Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

“Is that true?”

  “Yes. You being born out of wedlock, the hate and the scorn of others killed her quickly.”

  Tizzo covered his face. Then he said: “If I could find the demi-devil, the villain who betrayed her—”

  “What would you do?”

  “He would be my father,” said Tizzo. “I could only — I could only — curse him and leave him!”

  “Aye, perhaps.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “I knew him very well.”

  “Tell me of him, then.”

  “That knowledge would only poison your last moments. Tizzo, you are about to die! You should be on your knees, praying.”

  “I was never a praying fellow,” said Tizzo. “I would rather listen to a story, even if it is about a villain.”

  The baron shook his gray head, without smiling.

  “This Englishman—” he began.

  “Ah, it was an Englishman?” exclaimed Tizzo.

  “Yes. I told you that he was my friend.”

  “Am I half English?” murmured Tizzo, looking down at himself in wonder.

  “Aye. Half at least.”

  “That is where I caught the red hair?”

  “Your mother’s hair was black as the wing of a raven.”

  “Dear God, if I had only known her!”

  “But shall I tell you more about your father?”

  “Yes. I almost half forgive him if he was a true friend of yours.”

  “I said he was a friend, but very often he was a bad companion.”

  “Ah?”

  “I mean, Tizzo, that there was no constancy to him.”

  “That is a bad vice,” said Tizzo, gravely.

  “It is,” said the baron. “That fellow would sometimes be serious and sometimes laughing. Out of his laughter he might fall to brawling, and out of his seriousness he might fall to laughing. I never could tell what he would do next.”

  “A wild, evil man?” said Tizzo.

  “A dancing, drinking, dicing, fighting man,” said the baron.

  “For all of those sins, God forgive me!” said Tizzo, sadly. “Now I know from whom I inherit them. Was he cruel?”

  “In battle? Yes. Otherwise, no, I should say not Merciful enough.”

  “Charitable?”

  “In this way — that he found it hard to refuse a request. If he won a man’s money, he was apt to give half of it back if the fellow laughed at the loss and showed himself a good fellow.”

  “I like that,” said Tizzo, adding up the points. “Yes, I like that a great deal. And brave?” he asked, catching his breath a little in a dreadful doubt.

  “Brave? Men called him brave,” said the baron. “That is to say, this Englishman I tell you of was a fellow who loved danger as some men love a partner at a dance. He was accustomed to brawling. Sword-shine was more often in his eyes than daylight. He was used to danger, and therefore he loved it for the sake of old neighborliness.”

  “Ah?” said Tizzo, smiling suddenly. “I wish that I could have seen him! What was his blood?”

  “He was of an old and noble name.”

  Tizzo braced back his shoulders and frowned.

  “Good, also!” he said.

  Then he asked: “And my mother — did he love her?”

  “So much, Tizzo, that when he heard of her death he fell on the ground and beat his head against it. He was half mad for many days.”

  “Was he? Was he in fact?” said Tizzo. “Ah, God, who is to judge the sins of others — who that is as sinful as myself? He was young; she was young; they loved one another. And if they missed the priest—”

  “True,” said the baron.

  “A brave, kind, wild man,” said Tizzo.

  “I would not praise him too highly. He knew no books. Nothing but battle. I have seen him as savage as a mad dog, as headlong as a fighting stallion, as drunk as a fool, and as cruel as a tiger.”

  “What shall I think of him?” said Tizzo. “What did you think of him?”

  “I have prayed God to forgive his sins. He is still alive.”

  “Alive! In the name of Heaven, tell me his name!”

  “It will give a point to your hatred of him.”

  “I cannot hate my flesh and blood,” said Tizzo. “Tell me his name!”

  “His name,” said the baron, “is Henry, baron of Melrose.”

  CHAPTER 41

  THE DIAMOND-HARD EDGES of the file, in the meantime, had freed the other arm of the prisoner, had liberated one leg, and now, as Tizzo listened to the last revelation, the last manacle fell from the baron. He was again master of his limbs — with the slight strength that remained to him. And Tizzo, grasping the hands of his father, stared wildly into his face. Then, throwing back his head, he cried, shutting his teeth to keep back the noise of his joy, “God made the blood in me speak when I first saw you!”

