Then a wave of weakness flooded body and brain; I fell to the earth and knew no more.
And Last
Someone was laving my brow and at last I opened my eyes.
“Steve, oh, Steve, are you dead?” someone was saying; the voice was gentle and there was a hint of tears.
“Not yet,” said I, striving to sit up, but a small hand forced me gently down.
“Steve,” said Helen, and I felt a strange delight in hearing her call me by my first name, “I have bandaged you as well as might be with such material as I had-stuff torn from my shirt. We should get out of this low dank place to a fresher part of the island. Do you think you can travel?”
“I’ll try,” I said, though my heart sank at the thought of the swamp.
“I have found a road,” she informed me. “When I went to look for clean water I found a small spring and also stumbled upon what was once a fine road, built with great blocks of stone set deep in mire. The mud overlaps it now some few inches and rushes grow thereon, but it’s passable so let us be gone.”
She helped me to my feet and, with one arm about me, guided my uncertain steps. In this manner, we crossed the ancient causeway and I found time to marvel again at the nature of that race who had built so strongly and had so terribly protected their secrets.
The journey through the swamp seemed without end, and again through the thick jungle, but at last my eyes, swimming with torment and dizziness, saw the ocean glimmering through the trees. Soon we were able to sink down beside the longboat on the beach, exhausted. Yet Helen would not rest as I urged her to, but took a case of bandages and ointment from the boat and dressed my wounds. With a keen dagger she found and cut out the bullet in my arm, and I thought I would die thereat, and then made shift at setting the broken bone. I wondered at her dexterity, but she told me that from early childhood she had aided in dressing hurts and setting broken limbs-that Roger O’Farrel tended thus to all his wounded himself, having attended a medical university in his youth, and he imparted all his knowledge to her.
Still she admitted that the setting of my arm was a sad job, with the scant material she had, and she feared it would give me trouble. But while she was talking, I sank back and became unconscious, for I had lost an incredible amount of blood, and it was early dawn of the next day before I came to my full senses.
Helen, while I lay senseless, had made me a bed of soft leaves, spreading over me her fine coat, which I fear was none too fine now, what with the blood and stains on it. And when I came to myself, she sat beside me, her eyes wide and sleepless, her face drawn and haggard in the early grey of dawn.
“Steve, are you going to live?” asked she, and I made shift to laugh.
“You have scant opinion of my powers if you think a pistol ball and a musket stock can kill me,” I answered. “How feel you, Helen?”
“Tired . . . a bit.” She smiled. “But remarkably meditative. I have seen men die in many ways, but never a sight to equal that in the temple. Their death shrieks will haunt me to my death. How do you think their end was brought about?”
“All seems mazed and vague now,” said I, “but methinks I remember seeing many twisted and broken metal rods among the ruins. From the way the platform and stair shattered, I believe that the whole structure was hollow, like the altar, and the column also. A crafty system of levers must have run through them up to the roof, where the great stone was held in place by bolts or the like. I believe that the gem in the altar was fastened to a lever which, working up through the column, released that stone.”
She shuddered.
“Like enough. And the treasure...”
“There never was any. Or if there was, the Caribs flung it into the sea and, knowing some curse lay over the temple, pretended that they had hidden it therein, hoping the Spaniards would come to harm while searching for it. Certainly that thing was not the work of the Caribs, and I doubt if they knew just what sort of fate lay in wait there. But, certes, any man could look on that accursed shrine and instinctively feel that doom overshadowed the place.”
“Another dream turned to smoke,” sighed she. “La, la, and me a-wishing for rubies and sapphires as large as my fist!”
She was gazing out to sea as she spoke, where the waves were beginning to redden in the glowing light. Now she sprang erect!
“A sail!”
“The Black Raider returning!” I exclaimed.
“No! Even at this distance, I can tell the cut of a man-o’-war! She is making for this island.”
“For fresh water, no doubt,” said I.
Helen stood twisting her slim fingers uncertainly.
“My fate lies with you. If you tell them I am Helen Tavrel, I will hang between high tide and low, on Execution Dock!”
