“You!” he ejaculated unbelievingly. “By Mitra! You!”
Oaths streamed from his lips as he heaved up his cutlass. The birds rose in flaming showers from the trees as the clang of steel interrupted their song. Blue sparks flew from the hacking blades, and the sand grated and ground under the stamping boot heels. Then the clash of steel ended in a chopping crunch, and one man went to his knees with a choking gasp. The hilt escaped his nerveless hand and he slid full-length on the sand which reddened with his blood. With a dying effort he fumbled at his girdle and drew something from it, tried to lift it to his mouth, and then stiffened convulsively and went limp.
The conqueror bent and ruthlessly tore the stiffening fingers from the object they crumpled in their desperate grasp.
ZARONO and Valenso stood on the beach, staring at the drift wood their men were gathering – spars, pieces of masts, broken timbers. So savagely had the storm hammered Zarono’s ship against the low cliffs that most of the salvage was match-wood. A short distance behind them stood Belesa, listening to their conversation, one arm about Tina. The girl was pale and listless, apathetic to whatever Fate held in store for her. She heard what the men said, but with little interest. She was crushed by the realization that she was but a pawn in the game, however it was to be played out – whether it was to be a wretched life dragged out on that desolate coast, or a return, effected somehow, to some civilized land.
Zarono cursed venomously, but Valenso seemed dazed.
“This is not the time of year for storms from the west,” he muttered, staring with haggard eyes at the men dragging the wreckage up on the beach. “It was not chance that brought that storm out of the deep to splinter the ship in which I meant to escape. Escape? I am caught like a rat in a trap, as it was meant. Nay, we are all trapped rats –”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” snarled Zarono, giving a vicious yank at his mustache. “I’ve been unable to get any sense out of you since that flaxen-haired slut upset you so last night with her wild tale of black men coming out of the sea. But I do know that I’m not going to spend my life on this cursed coast. Ten of my men went to hell in the ship, but I’ve got a hundred and sixty more. You’ve got a hundred. There are tools in your fort, and plenty of trees in yonder forest. We’ll build a ship. I’ll set men to cutting down trees as soon as they get this drift dragged up out of the reach of the waves.”
“It will take months,” muttered Valenso.
“Well, is there any better way in which we could employ our time? We’re here – and unless we build a ship we’ll never get away. We’ll have to rig up some kind of a sawmill, but I’ve never encountered anything yet that balked me long. I hope that storm smashed Strom to bits – the Argossean dog! While we’re building the ship we’ll hunt for old Tranicos’s loot.”
“We will never complete your ship,” said Valenso somberly.
“You fear the Picts? We have enough men to defy them.”
“I do not speak of the Picts. I speak of a black man.”
Zarono turned on him angrily.
“Will you talk sense? Who is this accursed black man?”
“Accursed indeed,” said Valenso, staring sea-ward. “A shadow of mine own red-stained past risen up to hound me to hell. Because of him I fled Zingara, hoping to lose my trail in the great ocean. But I should have known he would smell me out at last.”
“If such a man came ashore he must be hiding in the woods,” growled Zarono. “We’ll rake the forest and hunt him out.”
Valenso laughed harshly.
“Seek for a shadow that drifts before a cloud that hides the moon; grope in the dark for a cobra; follow a mist that steals out of the swamp at midnight.”
Zarono cast him an uncertain look, obviously doubting his sanity.
“Who is this man? Have done with ambiguity.”
“The shadow of my own mad cruelty and ambition; a horror come out of the lost ages; no man of mortal flesh and blood, but a –”
“Sail ho!” bawled the lookout on the north point.
Zarono wheeled and his voice slashed the wind.
“Do you know her?”
“Aye!” the reply came back faintly. “It’s The Red Hand!”
Zarono cursed like a wild man.
“Strom! The devil takes care of his own! How could he ride out that blow?” The buccaneer’s voice rose to a yell that carried up and down the strand. “Back to the fort, you dogs!”
