Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  “I want to find the lower end of that shaft the Arabs came up,” said Gordon. “Ivan may be hiding there. It must be near the western end of that gully they were sneaking along when I first saw them.”

  They were moving along the shallow gully, and where it ended, against the foot of the cliff, they saw a narrow slitlike cleft in the stone, large enough to admit a man. Hoarding their matches carefully they entered and moved along the narrow tunnel into which it opened.

  This tunnel led straight back into the cliff for a short distance, then turned sharply to the right, running along until it ended in a small chamber cut out of solid stone, which Gordon believed was directly under the room in which he had fought the Arabs. His belief was confirmed when they found the opening of the shaft leading upward. A match held up in the well showed the angle still blocked by the boulder.

  “Well, we know how they got into the caves,” growled Hawkston. “But we haven’t found Al Wazir. He’s not in here.”

  “We’ll go up into the caves,” answered Gordon. “He’ll come back there for food. We’ll catch him then.”

  “And then what?” demanded Hawkston.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? We hit out for the caravan road. Ivan rides. We walk. We can make it, all right. I don’t believe the Ruweila will stop before they get back to the tents of their tribe. I’m hoping Ivan’s mind can be restored when we get him back to civilization.”

  “And what about the Blood of the Gods?”

  “Well, what about them? They’re his, to do what he pleases with them, aren’t they?”

  Hawkston did not reply, nor did he seem aware of Gordon’s suspicion of him. He had no rifle, but Gordon knew the pistol at his hip was loaded. The American carried his rifle in the crook of his arm, and he maneuvered so the Englishman went ahead of him as they groped their way back down the tunnel and out into the starlight. Just what Hawkston’s intentions were, he did not know. Sooner or later, he believed, he would have to fight the Englishman for his life. But somehow he felt that this would not be necessary until after Al Wazir had been found and secured.

  He wondered about the tunnel and the shaft to the top of the cliff. They had not been there a year ago. Obviously the Arabs had found the tunnel purely by accident.

  “No use searching the caves tonight,” said Hawkston, when they had reached the ledge. “We’ll take turns watching and sleeping. Take the first watch, will you? I didn’t sleep last night, you know.”

  Gordon nodded. Hawkston dragged the sleeping skins from the nest and wrapping himself in them, fell asleep close to the wall. Gordon sat down a short distance away, his rifle across his knees. As he sat he dozed lightly, waking each time the sleeping Englishman stirred.

  He was still sitting there when the dawn reddened the eastern sky. Hawkston rose, stretched and yawned. “Why didn’t you wake me to watch my turn?” he asked.

  “You know damned well why I didn’t,” grated Gordon. “I don’t care to run the risk of being murdered in my sleep.”

  “You don’t like me, do you, Gordon?” Hawkston laughed. But only his lips smiled, and a red flame smoldered in his eyes. “Well, that makes the feeling mutual, you know. After we’ve got Al Wazir back to el-Azem, I’m looking forward to a gentlemanly settling of our differences — just you and I — and a pair of swords.”

  “Why wait until then?” Gordon was on his feet, his nostrils quivering with the eagerness of hard-leashed hate.

  Hawkston shook his head, smiling fiercely. “Oh no, El Borak. No fighting until we get out of the desert.”

  “All right,” snarled the American, disgruntledly. “Let’s eat, and then start combing the caves for Ivan.”

  A slight sound brought them both wheeling toward the door of the nest. Al Wazir stood there, plucking at his beard with his long black nails. His eyes lacked their former wild-beast glare; they were clouded, plaintive. His attitude was one of bewilderment rather than menace.

  “Ivan!” muttered Gordon, setting down his rifle and moving toward the wild man. Al Wazir did not retreat, nor did he make any hostile demonstration. He stood stolidly, uneasily tugging at his tangled beard. “He’s in a milder mood,” murmured Gordon. “Easy, Hawkston. Let me handle this. I don’t believe he’ll have to be overpowered this time.”

  “In that case,” said Hawkston, “I don’t need you any longer.”

