“Why,” countered de Soto, “didn’t you give Atahuallpa at least a dog’s chance? He was a king. Only our lord, the King of Spain, could try him for the murder of Huascar. This night’s work makes me ashamed of my fellowship with you. How do you know Atahuallpa ordered his brother’s death?”
Pizarro answered, “A runner came to tell Atahuallpa that his orders had been obeyed. That Huascar’s body had been thrown into the Andamarca only a few minutes after the courier who ordered the execution had left. And then the escort moved north, as ordered. Does that answer you?”
“Sanctissima madre!” de Soto bitterly exclaimed. “If you were not my chief, I would question that. God forgive me, had not a frightened native cut a bridge under my very feet, I could have saved Huascar. And so saved Atahuallpa, a king and a friend who served us well!” He bowed his head. The grief that displaced his wrath distracted every man’s eye from Oello. She stood so close to de Soto that she could reach the dagger that gleamed from his belt.
No one saw her draw the weapon. Her eyes blazed with red fury. She screamed, “It is my fault that Atahuallpa died!”
She spoke Quichua; but every Spaniard saw the flashing blade, the swift motion of body and arm as she turned on her lover. The dagger cut over his fending arm and bit home. It tore his throat, then sank into his chest.
As she followed him to the floor, she screamed, “You ordered Huascar’s death—to strike at Atahuallpa—”
Too late, Felipe knew that to Oello, it was one thing to betray the love of a god, another to take his life. Choking and coughing, he tried to fight; but his wounds, and her insane rage were too much.
Almagro’s blade was out. It had killed many a woman and unarmed man before now. And Oello was Atahuallpa’s widow, going berserk. He struck before de Soto could intervene.
The lovers were in each other’s arms; a quivering red huddle in which little life remained. Almagro’s warty face twisted. “Por dios! She might have killed a couple of us.”
“He’d have been a good interpreter,” Pizarro finally said, “if he’d had sense enough to leave women alone.”
He gravely shook his head, and wondered why hot headed de Soto stalked from the hall without reclaiming his dagger. But Almagro’s thoughts went further. “Buck up, Francisco!” he chuckled. “With both Incas dead, we’ve got Peru in our pocket, and it’ll be easy sacking Cuzco before these disorganized Indios get over the shock!
WOLVES OF KERAK
Originally published in Golden Fleece, December 1938.
“Look, sidi, a girl from Feringhistan—fit for the harem of a king—and only a thousand dinars—a thousand—”
The auctioneer’s bleary eyes shifted toward a lean Turk who was licking his thin lips. “Nine hundred?” he wheedled. “Nine hundred, and Allah make you happy?”
The Turk shrugged. Captive women were plentiful as fleas in Cairo since Saladin had carved his way to the throne of Syria and Egypt. Though this one was different, in her white, frozen loveliness.
Hussayn, the auctioneer, whisked the mantle from the girl’s shoulders, leaving her clad only in her unbound hair. It trailed to her hips, a red-gold veil that almost hid her white breasts—though their roundness was kissed by the late afternoon light that lanced past the minarets of the El Azhar Mosque. The ruddy light gilded her sleek legs, accented the exquisite modeling of her face.
She was too proud to shrink from the eyes and hands that would go over her loveliness as though she were a horse put through its paces.
“Eight hundred?” pleaded Hussayn. “The daughter of an infidel prince, Allah burn him! Taken from a galley bound for Akka!”
The buyers were dubious. Her haughty green eyes warned them that she would be a handful to manage.
“Bound for Akka?” rumbled a broad-shouldered man whose peaked helmet towered over the kinky heads of the tall Sudanese guards. His hawk face was bronzed and arrogant. The eyes that narrowed beneath his dark brows were granite gray, not the smoldering black of the lean Arabs about him.
“Ay, wallah! The galley of Henri de Montfried.”
The tall man thrust himself a pace forward, and the auctioneer pleaded, “Seven hundred dinars, my lord emir! See those white arms—a mouth like a pomegranate blossom—”
Poetry dripped from Hussayn’s lips, and fire raced through the veins of Jehan de Courtenai, the tall spy from the Crusaders’ outpost at Kerak. Her beauty was like exalting music, making him almost forget the chatelaine whose fickle fancy had sent him to find oblivion in the Holy Land. And she was a Christian, this girl on the auction block, stripped for the eyes of greasy merchants, rapacious money lenders, grimfaced mamluks of the sultan’s guard.
