The bloody dirks were quickly cleaned, and Conan went to the battlement to signal the others. Soon they were joined by the rest. Conan detailed two men to impersonate the guards and to deal with any guard relief that might appear, thus keeping their principal line of retreat open.
Conan led the way into the bowels of the fortress, feeling his way carefully in the dimness. Only the main rooms of the fort would have torches or candles at night. This upper floor was divided into rooms by timber walls, and a system of trusses supported the roof over all of them.
It was possible, by crawling along the trusses, to go from room to room without having to touch the floor.
Like rats, the men progressed from one place to another, seeing little and hearing nothing but snores. A faint glow against the ceiling told Conan of a room in which a fire burned, so he crawled toward it. He found a system of beams above a very large room, and guessed that he had found the main hall of the fort. His guess was confirmed when he looked down upon the throne of Atzel. He heard a strangled noise beside him and he clamped a hand hard on the man's shoulder to keep him silent.
Below them, Atzel was contentedly resting his feet on Aelfrith's bloody back. Her hands and feet were bound to bronze rings sunk into the stone of the dais, and her luxuriant tan hair was so tumbled about her face that it was impossible to tell whether she was conscious. At least, she was still breathing. Of the child there was no sign.
Conan examined the room carefully. There were two guards at the door.
He could hear voices from without that door which meant that at least five more guards waited there. It was probably a guardroom, which meant that there might be as many as a score more of the guardsmen within easy call. Surprise might make up for bad odds, but there was a more difficult matter: How to get Aelfrith out. She appeared to be in seriously weakened condition, and it might be impossible to get her up to the roof. She was a substantial woman for a man to carry while fighting. That meant fighting their way downward through the fort to freedom. He tapped the men nearest him and began to belly-crawl backward into the next room. It galled him to admit it, but there was no way to rescue her without putting her in even greater danger.
They were making their way back the way they had come when the youth who had first ascended with Conan came crawling along a beam, signaling frantically for the others to follow him. Silently, they went with him until they were looking down into a smaller room.
By the light of a candle two men were dicing desultorily to pass the time. In a corner of the room, upon a heap of straw, slept Aelfgifa. A ferocious grin split Conan's countenance, and he could see the same expression on other faces. This, at least, they could do something about.
They crawled along carefully until they were directly above the two men.
The guardsmen did not even glance up as death dropped upon them from above. Conan landed upon his man like a thunderbolt. Seizing him by a shoulder with one hand and by the jaw with the other, he broke the man's neck with a single, savage wrench. Two of Aelfrith's men landed upon the other and sank their dirks into his body. All was over in an instant. The child did not even waken. Conan picked her up gently and mounted a table, handing her up to the outstretched arms above.
The raiders crawled back along the beams and out onto the roof, where their two comrades still patrolled the parapet. Descending the wall was a trickier business than climbing it had been, especially while carrying a child who might wake up at any moment and give them away. They made it down safely in time, and the moon was still well above the horizon, lighting their way conveniently as they trotted through the woods, back to their camp.
There were sounds of joy when those at the camp saw that they had rescued Aelfgifa, and sounds of rage when word spread of the indignity being inflicted upon Aelfrith. Conan went down to a little stream to wash
off the soot he had rubbed over himself. He was full of a seething rage, unable to wipe from his mind the picture of Aelfrith, stripped and bound, flogged and forced to grovel at the feet of a pig like Atzei.
He vowed silently but sincerely that he would rescue Aelfrith if that were in any way possible, and if it were not, he would slay Atzel, as the man deserved to die.
Aelfrith returned to consciousness slowly, and discovered herself to be inhabiting a world of pain when she was fully aware. Her wrists and ankles were bound tightly, the ropes biting into her flesh, her shoulders and hips stretched to near-dislocation. Worst of all was her back. From neck to buttocks it felt as if molten iron had been poured over it. She was stretched facedown against the rough stone, and her cheek rested in a puddle of her own blood. Her mental torment was, if possible, everr worse.
