vaulted archway through the walls was about sixteen feet long by ten
wide and as many high. At the street end it was closed by a gate
consisting of two wooden leaves, swung on hinges in the ordinary manner,
and having as a central support a stout post firmly sunken into the
ground. The timber construction was of the heaviest, but axe and sledge
would make short work of it could they be brought near enough for
effective use.
At the inner entrance to the archway was suspended a portcullis of
wrought-iron bars. This was the real barrier, for, even if the attacking
party succeeded in battering down the outer gate, they would find
themselves cooped up in the passageway and exposed to missiles
discharged both through the grating and from trap-doors in the vaulted
ceiling. A well-conceived theory of defence, but its present practice
was complicated by an unexpected difficulty--the portcullis, long
unused, had become jammed in the ways and refused to descend. A squad of
men were sweating at the task, but so far they had accomplished nothing.
"You are right," said Constans, letting the glass fall and turning to
Piers Minor. "What can they be thinking of--wasting time in that
hopeless tinkering? The one important thing is to close the
passageway--if possible, by means of the portcullis; failing that, to
block it up. If Piers Major but knew--nay, he _must_ know."
Piers Minor nodded; he understood the appeal.
"I am going to tell him," he said, imperturbably. "I will be careful
about keeping out of sight until well away from the vicinity of the
'Flat-iron.' So as not to spoil sport for you," he added, smiling.
Constans accompanied Piers Minor to the street entrance, going over in
detail the message that he was to bear to his father. A final admonition
of caution, and they parted. It was still broad daylight, and Constans
returned to his post of observation.
Of course, the expected happened. A report of the portcullis's
unserviceable condition had been finally made to Quinton Edge, and
already he was on the scene--a master indeed. The confusion, the
contradictory babel of voices, dies away into order and silence, and, as
Constans had foreseen, his orders were to suspend operations on the
portcullis and proceed with all speed to the blocking-up of the archway.
Choked to the ceiling with loose stones and other debris, it would be a
formidable barricade to carry by assault.
Constans strode up and down the room, devoured by impatience. Piers
Minor had been gone now upward of half an hour, and yet there was no
sign of preparation in the camp of the allies. It would take possibly an
hour longer to make the vaulted passage impassable; Piers Major must
advance within half that time if he would take advantage of this secret
weakness in the defence. Failing to do so, he would be thrown back upon
the desperate adventure of the scaling-ladders, and the whole issue
would then hang upon the effectiveness with which Constans could bring
off his attack from the rear.
The restless fit passed, and Constans leaned out upon the window-sill,
watching the darkening sky. A fierce revulsion seized him as he pictured
to himself the scene upon which the morning sun would look--the kennels
red with blood, the horrors huddled in every corner, all the dreadful
jetsam cast up by the ensanguined tide of war. Of necessity, perhaps,
must such things be--the endurance of a lesser evil that the greater
wrong might be forever blotted out. And yet his heart was heavy.
He looked out again upon the ruined wilderness of stone that hemmed him
in. How he hated this monstrous city of Doom, infernal mother of
treacheries and spoils! How weary he was of wandering through its stony
labyrinths, fit symbol of his own oft-thwarted hopes! A vision of green
fields and quiet waters rose before him, he seemed to be walking
knee-deep in the lush grass starred with purple asters and the sweet
meadow-flag--it was the old home paddock of the Greenwood Keep; there
was the copse of white beeches, and through it came the flutter of a
woman's gown. Eagerly he watched as she came to meet him--Issa; then she
turned her face full towards him, and he saw that it was Esmay. He
sprang forward.
A roll of drums beating the charge, and Constans started. "At last!" he
said.
* * * * *
Piers Minor, keeping as closely as possible to cover, worked his way
slowly to the northward and towards the Stockader camp, on the Palace
Road. But, being unfamiliar with the topography of the district, he
insensibly kept edging into dangerous proximity to the Citadel Square;
suddenly he found himself within a short block of its eastern front. He
turned to retreat, and came face to face with a slender, black-eyed
youth who must have been following close upon his heels. Discovered, he
tried to dodge, but Piers Minor was too quick, and they closed. The
youth struggled gallantly, but the Stockader had all the advantage in
strength; in another moment Piers Minor had his antagonist crushed
helplessly into a corner. He looked at the boy contemptuously.
