Sword Woman and Other Historical Adventures M

by Robert E. Howard

  Giles ran at a heron-feathered chief, gripped his leg with his naked hands. Blows rained on his coif, bringing fire-shot darkness, but he hung grimly on. He wrenched the Turk from his saddle, fell with him, groping for his throat. Hoofs pounded about him, a steed shouldered against him, knocking him rolling in the dust. He clambered painfully to his feet, shaking the blood and sweat from his eyes. Dead men and dead horses lay heaped in a ghastly pile about him.

  A familiar voice reached his dulled ears. He saw Shirkuh sitting his white horse, gazing down at him. The Mountain Lion’s beard bristled in a grin.

  “You have saved Amalric,” said he, indicating a group of riders in the distance, closing in with the retreating host; the Saracens were not pressing the pursuit too closely. The iron men were falling back in good order. They were defeated, not broken. The Turks were content to allow them to retire unmolested.

  “You are a hero, Giles ibn Malik,” said Shirkuh.

  Giles sank down on a dead horse and dropped his head in his hands. The marrow of his legs seemed turned to water, and he was shaken with a desire to weep.

  “I am neither a hero nor the son of a king,” said Giles. “Slay me and be done with it.”

  “Who spoke of slaying?” demanded Shirkuh. “I have just won an empire in this battle, and I would quaff a goblet in token of it. Slay you? By Allah, I would not harm a hair of such a stout fighter and noble toper. You shall come and drink with me in celebration of a kingdom won when I ride into El Kahira in triumph.”

  Hawks of Outremer

  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.

  – Vansittart

  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 vizorless 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 blood-stained 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.

  Son of a woman of the O’Briens and a renegade Norman knight, Geoffrey the Bastard, in whose veins, it is said, coursed the blood of William the Conqueror, Cormac had seldom known an hour of peace or ease in all his thirty years of violent life. He was born in a feud-torn and blood-drenched land, and raised in a heritage of hate and savagery. The ancient culture of Erin had long crumbled before the repeated onslaughts of Norsemen and Danes. Harried on all sides by cruel foes, the rising civilization of the Celts had faded before the fierce necessity of incessant conflict, and the merciless struggle for survival had made the Gaels as savage as the heathens who assailed them.

  Now, in Cormac’s time, war upon red war swept the crimson isle, where clan fought clan, and the Norman adventurers tore at one another’s throats, or resisted the attacks of the Irish, playing tribe against tribe, while from Norway and the Orkneys the still half-pagan Vikings ravaged all impartially.

  A vague realization of all this flashed through Sir Rupert’s mind as he stood staring at his friend.

  “We heard you were slain in a sea-fight off Sicily,” he repeated.

  Cormac shrugged his shoulders. “Many died then, it is true, and I was struck senseless by a stone from a ballista. Doubtless that is how the rumor started. But you see me, as much alive as ever.”

  “Sit down, old friend.” Sir Rupert thrust forward one of the rude benches which formed part of the tavern’s furniture. “What is forward in the West?”

  Cormac took the wine goblet proffered him by a dark-skinned servitor, and drank deeply.

  “Little of note,” said he. “In France the king counts his pence and squabbles with his nobles. Richard – if he lives – languishes somewhere in Germany, ’tis thought. In England Shane – that is to say, John – oppresses the people and betrays the barons. And in Ireland – Hell!” He laughed shortly and without mirth. “What shall I say of Ireland but the same old tale? Gael and foreigner cut each other’s throat and plot together against the king. John De Coursey, since Hugh de Lacy supplanted him as governor, has raged like a madman, burning and pillaging, while Donal O’Brien lurks in the west to destroy what remains. Yet, by Satan, I think this land is but little better.”

  “Yet there is peace of a sort now,” murmured Sir Rupert.

  “Aye – peace while the jackal Saladin gathers his powers,” grunted Cormac. “Think you he will rest idle while Acre, Antioch and Tripoli remain in Christian hands? He but waits an excuse to seize the remnants of Outremer.”

  Sir Rupert shook his head, his eyes shadowed.

  “It is a naked land and a bloody one. Were it not akin to blasphemy I could curse the day I
followed my king eastward. Betimes I dream of the orchards of Normandy, the deep cool forests and the dreaming vineyards. Methinks my happiest hours were when a page of twelve years – ”

  “At twelve,” grunted FitzGeoffrey, “I was running wild with shock-head kerns on the naked fens – I wore wolfskins, weighed near fourteen stone and had killed three men.”

