The other, who insisted that his story was for Murf’s ears alone, had even more.
His sister, it appeared, was a menial in the service of the Earl. Last night, he related, a bit shamefaced, she had not returned to her home, but had stayed in the palace. He suspected that she had a sweetheart among the guards. Her mother, who had worried about her, had presented herself at the palace gates immediately after curfew, to inquire of her daughter’s whereabouts. The daughter was there, all right, and explained to her mother that she had been delayed in the palace until after the beginning of curfew. She gave the cause, in strictest confidence, as being the excitement due to the capture of the leader of the rebels.
Murf summoned Smid and told him the news, Smid’s eyes widened in an ague of fear. Questioning by Erlayok meant only one thing. Mark would be tortured until he was forced to reveal the identities and whereabouts of every rebel he knew anything about. Smid had no belief in the fortitude of any man subjected to the Earl’s diabolic attentions.
Murf, apparently, held the same idea. “We must stop it,” he muttered. “Jon, Duke of Scarbor, is the answer!”
“But who shall seek his aid?”
“Who but myself?” asked Murf, starting for the stairs that would lead him to the street.
“But you can’t!” Smid protested. “Think of the risk!”
“Think of the risk if I don’t,” retorted Murf. “All our work could be wrecked in less than a day. I’m going.”
“But if Erlayok knew that Mark was connected with the rebellion, then he is sure to know you are. You practically started it. And he’ll trace you back to here.” As he said this, Smid’s voice rose to a screech.
“Fool.” Murf made a swipe at him with open hand, “If he knows me, then he already knows of this place. The point is that we must stop Erlayok from questioning Mark. Once I get inside, with the help of Jon, I can prevent it. If it was any other man, I wouldn’t take the chance. But Mark knows all our hidden ramparts. He mustn’t talk! Now, my friend, can you suggest anyone to take my place? If you can’t, give peace to your puling tongue and let me go.”
SMID was cuffed into silence. Nobody but the outrageous Murf would have the courage to enter the stronghold of the enemy. Only Murf, who had some driving urge to see the rebellion an accomplished fact — an urge that seemed far stronger than that of any of the other rebels, would have the audacity to do the awesome thing that was so necessary.
“You will make sure his lips are sealed?” Smid inquired, hesitantly, as Murf again started up the stairs. “You will remember our safety and not be weak?”
Murf paused, ran a thumb along the keen edge of his knife, and replaced it in his belt.
“If necessary,” he muttered. “The cause is more important than any one man.” There was a laughing light to his eyes as he spoke that made Smid’s bony knees clack together in apprehension. Murf was either a wild fanatic or — or a very clever actor.
Smid watched him disappear in the direction of the palace of the Duke of Scarbor, and shook his head.
Smid remembered when he had harbored his first doubts as to Murf’s sincerity, his first, uneasy suspicion that Murf might be an emissary of the Mics, who coveted the rich farm lands of the Brish. His red hair, and the fact that he had no past that anyone could trace, added fuel to these suspicions. His glib tongue, and his genius for organizing had served as sufficient reason for thinking that he was just the sort of man who would be sent by the Mics on such a mission. He had tried to trip Murf up, to no purpose. Never once had Murf slipped in his masquerade — if it really was one.
On the other side of the ledger was the fact that Murf had red hair, and Smid couldn’t conceive of the Mics sending a man upon whom suspicion would so readily fall even at sight. And if he was an agent of the Mics, he would certainly be furnished with a very plausible background in the form of a carefully fabricated past. In addition, his zeal and willingness to take terrible risks in furthering the cause, were evidence in themselves to allay any doubts of the man’s sincerity.
So Smid didn’t know and he was unhappy. But then if he wasn’t worried about Murf, he was harassed by fears of a possible rise in the price of cloth or by a deep-rooted foreboding that one day his shop would burn to the ground or by almost anything else that popped into his head. Smid saw disaster everywhere, and he knew it, and so he couldn’t disentangle his suspicions of Murf from his apparently groundless terrors about everything else under the sun. It was all very distressing.