What were these swine doing to her daughter? Had they killed her already, since she had served her purpose as bait?
There was a sudden increase in the agony of her back and she knew that Atzel was, indeed, using her as a footstool. The pain increased as he dug in his toes. She would not satisfy him by screaming, but burning tears of rage flowed down her cheeks.
'Are you awake, Aelfrith?' Atzel crooned. 'Good. How can you suffer properly when you are asleep. Let us see—what shall we try next? My counselors insist that I should not damage you further. We must keep you beautiful for your sacrifice, you know. Can't have my fellow chiefs thinking that I mistreat noble ladies. On the other hand, it is truly amazing how much pain may be inflicted without leaving a mark on the body. For instance, with a simple cow's horn, open at both ends, and a hot iron, one may cause incredible agony, and the body must be cut open in order to see the damage.'
Aelfrith shut her eyes tightly and gritted her teeth as the insane litany went on, Atzel detailing with relish the obscene torments he planned to inflict upon her. A child of the North, she was accustomed to lust for vengeance, but this went beyond even the most excessive of ancient legends. When he began on his plans for Aelfgifa, she was sure she would go mad before a merciful death could overtake her.
The demented voice ceased when there was a commotion from without.
There was a moment of superlative agony when Atzel trod upon her to
cross to the door, then she had a few seconds of relative peace.
Atzel's voice came sharp and incredulous. 'The child gone? Four of my guard dead? Fools! How did you let this happen?' There was a sound of slapping and kicking, then Atzel stormed back into the throne room.
Aelfrith laughed into the puddle of blood full and heartily. 'Thank you, Conan! If I were to live, I would make you a king, but now at least I shall die happy, no matter how great the pain. Thank you for my daughter's life!' She laughed once more, happier than she could remember ever having been. Then Atzel's whip descended and she drowned in a scarlet tide of pain.
With break of day Conan and his followers rode down to the path which led to Atzel's fort. There was a good deal of traffic on the road, all of it headed for the fort. At first Conan thought it might be Atzel's men searching for them, but he soon saw by the designs on their shields that the men of numerous tribes were assembling, mostly petty chieftains with small entourages. Conan and the others fell in with them casually. Conan reined in beside a chief in fine armour. 'Pardon me,' he asked, 'but I am a stranger here. Why do so many of you great folk journey thither?'
The chief eyed the big outlander curiously. 'Our fellow chieftain, Atzel, has summoned us to witness a great sacrifice to the King Bull. For the life of me, I cannot imagine why, though. It is early for the Great Festival. But it is his right, and so we come.'
'What kind of sacrifice will it be?' Conan asked innocently.
The chief shrugged. 'Ordinarily, it would be firstfruits of the harvest, but it is too early for that. Sometimes it is fine cattle or horses. Perhaps the old man has finally gone mad. That would not surprise me. He has been behaving as if he were a king for years, and there is not a chief among us who does not have better blood, or command a following as large or larger.'
They passed a row of adler poles surmounted by the skulls of bu
lls, and Conan asked the significance of this. 'Those are the skulls of King Bulls of years past. It means that this is sacred ground for the duration of the ceremony, and no man may raise weapon to another without committing sacrilege.'
That, thought Conan, was very convenient for Atzel. Should Aelfrith's
men make a desperate attempt to rescue her and cut their way free, they would bring down upon themselves the wrath of the gods and the armed fury of all the neighbouring tribes. He would have to come up with a plausible scheme, and he knew that time was growing short.
He spoke in a low voice to two of Aelfrith's men who rode near him.
'Pass the word: disperse among this throng. Do not stand all together when we reach the sacrifice ground; give Atzel and his men no target to aim for. Make sure you stay in clear view of these chiefs. As I understand it, Atzel dare make no armed move against us within the sacred ground.
Be sure that the horses are held by trusty men, ready to bring them to us at an instant's notice. We may have to run without a proper leavetaking.'
The men nodded and dropped back to pass Conan's instructions.
