The Harp and the Blade (21 page)

That barn housed horses as well as winter food for stock. The loss of either, let alone both, would be a crippling one. Then there was the chance that the fire would spread to the rest of the buildings, maybe all of them. There were none so far away as to be out of imminent danger. Prompt work should save the horses and, conceivably, part of the hay and other fodder, but I didn’t wait to watch. When no more men came out of the hall I skirted all around it and approached the door from the side away from the barn. Already the radiance reached half across the court.

“Everybody out! Fire!” I shouted as I stepped inside.

“Is it very bad?” a man called nervously.

The voice came from a corner of the east side of the great room. I started to fumble my way toward it in the dark. “Everybody out!” I repeated. “Gregory says every man’s needed!” I bumped into a long table and guided myself by it. A streak of light, I could now see, showed under the door. Carefully I drew both swords, leaving the scabbards and the cloak for whomsoever would find them.

“Get moving!” I commanded angrily. “You can’t skulk there and let us do all the work!”

“Gregory’s orders were to stay here,” one of the men inside told me sharply.

I was by then in front of the door, and I pounded it imperiously. “That was before the fire, you fools! Two other buildings have caught now! The whole shebang is likely to go, the hall included!”

I could sense their hesitation and I was about to spring on it with more unnerving arguments when I heard scuffling sounds. “In, brother!” Conan grunted, and I hit the door with my shoulder. It shook but didn’t yield, so I stood back and leaped, smashing it with all my weight. There was a slight opening now, I shoved the spare sword through it half to the hilt, and pulled savagely. The sword broke; but its work was done, and I whirled into the room.

Conan had one man under him and a grip on the other’s neck. The close quarters had forced the guards to drop their swords, but the man on top was working his knife loose. I killed him with a cut across his back. Taking the dirk, Conan finished the other and rose, panting.

“They forgot and turned their backs,” he explained as he bent to help himself to a sword.

Gregory’s men had done some shouting before they died, but there was far more noise out in the court. I handed Conan a torch when he straightened up. “Fulke’s in the woods’ edge off the corner nearest home,” I said. “You know how you want to go.”

He nodded, and I could see his eyes gleam with the energy of fighting hope. “It’ll take several to stop us.”

Up to that point my plan had worked, with some luck to help, as well as could be wished, but just ahead were the dangers I had foreseen. By the time we had reached the court the flames were so high and bright that a book could have been read almost anywhere within the fort. Moreover, the heat—for the barn was past the point where there was any chance of saving it—was such that it had driven people back toward the hall.

Having saved the still excitedly snorting horses, all of the garrison except for a group engaged in wetting down the thatch of other buildings was waiting idly, if alertly, for the moment when a threat of more damage should call them into action. Indeed, some, seeking a cool vantage point from which to enjoy the terrible fascination of a destructive fire at night, had joined the women and children on the walls. A few were weaponless, but most had instinctively caught up their arms when roused from sleep.

Whether or not Conan had had any more reasons, strategic or otherwise, for advocating the north wall, I had observed that the steps leading up to it were the nearest to the doors from which we now burst. Tossing away his torch, he led me full tilt around a knot of gabbling men, and we were half way to the wall before anyone was struck by our haste. Then someone shrieked: “Jesus! It’s Conan!”

After that plenty of things happened. A bunch tried to cut us off, still tugging to get their swords out as they rushed us. We in turn, with our advantage of momentum, blasted through them without bothering to strike. Just before we reached the stairs one man with more hardihood than brains got in our way. Conan parried his outstretched sword and mowed him down by the force of his charge. I ran over him, feeling one foot sink in his belly, and then we were at the wall.

The steps were short logs imbedded in the packed dirt, and we took them by threes. But men were concentrating to wait for us at the top, so that was where our real difficulties began. They were coming up behind us, too, naturally, and I turned to hold them back while my friend cleared the way as best he could. Men in the fort had stopped their fire-prevention activities to watch; others were mounting the walls at different points and running toward us; and Gregory was bawling orders to both groups. All this I noticed in one flash, and then I had no time to notice anything except who was trying to kill me. .