  Gordon whipped around; the Englishman’s eyes were red with the killing lust, and his hand rested on the butt of his pistol. For an instant the two men stood tensely, facing each other. Hawkston spoke, almost in a whisper:

  “You fool, did you think I’d give you an even break? I don’t need you to help me get Al Wazir back to el-Azem. I know a German doctor who can restore his mind if anybody can — and then I’ll see that he tells me where to find the Blood of the Gods—”

  Their right hands moved in a simultaneous blur of speed. Hawkston’s gun cleared its holster as Gordon’s scimitar flashed free. And the gun spoke just as the blade struck it, knocking it from the Englishman’s hand. Gordon felt the wind of the slug and behind him the madman in the door grunted and fell heavily. The pistol rang on the stone and bounced from the ledge, and Gordon cut murderously at Hawkston’s head, his eyes red with fury. A swift backward leap carried the Englishman out of range, and Hawkston tore out his scimitar as Gordon came at him in savage silence. The American had seen Al Wazir lying limp in the doorway, blood oozing from his head.

  Gordon and Hawkston came together with a dazzling flame and crack of steel, in an unleashing of hard-pent passions, two wild natures, thirsty for each others’ life. Here was the urge to kill, loosed at last, and backing every blow.

  For a few minutes stroke followed stroke too fast for the eye to distinguish, had any eye witnessed that onslaught. They fought with a chilled-steel fury, a reckless abandon that was yet neither wild nor careless. The clang of steel was deafening; miraculously, it seemed, the shimmer of steel played about their heads, yet neither edge cut home. The skill of the two fighters was too well matched.

  After the first hurricane of attack, the play changed subtly; it grew, not less savage but more crafty. The desert sun, that had lighted the blades of a thousand generations of swordsmen, in a land sworn to the sword, had never shone on a more scintillating display of swordsmanship than this, where two aliens carved out the destinies of their tangled careers on a high-flung ledge between sun and desert.

  Up and down the ledge — scruff and shift of quick-moving feet — gliding, not stamping — ring and clash of steel meeting steel — flame-lighted black eyes glaring into flinty gray eyes; flying blades turned crimson by the rising sun.

  Hawkston had cut his teeth on the straight blade of his native land, and he was partial to the point and used it with devilish skill. Gordon had learned sword fighting in the hard school of the Afghan mountain wars, with the curved tulwar, and he fought with no set or orthodox style. His blade was a lethal, living thing that darted like a serpent’s tongue or lashed with devastating power.

  Here was no ceremonious dueling with elegant rules and formalities. It was a fight for life, naked and desperate, and within the space of half a dozen minutes both men had attempted or foiled tricks that would have made a medieval Italian fencing master blink. There was no pause or breathing spell; only the constant slither and rasp of blade on blade — Hawkston failing in his attempt to maneuver Gordon about so the sun would dazzle his eyes; Gordon almost rushing Hawkston over the rim of the ledge, the Englishman saving himself by a sidewise leap.

  The end came suddenly. Hawkston, with sweat pouring down his face, realized that the sheer strength in Gordon’s arm was beginning to tell. Even his iron wrist was growing numb under the terrific blows the American rained on his guard. Believing himself to be superior to Gordon in pure fencing skill, he began the preliminaries of an intricate maneuver, and, meeting with apparent success, feinted a cut at Gordon’s head.

  El Borak knew it was a feint, but pretending to be deceived by it, he lifte
d his sword as though to parry the cut. Instantly Hawkston’s point licked at his throat. Even as the Englishman thrust he knew he had been tricked, but he could not check the motion.

  The blade passed over Gordon’s shoulder as the American evaded the thrust with a swaying twist of his torso, and his scimitar flashed like white-steel lightning in the sun. Hawkston’s dark features were blotted out by a gush of blood; his scimitar rang loud on the rocky ledge; he swayed, tottered, and fell suddenly.

  Gordon shook the sweat from his eyes and glared down at the prostrate figure, too drunk with hate and battle to fully realize that his foe was dead. He started and whirled as a voice spoke weakly behind him: “The same swift blade as ever, El Borak!”

  Al Wazir was sitting with his back against the wall. His eyes, no longer murky nor bloodshot, met Gordon’s levelly. In spite of his tangled hair and beard there was something ineffably tranquil and seerlike about him. Here, indeed, was the man Gordon had known of old.