"Not a sound, mind, or I'll twist your throat as I would a
meadow-lark's. Why were you following me?"
The black eyes snapped back at him unwinkingly.
"Let me speak, then--you hurt me."
Piers Minor loosened his hold upon the slender throat.
"Go on."
"You are a Stockader, and there is a young man with you, fair-haired and
with dark eyes--Constans by name? Do you know him?"
"Well, and if I do?"
"Will you tell me where and how I can see him? Just a word, or, if not,
then to send him a message."
"It is impossible," said Piers Minor, stolidly. "This is a time of war,
and only for life and death----"
"It is a question of that," insisted the youth.
Piers Minor shook himself impatiently.
"Speak out, can't you? What is it that he would care to know?"
"Tell him, then, that last night Esmay disappeared, and yet still
remains in Arcadia House. He will understand, for he knows Quinton
Edge."
"A woman!" ejaculated Piers Minor, in supreme disdain. "Always that."
"Yes, always that," retorted the boy, and Piers Minor burst into a
laugh.
"You are a bold one," he said, half admiringly. "Well, I will tell him;
I promise you that. And now what am I to do with you?"
The boy made a grimace. "We may part as we have met, with no one the
wiser."
"I am not so sure of that," said the other, suspiciously. "You are a
Doomsman, and you know me to be a Stockader--a spy, if you like. If it
were for myself alone I might trust you, but so much may hang----"
He stopped abruptly and his eyes darkened. "The only sure way lies at my
knife-point." He scanned intently the face which paled before his gaze,
yet changed not in the smallest line.
"Good!" said Piers Minor, heartily. "Although, indeed, I could never
have done it. Yet I must bind and gag you," he added.
The boy pouted. "No; I will not have you touch me." He tried by a sudden
movement to slip under Piers Minor's detaining hand. The shock displaced
his cap, a fastening gave way at the same instant, and a mass of long,
black hair tumbled down upon the youth's shoulders. Even then Piers
Minor, being of masculine slow wit, might not have guessed the truth but
for a bright blush that overspread brow and cheek, a confession that
even his dull senses could not misinterpret.
"A woman!" he said, confusedly, and blushed as unrestrainedly in his
turn.
Beholding his embarrassment, Nanna was relieved of her own.
"You will have to trust me, you see," she said, coldly.
The abashed Piers Minor murmured an indistinct assent.
"And you will not forget my message?"
"No, no! He shall have it at the earliest possible moment."
"Very good--it is understood, then. Now you may go."
Piers Minor had not a word to say. He had been meditating upon a
thousand possible explanations, excuses, apologies, and his tongue would
not utter one of them. He accepted his orders meekly, but as he turned
to go he managed to stammer out, "Of course--to meet again."
Nanna, to her own infinite amazement, answered with a look that meant
yes, and knew that he had not failed to so understand it. As she walked
over to the Citadel Square she could feel that he was standing where she
had left him and looking after her. She would have turned to fittingly
rebuke behavior so indecorous, but something told her that her insulted
dignity would be better saved by removing it to a greater distance.
Nanna entered the Citadel Square after some parley with the sentinels on
the walls, who grumbled at the trouble to which they were put to let
down a rope-ladder; but, being a daughter of the Doomsmen, she could not
be denied.
A little crowd of women and elderly men gathered about an ox-cart in the
centre of the square attracted her attention. They were listening to a
speaker who, standing upright in the wagon-body, was haranguing them
earnestly. Nanna recognized him--Prosper, the priest.
It was the old story--repentance, the wrath of the Shining One, and the
imminence of the judgment. The men of the garrison, absorbed in their
preparations for defence, paid no heed; only this handful of old men and
fearful women, who crept a little closer together as they listened and
sought one another's hands. "To-day, to-day, even to-day, and Doom is
fallen, is fallen!"