There were some few so minded; but only two could be effective at a time, and I was in a strong position steeply above them. Conan had much the harder task. After a moment I nicked one of my opponents, drove his mate back, and stole a peek over my shoulder. Two men, incapacitated or dead, lay at Conan’s feet. He had seized footing on top, and I backed up to stand just below him.

“Shall we shove and jump?” I barked.

“Whip ‘em down, then come fast, and we’ll try,” he gasped.

By tremendous exertion I backed them down four steps. The sounds told me that Conan still kept his place on the wall, so I yelled to let him know and came leaping. The weight of my drive carried me past him into the melee, and a man in the rear rank toppled over the waist-high palisade with a cry. I gutted one but wasn’t fast enough in drawing back my blade to ward a stroke from another. I shifted but not far enough, and his sword sliced across my ribs. It wasn’t a bad wound, but avoiding a worse one had made me break my rush. Still I held my ground, and Conan surged along the little swath I had left.

“Don’t stop!” he cried.

They gave a little before the sweep of his weapon, and I piled after, stabbing one and kneeing another in the groin. The trick was to make it across the wall before they could take us full in the back. But I don’t think we ever would have succeeded if Gregory hadn’t spoiled his own game.

Not that it was stupidity on his part. His dilemma was that Conan dead in advance was an asset that Chilbert would appreciate but one for which he wouldn’t pay. “Take Conan alive!” Gregory was howling. “Kill the other, but capture Conan! I’ll hang you all if he’s killed!”

Their chief’s threat left them undecided, and Conan grasped the moment. Knocking two more men off the wall as he charged, he beat through the wavering swords, spun, and braced. I was after him on the instant, but I hesitated beside him, and he snarled at me. “Over!” he ordered, so over I went. Ducking beneath his swinging blade, I flung my own sword where I wouldn’t land on it—there was plenty of light in which to see where it fell—vaulted over the palisade, and dropped where God put me.

Unlike the stone walls Conan was building, earthworks though steep, cannot be perpendicular. I hit with a jolt and tumbled swiftly to the bottom, but my descent didn’t have the absolute force of a fall. I was well bruised, but neither my wind nor my sense of direction was knocked out of me. I rolled completely over before I could jerk myself erect, then I lunged for my sword.

The men who had been shoved over before me, not being prepared for the fall, had in general not fared so well. One was nursing an arm, and another was holding his head dazedly. The third, however, was seemingly uninjured, and he had preserved the presence of mind to mark my weapon. He had just stooped to pick it up when I landed on his back, my knife in my hand. I pulled my brand from under him and turned to look up at Conan. His sword was flashing to the ground, while he himself was on the outside of the palisade. One of the men that gripped him he pulled clean over, and the remaining arms could not hold the double weight.

Catching up Conan’s blade I ran to meet the two bodies skidding groundward, ready to stab one of them if necessary. But my friend had ridden the other man like a stone boat, and he lay inert after rolling. I pulled Conan to his feet, noting that he was bleeding in a couple of places. Then I handed him his sword, and we sprinted.

The men who were dropping down the wall after us were danger enough, but inside I could hear Gregory yelling for horses. It wouldn’t take them long to cut down our lead, and there was light enough for them to keep us spotted as long as we stayed near the fort. Escape would take us longer, and we wouldn’t find it easy to pierce the dragnet it would give them a chance to throw out; but our only hope was to try to reach darkness. I didn’t have to waste time or breath explaining this to Conan. Having got off in the lead, I dove downhill, and he followed a half a pace behind.

“Down the hill north! Straight down from where I stand,” somebody on the wall was directing. Foot runners were pounding along right behind us, and, further away but more ominous I heard the rumble of a cavalcade. The sky-searing flames were roaring and crackling, there were shouts and squeals from all ages and sexes, and dogs yapped. But above all the din I could hear Gregory promising to hang everybody if we got away.

I was beginning to feel the pace more with each stride. After all, the hot work of the past few minutes had been prefaced on my part by a long day of riding and walking. I felt generally used up, my wind was going, and my side ached where the sword had slashed it.