  “Ivan! Alive! But Hawkston’s bullet—”

  “Was that what it was?” Al Wazir lifted a hand to his head; it came away smeared with blood. “Anyway, I’m very much alive, and my mind’s clear — for the first time in Heaven knows how long. What happened?”

  “You stopped a slug meant for me,” grunted Gordon. “Let me see that wound.”

  After a brief investigation he announced: “Just a graze; ploughed through the scalp and knocked you out. I’ll wash it and bandage it.” While he worked he said tersely: “Hawkston was on your trail; after your rubies. I tried to beat him here, and Shalan ibn Mansour trapped us both. You were a bit out of your head and I had to tie you up. We had a tussle with the Arabs and finally beat them off.”

  “What day is it?” asked Al Wazir. At Gordon’s reply he ejaculated: “Great heavens! It’s more than a month since I got knocked on the head!”

  “What’s that?” exclaimed Gordon. “I thought the loneliness—”

  Al Wazir laughed. “Not that, El Borak. I was doing some excavation work. I discovered a shaft in one of the lower caves, leading down to the tunnel. The mouths of both were sealed with slabs of rock. I opened them up, just out of curiosity. Then I found another shaft leading from an upper cave to the summit of the cliff, like a chimney. It was while I was working out the slab that sealed it that I dislodged a shower of rocks. One of them gave me an awful rap on the head. My mind’s been a blank ever since, except for brief intervals — and they weren’t very clear. I remember them like bits of dreams now. I remember squatting in the nest, tearing tins open and gobbling food, trying to remember who I was and why I was here. Then everything would fade out again.

  “I have another vague recollection of being tied to a rock in the cave, and seeing you and Hawkston lying on the ledge, firing. Of course I didn’t know either of you. I remember hearing you say that if somebody was killed the others would go away. There was a lot of shooting and shouting and that frightened me and hurt my ears. I wanted you all to go away and leave me in peace.

  “I don’t know how I got loose, but my next disjointed bit of memory is that of creeping up the shaft that leads to the top of the cliff, and then climbing, climbing, with the stars over me and the wind blowing in my face — heavens! I must have climbed over the summit of the hill and down the crags on the other side!

  “Then I have a muddled remembrance of running and crawling through the dark — a confused impression of shooting and noise, and a man standing alone on a knoll shouting—” He shuddered and shook his head. “When I try to remember what happened then, it’s all a blind whirl of fire and blood, like a nightmare. Somehow I seemed to feel that the man on the knoll was to blame for all the noise that was maddening me, and that if he quit shouting, they’d all go away and let me alone. But from that point it’s all a blind red mist.”

  Gordon held his peace. He realized that it was his remark, overheard by Al Wazir, that if Shalan ibn Mansour were slain the Arabs would flee, which had taken root in the madman’s clouded brain and provided the impulse — probably subconsciously — which finally translated itself into action. Al Wazir did not remember having killed the shaykh, and there was no use distressing him with the truth.

  “I remember running, then,” murmured Al Wazir, rubbing his head. “I was in a terrible fright, and trying to get back to the caves. I remember climbing again — up, this time. I must have climbed back over the crags and down the chimney again — I’ll wager I couldn’t make that climb clothed in my right mind. The next thing I remember is hearing voices, and they sounded somehow familiar. I started toward them — then something cracked and flashed in my head, and I knew nothing more until I came to myself a few minutes ago, in possession of all my faculties, and saw you and Hawkston fighting with your swords.”

  “You were evidently regaining your senses,” said Gordon. “It took the extra jolt of that slug to set your numb machinery going again. Such things have happened before.

  “Ivan, I’ve got a camel hidden near by, and the Arabs left some ropes of hay in their camp when they pulled out. I’m going to feed and water it, and then — well, I intended taking you back to the coast with me, but since you’ve regained your wits, I suppose you’ll want—”

  “I’m going back with you,” said Al Wazir. “My meditations didn’t give me the gift of prophecy, but they convinced me — even before I got that rap on the head — that the best life a man can live is one of service to his fellow men. Just as you do, in your own way! I can’t help mankind by dreaming out here in the desert.”