Jehan de Courtenai’s duty was plain: to move on, continue his gaming, drinking, jesting, listening to voices of Cairo to learn what troops El Adel was sending into Syria to join Saladin. But he could not so easily abandon this red-haired girl.
“Five hundred, and you are robbing me.” After five years in the service of fierce old Raynald de Chatillon, he had learned enough about the East to bargain. Immediate acceptance would have betrayed him.
“Six hundred, and my children starve,” groaned Hussayn.
But the payment of even sixty dinars would have left de Courtenai without a dirhem for the next day’s bread. He had a horse and arms. He could sell them, ambush some drunken mamluk and get fresh equipment. And he could leave Cairo that very night; he had El Adel’s plans—
“Done, and Allah blacken you!” He dug into his purse. “Take this—in earnest—I bring the rest tonight—”
The auctioneer fondled the gold pieces. A step brought de Courtenai to the girl’s side. He spoke a few words in lingua franca—a coarse jest that the crowd relished. Under cover of their laughter, he whispered in French, “Tonight we go to your father’s friends in Akka.”
He saw understanding in her green eyes. She knew now that he was a countryman, not an infidel Kurd.
He turned toward the arched gateway of the court, but it was blocked by veiled women and turbaned men who ran down the narrow street. The roll of kettle drums drowned their clamor, and a file of half-naked Sudani swordsmen filed around the corner. Tall runners struck right and left with their staves as they shouted, “Way for the Sword of the Faith, Abu Bekr the son of Ayyub of the House of Shahdi!”
These were the titles of Saladin’s brother, El Adel, the governor of Egypt. He rode a black horse, and his jet robes made a dark tall splash among the yellow tunics and chain mail of his Turkish guards. De Courtenai salaamed with those who had taken refuge in the gateway. His voice swelled their applause.
Then the column turned, and the heralds cleared the gate. De Courtenai, though forced back against the jamb, could not hear what El Adel said to the tall mamluk who rode with him, boot to boot; but the Turkish officer’s answer was plain enough: “She is here, in Hussayn’s slave pen. On my head and eyes, ya sidi!”
She. De Courtenai’s heart froze. The hoof beats of El Adel’s horse ceased. A curb chain’s tinkle broke the silence. Then El Adel demanded, “Ya Hussayn! Where is the Feringhi girl—?”
“In the corner, my lord!” the mamluk cut in.
“Ay wallah!” said Hussayn. “This way, redhead.”
El Adel’s words seemed like clods dropping into a grave: “Send her to the palace—to Sitti Zayda’s apartments.” A tinkle of gold. The prince cut off Hussayn’s flood of thanks. “And veil her, father of a dog!” Drums rolled, and the black-robed horseman spurred his splendid beast through the gateway. Mail jingling, the yellow clad mamluks poured after him. El Adel resumed his march to the mosque.
Hussayn whined in de Courtenai’s ear, “Sidi, your money—there is no bargain when the brother of the Victorious King buys. But I have other women—”
“Shaytan blacken you!” De Courtenai stalked down the street.
Who could oppose Saladin’s brothe
r? Certainly not a spy who dared not court notice. But this red-haired girl was more than just a Christian captive. De Courtenai’s promise had revived her hope. He could not fail her now.
He stepped into the nearby serai, where his horse was waiting. “Saddle up!” he commanded to the groom. “Have him ready!”
Sitti Zayda was Saladin’s sister. In the morning she was leaving with the caravan bound for Damascus, eight hundred miles away. That much de Courtenai knew from bazaar gossip; nor was the rest difficult to guess. The red-haired girl, sought out by El Adel himself, would go with the caravan; perhaps as Sitti Zayda’s serving maid, perhaps as a hostage whose life would be bought with ruinous concessions from her friends.
There was still a way. The way of death and madness.
“Raynald has sent other spies who didn’t return!” De Courtenai’s laugh was iron as he rode that night toward the palace.