At the palace gates Murf demanded an audience with Jon. He demanded it in the name of Mark, the savior of the Duke’s life. Had he used any other name, he might well have been kicked into the moat. But he knew that the story of the rescue was well known and would gain him admittance. The guardians of the gate were acquainted with the generosity of the Duke, and knew that he would be displeased if they sent Murf away. Accordingly the redhead was led inside.
Jon, Duke of Scarbor, was seated at breakfast with his wife. Without ceremony, Murf was brought into the room. Jon, recognizing him, waved a hand toward a chair at the table. Such democratic treatment surprised the redhead, but he dropped into the seat and dove into his story.
Jon slowly laid down his fork and wiped his fingertips. “But why, man?” he asked. “What can Erlayok want of him? He wouldn’t imprison and torture a man without some reason.”
“I don’t know, Highness. I only know that this is true. Won’t you intervene? Our laws, stringent as they are, still protect us from such things. Mark, if he is accused of a crime, is entitled to imprisonment in a public jail while awaiting trial.”
Jon looked across the table toward his wife. Her eyes mirrored a sudden fright, but her words belied it. “You must, of course,” she said, calmly. “Our decision has been made.”
“You are quite right, my dear,” he answered. “The gods favor our course.”
The Duke stood erect and pushed back his chair. Clapping his hands, he summoned a guard and issued terse orders. A servant appeared with a black cape, which he buckled at his neck. In short minutes he and Murf were mounted and surrounded by armed horsemen of the guard. They galloped off in the direction of Erlayok’s palace.
Chapter 10: The Duke goes to Town
ENTRANCE to the grounds was easily accomplished. The men at the gates swung them wide at the sight of the Duke. But once inside they met delay after delay. No one seemed to know where Erlayok could be found. His servants displayed decided reluctance to talk. The Earl’s quarters were deserted, they quickly discovered, and a guard at the gate told them that Erlayok had not left. But no servant or other person connected with the household would give any further information. They were all in abject fear of Erlayok’s wrath.
“The dungeons!” said Murf. “These jackals are afraid to tell you that he has already started his horrible tortures.” The r’s of the adjective came rolling out like the chatter of the forgotten machine-gun.
But when the guard stationed in the gloomy corridor beneath the palace allowed them to look in the cells, they found no trace of Mark.
“You have led us a merry chase,” Jon accused. “What idiocy did you hope to work?”
“Believe me, Highness. Mark is somewhere in this palace. Find Erlayok and you’ll find him.”
The absence of the Earl was strange, thought Jon. Perhaps it would pay to find him before passing judgment on this excited scamp. With the idea of again going through the upper floors he led his men back to the stairs. They passed the stone door leading to the chamber below, again failing to see it in the semi-darkness which prevailed in the dungeon corridor.
Murf, almost at the rear of the party, caught a whiff of the odor of stale wood smoke, mingled with a fetid stench of putrefaction. He turned to locate its origin.
“Wait!” he cried. “I’ve found him!”
Behind the door were two of Erlayok’s guards. They raised their swords to stop the intruders, and were forthwith struck down by the foremost of Jon’s soldiers.
Stepping qui
ckly past his men, the Duke entered the grim chamber. What he saw brought a sickly anger to the pit of his stomach. His eyes flashed a single gleam, then he straightened and spread his hands behind him to prevent the sudden rush of his soldiers into the room. The men gathered around Mark were so intent on what they were doing to him that they had not heard a sound.
Strapped tightly in a stone chair, Mark was glaring defiantly at his tormentors. With enormous deliberation, a man in the livery of Erlayok was pressing a white-hot iron against Mark’s fleshy chest. While open wounds didn’t bother Mark much, the searing heat of the iron was exquisite agony. And Mark couldn’t let them know what they were doing to him. His flesh might be as good as invulnerable to the destructive, blasting touch of the metal, the delicate little nerves that transmitted the scourging pain to his brain were not. But he had to make them go on thinking he was a wizard, insensible to mortal dolors, and so he kept his face a stiffened mask, and held the light of defiance in his gaze. He didn’t see how he could keep the mask from shattering though when they rubbed salt on the place where the iron had been.