Before The Red Hand, somewhat battered in appearance, nosed around the point, the beach was bare of human life, the palisade bristling with helmets and scarf-bound heads. The buccaneers accepted the alliance with the easy adaptability of adventurers, the henchmen with the apathy of serfs.
Zarono ground his teeth as a longboat swung leisurely in to the beach, and he sighted the tawny head of his rival in the bow. The boat grounded, and Strom strode toward the fort alone.
Some distance away he halted and shouted in a bull’s bellow that carried clearly in the still morning. “Ahoy, the fort! I want to parley!”
“Well, why in hell don’t you?” snarled Zarono.
“The last time I approached under a flag of truce an arrow broke on my brisket!” roared the pirate. “I want a promise it won’t happen again!”
“You have my promise!” called Zarono sardonically.
“Damn your promise, you Zingaran dog! I want Valenso’s word.”
A measure of dignity remained to the Count. There was an edge of authority to his voice as he answered: “Advance, but keep your men back. You will not be fired upon.”
“That’s enough for me,” said Strom instantly. “Whatever a Korzetta’s sins, once his word is given, you can trust him.”
He strode forward and halted under the gate, laughing at the hate-darkened visage Zarono thrust over at him.
“Well, Zarono,” he taunted, “you are a ship shorter than you were when last I saw you! But you Zingarans never were sailors.”
“How did you save your ship, you Messantian gutter-scum?” snarled the buccaneer.
“There’s a cove some miles to the north protected by a high-ridged arm of land that broke the force of the gale,” answered Strom. “I was anchored behind it. My anchors dragged, but they held me off the shore.”
Zarono scowled blackly. Valenso said nothing. He had not known of that cove. He had done scant exploring of his domain. Fear of the Picts and lack of curiosity had kept him and his men near the fort. The Zingarans were by nature neither explorers nor colonists.
“I come to make a trade,” said Strom, easily.
“We’ve naught to trade with you save sword-strokes,” growled Zarono.
“I think otherwise,” grinned Strom, thin-lipped. “You tipped your hand when you murdered Galacus, my first mate, and robbed him. Until this morning I supposed that Valenso had Tranicos’s treasure. But if either of you had it, you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of following me and killing my mate to get the map.”
“The map?” Zarono ejaculated, stiffening.
“Oh, don’t dissemble!” laughed Strom, but anger blazed blue in his eyes. “I know you have it. Picts don’t wear boots!”
“But –” began the Count, nonplused, but fell silent as Zarono nudged him.
“And if we have the map,” said Zarono, “what have you to trade that we might require?”
“Let me come into the fort,” suggested Strom. “There we can talk.”
He was not so obvious as to glance at the men peering at them from along the wall, but his two listeners understood. And so did the men. Strom had a ship. That fact would figure in any bargaining, or battle. But it would carry just so many, regardless of who commanded; whoever sailed away in it, there would be some left behind. A wave of tense speculation ran along the silent throng at the palisade.
“Your men will stay where they are,” warned Zarono, indicating both the boat drawn up on the beach, and the ship anchored out in the bay.
“Aye. But don’t get the idea
that you can seize me and hold me for a hostage!” He laughed grimly. “I want Valenso’s word that I’ll be allowed to leave the fort alive and unhurt within the hour, whether we come to terms or not.”
“You have my pledge,” answered the Count.
“All right, then. Open that gate and let’s talk plainly.”
The gate opened and closed, the leaders vanished from sight, and the common men of both parties resumed their silent surveillance of each other: the men on the palisade, and the men squatting beside their boat, with a broad stretch of sand between; and beyond a strip of blue water, the carack, with steel caps glinting all along her rail.
On the broad stair, above the great hall, Belesa and Tina crouched, ignored by the men below. These sat about the broad table: Valenso, Galbro, Zarono and Strom. But for them the hall was empty.
Strom gulped wine and set the empty goblet on the table. The frankness suggested by his bluff countenance was belied by the dancing lights of cruelty and treachery in his wide eyes. But he spoke bluntly enough.