  He glanced down at the prostrate figure on the ledge. “We’ll have to build a cairn, first. Poor devil; it was his destiny to be the last sacrifice to the Blood of the Gods.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They were stained with men’s blood,” answered Al Wazir. “They have caused nothing but suffering and crime since they first appeared in history. Before I left el-Azem I threw them into the sea.”

  CORMAC FITZGEOFFREY

  CONTENTS

  HAWKS OF OUTREMER

  THE BLOOD OF BELSHAZZAR

  HAWKS OF OUTREMER

  First published in Oriental Stories, Spring 1931

  “The still, white, creeping road slips on.

  Marked by the bones of man and beast.

  What comeliness and might have gone

  To pad the highway of the East!

  Long dynasties of fallen rose.

  The glories of a thousand wars.

  A million lovers’ hearts compose

  The dust upon the road to Fars.”

  — Vansittar

  CONTENTS

  I. — A MAN RETURNS

  II. — THE CAST OF AN AX

  III. — THE ROAD TO EL GHOR

  IV. — THE FAITH OF CORMAC

  I. — A MAN RETURNS

  “HALT!” The bearded man-at-arms swung his pike about, growling like a surly mastiff. It paid to be wary on the road to Antioch. The stars blinked redly through the thick night and their light was not sufficient for the fellow to make out what sort of man it was who loomed so gigantically before him.

  An iron-clad hand shot out suddenly and closed on the soldier’s mailed shoulder in a grasp that numbed his whole arm. From beneath the helmet the guardsman saw the blaze of ferocious blue eyes that seemed lambent, even in the dark.

  “Saints preserve us!” gasped the frightened man-at-arms, “Cormac FitzGeoffrey! Avaunt! Back to Hell with ye, like a good knight! I swear to you, sir—”

  “Swear me no oaths,” growled the knight. “What is this talk?”

  “Are you not an incorporeal spirit?” mouthed the soldier. “Were you not slain by the Moorish corsairs on your homeward voyage?”

  “By the accursed gods!” snarled FitzGeoffrey. “Does this hand feel like smoke?”

  He sank his mailed fingers into the soldier’s arm and grinned bleakly at the resultant howl.

  “Enough of such mummery; tell me who is within that tavern.”

  “Only my master,
Sir Rupert de Vaile, of Rouen.”

  “Good enough,” grunted the other. “He is one of the few men I count friends, in the East or elsewhere.”

  The big warrior strode to the tavern door and entered, treading lightly as a cat despite his heavy armor. The man-at-arms rubbed his arm and stared after him curiously, noting, in the dim light, that FitzGeoffrey bore a shield with the horrific emblem of his family — a white grinning skull. The guardsman knew him of old — a turbulent character, a savage fighter and the only man among the Crusaders who had been esteemed stronger than Richard the Lion-hearted. But FitzGeoffrey had taken ship for his native isle even before Richard had departed from the Holy Land. The Third Crusade had ended in failure and disgrace; most of the Frankish knights had followed their kings homeward. What was this grim Irish killer doing on the road to Antioch?

  Sir Rupert de Vaile, once of Rouen, now a lord of the fast-fading Outremer, turned as the great form bulked in the doorway. Cormac FitzGeoffrey was a fraction of an inch above six feet, but with his mighty shoulders and two hundred pounds of iron muscle, he seemed shorter. The Norman stared in surprized recognition, and sprang to his feet. His fine face shone with sincere pleasure.

  “Cormac, by the saints! Why, man, we heard that you were dead!”

  Cormac returned the hearty grip, while his thin lips curved slightly in what would have been, in another man, a broad grin of greeting. Sir Rupert was a tall man, and well knit, but he seemed almost slight beside the huge Irish warrior who combined bulk with a sort of dynamic aggressiveness that was apparent in his every movement.

  FitzGeoffrey was clean-shaven and the various scars that showed on his dark, grim face lent his already formidable features a truly sinister aspect. When he took off his plain visorless helmet and thrust back his mail coif, his square-cut, black hair that topped his low broad forehead contrasted strongly with his cold blue eyes. A true son of the most indomitable and savage race that ever trod the bloodstained fields of battle, Cormac FitzGeoffrey looked to be what he was — a ruthless fighter, born to the game of war, to whom the ways of violence and bloodshed were as natural as the ways of peace are to the average man.