Hard men served Raynald. He could have no other kind; not in that hawk’s nest southeast of the Dead Sea, perched on a high hill as a bulwark against the Moslem tide which relentlessly tried to engulf the long, narrow strip of Palestine that the Cross still held against the Crescent. Saladin’s power grew day by day, and Raynald cursed the four years’ truce which kept him from raiding the caravan trails.
Slowly, cautiously, not a link of his mail complaining, de Courtenai crept to the shadow of a bastion. Wrapped about his waist was a coil of silken cord. With infinite patience, he dug his dagger into the mortar, gouging toe holds. The moon rose above the domed tombs of the Khalifs as he reached the crest of the wall that girdled El Adel’s palace.
But the shadow of a minaret reached out with a black band to hide him as he crouched, knotting the cord about a crenellation. And a moment later he was picking his way across a fragrant garden.
The spray of fountains mingled with jasmine. From afar, he heard the call of sentries walking their posts on the walls of the citadel. Presently de Courtenai slipped into the shadow of a pointed archway.
It seemed unguarded. From far within came the wavering light of flambeaux. Then a harsh voice rasped, “Back, ya emir! Are you drunk?”
A long-faced eunuch accosted him, blinking, scarcely crediting his eyes. An armed man in the quarter reserved for El Adel’s women!
De Courtenai made no move for his blade. He regarded the eunuch as he might some curious insect. “Maybe you’d like to ask El Adel what I’m doing here. Quick, brother of a dog! Where’s your chief?”
The eunuch’s eyes dropped. There was no fear in this man, nor had he touched a weapon. He could not be an intruder. His bearing accorded with his gilded mail and silken khalat.
“I’ll get him, sidi. On my head and eyes.”
An easy way out. Let the chief eunuch be responsible. But de Courtenai interposed, “Get al-asfarani—the yellow haired daughter of the infidel. El Adel won’t risk taking her across the desert. She’s to go by boat. I’m in a hurry—it sails at once!”
The tall Kurd spoke with authority.
The eunuch had no mind to confess ignorance of El Adel’s plans, and for all he knew de Courtenai had entered through the guarded gate. “Wait, sidi. I’ll see if she is ready—”
“Tell her to get ready, pig!” snapped de Courtenai. He dared give the eunuch no time to think! “Hurry—or I’ll skin you alive!”
His voice made echoes rumble. It was not until the fellow had hastened along the passageway that de Courtenai shivered from the sweat on which a breeze blew coldly. He muttered a prayer. Moments dragged…
From somewhere in that luxurious pile of masonry came the notes of an eight stringed oudh. A woman was singing.
There was another voice; a man’s. And the only man in this building must be El Adel.
A white shape blossomed in the dark arch of a cross passage. The tinkle of bracelets startled de Courtenai. He turned. It was a woman.
She hurried to him, slippered feet whispering across the tiles. As she came into the torch glow, he could see her splendid figure outlined by the frail fabric that clung to every curve.
“I’m Elinor de Montfried—I heard your voice.” Her breath trembled in his ear, and her red hair caressed his cheek. “You’re as good as dead—go! While you can! Maqsoud will find out—El Adel is taking leave of his sister—I’m going with her—he said so.”
“With me!” He caught her hand. “Over the wall—”
Elinor clung to him, fingers sinking into his wrist. “You can’t—good God—they’ll miss me any minute—”
“You’re not going to Damascus!” He lifted her from her feet. She was tall and shapely, but she gasped at the ease with which he swung her to his shoulder. “Hang on. That rope’ll—take us both—”
It would, but it was too far away. From within came a babble of voices. It swelled and echoed. Women scurried about, chattering and screaming with excitement. A man shouted, and others answered. Their armor rang, their feet thudded against the tiles. The alarm was out!
De Courtenai, carrying the girl, raced across the garden. Torches glared in its further depths, and steel gleamed. He ducked into the shadow of a plane tree, hoping the search would sweep past him. But the file of mamluks wheeled and their drawn scimitars were crescents of silver.
Elinor slipped to her feet. He said, “The rope—over there—I’ll hold them—”
From the corner of his eye he saw the white flash of her legs as she ran. So did the pursuit. They divided, and as de Courtenai’s sword drew sparks from a peaked helmet, another squad came charging from his right.