Each man bent closer to look at the ravaged flesh. A quick hiss of indrawn breaths. This was not the first time the iron had been applied. But when the man rubbed his hand across Mark’s chest, the charred spot brushed away, leaving no sign of a burn! There was only a small spot, the size of the end of the iron, which was lighter in color than the sun-bronzed surrounding skin.
“The gods favor him!” said one of the soldiers with an awed voice. The others nodded.
Erlayok made a strangled sound as he tried to control his rage. “Fools!” he said. “The man is a demon, but I’ll make him talk, just the same. His eyes won’t heal like that, jab a hot iron in one of them!”
THE Duke, himself astonished, nevertheless thought it time to interfere. He stepped into the room. Erlayok, seeing him out of the corner of an eye, turned, snarling.
“Explain this!” the Duke demanded.
Erlayok made a visible effort to control himself. It was an heroic task and he accomplished it. He almost achieved the genial expression he had worn a short while before. Almost, but not quite.
“I’m not in the habit of explaining anything which happens in the privacy of my own house. Perhaps you will explain your intrusion.”
The Duke’s face hardened. “It’s useless to argue, Erlayok,” he said. “In matters of policy you can overrule me with your control of the votes of the lesser nobles, but in matters of law I am still supreme magistrate in the Duchy of Scarbor. Why are you holding this man and subjecting him to torture?”
Erlayok hesitated, scratching his chin. Mark spoke up, before he could formulate an answer. “He’s trying to make me tell him of some ancient weapons he thinks I can design for him. He wants to use them to conquer the Mics and the Macs and make them pay tribute to him.”
“Nonsense,” Erlayok said. “One of my men recognized him as being a member of the insurgent organization. We are trying to make him tell of his associates.”
Jon looked at Murf, who didn’t change expression.
“You can prove this?” he asked.
“Certainly! There among your party is another rebel. A little torture will make him talk.” Erlayok pointed to Murf, who still remained impassive.
“We don’t use such barbaric methods,” said Jon, flatly. “If you have no evidence against the redhead, we can’t even hold him. And two weeks ago I pardoned him of all former crimes. Have you evidence he has committed any since?”
Erlayok shook his head. “No,” he said. “But this other man can be held. You have said you are chief magistrate. You can stand in judgment right now.” He turned to two of the men among the torturers. “Tell the good Duke where we found this man. And when!”
The soldiers told of capturing Mark several hours after curfew, walking the city streets, not omitting the terrific battle it to subdue him. Erlayok smiled triumphantly at the Duke.
“He has had his trial now,” Erlayok pointed out. “If he’s guilty, then pass your sentence.”
The Duke looked at Mark. “You have heard the testimony of these men. Do you wish to deny the charge?”
“No,” said Mark, to the Duke’s surprise. “I was walking the city streets after curfew.” The sweat was still streaming from his pores and he was breathing jerkily through lungs that felt as thin as paper.
“But man!” the Duke exclaimed. “Don’t you know the punishment for that offense?”
Mark nodded. “Drawing and quartering, I’ve heard. A fit punishment for such a hideous crime.” His eyes accused Jon of being no less a barbarian than Erlayok, and Jon was suddenly uncomfortable. He had always tried to be a good man, yet here was a stranger who challenged him to be a better one than he knew how to be. And from somewhere inside, Jon found a deeper courage than he had ever thought he had.
The Duke shook his head sadly. “I didn’t make such laws,” he muttered, defending himself involuntarily. “It’s only my job to enforce them.” He paused, and a gleam came in his eyes. He surveyed the splendid physique of the bound man. “I have seen you in action,” he said thoughtfully. “And I’ve listened to the story of your fight with Erlayok’s men. And legally there is an alternative sentence I can impose.”
This much he felt strong enough to do in defiance of Erlayok, whom he had always feared. But fear didn’t stop him this time.