  Sir Rupert looked curiously at his friend. Separated from Cormac’s native land by a width of sea and the breadth of Britain, the Norman knew but little of the affairs in that far isle. But he knew vaguely that Cormac’s life had not been an easy one. Hated by the Irish and despised by the Normans, he had paid back contempt and ill-treatment with savage hate and ruthless vengeance. It was known that he owned a shadow of allegiance only to the great house of Fitzgerald, who, as much Welsh as Norman, had even then begun to take up Irish customs and Irish quarrels.

  “You wear another sword than that you wore when I saw you last.”

  “They break in my hands,” said Cormac. “Three Turkish sabers went into the forging of the sword I wielded at Joppa – yet it shattered like glass in that sea-fight off Sicily. I took this from the body of a Norse sea-king who led a raid into Munster. It was forged in Norway – see the pagan runes on the steel?”

  He drew the sword and the great blade shimmered bluely, like a thing alive in the candle light. The servants crossed themselves and Sir Rupert shook his head.

  “You should not have drawn it here – they say blood follows such a sword.”

  “Bloodshed follows my trail anyway,” growled Cormac. “This blade has already drunk FitzGeoffrey blood – with this that Norse sea-king slew my brother, Shane.”

  “And you wear such a sword?” exclaimed Sir Rupert in horror. “No good will come of that evil blade, Cormac!”

  “Why not?” asked the big warrior impatiently. “It’s a good blade – I wiped out the stain of my brother’s blood when I slew his slayer. By Satan, but that sea-king was a grand sight in his coat of mail with silvered scales. His silvered helmet was strong too – ax, helmet and skull shattered together.”

  “You had another brother, did you not?”

  “Aye – Donal. Eochaidh O’Donnell ate his heart out after the battle at Coolmanagh. There was a feud between us at the time, so it may be Eochaidh merely saved me the trouble – but for all that I burned the O’Donnell in his own castle.”

  “How came you to first ride on the Crusade?” asked Sir Rupert curiously. “Were you stirred with a desire to cleanse your soul by smiting the Paynim?”

  “Ireland was too hot for me,” answered the Norman-Gael candidly. “Lord Shamus MacGearailt – James Fitzgerald – wished to make peace with the English king and I feared he would buy favor by delivering me into the hands of the king’s governor. As there was feud between my family and most of the Irish clans, there was nowhere for me to go. I was about to seek my fortune in Scotland when young Eamonn Fitzgerald was stung by the hornet of Crusade and I accompanied him.”

  “But you gained favor with Richard – tell me the tale.”

  “Soon told. It was on the plains of Azotus when we came to grips with the Turks. Aye, you were there! I was fighting alone in the thick of the fray and helmets and turbans were cracking like eggs all around when I noted a strong knight in the forefront of our battle. He cut deeper and deeper into the close-ranked lines of the heathen and his heavy mace scattered brains like water. But so dented was his shield and so stained with blood his armor, I could not tell who he might be.

  “But suddenly his horse went down and in an instant he was hemmed in on all sides by the howling fiends who bore him down by sheer weight of numbers. So hacking a way to his side I dismounted – ”

  “Dismounted?” exclaimed Sir Rupert in amazement.

  Cormac’s head jerked up in irritation at the interruption. “Why not?” he snapped. “I am no French she-knight to fear wading in the muck – anyway, I fight better on foot. Well, I cleared a space with a sweep or so of my sword, and the fallen knight, the press being lightened, came up roaring like a bull and swinging his blood-clotted mace with such fury he nearly brained me as well as the Turks. A charge of English knights swept the heathen away and when he lifted his vizor I saw I had succored Richard of England.

  “ ‘Who are you and who is your master?’ said he.

  “ ‘I am Cormac FitzGeoffrey and I have no master,’ said I. ‘I followed young Eamonn Fitzgerald to the Holy Land and since he fell before the walls of Acre, I seek my fortune alone.’

  “ ‘What think ye of me as a master?’ asked he, while the battle raged half a bow-shot about us.

  “ ‘You fight reasonably well for a man with Saxon blood in his veins,’ I answered, ‘but I own allegiance to no English king.’

  “He swore like a trooper. ‘By the bones of the saints,’ said he, ‘that had cost another man his head. You saved my life, but for this insolence, no prince shall knight you!’

  “ ‘Keep your knighthoods and be damned,’ said I. ‘I am a chief in Ireland – but we waste words; yonder are pagan heads to be smashed.’

  “Later he bade me to his royal presence and waxed merry with me; a rare drinker he is, though a fool withal. But I distrust kings – I attached myself to the train of a brave and gallant young knight of France – the Sieur Gerard de Gissclin, full of insane ideals of chivalry, but a noble youth.

