Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures

by Robert E. Howard

  Cormac cursed. “I rode over a hundred miles to join the most powerful raider in the Taurus, and I find only a wine-bibbing, drunken fool, fit only to howl bloody boasts and blasphemies to the roof.”

  “Be careful, for God’s sake, sir,” Jacob shook from head to foot. “These walls have ears! The great prince has these strange moods, but he is a mighty fighter and a crafty man for all that. Do not judge him in his drunkenness. Did – did – did he speak aught of me?”

  “Aye,” answered Cormac at random, a whimsical grim humor striking him. “He said you only served him in hopes of stealing his ruby some day.”

  Jacob gasped as if Cormac had hit him in the belly and the sudden pallor of his face told the Norman his chance shot had gone home. The majordomo ducked out of the room like a scared rabbit and it was in somewhat better humor that his tormentor turned to retire.

  Looking out the window, Cormac glanced down into the courtyard where the animals were kept, at the stables wherein he had seen that his great black stallion had been placed. Satisfied that the steed was well sheltered for the night, he lay down on the bunk in full armor, with his shield, helmet and sword beside him, as he was wont to sleep in strange holds. He had barred the door from within, but he put little trust in bolts and bars.

  II

  Cormac had been asleep less than an hour when a sudden sound brought him wide awake and alert. It was utterly dark in the chamber; even his keen eyes could make out nothing, but someone or something was moving on him in the darkness. He thought of the evil reputation of Bab-el-Shaitan and a momentary shiver shook him – not of fear but of superstitious revulsion.

  Then his practical mind asserted itself. It was that fool Toghrul Khan who had slipped into his chamber to cleanse his strange nomadic honor by murdering the man who had been given priority over him. Cormac cautiously drew his legs about and lifted his body until he was sitting on the side of the bunk. At the rattle of his mail, the stealthy sounds ceased, but the Norman could visualize Toghrul Khan’s slant eyes glittering snake-like in the dark. Doubtless he had already slit the throat of Jacob the Jew.

  As quietly as possible, Cormac eased the heavy sword from its scabbard. Then as the sinister sounds recommenced, he tensed himself, made a swift estimate of location, and leaped like a huge tiger, smiting blindly and terribly in the dark. He had judged correctly. He felt the sword strike solidly, crunching through flesh and bone, and a body fell heavily in the darkness.

  Feeling for flint and steel, he struck fire to tinder and lighted the torch, then turning to the crumpled shape in the center of the room, he halted in amazement. The man who lay there in a widening pool of crimson was tall, powerfully built and hairy as an ape – Kadra Muhammad. The Lur’s scimitar was in his scabbard, but a wicked dagger lay by his right hand.

  “He had no quarrel with me,” growled Cormac, puzzled. “What – ” He stopped again. The door was still bolted from within, but in what had been a blank wall to the casual gaze, a black opening gaped – a secret doorway through which Kadra Muhammad had come. Cormac closed it and with sudden purpose pulled his coif in place and donned his helmet. Then taking up his shield, he opened the door and strode forth into the torch-lighted corridor. All was silence, broken only by the tramp of his iron-clad feet on the bare flags. The sounds of revelry had ceased and a ghostly stillness hung over Bab-el-Shaitan.

  In a few minutes he stood before the door of Skol Abdhur’s chamber and saw there what he had half expected. The Nubian Abdullah lay before the threshold, disembowelled, and his woolly head half severed from his body. Cormac thrust open the door; the candles still burned. On the floor, in the blood-soaked ruins of the torn divan lay the gashed and naked body of Skol Abdhur the Butcher. The corpse was slashed and hacked horribly, but it was evident to Cormac that Skol had died in drunken sleep with no chance to fight for his life. It was some obscure hysteria or frantic hatred that had led his slayer or slayers to so disfigure his dead body. His garments lay near him, ripped to shreds. Cormac smiled grimly, nodding.

  “So the Blood of Belshazzar drank your life at last, Skol,” said he.

  Turning toward the doorway he again scanned the body of the Nubian.

  “More than one slew these men,” he muttered, “and the Nubian gave scathe to one, at least.”

  The black still gripped his great scimitar and the edge was nicked and blood-stained.

  At that moment a quick rattle of steps sounded on the flags and the affrighted face of Jacob peered in at the door. His eyes flared wide and he opened his mouth to the widest extent to give vent to an ear-piercing screech.