Conan was running easily, seemingly in no great distress, and as I could still manage considerable speed we were giving them a good race. Two men, however, had the legs of us; and the horses had rounded the corner of the fort to thunder down the slope. I was no good to help, but Conan sidestepped to let the leading pursurer pitch over his leg, then jammed a foot on his back to wind him. The second man tried to stop without slowing. He found out his mistake when he landed hard on his knees and my friend booted him in the solar plexus.

I watched that over my shoulder. Tiring as rapidly as I was, I couldn’t spare anything from my lead. We were well down hill and out of the light then, but though we were keeping ahead of the other runners they were near enough to keep us in sight and point us out to the oncoming horsemen. I peered ahead, and it was then that I saw at least one point in favor of that particular side. We were descending on a field full of cut and drying grain.

I knew it must be that, albeit in the confusion of darkness the stacks could just as well be taken for swine or sheep—or men on their hands and knees. Gazing at such a mass by night, a man will see it change size and shape, yes, and move, too. I’ve seen a bush masquerade as a lurking man and brazen it out until I was all but near enough to touch it. “Taking cover,” I panted.

Well into the field I cut my pace, dropped, as Conan passed me, rolled over swiftly into a group of several stacks, and simply crouched beside one. Our pursuers passed by ones and twos but halted a little beyond, where the tangent the riders had taken led to a meeting. I didn’t want to risk showing the white of my face for a look, but I gathered that they were in a satisfactory state of puzzlement.

“I don’t know where they went,” I heard a man admitting. “I saw ‘em one minute, and then they were gone.”

“Gone, Hell!” Gregory said angrily. “They couldn’t run that much faster than you. They’re hiding here somewhere. Now you men on foot hightail back to the fort and try to see that that damned fire doesn’t burn anything else.” He next harangued the horsemen. “On the off chance they’re still legging it, spread out and ride hard till I give the word. If we don’t locate ‘em by then we’ll turn and walk back slowly. It’ll be easier to spot ‘em going toward the fire. Look behind and under anything big enough to hide a runt flea. Now get going, all but Henri, Louis, and Charles. This is where we lost ‘em, so I want you men to stay here and ride ‘em down if they try to break cover.”

Keeping my hand out of sight, I used my sleeve to brush my hair over my eyes and twisted my head to glimpse the men walking back to the fort. As tired men will, they straggled along separately, most of them silent while waiting to get their wind back. The last one, however, was humming a certain song between reaches for breath. That man was Conan, and I rose to fall in behind him.

“Hey! Who’s that?” one of the watching riders called.

The entire band of us halted, men without faces in the dark. I didn’t dare speak because of my accent, but my friend gasped out an oath. “My name’s Conan,” he said sarcastically. Several laughed, the mounted man cursed the night, and we all plodded on again. Luckily there was too much general tiredness as we progressed uphill into more and more light for anyone to pay attention to anyone else. Moreover, the excitement over the manhunt was nicely balanced by the excitement over the fire. Men approaching it, inevitably looked at it and little besides.

Nevertheless, we had to continue straight toward the fort or draw suspicion. Fatigue seconding my anxiety to escape attention, I walked with my head bowed, reckoning the odds. With the riders decoyed to the north side we might be able to make a successful break for it. Or there were even grounds for hoping, what with everyone concentrating on the fire, that we could slip past unnoticed.

Suddenly I groaned as well as I could with what breath I had. A rider was coming down hill. That he would discover our identity seemed sure, although on the long chance he wouldn’t I continued to eye the earth. In another second he was right on us, and I hardened my muscles for action.

“I never thought I’d see a good horse thief like you out for a stroll,” the fellow said conversationally.

As my head snapped up I saw Conan’s doing the same. Father Clovis was grinning down at us. “I was just going to see how the hunt was prospering and maybe offer my ecclesiastical services to Finnian here when they hanged him—if they waited to. But it looks as if the Devil’s at his old tricks, mothering his own.” His face sobered. “I wish I could give you this horse, but Gregory would hang me instead, and I wouldn’t like that. Anything else I can do?”