“Helen,” said I, reaching up and taking her small hand and pulling her down beside me, “my opinion of you has changed since first I saw you. I still maintain the Red Trade is no course for a woman to follow, but I realize what circumstances forced you into it. No woman, whatever her manner of life, could be kinder, braver, and more unselfish than you have been. To the men of yonder craft you shall be Helen Harmer, my sister, who sailed with me.”
“Two men have I feared,” said she with lowered eyes; “John Gower, because he was a beast; Roger O’Farrel, because he was so fine and noble. One man I have respected-O’Farrel. Now I find a second man to respect without fearing. You are a bold, honest youth, Steve, and-”
“And what?”
“Nothing,” and she seemed confused.
“Helen,” said I, drawing her gently closer to me, “you and I have gone through too much blood and fire together for anything to come between us. Your beauty fascinated me when first I saw you; later I came to understand the sterling worth of the soul which lay beneath your reckless mask. Each soul has its true mate, little comrade, and though I fought the feeling and strove to put it from me, fondness was born in my bosom for you and it has grown steadily. I care not what you may have been, and I am but a sailor, now without a ship, but let me tell yonder seamen when they land that you are, not my sister, but my wife-to-be
A moment she leaned toward me, then she drew away and her eyes danced with the old jaunty fire.
“La, sir, are you offering to marry me? ’Tis very kind of you indeed, but—”
“Helen, don’t mock me!”
“Truth, Steve, I am not,” said she, softening. “But I had never thought of any such a thing before. La, I must be growing up with a vengeance! Fie, sir, I am too young to marry yet, and I have not yet seen all of the world I wish to. Remember I am still Helen Tavrel.”
“I care not; marry me and I will take you from this life.”
“Not so fast,” said she, tracing patterns in the sand with her finger. “I must have time to think this thing over. Moreover, I will take no step without Roger O’Farrel’s consent. I am only a young girl after all, Steve, and I tell you truth, I have never thought of marrying or even having a lover.
“Ah, me, these men, how they press a poor maid!” laughed she.
“Helen!” I exclaimed, vexed yet amused. “Have you no care for me at all?”
“Why, as to that,” she avoided my gaze, “I really feel a fondness for you such as I have never felt for any other man, not even Roger O’Farrel. But I must mull over this and discover if it be true love!”
Thereat she laughed merrily aloud, and I cursed despairingly.
“Fie, such language before your lady love!” she said. “Now hear me, Steve, we must seek Roger O’Farrel, wherever he may be, for I am like a daughter to him, and if he likes you, why, who knows! But you must not speak of marrying until I am older and have had many more adventures. Now we shall be true comrades as we have been hitherto.”
“And a comrade must allow an honest kiss,” said I, glancing seaward where the ship came sweeping grandly.
And with a light laugh she lifted her lips to mine.
OTHER HISTORICAL STORIES
CONTENTS
<
br /> RED BLADES OF BLACK CATHAY
LORD OF SAMARCAND; OR, THE LAME MAN
THE SOWERS OF THE THUNDER
THE LION OF TIBERIAS
THE SHADOW OF THE VULTURE
GATES OF EMPIRE; OR, THE ROAD OF THE MOUNTAIN LION
RED BLADES OF BLACK CATHAY
First published in Oriental Stories, February-March 1931
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 1
Trumpets die in the loud parade,
The gray mist drinks the spears;
Banners of glory sink and fade
In the dust of a thousand years.
Singers of pride the silence stills,
The ghost of empire goes,
But a song still lives in the ancient hills,
And the scent of a vanished rose.
Ride with us on a dim, lost road
To the dawn of a distant day,
When swords were bare for a guerdon rare.
— The Flower of Black Cathay.
THE SINGING of the swords was a deathly clamor in the brain of Godric de Villehard. Blood and sweat veiled his eyes and in the instant of blindness he felt a keen point pierce a joint of his hauberk and sting deep into his ribs. Smiting blindly, he felt the jarring impact that meant his sword had gone home, and snatching an instant’s grace, he flung back his vizor and wiped the redness from his eyes. A single glance only was allowed him: in that glance he had a fleeting glimpse of huge, wild black mountains; of a clump of mail-clad warriors, ringed by a howling horde of human wolves; and in the center of that clump, a slim, silk-clad shape standing between a dying horse and a dying swordsman. Then the wolfish figures surged in on all sides, hacking like madmen.