  “Shut up, you fool,” snarled Cormac disgusted, but Jacob gibbered wildly.

  “Spare my life, most noble lord! I will not tell anyone that you slew Skol – I swear – ”

  “Be quiet, Jew,” growled Cormac. “I did not slay Skol and I will not harm you.”

  This somewhat reassured Jacob, whose eyes narrowed with sudden avarice.

  “Have you found the gem?” he chattered, running into the chamber. “Swift, let us search for it and begone – I should not have shrieked but I feared the noble lord would slay me – yet perchance it was not heard – ”

  “It was heard,” growled the Norman. “And here are the warriors.”

  The tramp of many hurried feet was heard and a second later the door was thronged with bearded faces. Cormac noted the men blinked and gaped like owls, more like men roused from deep sleep than drunken men. Bleary-eyed, they gripped their weapons and ogled, a ragged, bemused horde. Jacob shrank back, trying to flatten himself against the wall, while Cormac faced them, blood-stained sword still in his hand.

  “Allah!” ejaculated a Kurd, rubbing his eyes. “The Frank and the Jew have murdered Skol!”

  “A lie,” growled Cormac menacingly. “I know not who slew this drunkard.”

  Tisolino di Strozza came into the chamber, followed by the other chiefs. Cormac saw Nadir Tous, Kojar Mirza, Shalmar Khor, Yussef el Mekru and Justus Zehor. Toghrul Khan, Kai Shah and Musa bin Daoud were nowhere in evidence, and where Kadra Muhammad was, the Norman well knew.

  “The jewel!” exclaimed an Armenian excitedly. “Let us look for the gem!”

  “Be quiet, fool,” snapped Nadir Tous, a light of baffled fury growing in his eyes. “Skol has been stripped; be sure who slew him took the gem.”

  All eyes turned toward Cormac.

  “Skol was a hard master,” said Tisolino. “Give us the jewel, lord Cormac, and you may go your way in peace.”

  Cormac swore angrily; had not, he thought, even as he replied, the Venetian’s eyes widened when they first fell on him?

  “I have not your cursed jewel; Skol was dead when I came to his room.”

  “Aye,” jeered Kojar Mirza, “and blood still wet on your blade.” He pointed accusingly at the weapon in Cormac’s hand, whose blue steel, traced with Norse runes, was stained a dull red.

  “That is the blood of Kadra Muhammad,” growled Cormac, “who stole into my cell to slay me and whose corpse now lies there.”

  His eyes were fixed with fierce intensity on di Strozza’s face but the Venetian’s expression altered not a whit.

  “I will go to the chamber and see if he speaks truth,” said di Strozza, and Nadir Tous smiled a deadly smile.

  “You will remain here,” said the Persian, and his ruffians closed menacingly around the tall Venetian. “Go you, Selim.” And one of his men went grumbling. Di Strozza shot a swift glance of terrible hatred and suppressed wrath at Nadir Tous, then stood imperturbably; but Cormac knew that the Venetian was wild to escape from that room.

  “There have been strange things done tonight in Bab-el-Shaitan,” growled Shalmar Khor. “Where are Kai Shah and the Syrian – and that pagan from Tartary? And who drugged the wine?”

  “Aye!” exclaimed Nadir Tous, “who drugged the wine which sent us all into the sleep from which we but a few moments ago awakened? And how is it that you, di Strozza, were awake when the rest of us slept?”
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  “I have told you, I drank the wine and fell asleep like the rest of you,” answered the Venetian coldly. “I awoke a few moments earlier, that is all, and was going to my chamber when the horde of you came along.”

  “Mayhap,” answered Nadir Tous, “but we had to put a scimitar edge to your throat before you would come with us.”

  “Why did you wish to come to Skol’s chamber anyway?” countered di Strozza.

  “Why,” answered the Persian, “when we awoke and realized we had been drugged, Shalmar Khor suggested that we go to Skol’s chamber and see if he had flown with the jewel – ”

  “You lie!” exclaimed the Circassian. “That was Kojar Mirza said that – ”

  “Why this delay and argument?” cried Kojar Mirza. “We know this Frank was the last to be admitted to Skol this night. There is blood on his blade – we found him standing above the slain! Cut him down!”

