
The demented voice ceased when there was a commotion from without.
There was a moment of superlative agony when Atzel trod upon her to
cross to the door, then she had a few seconds of relative peace.
Atzel's voice came sharp and incredulous. "The child gone? Four of my guard dead? Fools! How did you let this happen?" There was a sound of slapping and kicking, then Atzel stormed back into the throne room.
Aelfrith laughed into the puddle of blood full and heartily. "Thank you, Conan! If I were to live, I would make you a king, but now at least I shall die happy, no matter how great the pain. Thank you for my daughter's life!" She laughed once more, happier than she could remember ever having been. Then Atzel's whip descended and she drowned in a scarlet tide of pain.
With break of day Conan and his followers rode down to the path which led to Atzel's fort. There was a good deal of traffic on the road, all of it headed for the fort. At first Conan thought it might be Atzel's men searching for them, but he soon saw by the designs on their shields that the men of numerous tribes were assembling, mostly petty chieftains with small entourages. Conan and the others fell in with them casually. Conan reined in beside a chief in fine armor. "Pardon me," he asked, "but I am a stranger here. Why do so many of you great folk journey thither?"
The chief eyed the big outlander curiously. "Our fellow chieftain, Atzel, has summoned us to witness a great sacrifice to the King Bull. For the life of me, I cannot imagine why, though. It is early for the Great Festival. But it is his right, and so we come."
"What kind of sacrifice will it be?" Conan asked innocently.
The chief shrugged. "Ordinarily, it would be firstfruits of the harvest, but it is too early for that. Sometimes it is fine cattle or horses. Perhaps the old man has finally gone mad. That would not surprise me. He has been behaving as if he were a king for years, and there is not a chief among us who does not have better blood, or command a following as large or larger."
They passed a row of adler poles surmounted by the skulls of bulls, and Conan asked the significance of this. "Those are the skulls of King Bulls of years past. It means that this is sacred ground for the duration of the ceremony, and no man may raise weapon to another without committing sacrilege."
That, thought Conan, was very convenient for Atzel. Should Aelfrith's
men make a desperate attempt to rescue her and cut their way free, they would bring down upon themselves the wrath of the gods and the armed fury of all the neighboring tribes. He would have to come up with a plausible scheme, and he knew that time was growing short.
He spoke in a low voice to two of Aelfrith's men who rode near him.
"Pass the word: disperse among this throng. Do not stand all together when we reach the sacrifice ground; give Atzel and his men no target to aim for. Make sure you stay in clear view of these chiefs. As I understand it, Atzel dare make no armed move against us within the sacred ground.
Be sure that the horses are held by trusty men, ready to bring them to us at an instant's notice. We may have to run without a proper leavetaking."
The men nodded and dropped back to pass Conan's instructions.
They were within sight of Atzel's fortress when the cavalcade turned from the main road onto a small path which led into a grove of gigantic trees. From most of the branches dangled figures of plaited straw, and around the trunks were tied ropes of various colors. In the center of the grove was a wide natural amphitheater. Around its periphery stood poles bearing more skulls of bulls, facing inward, into the arena. A gateway had been cut into one side of the amphitheater and closed by a wooden gate.
In the center of the arena stood a fresh-cut stake, eight feet high and with a stout bronze ring fastened near its top.
The ground around the arena was filling up with the chiefs and their followers, muttering among themselves in their mystification. Many pointed at the stake, which was obviously never intended for tethering a sacrificial ox or horse. As Conan gathered from eavesdropped conversations, human sacrifice was extremely rare, undertaken only in times of famine or other natural disaster. Recent years had been fair, though.
Conan looked for Atzel, but there was no sign of him, nor of any of his men. He did not doubt that they were nearby. In all likelihood they were scattered throughout the woods, ready to fend off attack or prevent escape on the part of Aelfrith's men. He turned at the sound of a hunting horn being winded. The members of the throng were descending the sides of the amphitheater and taking seats on the grassy slopes surrounding it.
Conan went down the slope as well, finding himself a place as near to the arena as he could get. Here nature had been improved upon. Around the oval arena the ground had been excavated so that a sheer wall ten feet
high surrounded it, lined with cut stone. The only way in or out was through the single gate, or by climbing down from the seating area.
In the distance Conan heard a monstrous bellow, and the conversation around him stilled for a second, then resumed. He did not like the sound of that bellow. If it was a bull, then it was one that exceeded ordinary bulls as a dragon exceeds a crocodile.
Then conversation stilled again as the gate opened and Atzel strode into the arena. Most of the chiefs sat at the farther end, and when Atzel passed the upright stake he paused to pat and stroke it gloatingly. Then he continued until he stood a few yards from his audience. He looked up at them and grinned, savoring the moment.
"Three years ago," he began in a bellowing voice, "I petitioned this assemblage for my just vengeance and the punishment of an act of bloody sacrilege, and I was refused. My own outrage is a small thing, but the offense to our sacred King Bull was intolerable. I have called you here to witness this great wrong set aright." The chiefs talked excitedly among themselves as he turned to face the gate. "Bring in the sacrifice!" shouted Atzel.
The great gate creaked open once more, and a small, naked figure was led forth by a halter around her neck. The crowd was silent as she neared the center of the arena, then a great shout of rage went up as Aelfrith was recognized. The guardsmen passed the rope that bound her wrists through the ring at the top of the stake and hoisted her until she was almost forced to her toes. Then they bound her ankles likewise.
The chief who had spoken to Conan on the road leaped to his feet and jabbed an accusing finger at Atzel. "Explain yourself, Atzel! What cause have you to treat a noble lady in such a fashion? Make your explanation a good one or, by Ymir, as soon as we are off this sacred ground I'll have your head hanging from my saddlebow!" A savage collective growl of assent showed that these sentiments were widely held.
"Aye," shouted another. "If vengeance for your son was in your heart, why have you not attacked her in force these three years past? Even then, had you prevailed, you owed her a clean and quick death. This is an outrage against all custom!"
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