They came at his flank. He leaped back, blade whirling in hissing arcs. The captain dropped, his neck mail shorn, and his throat with it. A scimitar splintered to shards against de Courtenai’s guard. But the weight of the attack was bearing him back.
Beyond his assailants he saw Elinor’s white body writhing in the grasp of four men at arms. Her cape yielded in the struggle. Then a circle of mail engulfed her. But one bare arm reached out, and above the ring of steel and the panting of his enemies, de Courtenai heard her scream, “The gate—the gate—go—”
He had to. He could not cut down a company of mamluks; not while his life was valuable to Raynald de Chatillon. He whirled, dodging the tips of the crescent of blades that was swooping to surround him. He struck in passing, shifted swiftly, leaped clear.
Elinor’s captors were dragging her into the palace. De Courtenai was separated from her by a wall of swords. And then he saw what she had meant by “the gate.” It was open. Another squad of mamluks, summoned by the sentries, was rushing in from outside. They had him caged, or thought so; but if they had known him for one of Raynald’s men, they would not have been so sure.
He moved faster than his first assailants could follow in the treacherous light of moon and torch; the newcomers did not recognize him for an enemy until he struck with his flailing blade.
Surprise helped; wrath drove him, and the strong arm behind his heavy scimitar cut through. For a moment the sheer weight of steel against casque and shoulders seemed to crush him to the ground. But the enemy were in each other’s way. Chain mail yielded to his savage slashing; tall, wiry men scattered before his charge.
De Courtenai, battered and sword-seamed, cleared the gateway. He cut a horseman from the saddle, took the dead man’s seat as the milling footmen poured out after him.
Then de Courtenai raced down the avenue toward the citadel. A sentry challenged him. Cairo was awakening. But the swift desert horse swooped falcon-like into the wastelands, in and out among the tombs, and toward the Mokkatam Hills…
At the first oasis, he mounted a racing camel whose owner’s lance had been no match for de Courtenai’s blood browned sword…
* * * *
Late one night, the sentries at the outer works of the Castle of Kerak challenged a solitary rider. They could not understand his answer. His camel collapsed and his peaked helmet
gleamed dully as he sprawled in the sand near his beast.
“Another infidel trick—”
But they called the captain of the guard.
“De Courtenai!” The officer recognized the hawk’s beak; the rest was grimy parchment drawn over bones, and a beard caked with dried blood. But when they gave him a flagon of wine, the returned spy spat the dust from his lips and croaked, “Where’s Sieur Raynald?”
Presently, supported by two men at arms, he faced his grim chief and reported, “El Adel’s armies are marching to Kurdistan. To compel the atabeg of Mosul to join Saladin. A holy war is brewing.”
“Well done, de Courtenai,” approved Raynald, but as he turned, the spy detained him.
“A moment, sir. I raced Saladin’s caravan from Cairo. It’s bound for Damascus. On the road that passes not far from our eastern boundary. We can seize it. El Adel has a captive. Elinor, the daughter of the sieur de Montfried.”
Raynald cursed, shook his grizzled head. “Can’t do it. That damned truce! I’d like to help you. With that moon calf look of yours, when you ought to be thinking of food and rest. But forget it.”
Then de Courtenai played his last card. “Wait—there’s something else I forgot. Sitti Zayda, Saladin’s sister, is with the caravan.”
“God’s death! Are you certain?” Raynald caught the other’s shoulder.
“Learned that in El Adel’s palace. But the truce, Sieur Raynald?”
It was now a horse of a different color. “Truce—body of God!” Raynald stormed. “I didn’t make the truce! That pagan-loving Raymond of Tripoli—that weak-kneed King of Jerusalem—they made it! What a chance! After thirteen years in a Turk’s prison!”
Raynald paced the flagging like a caged tiger. His sword-seamed face was exalted. “Get some rest! You, Guilford, send out scouts! Don’t worry, lad—we’ll get that girl for you. But if Saladin’s sister isn’t in that train, I’ll hang you by your heels!”
Kerak was already buzzing. The snick-snick-snick of whetstones on steel was the last sound that de Courtenai heard as he flung himself on a pallet of rushes. That, and the brazen blare of trumpets, was the first sound he heard, a full day later, when he stretched his aching limbs and tottered to his feet.
E. Hoffmann Price's Exotic Adventures Page 11