  And drawing his scimitar he stepped forward, his warriors surging in behind him. Cormac placed his back to the wall and braced his feet to meet the charge. But it did not come; the tense figure of the giant Norman-Gael was so fraught with brooding menace, the eyes glaring so terribly above the skull-adorned shield, that even the wild Kurd faltered and hesitated, though a score of men thronged the room and many more than that number swarmed in the corridor outside. And as he wavered the Persian Selim elbowed his way through the band, shouting: “The Frank spoke truth! Kadra Muhammad lies dead in the lord Cormac’s chamber!”

  “That proves nothing,” said the Venetian quietly. “He might have slain Skol after he slew the Lur.”

  An uneasy and bristling silence reigned for an instant. Cormac noted that now Skol lay dead, the different factions made no attempt to conceal their differences. Nadir Tous, Kojar Mirza and Shalmar Khor stood apart from each other and their followers bunched behind them in glaring, weapon-thumbing groups. Yussef el Mekru and Justus Zehor stood aside, looking undecided; only di Strozza seemed oblivious to this cleavage of the robber band.

  The Venetian was about to say more, when another figure shouldered men aside and strode in. It was the Seljuk, Kai Shah, and Cormac noted that he lacked his mail shirt and that his garments were different from those he had worn earlier in the night. More, his left arm was bandaged and bound close to his chest and his dark face was somewhat pale.

  At the sight of him di Strozza’s calm for the first time deserted him; he started violently.

  “Where is Musa bin Daoud?” he exclaimed.

  “Aye!” answered the Turk angrily. “Where is Musa bin Daoud?”

  “I left him with you!” cried di Strozza fiercely, while the others gaped, not understanding this byplay.

  “But you planned with him to elude me,” accused the Seljuk.

  “You are mad!” shouted di Strozza, losing his self-control entirely.

  “Mad?” snarled the Turk. “I have been searching for the dog through the dark corridors. If you and he are acting in good faith, why did you not return to the chamber, when you went forth to meet Kadra Muhammad whom we heard coming along the corridor? When you came not back I stepped to the door to peer out for you, and when I turned back, Musa had darted through some secret opening like a rat – ”

  Di Strozza almost frothed at the mouth. “You fool!” he screamed, “keep silent!”

  “I will see you in Gehennum and all our throats cut before I let you cozen me!” roared the Turk, ripping out his scimitar. “What have you done with Musa?”

  “You fool of hell,” raved di Strozza, “I have been in this chamber ever since I left you! You knew that Syrian dog would play us false if he got the opportunity and – ”

  And at that instant when the air was already supercharged with tension, a terrified slave rushed in at a blind, stumbling run, to fall gibbering at di Strozza’s feet.

  “The gods!” he howled. “The black gods! Aie! The cavern under the floors and the djinn in the rock!”

  “What are you yammering about, dog?” roared the Venetian, knocking the slave to the floor with an open-handed blow.

  “I found the forbidden door open,” screeched the fellow. “A stair goes down – it leads into a fearful cavern with a terrible altar on which frown gigantic demons – and at the foot of the stairs – the lord Musa – ”

  “What!” di Strozza’s eyes blazed and he shook the slave as a dog shakes a rat.

  “Dead!” gasped the wretch between chattering teeth.

  Cursing terribly, di Strozza knocked men aside in his rush to the door; with a vengeful howl Kai Shah pelted after him, slashing right and left to clear a way. Men gave back from his flashing blade, howling as the keen edge slit their skins. The Venetian and his erstwhile comrade ran down the corridor, di Strozza dragging the screaming slave after him, and the rest of the pack gave tongue in rage and bewilderment and took after them. Cormac swore in amazement and followed, determined to see the mad game through.

  Down winding corridors di Strozza led the pack, down broad stairs, until he came to a huge iron door that now swung open. Here the horde hesitated.

  “This is in truth the forbidden door,” muttered an Armenian. “The brand is on my back that Skol put there merely because I lingered too long before it once.”

  “Aye,” agreed a Persian. “It leads into places once sealed up by the Arabs long ago. None but Skol ever passed through that door – he and the Nubian and the captives who came not forth. It is a haunt of devils.”

  Di Strozza snarled in disgust and strode through the doorway. He had snatched a torch as he ran and he held this high in one hand. Broad steps showed, leading downward, and cut out of solid rock. They were on the lower floor of the castle; these steps led into the bowels of the earth. As di Strozza strode down, dragging the howling, naked slave, the high-held torch lighting the black stone steps and casting long shadows into the darkness before them, the Venetian looked like a demon dragging a soul into Hell.