  “When peace was made between the hosts, I heard hints of a renewal of strife between the Fitzgeralds and the Le Boteliers, and Lord Shamus having been slain by Nial Mac Art, and I being in favor with the king anyway, I took leave of Sieur Gerard and betook myself back to Erin. Well – we swept Ormond with torch and sword and hanged old Sir William le Botelier to his own barbican. Then, the Geraldines having no particular need of my sword at the moment, I bethought myself once more of Sieur Gerard, to whom I owed my life and which debt I have not yet had opportunity to pay. How, Sir Rupert, dwells he still in his castle of Ali-El-Yar?”

  Sir Rupert’s face went suddenly white, and he leaned back as if shrinking from something. Cormac’s head jerked up and his dark face grew more forbidding and fraught with somber potentialities. He seized the Norman’s arm in an unconsciously savage grip.

  “Speak, man,” he rasped. “What ails you?”

  “Sieur Gerard,” half whispered Sir Rupert. “Had you not heard? Ali-El-Yar lies in smoldering ruins and Gerard is dead.”

  Cormac snarled like a mad dog, his terrible eyes blazing with a fearful light. He shook Sir Rupert in the intensity of his passion.

  “Who did the deed? He shall die, were he Emperor of Byzantium!”

  “I know not!” Sir Rupert gasped, his mind half stunned by the blast of the Gael’s primitive fury. “There be foul rumors – Sieur Gerard loved a girl in a sheik’s harem, it is said. A horde of wild riders from the desert assailed his castle and a rider broke through to ask aid of the baron Conrad von Gonler. But Conrad refused – ”

  “Aye!” snarled Cormac, with a savage gesture. “He hated Gerard because long ago the youngster had the best of him at sword-play on shipboard before old Frederick Barbarossa’s eyes. And what then?”

  “Ali-El-Yar fell with all its people. Their stripped and mutilated bodies lay among the coals, but no sign was found of Gerard. Whether he died before or after the attack on the castle is not known, but dead he must be, since no demand for ransom has been made.”

  “Thus Saladin keeps the peace!”

  Sir Rupert, who knew Cormac’s unreasoning hatred for the great Kurdish sultan, shook his head. “This was no work of his – there is incessant bickering along the border – Christian as much at fault as Moslem. It could not be otherwise with Frankish barons holding castles in the very heart of Muhammadan country. There are many private feuds and there are wild desert and mountain tribes who own no lordship even to Saladin, and wage their own wars. Many suppose that the sheik Nureddin El Ghor destroyed Ali-El-Yar and put Sieur Gerard to death.”

  Cormac caught up his helmet.

/>   “Wait!” exclaimed Sir Rupert, rising. “What would you do?”

  Cormac laughed savagely. “What would I do? I have eaten the bread of the de Gissclins. Am I a jackal to sneak home and leave my patron to the kites? Out on it!”

  “But wait,” Sir Rupert urged. “What will your life be worth if you ride on Nureddin’s trail alone? I will return to Antioch and gather my retainers; we will avenge your friend together.”

  “Nureddin is a half-independent chief and I am a masterless wanderer,” rumbled the Norman-Gael, “but you are Seneschal of Antioch. If you ride over the border with your men-at-arms, the swine Saladin will take advantage to break the truce and sweep the remnants of the Christian kingdoms into the sea. They are but weak shells, as it is, shadows of the glories of Baldwin and Bohemund. No – the FitzGeoffreys wreak their own vengeance. I ride alone.”

  He jammed his helmet into place and with a gruff “Farewell!” he turned and strode into the night, roaring for his horse. A trembling servant brought the great black stallion, which reared and snorted with a flash of wicked teeth. Cormac seized the reins and savagely jerked down the rearing steed, swinging into the saddle before the pawing front hoofs touched earth.

  “Hate and the glutting of vengeance!” he yelled savagely, as the great stallion whirled away, and Sir Rupert, staring bewilderedly after him, heard the swiftly receding clash of the brazen-shod hoofs. Cormac FitzGeoffrey was riding east.

  II

  THE CAST OF AN AX

  White dawn surged out of the Orient to break in rose-red billows on the hills of Outremer. The rich tints softened the rugged outlines, deepened the blue wastes of the sleeping desert.

  The castle of the baron Conrad von Gonler frowned out over a wild and savage waste. Once a stronghold of the Seljuk Turks, its metamorphosis into the manor of a Frankish lord had abated none of the Eastern menace of its appearance. The walls had been strengthened and a barbican built in place of the usual wide gates. Otherwise the keep had not been altered.