They were within sight of Atzel's fortress when the cavalcade turned from the main road onto a small path which led into a grove of gigantic trees. From most of the branches dangled figures of plaited straw, and around the trunks were tied ropes of various colours. In the centre of the grove was a wide natural amphitheatre. Around its periphery stood poles bearing more skulls of bulls, facing inward, into the arena. A gateway had been cut into one side of the amphitheatre and closed by a wooden gate.
In the centre of the arena stood a fresh-cut stake, eight feet high and with a stout bronze ring fastened near its top.
The ground around the arena was filling up with the chiefs and their followers, muttering among themselves in their mystification. Many pointed at the stake, which was obviously never intended for tethering a sacrificial ox or horse. As Conan gathered from eavesdropped conversations, human sacrifice was extremely rare, undertaken only in times of famine or other natural disaster. Recent years had been fair, though.
Conan looked for Atzel, but there was no sign of him, nor of any of his men. He did not doubt that they were nearby. In all likelihood they were scattered throughout the woods, ready to fend off attack or prevent escape on the part of Aelfrith's men. He turned at the sound of a hunting horn being winded. The members of the throng were descending the sides of the amphitheatre and taking seats on the grassy slopes surrounding it.
Conan went down the slope as well, finding himself a place as near to the arena as he could get. Here nature had been improved upon. Around the oval arena the ground had been excavated so that a sheer wall ten feet
high surrounded it, lined with cut stone. The only way in or out was through the single gate, or by climbing down from the seating area.
In the distance Conan heard a monstrous bellow, and the conversation around him stilled for a second, then resumed. He did not like the sound of that bellow. If it was a bull, then it was one that exceeded ordinary bulls as a dragon exceeds a crocodile.
Then conversation stilled again as the gate opened and Atzel strode into the arena. Most of the chiefs sat at the farther end, and when Atzel passed the upright stake he paused to pat and stroke it gloatingly. Then he continued until he stood a few yards from his audience. He looked up at them and grinned, savoring the moment.
'Three years ago,' he began in a bellowing voice, 'I petitioned this assemblage for my just vengeance and the punishment of an act of bloody sacrilege, and I was refused. My own outrage is a small thing, but the offense to our sacred King Bull was intolerable. I have called you here to witness this great wrong set aright.' The chiefs talked excitedly among themselves as he turned to face the gate. 'Bring in the sacrifice!' shouted Atzel.
The great gate creaked open once more, and a small, naked figure was led forth by a halter around her neck. The crowd was silent as she neared the centre of the arena, then a great shout of rage went up as Aelfrith was recognised. The guardsmen passed the rope that bound her wrists through the ring at the top of the stake and hoisted her until she was almost forced to her toes. Then they bound her ankles likewise.
The chief who had spoken to Conan on the road leaped to his feet and jabbed an accusing finger at Atzel. 'Explain yourself, Atzel! What cause have you to treat a noble lady in such a fashion? Make your explanation a good one or, by Ymir, as soon as we are off this sacred ground I'll have your head hanging from my saddlebow!' A savage collective growl of assent showed that these sentiments were widely held.
'Aye,' shouted another. 'If vengeance for your son was in your heart, why have you not attacked her in force these three years past? Even then, had you prevailed, you owed her a clean and quick death. This is an outrage against all custom!'
Atzel made a calming gesture with both palms held outward. 'I come
here not for my own vengeance, although it is just, but to defend the honour of our totem beast, the King Bull.' The others calmed and resumed their seats, curious to hear his proposal. 'Although Aelfrith was slightly injured in her capture, I swear that neither I nor any other man shall raise a hand to slay her. She shall be sacrificed to the King Bull, yet her throat shall not be cut by the ancient stone blade, nor her heart pierced.' He had their full attention now, and a great silence had fallen between his words.
'Instead,' he went on, 'the King Bull himself shall perform the rite. He shall come in through yonder gate'—he turned and pointed dramatically toward the wooden valve—'and he shall plunge his great horns into that witch in his righteous wrath!' Now he was pointing to Aelfrith, who hung in her bonds, her chin regally high, but tightly gagged.