“Christ and the Cross!” the old Crusading shout rose in a ghastly croak from Godric’s parched lips. As if far away he heard voices gaspingly repeat the words. Curved sabers rained on shield and helmet. Godric’s eyes blurred to the sweep of frenzied dark faces with bristling, foam-flecked beards. He fought like a man in a dream. A great weariness fettered his limbs. Somewhere — long ago it seemed — a heavy axe, shattering on his helm, had bitten through an old dent to rend the scalp beneath. He heaved his curiously weighted arm above his head and split a bearded face to the chin.
“En avant, Montferrat!” We must hack through and shatter the gates, thought the dazed brain of Godric; we can not long stand this press, but once within the city — no — these walls were not the walls of Constantinople: he was mad; he dreamed — these towering heights were the crags of a lost and nameless land and Montferrat and the Crusade lay lost in leagues and years.
Godric’s steed reared and pitched headlong, throwing his rider with a clash of armor. Under the lashing hoofs and the shower of blades, the knight struggled clear and rose, without his shield, blood starting from every joint in his armor. He reeled, bracing himself; he fought not these foes alone, but the long grinding days behind — the days and days of hard riding and ceaseless fighting.
Godric thrust upward and a man died. A scimitar shivered on his crest, and the wielder, torn from his saddle by a hand that was still iron, spilled his entrails at Godric’s feet. The rest reined in around howling, seeking to overthrow the giant Frank by sheer weight of numbers. Somewhere in the hellish din a woman’s scream knifed the air. A clatter of hoofs burst like a sudden whirlwind and the press was cleared. Through a red mist the dulling eyes of the knight saw the wolfish, skinclad assailants swept away by a sudden flood of mailed riders who hacked them down and trampled them under.
Then men were dismounting around him, men whose gaudy silvered armor, high fur kaftans and two-handed scimitars he saw as in a dream. One with thin drooping mustaches adorning his dark face spoke to him in a Turkish tongue the knight could faintly understand, but the burden of the words was unintelligible. He shook his head.
“I can not linger,” Godric said, speaking slowly and with growing difficulty, “De Montferrat awaits my report and I must — ride — East — to — find — the — kingdom — of — Prester — John - - bid — my — men — mount—”
His voice trailed off. He saw his men; they lay about in a silent, sword- gashed cluster, dead as they had lived — facing the foe. Suddenly the strength flowed from Godric de Villehard in a great surge and he fell as a blasted tree falls. The red mist closed about him, but ere it engulfed him utterly, he saw bending near him two great dark eyes, strangely soft and luminous, that filled him with formless yearning; in a world grown dim and unreal they were the one tangible reality and this vision he took with him into a nightmare realm of shadows.
Godric’s return to waking life was as abrupt as his departure. He opened his eyes to a scene of exotic splendor. He was lying on a silken couch near a wide window whose sill and bars were of chased gold. Silken cushions littered the marble floor and the walls were of mosaics where they were not worked in designs of gems and silver, and were hung with heavy tapestries of silk, satin and cloth-of-gold. The ceiling was a single lofty dome of lapis lazuli from which was suspended on golden chains a censer that shed a faint alluring scent over all. Through the window a faint breeze wafted scents of spices, roses and jasmine, and beyond Godric could see the clear blue of the Asian skies.
He tried to rise and fell back with a startled exclamation. Whence this strange weakness? The hand he lifted to his gaze was thinner than should be, and its bronze was faded. He gazed in perplexity at the silken, almost feminine garments which clothed him, and then he remembered — the long wandering, the battle, the slaughter of his men-at-arms. His heart turned sick within him as he remembered the staunch faithfulness of the men he had led to the shambles.