A disquieting thought flashed into Nanna's mind, the remembrance of
those carefully arranged broken wires in the empty house not more than a
block away from the Citadel Square. Then of those other wires in the
temple of the Shining One, spluttering their wicked-looking sparks. She
strained her ears to catch the humming drone of the engines in the House
of Power, but there was no sound to be heard--they could not be running.
"Yet there will be mischief worked to-night if the priest has his way,"
said Nanna to herself, and shook her black-polled head safely. "I almost
wish that I had told _him_ of that, too." And then, unaccountably, she
blushed again, for all that it was dark and no one was looking at her.
XXVI
THE SONG OF THE SWORD
It did not take long for Constans to arouse and collect his men; tired
of inaction, they were only too glad to respond to the summons. And at
the last, Constans, unable to withstand the entreaty in Red Oxenford's
eyes, ordered his release.
"But, with the others, you must wait upon my word," he said, sternly,
and Oxenford, fearful above all things of being left behind, gave ready
assent to the condition.
Under the south rampart of the citadel they halted. There were but two
guards on duty here, and they were easily surprised and secured before
they could give an alarm. As one by one the rest of the company ascended
the scaling-ladder, they were ordered to throw themselves prone on the
flat top of the wall, to await the final signal. Over at the north gate
the clamor grew momentarily--there were blows of axes on wood, and clash
of arms, and the confused crying of many voices.
"The snapping-turtle must be at his work," said Constans to himself.
"Wait until his teeth show through that flimsy wooden screen."
* * * * *
Piers Major had advanced promptly upon receiving the message brought by
his son. The chances of a frontal attack had already been discussed
between him and Constans, and the latter had devised a formation which,
in theory at least, should make such an undertaking feasible. In its
basic idea it was the Roman _testudo_, described by Julius Caesar in the
Gallic Commentaries. The phalanx of marching men were protected from
arrows, darts, and ordinary missiles by a continuous covering formed of
their ox-hide shields, the latter being held horizontally above the head
and interlocked. The overlapping shields bore a fanciful resemblance to
the scaly carapace of a tortoise--hence its name; and, so long as the
essential principle of unity of action was maintained, it might be
reckoned an effective engine of warfare.
As the _testudo_ moved down the Palace Road and towards the wooden
barrier of the north gate, it was to be observed that the front-rank men
and the file-closers carried their shields in the ordinary fashion, in
order to ward off horizontally flying missiles. Once under the shelter
of the walls, the leaders would immediately discard their now useless
bucklers and begin to ply their axes, protected from overhead assaults
by the overlapping shields of their comrades. The formation advanced
steadily; there was a suggestion of terrific irresistibility in the very
slowness of its progress; to the eager fancy it might have been the
veritable recreation of some prehistoric monster, the illusion being
heightened by the torchlight that flickered uncertainly over the rounded
bellies of the shields of greenish leather and was reflected redly from
their copper bosses.
The defence had been quick to recognize the character of the assault,
and had done their best to repel it. The catapults had been brought
into action, and their huge projectiles hurtled constantly through the
air, but for the most part innocuously, the machines not being in the
best of order and the artillerymen unpractised in their use. It was not
until the _testudo_ had advanced to within fifty yards that a shot
discharged by a machine, worked by Quinton Edge in person, took effect,
the missile striking the _testudo_ on the left wing and disabling three
men. Before the advantage could be followed up the files had been closed
again and the formation had advanced so far that the catapults became
useless, it being impossible to depress them beyond a certain angle. The
front rank had now reached the barrier, and the axes fell furiously upon
the wooden leaves of the gate. The Doomsmen on the walls renewed the
attack with hand-weapons, the slingers and archers hurling their
missiles vertically downward and the spearmen watching their opportunity
for an effective body-thrust. The affair would be short and sharp, for
the _testudo_ could not be expected to hold its position for longer than
a few minutes--it was not in flesh and blood to withstand indefinitely
that fierce and deadly shower. Already there were gaps in the protective
roof of shields--impossible to repair, for in that close-packed mass the
bodies of the wounded and dead impeded the progress of those who would
otherwise have taken their places. Yet the struggle went stubbornly on.