  “A dog of a lying servant that I sent into the village those years ago, swore when he returned that both the mother and the child were dead,” said Melrose. “And then I beat my head and groaned a while and said a prayer for two dead souls. But this long time afterward the wretched scoundrel confessed that he had found the mother dead, indeed, but the child was living. Why had he not told me about it? Because he did not wish to have me chained in one spot to support a son. He wished to be a free traveler and therefore he would have me free also. The villain confessed all this on his deathbed. I rushed back to the town. But how could I find my son? My own hair was red as fire when I was your age. The dying rat of a servant had told me that my dead boy had hair the color of mine, and I trusted that this was the truth. But there was more than one redheaded lad in the town. Which, therefore, was the one of my blood? Why, the first that would cross swords with me and stand to me like a man! Ha, Tizzo! In that little test I nearly had my throat cut by the damned trickery and cunning of your swordplay. I never before had met a man with the heart of a knight in armor and the feet of a dancing boy!”

  “But how could you make sure that I was he?” asked Tizzo, anxiously.

  “By the cry of my blood to you, lad! And then, also, I’ve been back to the village twice. I have been able to trace the Firebrand to the little redheaded foundling. Mother of Heaven, to think that I have missed these years with you! But, ah, Tizzo, do you forgive me for my greatest sin of all?”

  “What shall I do except pray with you for the sake of her soul?” asked Tizzo.

  Here, as they stared at one another with rejoiced faces, they heard the deadly noise of the big key grating in the lock. Tizzo had barely time to blow out his lantern and thrust it away under the straw. There was no time at all for his own body to be pushed into the bedding out of sight. The waver and throw of the lantern light already was shimmering across the room when he fled to the shadow cast by the bulky rack. There he crouched, hearing at the door the voice of Jeronimo della Penna saying, “Come in, my friends. You will have a chance to do something more than stand guard now. You will be able to play a little game which will warm your blood for the rest of the night.”

  Della Penna, followed by the three guards who had been posted outside the door, crossed the floor of the torture chamber. On the way, the master paused in front of what seemed a suit of complete armor.

  “This,” said della Penna, “this, now, might be the trick which would serve for the end of the game.”

  He pulled at the shoulder of the armor and it opened wide, showing to the peering eyes of Tizzo a hollow interior set over thickly with needle-sharp bits of steel, projecting inwards.

  “But not tonight,” said della Penna. “Not while there is still so much pain to be drawn out of his tendons and joints. My Lady, the Rack, has not finished with him.

  “Ah, my lord,” he said, “you are now feeling much recovered, eh? I’ve come to tell you that the cunning rat, Tizzo, has escaped from the house; but because that is a cruel disappointment, I know you will want to make us some amends. You and the rack, eh?”

  The long face of della Penn
a lengthened still more with his laughter. Then, breaking off into a snarl, he commanded, “Pick him up and stretch him on the wheel!”

  Two of the men-at-arms instantly laid hold on the prisoner. And Tizzo, saying three brief words of a prayer, could not help casting one yearning glance toward the open door that might mean liberty. Then he freshened his grip on the handle of the ax and slipped from the side of the rack, stealing forward.

  There was a great outcry from two voices, at the same moment.

  “Look, your highness! The irons are gone from his hands and ankles!”

  “They are, by Heaven!” exclaimed della Penna.

  “Witchcraft!” exclaimed one of the men.

  “You fool!” shouted della Penna. “Look to yourselves. The witch that did this work is still in the room — a witch that carries the name of Tizzo!”

  He drew his sword as he spoke and turned sharply around. The men-at-arms, less ready in their heavy armor, swung about also, hardly in time to meet the rush of Tizzo. For his softly shod feet made no noise on the stones. He came like a shadow at them.