A tall, thin yellow man with a kindly face entered and smiled to see that he was awake and in his right mind. He spoke to the knight in several languages unknown to Godric, then used one easy to understand — a rough Turkish dialect much akin to the bastard tongue used by the Franks in their contacts with the Turanian peoples.
“What place is this?” asked Godric. “How long have I lain here?”
“You have lain here many days,” answered the other. “I am You-tai, the emperor’s man-of-healing. This is the heavenborn empire of Black Cathay. The princess Yulita has attended you with her own hands while you lay raving in delirium. Only through her care and your own marvelous natural strength have you survived. When she told the emperor how you with your small band recklessly charged and delivered her from the hands of the Hian bandits who had slain her guard and taken her prisoner, the heavenly one gave command that naught be spared to preserve you. Who are you, most noble lord? While you raved you spoke of many unknown peoples, places and battles and your appearance is such as to show that you come from afar.”
Godric laughed, and bitterness was in his laughter.
“Aye,” quoth he, “I have ridden far; the deserts have parched my lips and the mountains have wearied my feet. I have seen Trebizond in my wanderings, and Teheran and Bokhara and Samarcand. I have looked on the waters of the Black Sea and the Sea of Ravens. From Constantinople far to the west I set forth more than a year agone, riding eastward. I am a knight of Normandy, Sir Godric de Villehard.”
“I have heard of some of the places you name,” answered You-tai, “but many of them are unknown to me. Eat now, and rest. In time the princess Yulita will come to you.”
So Godric ate the curiously spiced rice, the dates and candied meats, and drank the colorless rice wine brought him by a flat-faced girl slave who wore golden bangles on her ankles, and soon slept, and sleeping, his unquenchable vitality began to assert itself.
When he awoke from that long sleep he felt refreshed and stronger, and soon the pearl-inlaid doors opened and a slight, silk-clad figure entered. Godric’s heart suddenly pounded as he again felt the soft, tender gaze of those great dark eyes upon him. He drew himself together with an effort; was he a boy to tremble before a pair of eyes, even though they adorned the face of a princess?
Long used was he to the veiled women of the Moslems, and Yulita’s creamy cheeks with her full ruby lips were like an oasis in the waste.
“I am Yulita,” the voice was soft, vibrant and musical as the silvery tinkle of the fountain in the court outside. “I wish to thank you. You are brave as Rustum. When the Hians rushed from the defiles and cut down my guard, I was afraid. You answered my screams as unexpectedly and boldly as a hero sent down from paradise. I am sorry your brave men died.”
“And I likewise,” the Norman answered with the bluntness of his race, “but it was their trade: they would not have had it otherwise and they could not have died in a better cause.”
“But why did you risk your life to aid me, who am not of your race and whom you never saw before?” she pursued.
Godric might have answered as would nine out of any ten knights in his position — with the repeating of the vow of chivalry, to protect all weaker things. But being Godric de Villehard, he shrugged his shoulders. “God knows. I should have known it was death to us all to charge that horde. I have seen too much rapine and outrage since I turned my face east to have thus thrown away my men and expedition in the ordinary course of events. Perhaps I saw at a glance you were of regal blood and followed the knight’s natural instinct to rush to the aid of royalty.”
She bowed her head. “I am sorry.”
“I am not,” he growled. “My men would have died anyhow today or tomorrow — now they are at rest. We have ridden through hell for more than a year. Now they are beyond the sun’s heat and the Turk’s saber.”
She rested her chin on her hands and her elbows on her knees, leaning forward to gaze deep into his eyes. His senses swam momentarily. Her eyes traversed his mighty frame to return to his face. Thin-lipped, with cold gray eyes, Godric de Villehard’s sun-darkened, clean-shaven face inspired trust and respect in men but there was little in his appearance to stir the heart of a woman. The Norman was not past thirty, but his hard life had carved his face into inflexible lines. Rather than the beauty that appeals to women, there was in his features the lean strength of the hunting wolf. The forehead was high and broad, the brow of a thinker, and once the mouth had been kindly, the eyes those of a dreamer. But now his eyes were bitter and his whole appearance that of a man with whom life has dealt hardly — who has ceased to look for mercy or to give it.
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 331