Another chief rose and spoke, his harsh face framed by the cheekplates of his silver-gilt helm. 'Ungag her and let her speak.. It is not right that a chieftainess should be unable to speak in her own defence.'
'No, my lords!' shouted Atzel. 'This woman is a vicious sorceress!
Would you have me free her tongue so that she can deceive your minds once more with her spells?' There were voices in the audience agreeing that this was a valid objection.
'The King Bull lives in the deep woods and comes here only at the time of his great Festival,' said the first chief. 'How shall he be here to accomplish this feat which you predict, Atzel?'
'Already, he comes,' Atzel said. 'Did you not hear his mighty bellow a few moments ago? He knows that the witch is here, and he comes apace to slay her!' As if in answer to his words, the great bellow was heard once more, this time much closer. 'You hear? He comes scenting revenge for the wrong done him, for the profaning of his Festival, for what man among us has ever dared to drive the King Bull like a common animal?'
Several of the chiefs put their heads together and conferred. Then the chief in the silver helm stepped to the edge of the arena. 'Very well, Atzel.
We shall let the King Bull decide. After all, he would not attack an unoffending woman, only a man who would intrude among his harem.
But, if he stands so much as ten heartbeats without attacking Aelfrith, then by Ymir's icy beard you shall die this day.'
'That is all I ask, my lords, a chance for long-overdue justice to be
done.'
Conan would stand for no more. He rose to his full, towering height and stretched his arms wide for attention. 'My lords!' he bellowed. 'This man is a liar and a cowardly swine! He plans to murder this innocent woman before your eyes and hold the beast to blame! This is a plot as foul as any I have ever known. Do not allow him to hoodwink you!'
'He lies!' screamed Atzel, foam flecking his lips in his rage. 'Will you listen to the words of this foreign dog?'
The silver-helmed one turned to Conan. 'Who are you, fellow, to speak to the assembled chiefs?'
'I am Conan of Cimmeria, and I am this lady's champion.' Now Aelfrith's head turned in the direction of the familiar voice. Her eyes locked with Conan's, and her face, formerly a stoic mask, began to show a faint glimmer of ho
pe.
'You are too late to do her any good,' said the chief. 'We have already taken counsel and have agreed to let the King Bull decide her fate or Atzel's.'
'I'll fight your sacred beast,' Conan challenged. 'This pig has brought in Bossonian cattlemen to train the bull to attack women. Let me fight in her defence.'
The chief turned an icy glare upon Atzel. 'Is this true, what the stranger says?'
'Lies! All lies concocted by the witch! Would you take the word of a foreigner against that of a chief of your own blood?'
'I might,' the chief said, 'when the chief is you. However, we have made our decision.' He turned to Conan. 'In any case, young man, it is forbidden for any man to raise weapon against the King Bull.'
'Then I'll fight him barehanded, by Crom!' Conan shouted. 'And if you would slay me, do it now, for I go into that arena now!'
Atzel heard the many shouts of admiration and knew he must change his tack. 'My lords, I am perfectly content to let this fool impale himself on
the horns of the King Bull. How can it happen otherwise, when divine justice is at stake? By all means, let this blackhaired rogue try his puny strength against the mightiest beast of the North!' He whirled and stalked toward the gate, pausing to spit upon Aelfrith one last time. Then the arena was empty except for the suffering woman. The great bellow sounded again, now only a few yards outside the enclosure.
Conan unbelted his sword and dirk and tossed them to one of Aelfrith's men who stood nearby. He pulled off his boots for better footing and then yanked his tunic over his head. Naked except for his loincloth, he stood balanced upon the wall of the arena. There were murmurs of admiration at the sight of his steely, hard-chiseled body covered with its many scars.
The silver-helmed chief came to him.
'I wish you well, young man, and I honour your courage, but you have chosen only to die with your lady. No man has ever faced the King Bull barehanded and lived. Even when an old one is taken to be sacrificed when his time has come, many are slain in the capturing of him.'
The Conan Chronology Page 179