Jon paused again and smiled at the expression of anger that crossed the face of the Earl. “This is the third week of the harvest festivities. Tomorrow, and every day until Saturday, there will be games and exhibitions in the central arena. I sentence you to participate in them. Perhaps you may survive. It depends on you.”
Chapter 11: Off with his Head
MARK smiled his thanks. He knew that Jon, in his generosity and gratitude, was doing all he could. As for himself, he hadn’t feared the sentence of drawing and quartering. He still had confidence in his ability to escape before the sentence could be carried out. And with the knowledge that somewhere Nona was probably mourning him, it was his full intention to do so at the earliest moment. The rebellion would be an accomplished fact in a very few days after he put his forces in motion, and then he would be free to return to her.
Erlayok motioned one of his men to unbind him. “Put him in one of the cells,” he directed. “Under guard!”
“No,” the duke interposed. “I shall see that he is adequately guarded. In a city prison.”
For an instant it seemed that Erlayok would go completely berserk. His face twisted and his hands clenched and opened like the claws of some bird of prey. But abruptly he calmed and smiled, as if at some delightful secret. Mark, as he was led out of the chamber, wondered what charming thought was behind the smile.
At the palace gates the party remounted. One of Jon’s soldiers gave his horse to Mark. Ordinarily a prisoner would have been forced to walk, but the Duke evidently didn’t consider Mark a criminal.
Murf rode part way to the city prison, and then requested an opportunity to bid his friend goodbye, before going his way. The Duke, with a wry smile, ordered his men to draw away a short distance.
“You won’t be in jail very long,” Murf said, hurriedly. “I’ll get our forces together as quickly as it can be done. We’ll free you and begin the attack. Our men will fight all the better with the prospect of turning you loose to lead them.”
“No,” Mark said. “Wait a day or two, I’ll break out of prison without any help. When we stage the attack it must be a complete surprise. And aimed only at the strategic points we have agreed upon. If our forces waste time storming a prison to free me, the nobles will have a chance to consolidate their available fighting men. The element of surprise may mean the difference between success and failure. Not to mention the difference in the number of men who must die.”
Jon, aware that something other than an ordinary farewell was in progress, motioned his men to break up the conference.
“The horse is yours,” he told Murf. “Don�
��t use it for any dishonorable purpose.”
The redhead grinned impishly and nodded his thanks. “I wish Your Highness, and Your Highness’ family, a long life,” he said, enigmatically. And with that he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and rode off, waving a hand.
“Quite decent of him,” the Duke remarked, watching the disappearing figure.
THE party continued down the winding streets, the horses’ well-shod hooves a-clatter on the cobbles. They proceeded at the leisurely pace necessary because of the ox-carts and pedestrians that thronged the streets.
Several times there was cheering and shouting as the horsemen were recognized. Mark, riding beside Jon, thought the tribute was intended for the Duke as he saw the admiring and worshipful looks cast in his direction. Jon, he believed, was regarded by the people as being a man of gentler stamp from the nobles who oppressed them. They knew of his futile efforts to help their conditions, and loved him for trying.
“They like you,” Jon observed ruefully. “I wonder what they would do if they knew I was taking you to jail.”
Mark was astonished. “The cheers were yours, not mine.”
“Some of them, perhaps,” the Duke admitted. “I have been cheered before, on the city streets. But never as much as today. So I’m not fooling myself.” He smiled, almost wistfully. “I do envy you. I wish I — Never mind.”
Mark insisted. “If any of these people are cheering me, they are doing it only because I once saved your life. And that, of course, is only a left-handed way of paying you tribute.”
The Duke looked at Mark, his eyes twinkling. “I may be stupid but I am not entirely uninformed, my friend,” he said.
Before Mark could puzzle out the meaning of this remark, the party arrived. Mark had been brought to the same jail from which he had so blithely escaped the night before. He hadn’t known that this was the nearest public prison to the Earl’s palace, and had assumed that he would be taken to some other place.
The Best of Argosy #6 - Minions of Mars Page 8