“We all want the treasure old Tranicos hid somewhere near this bay,” he said abruptly. “Each has something the others need. Valenso has laborers, supplies, and a stockade to shelter us from the Picts. You, Zarono, have my map. I have a ship.”
“What I’d like to know,” remarked Zarono, “is this: if you’ve had that map all these years, why haven’t you come after the loot sooner?”
“I didn’t have it. It was that dog, Zingelito, who knifed the old miser in the dark and stole the map. But he had neither ship nor crew, and it took him more than a year to get them. When he did come after the treasure, the Picts prevented his landing, and his men mutinied and made him sail back to Zingara. One of them stole the map from him, and recently sold it to me.”
“That was why Zingelito recognized the bay,” muttered Valenso.
“Did that dog lead you here, Count? I might have guessed it. Where is he?”
“Doubtless in hell, since he was once a buccaneer. The Picts slew him, evidently while he was searching in the woods for the treasure.”
“Good!” approved Strom heartily. “Well, I don’t know how you knew my mate was carrying the map. I trusted him, and the men trusted him more than they did me, so I let him keep it. But this morning he wandered inland with some of the others, got separated from them, and we found him sworded to death near the beach, and the map gone. The men were ready to accuse me of killing him, but I showed the fools the tracks left by his slayer, and proved to them that my feet wouldn’t fit them. And I knew it wasn’t any one of the crew, because none of them wear boots that make that sort of track. And Picts don’t wear boots at all. So it had to be a Zingaran.
“Well, you’ve got the map, but you haven’t got the treasure. If you had it, you wouldn’t have let me inside the stockade. I’ve got you penned up in this fort. You can’t get out to look for the loot, and even if you did get it, you have no ship to get away in.
“Now here’s my proposal: Zarono, give me the map. And you, Valenso, give me fresh meat and other supplies. My men are nigh to scurvy after the long voyage. In return I’ll take you three men, the Lady Belesa and her girl, and set you ashore within reach of some Zingaran port – or I’ll put Zarono ashore near some buccaneer rendezvous if he prefers, since doubtless a noose awaits him in Zingara. And to clinch the bargain I’ll give each of you a handsome share in the treasure.”
The buccaneer tugged his mustache meditatively. He knew that Strom would not keep any such pact, if made. Nor did Zarono even consider agreeing to his proposal. But to refuse bluntly would be to force the issue into a clash of arms. He sought his agile brain for a plan to outwit the pirate. He wanted Strom’s ship as avidly as he desired the lost treasure.
“What’s to prevent us from holding you captive and forcing your men to give us your ship in exchange for you?” he asked.
Strom laughed at him.
“Do you think I’m a fool? My men have orders to heave up the anchors and sail hence if I don’t reappear within the hour, or if they suspect treachery. They wouldn’t give you the ship, if you skinned me alive on the beach. Besides I have the Count’s word.”
“My pledge is not straw,” said Valenso somberly. “Have done with threats, Zarono.”
Zarono did not reply, his mind wholly absorbed in the problem of getting possession of Strom’s ship; of continuing the parley without betraying the fact that he did not have the map. He wondered who in Mitra’s name did have the accursed map.
“Let me take my men away with me on your ship when we sail,” he said. “I can not desert my faithful followers –”
Strom snorted.
“Why don’t you ask for my cutlass to slit my gullet with? Desert your faithful – bah! You’d desert your brother to the devil if you could gain anything by it. No! You’re not going to bring enough men aboard to give you a chance to mutiny and take my ship.”
“Give us a day to think it over,” urged Zarono, fighting for time.
Strom’s heavy fist banged on the table, making the wine dance in the glasses.
“No, by Mitra! Give me my answer now!”
Zarono was on his feet, his black rage submerging his craftiness.
“You Barachan dog! I’ll give you your answer – in your guts –”
He tore aside his cloak, caught at his sword-hilt. Strom heaved up with a roar, his chair crashing backward to the floor. Valenso sprang up, spreading his arms between them as they faced one another across the board, jutting jaws close together, blades half drawn, faces convulsed.
“Gentlemen, have done! Zarono, he has my pledge –”
“The foul fiend gnaw your pledge!” snarled Zarono.