A sharp-eyed youth who was lying next to Constans touched him on the
arm, directing his attention to a squad of the defenders who were
working to dislodge one of the massive coping-stones of the gateway
arch. Already it was oscillating under the heave of the levers; if it
fell, a score of men might be crushed beneath its weight, and the
destruction of the _testudo_ would be a certainty. Constans raised his
rifle. It was a long shot, but he could not wait to take deliberate aim;
he fired.
The bullet had found its mark, for one man was fallen where he stood and
another nursed a broken wrist. The workers at the gate were thrown into
confusion and the stone settled back into its bed. The assailants
redoubled their efforts, and the thunder of the axe-blows became
continuous.
"Through! they are through!" shouted Constans, and sprang down upon the
banquette. In his excitement he entirely forgot about the new weapon
that had but just now rendered such signal service; he threw aside the
rifle for the more familiar sword. And he noticed that his followers had
acted under the same primitive impulse; the fire-stick might be given
the honor of drawing first blood, but it was for cold steel to finish
the work.
Shoulder to shoulder the men raced across the square to the gate. The
attempt to block up the passage, had failed for lack of time, and the
Stockaders were pouring through pellmell, intent on securing foothold in
the open. The Doomsmen, forsaking the now useless walls, met them man to
man; there was the clash of opposing bucklers, and through the din
pierced the keen, clear ring of blades in play--the Song of the Sword.
The diversion in the rear came at the opportune moment. The Doomsmen had
so far greatly out-numbered the Stockaders, and the latter were being
forced back into the vaulted passage, thereby blocking it against the
main body of their comrades. But now the Doomsmen, attacked from behind,
were obliged to devote part of their attention elsewhere, the pressure
at the gateway was relieved, and reinforcements, with Piers Major and
Piers Minor at their head, made their way through and took active part
in the struggle. Even then the defenders were slightly superior
numerically to the invading party, and the issue remained in doubt.
Constans felt himself carried into the thickest of the press; he fought
on mechanically, thrusting and cutting with the rest, and yet hardly
conscious of what he was doing. His mind would not work easily; he found
himself dwelling upon inconsequential trifles--what had become of his
cap? and how tall was that big fellow with the broad-axe who seemed so
anxious to come to close quarters with him? He was not in the least
afraid, but he wondered if it were possible for him to come out of all
this alive. It seemed unthinkable that the ring of steel surrounding him
could be broken by any mortal power; sooner or later it must contract
and crush him. Even the momentary vision of Ulick, stripped to the waist
and with a broad, red streak across his forehead, failed to arouse him.
He could think only of a thresher with his flail as Ulick, bludgeoning
right and left, won clear from the press of Stockader foes surrounding
him and rejoined his own ranks. A confused idea that he wanted to speak
to Ulick suddenly oppressed Constans; he half started to follow him.
Piers Minor, at his elbow, held him back and shouted a caution.
"Keep up your guard, man, or that big chap will have you yet! And let
them come to you--don't rush them!"
In a hand-to-hand encounter there can be but little opportunity for
strategy or leadership, except in the purely physical sense. Yet, on
either side, the men fought as though animated by a common instinct, the
Doomsmen striving to force the Stockaders back into the gateway passage,
and the latter endeavoring to cut their way bodily through the mass of
the defenders and so divide its strength. For a while the tide began to
run with the allies, and the Doomsmen were obliged to fall back slowly
towards the interior barricade on the east side of the square that
protected the women and children. Constans, panting from his exertions,
snatched at this moment of respite to regain his breath. A moment before
he had stumbled against a small keg that was rolling about under the
feet of the struggling men; this he up-ended and mounted for a better
look around.
It was true; the Doomsmen were really giving way, and the victory was
all but won. Yet not quite, for even as he gazed the onrushing line of
the triumphant Stockaders sagged backward at the centre, and the
Doomsman yell broke out. What was it? What had happened?