  Della Penna, seeing that rushing figure, groaned with terror and sprang back behind his armored men. The foremost of them, swaying up his massive halberd, thrust full at Tizzo with the lance point at the end of the weapon. Tizzo wasted no time in parrying that stroke. A swerve of his body allowed the thrust to waste itself close to his side; then the ax in his hand clanged against the morion of the halberdier.

  If that stroke had landed truly it would have ended the life of the soldier; even the glancing force dropped him with a crash, face down and senseless.

  A sword gleamed at the throat of Tizzo — della Penna thrusting from between the shelter of his two remaining men-at-arms. A sidestep made that sword point reach empty air, only. The swinging blade of the ax met a downright sword stroke and the brittle steel shivered to pieces. A backward leap foiled the third man-at-arms as he shouted, “Before God, this is no man, but a dancing shadow!”

  That same shadow leaped in again; the ax swayed and rang on the helmet, a brief, dull, horrible chopping sound, and the wide blade clove straight down through the skull.

  The third warrior, with the mere stump of his sword in hand, turned with a yell of horror and fled. Jeronimo della Penna, unweighted by steel, was racing for the door far before his companion. And as far as that door the vengeance of Tizzo pursued him. Then Tizzo turned back to see that the baron of Melrose had forced himself to his feet, where he stood swaying, helpless, then making vague steps like the movements of a man half senseless with wine.

  Steel rang on stone along the outer passage as one of the fugitives cast away a weapon to lighten his flight. The yelling voices that called for help grew dim around the corners of the corridors.

  Tizzo cast one glance at the dead and the senseless forms on the floor. Then he rushed to Melrose and drew one of the big arms over his shoulder.

  That towering bulk of manhood which he had always admired so greatly was now a curse to them both; it was an unwieldy mass barely able to move at all and far too ponderous for Tizzo to carry to any distance. He could only help Melrose forward from the torture chamber.

  “Go, Tizzo!” pleaded the father. “You see that I cannot be saved. They are raising the house. Every murdering rat of them will come running and swarming on you, in a moment. Save yourself. For my sake. The name of Melrose must not die from the face of the earth. Tizzo — I command you — you have done enough. No son in the world could do more. Now fly — fly! Use those devilish dancing feet of yours! Do you hear? I give you the blessing of my heart. I command you to go!”

  “Hush,” said Tizzo. “If my name is Melrose, my blood is Melrose. Will you have me turn from my own blood? Save your breath for the labor. And if we die, you can strike one blow for us both—”

  So, panting, he supported the staggering weight of his father up the outer steps, groaning and cursing the slime that made the stones slippery.

  It was a terrible labor. The very brain of Tizzo reeled with the might of the effort as he put his shoulder into the weight of the great, helpless body and so bore it upward. The stairs had no ending. The turns of them would never cease.

  And the knees of Tizzo had turned to water before he reached the level of the floor above. It was then that they heard clearly the sounds of the gathering storm overhead.

  CHAPTER 42

  DOORS SEEMED TO be opening and shutting, letting out the noises of armored, trampling feet, the familiar dry clashing of steel against stone; voices shouted, far and near; there were so many elements of sound that the whole made a sort of humming roar. There must have been, literally, scores of men running toward the point of danger; and now the tumult opened with thundering violence on the staircase above. Like a flood of water, that throng was descending to sweep away the lives of those two fugitives.

  Tizzo, gasping with an effort, hurried the big, shambling form down the corridor to that very cell which he had entered before. He had not locked the door. A mere thrust of the hand opened it now, and they entered as many dancing lights began to strike through the darkness.

  There, leaning against the wall, half spent already, Tizzo said, “They will go past us. They will go down to the lowest level. They will not leave the torture chamber till they have searched it. And you and I still have a ghost of a chance.”

  “A weak ghost, Tizzo. My lad, I plead for the line of Melrose. Go on — save yourself—”

  “You say the words, but your heart is not in them,” said Tizzo.