“Stand from between us, my lord,” growled the pirate, his voice thick with the killing lust. “Your word was that I should not be treacherously entreated. It shall be considered no violation of your pledge for this dog and me to cross swords in equal play.”
“Well spoken, Strom!” It was a deep, powerful voice behind them, vibrant with grim amusement. All wheeled and glared, open-mouthed. Up on the stair Belesa started up with an involuntary exclamation.
A man strode out from the hangings that masked a chamber door, and advanced toward the table without haste or hesitation. Instantly he dominated the group, and all felt the situation subtly charged with a new, dynamic atmosphere.
The stranger was as tall as either of the freebooters, and more powerfully built than either, yet for all his size he moved with pantherish suppleness in his high, flaring-topped boots. His thighs were cased in close-fitting breeches of white silk, his wide-skirted sky-blue coat open to reveal an open-necked white silken shirt beneath, and the scarlet sash that girdled his waist. There were silver acorn-shaped buttons on the coat, and it was adorned with gilt-worked cuffs and pocket-flaps, and a satin collar. A lacquered hat completed a costume obsolete by nearly a hundred years. A heavy cutlass hung at the wearer’s hip.
“Conan!” ejaculated both freebooters together, and Valenso and Galbro caught their breath at that name.
“Who else?” The giant strode up to the table, laughing sardonically at their amazement.
“What – what do you here?” stuttered the seneschal. “How come you here, uninvited and unannounced?”
“I climbed the palisade on the east side while you fools were arguing at the gate,” Conan answered. “Every man in the fort was craning his neck westward. I entered the manor while Strom was being let in at the gate. I’ve been in that chamber there ever since, eavesdropping.”
“I thought you were dead,” said Zarono slowly. “Three years ago the shattered hull of your ship was sighted off a reefy coast, and you were heard of on the Main no more.”
“I didn’t drown with my crew,” answered Conan. “It’ll take a bigger ocean than that one to drown me.”
Up on the stair Tina was clutching Belesa in her excitement and staring through the balustrades with all her eyes.
“Conan! My Lady, it is Conan! Loo
k! Oh, look!”
Belesa was looking; it was like encountering a legendary character in the flesh. Who of all the sea-folk had not heard the wild, bloody tales told of Conan, the wild rover who had once been a captain of the Barachan pirates, and one of the greatest scourges of the sea? A score of ballads celebrated his ferocious and audacious exploits. The man could not be ignored; irresistibly he had stalked into the scene, to form another, dominant element in the tangled plot. And in the midst of her frightened fascination, Belesa’s feminine instinct prompted the speculation as to Conan’s attitude toward her – would it be like Strom’s brutal indifference, or Zarono’s violent desire?
Valenso was recovering from the shock of finding a stranger within his very hall. He knew Conan was a Cimmerian, born and bred in the wastes of the far north, and therefore not amenable to the physical limitations which controlled civilized men. It was not so strange that he had been able to enter the fort undetected, but Valenso flinched at the reflection that other barbarians might duplicate that feat – the dark, silent Picts, for instance.
“What do you want here?” he demanded. “Did you come from the sea?”
“I came from the woods,” the Cimmerian jerked his head toward the east.
“You have been living with the Picts?” Valenso asked coldly.
A momentary anger flickered bluely in the giant’s eyes.
“Even a Zingaran ought to know there’s never been peace between Picts and Cimmerians, and never will be,” he retorted with an oath. “Our feud with them is older than the world. If you’d said that to one of my wilder brothers, you’d have found yourself with a split head. But I’ve lived among you civilized men long enough to understand your ignorance and lack of common courtesy – the churlishness that demands his business of a man who appears at your door out of a thousand-mile wilderness. Never mind that.” He turned to the two freebooters who stood staring glumly at him.
“From what I overheard,” quoth he, “I gather there is some dissention over a map!”
“That is none of your affair,” growled Strom.
“Is this it?” Conan grinned wickedly and drew from his pocket a crumpled object – a square of parchment, marked with crimson lines.