Emerging from the portal of the White Tower came half a dozen bearers
carrying between them a chair in which sat a man--an old man with a
shock of snow-white hair covering his massive head. And those shoulders
needed no identification from the familiar wolf-skin that lay across
them. This could be none other than Dom Gillian, Chief and Overlord of
the Doomsmen, Father of the Gray People. He wore no armor and carried no
shield, but his hand gripped a great war-mace studded with silver nails,
fit emblem of the authority supreme that its own weight had created.
But that had been full half a century ago.
The old man made a movement as though to rise. Two of the attendants
attempted to assist him, but he waved them back. Ah, the wonder of it as
that huge bulk reared itself to full height! An ordinary man might stand
comfortably under his out-stretched arm and barely join the tips of his
fingers in measuring around the monster's girth. But there was more than
mere bigness with which to reckon. The close observer might notice that
his armpits and the corresponding parts under the knee were not hollow,
as is ordinarily the case, but were filled with a solid mass of muscle
and tendon. And this was Dom Gillian, with the weight of ninety-odd
years upon his back. What manner of man must he have been in the noonday
of his strength!
As though by common consent the conflict came to an abrupt end; the two
lines drew apart and silence fell between them. Dom Gillian took two or
three forward steps. He seemed to be uncertain of where to plant his
feet, as is the natural consequent when one has not walked for a long
time; but once squarely set, he stood solidly--like a column of masonry.
The bent shoulders had straightened up and the chest had filled out;
there was no evidence of decrepitude in the ease with which he
manipulated his ponderous mace, swinging it from side to side in great,
slow circles. Only Constans noticed that he kept his head turned
constantly in one direction, where there was a great flare of light, a
dozen cressets and link-torches burning together. Could it be that his
eyesight had failed save for the mere distinction between light and
darkness? It might be well to know surely, and, stepping down from his
vantage-point, Constans forced his way to the front. Quinton Edge was
speaking, and Constans listened with the rest.
"If there is one among you," he said, with smooth distinctness, "who
thinks himself a man, let him stand forth and make answer to our father,
Dom Gillian, face to face, so that our lord may particularly inquire
concerning these dogs of Stockaders who dare to show a naked blade in
the inmost citadel of Doom the Forbidden. You have tracked the gray wolf
to his lair, now send you out a gallant who will clip his claws."
Constans, intent upon his theory, noticed that Dom Gillian had turned
his head in the direction of Quinton Edge's voice when he first began to
speak, but almost immediately his attention had flagged and his eyes had
wandered back to the lights. Now, as Quinton Edge stopped, the old man's
face changed suddenly, the eyebrows contracting and the jaw setting
itself rigidly. It seemed as though he were about to speak, but there
was only that murmur in his throat, hoarse and unintelligible. Then
Constans understood that this was no longer a man that stood before
them, but merely a wild beast in leash. The monster seemed annoyed by
the silence. He moved forward uncertainly for a few steps and stood
still; one could hear him purring softly like a big cat.
"We are waiting," said Quinton Edge.
A man brushed by Constans and stepped into the open. It was Oxenford the
"Red."
"This belongs to me--to none other," he said, and looked about him.
No man moved.
"I am ready," he continued, and threw his upper coat on the ground
behind him. Constans stood for an instant at Oxenford's ear.
"The old wolf is nearly blind," he whispered. "Take care not to get
between him and the light yonder and you have a chance."
Oxenford nodded. His manner was quiet and collected, and his face,
though pale, had lost the strained look that had characterized it for
these last few days. "Stand clear!" he said, and Constans moved away and
stood watching.
Man to man, Oxenford, though by no means a weakling, was yet outclassed
in every particular of height, weight, and reach. But he possessed one
inestimable advantage--that of agility. Quick footwork should save him
at even the closest pinch--that and his wits. Then, if the giant were
really blind!
Realizing the futility of trying to meet Dom Gillian with weapons
similar to his own, Oxenford had provided himself with a simple
truncheon of lignum-vitae, while in his belt was stuck a broad-bladed,
double-edged knife. The latter was for close quarters, but it would
require some manoeuvring to get there, and Dom Gillian would ask
opportunity but for one clean stroke.