  “It is true,” admitted the Englishman, suddenly. “If you left me, I should know that there was little of my blood in your body. What is death, when two men face it, true to each other?”

  “It is nothing. It is a song!” cried Tizzo.

  “But, ah, if I could raise my arms to strike one blow in the battle! It is the punishment of Heaven for all my sins — to stand like a sleeping fool while my son fights for my life.”

  “You have fought in your turn for mine,” said Tizzo.

  “Lord God, Almighty Father,” groaned the Englishman, “forgive my sins and let my hand hold a sword for ten seconds only. Kill me, then. Stamp on me like a poor beast. But let me die fighting!”

  The tumult that descended the stairs had now rushed completely past the door of the cell where Tizzo and his father were sheltered for the moment. That door Tizzo now flung open and supported Melrose into the corridor.

  Over the level, the returning strength of Melrose enabled him to walk with less and less resistance, but as they struggled up the stairs again he was almost a dead weight on his son. Too furious a hurry would melt the strength out of Tizzo as a hot fire burns wax. He had to take a pace and hold to it, stubbornly; and yet, beneath him, he began to hear the echoes of a wild outcry.

  Anger has a sound like despair when it comes shouting from many throats. Those men of della Penna, their master at their head, had reached the torture chamber far beneath by this time, and their yelling was from purest rage, of course. Yet it seemed to Tizzo like the lamenting of the eternally damned.

  Now for one blast of the great new giant — gunpowder — to crumble together the walls of the prison and drop headlong masses of stone on the heads of all those manhunters!

  Melrose, panting, struggling, nevertheless still whispered his prayer, “Almighty God, I do not ask for the power to swing a sword. Let me only have the strength to draw a dagger and use it. A single blow — one gesture of glory is all that I ask for — one drop out of the infinite sea of Your mercy!”

  They had, in fact, reached the highest level of the cellar, and before them there was a straight way toward the outer door; but Melrose was almost too exhausted by pain and the frightful effort of moving his witless limbs to stand erect any longer. Both he and Tizzo reeled from side to side as they moved down the hallway.

  And still the prayer, in a new form, was issuing from the lips of Melrose. “Glorious God, I ask not to strike with any weapon, but with my bare hands let
me grasp one villain by the throat before the steel is struck into me from every side. Let them hew me to pieces — or let them keep and burn me inch by inch afterwards. But let me strike one blow before I die—”

  That panting, broken whisper continued, drowned from the hearing of Tizzo because the rout of the pursuers was spreading back again through the upper stairways.

  He could hear the wild voice of della Penna screaming, “They are here! Two grown men cannot hide in a rathole — but look in every corner. If we lose them, I shall go mad — mad — mad! If you fail to take them — every man of you look to himself. Swiftly, swiftly! Be everywhere with wide eyes. Your swords ready. Take them alive if you can, but even dead they will be beautiful pictures to me!”

  That screeching voice of rage sent small shudders down the back of Tizzo as he worked his way down the hall. Then he heard running feet approaching from the rear.

  They were coming very quickly. But here, thank God, was the outer door. One warder remained there at his post with the same partisan which Tizzo had seen in the grasp of the jailer before.

  The approaching rush of many feet had put the jailer on his guard. He stood now with the great weapon held at the ready, that is, slung sidelong across his body, the head gleaming above his left shoulder. It was an engine designed to strike down horse and man. It made the infantryman the peer of the mounted warrior. And now, into the view of the sentry there came the vision of the great, staggering, wavering gray-headed man, and beside him the tense, lithe figure of Tizzo.

  He stared and elevated his halberd for the stroke when Tizzo, with a cry, ran straight in on him, his smaller and more active ax poised to strike.

  It was not for nothing that he had crossed with the best of the swaggering young blades of the town, and that he had performed such feats with the ax that every clod in Perugia knew of the strokes of Tizzo. The halberdier, the moment his eyes made sure of Tizzo, the moment he saw that famous ax at a balance in his hands, cried out: “Mercy, in the name of God!” and fled slinking along the wall with his halberd flung down upon the ground.