  Kai Shah was close behind him with his drawn scimitar, with Nadir Tous and Kojar Mirza crowding him close. The ragged crew had, with unaccustomed courtesy, drawn back to let the lord Cormac through and now they followed, uneasily and casting apprehensive glances to all sides.

  Many carried torches, and as their light flowed into the depths below a medley of affrighted yells went up. From the darkness huge evil eyes glimmered and titanic shapes loomed vaguely in the gloom. The mob wavered, ready to stampede, but di Strozza strode stolidly downward and the pack called on Allah and followed. Now the light showed a huge cavern in the center of which stood a black and utterly abhorrent altar, hideously stained, and flanked with grinning skulls laid out in strangely systematic lines. The horrific figures were disclosed to be huge images, carved from the solid rock of the cavern walls, strange, bestial, gigantic gods, whose huge eyes of some glassy substance caught the torchlight.

  The Celtic blood in Cormac sent a shiver down his spine. Alexander built the foundations of this fortress? Bah – no Grecian ever carved such gods as these. No; an aura of unspeakable antiquity brooded over this grim cavern, as if the forbidden door were a mystic threshold over which the adventurer stepped into an elder world. No wonder mad dreams were here bred in the frenzied brain of Skol Abdhur. These gods were grim vestiges of an older, darker race than Roman or Hellene – a people long faded into the gloom of antiquity. Phrygians – Lydians – Hittites? Or some still more ancient, more abysmal people?

  The age of Alexander was as dawn before these ancient figures, yet doubtless he bowed to these gods, as he bowed to many gods before his maddened brain made himself a deity.

  At the foot of the stairs lay a crumpled shape – Musa bin Daoud. His face was twisted in horror. A medley of shouts went up: “The djinn have taken the Syrian! Let us begone! This is an evil place!”

  “Be silent, you fools!” roared Nadir Tous. “A mortal blade slew Musa – see, he has been slashed through the breast and his bones are broken. See how he lies. Someone slew him and flung him down the stairs – ”

  The Pers
ian’s voice trailed off, as his gaze followed his own pointing fingers. Musa’s left arm was outstretched and his fingers had been hacked away.

  “He held something in that hand,” whispered Nadir Tous. “So hard he gripped it that his slayer was forced to cut off his fingers to obtain it – ”

  Men thrust torches into niches on the wall and crowded nearer, their superstitious fears forgotten.

  “Aye!” exclaimed Cormac, having pieced together some of the bits of the puzzle in his mind. “It was the gem! Musa and Kai Shah and di Strozza killed Skol, and Musa had the gem. There was blood on Abdullah’s sword and Kai Shah has a broken arm – shattered by the sweep of the Nubian’s great scimitar. Whoever slew Musa has the gem.”

  Di Strozza screamed like a wounded panther. He shook the wretched slave.

  “Dog, have you the gem?”

  The slave began a frenzied denial but his voice broke in a ghastly gurgle as di Strozza, in a very fit of madness, jerked his sword edge across the wretch’s throat and flung the blood-spurting body from him. The Venetian whirled on Kai Shah.

  “You slew Musa!” he screamed. “He was with you last! You have the gem!”

  “You lie!” exclaimed the Turk, his dark face an ashy pallor. “You slew him yourself – ”

  His words ended in a gasp as di Strozza, foaming at the mouth and all sanity gone from his eyes, ran his sword straight through the Turk’s body. Kai Shah swayed like a sapling in the wind; then as di Strozza withdrew the blade, the Seljuk hacked through the Venetian’s temple, and as Kai Shah reeled, dying on his feet but clinging to life with the tenacity of the Turk, Nadir Tous leaped like a panther and beneath his flashing scimitar Kai Shah dropped dead across the dead Venetian.

  Forgetting all else in his lust for the gem, Nadir Tous bent over his victim, tearing at his garments – bent further as if in a deep salaam and sank down on the dead men, his own skull split to the teeth by Kojar Mirza’s stroke. The Kurd bent to search the Turk, but straightened swiftly to meet the attack of Shalmar Khor. In an instant the scene was one of ravening madness, where men hacked and slew and died blindly. The flickering torches lit the scene, and Cormac, backing away toward the stairs, swore amazedly. He had seen men go mad before, but this exceeded anything he had ever witnessed.