Strom started violently, paling.
“My map!” he ejaculated. “Where did you get it?”
“From your mate, Galacus, when I killed him,” answered Conan with grim enjoyment.
“You dog!” raved Strom, turning on Zarono. “You never had the map! You lied –”
“I didn’t say I had it,” snarled Zarono. “You deceived yourself. Don’t be a fool. Conan is alone. If he had a crew he’d have already cut our throats. We’ll take the map from him –”
“You’ll never touch it!” Conan laughed fiercely.
Both men sprang at him, cursing. Stepping back he crumpled the parchment and cast it into the glowing coals of the fireplace. With an incoherent bellow Strom lunged past him, to be met with a buffet under the ear that stretched him half-senseless on the floor. Zarono whipped out his sword but before he could thrust, Conan’s cutlass beat it out of his hand.
Zarono staggered against the table, with all hell in his eyes. Strom dragged himself erect, his eyes glazed, blood dripping from his bruised ear. Conan leaned slightly over the table, his outstretched cutlass just touched the breast of Count Valenso.
“Don’t call for your soldiers, Count,” said the Cimmerian softly. “Not a sound out of you – or from you, either, dog-face!” His name for Galbro, who showed no intention of braving his wrath. “The map’s burned to ashes, and it’ll do no good to spill blood. Sit down, all of you.”
Strom hesitated, made an abortive gesture toward his hilt, then shrugged his shoulders and sank sullenly into a chair. The others followed suit. Conan remained standing, towering over the table, while his enemies watched him with bitter eyes of hate.
“You were bargaining,” he said. “That’s all I’ve come to do.”
“And what have you to trade?” sneered Zarono.
“The treasure of Tranicos!”
“What?” All four men were on their feet, leaning toward him.
“Sit down!” he roared, banging his broad blade on the table. They sank back, tense and white with excitement.
He grinned in huge enjoyment of the sensation his words had caused.
“Yes! I found it before I got the map. That’s why I burned the map. I don’t need it. And now nobody will ever find it, unless I show him where it is.”
They stared at him with murder in their eyes.
“You’re lying,” said Zarono without conviction. “You’ve told us one lie already. You said you came from the woods, yet you say you haven’t been living with the Picts. All men know this country is a wilderness, inhabited only by savages. The nearest outposts of civilization are the Aquilonian settlements on Thunder River, hundreds of miles to eastward.”
“That’s where I came from,” replied Conan imperturbably. “I believe I’m the first white man to cross the Pictish Wilderness. I crossed Thunder River to follow a raiding party that had been harrying the frontier. I followed them deep into the wilderness, and killed their chief, but was knocked senseless by a stone from a sling during the melee, and the dogs captured me alive. They were Wolfmen, but they traded me to the Eagle clan in return for a chief of theirs the Eagles had captured. The Eagles carried me nearly a hundred miles westward to burn me in their chief village, but I killed their war-chief and three or four others one night, and broke away.
“I couldn’t turn back. They were behind me, and kept herding me westward. A few days ago I shook them off, and by Crom, the place where I took refuge turned out to be the treasure trove of old Tranicos! I found it all: chests of garments and weapons – that’s where I got these clothes and this blade – heaps of coins and gems and gold ornaments, and in the midst of all, the jewels of Tothmekri gleaming like frozen starlight! And old Tranicos and his eleven captains sitting about an ebon table and staring at the hoard, as they’ve stared for a hundred years!”
“What?”
“Aye!” he laughed. “Tranicos died in the midst of his treasure, and all with him! Their bodies have not rotted nor shrivelled. They sit there in their high boots and skirted coats and lacquered hats, with their wine glasses in their stiff hands, just as they have sat for a century!”
“That’s an unchancy thing!” muttered Strom uneasily, but Zarono snarled: “What boots it? It’s the treasure we want. Go on, Conan.”
Conan seated himself at the board, filled a goblet and quaffed it before he answered.
“The first wine I’ve drunk since I left Conawaga, by Crom! Those cursed Eagles hunted me so closely through the forest I had hardly time to munch the nuts and roots I found. Sometimes I caught frogs and ate them raw because I dared not light a fire.”
His impatient hearers informed him profanely that they were not interested in his adventures prior to finding the treasure.
He grinned hardly and resumed: “Well, after I stumbled onto the trove I lay up and rested a few days, and made snares to catch rabbits, and let my wounds heal. I saw smoke against the western sky, but thought it some Pictish village on the beach. I lay close, but as it happens, the loot’s hidden in a place the Picts shun. If any spied on me, they didn’t show themselves.
“Last night I started westward, intending to strike the beach some miles north of the spot where I’d seen the smoke. I wasn’t far from the shore when that storm hit. I took shelter under the lee of a rock and waited until it had blown itself out. Then I climbed a tree to look for Picts, and from it I saw your carack at anchor, Strom, and your men coming in to shore. I was making my way toward your camp on the beach when I met Galacus. I shoved a sword through him because there was an old feud between us. I wouldn’t have known he had a map, if he hadn’t tried to eat it before he died.
“I recognized it for what it was, of course, and was considering what use I could make of it, when the rest of you dogs came up and found the body. I was lying in a thicket not a dozen yards from you while you were arguing with your men over the matter. I judged the time wasn’t ripe for me to show myself then!”
He laughed at the rage and chagrin displayed in Strom’s face.
“Well, while I lay there, listening to your talk, I got a drift of the situation, and learned, from the things you let fall, that Zarono and Valenso were a few miles south on the beach. So when I heard you say that Zarono must have done the killing and taken the map, and that you meant to go and parley with him, seeking an opportunity to murder him and get it back –”
“Dog!” snarled Zarono. Strom was livid, but he laughed mirthlessly.
“Do you think I’d play fairly with a treacherous dog like you? – Go on, Conan.”
The Cimmerian grinned. It was evident that he was deliberately fanning the fires of hate between the two men.
“Nothing much, then. I came straight through the woods while you tacked along the coast, and raised the fort before you did. Your guess that the storm had destroyed Zarono’s ship was a good one – but then, you knew the configuration of this bay.
“Well, there’s the story. I have the treasure, Strom has a ship, Valenso has supplies. By Crom, Zarono, I don’t see where you fit into the scheme, but to avoid strife I’ll include you. My proposal is simple enough.
“We’ll split the treasure four ways. Strom and I will sail away with our shares aboard The Red Hand. You and Valenso take yours and remain lords of the wilderness, or build a ship out of tree trunks, as you wish.”
Valenso blenched and Zarono swore, while Strom grinned quietly.
“Are you fool enough to go aboard The Red Hand alone with Strom?” snarled Zarono. “He’ll cut your throat before you’re out of sight of land!”
Conan laughed with genuine enjoyment.
“This is like the problem of the sheep, the wolf and the cabbage,” he admitted. “How to get them across the river without their devouring each other!”
“And that appeals to your Cimmerian sense of humor,” complained Zarono.
“I will not stay here!” cried Valenso, a wild gleam in his dark eyes. “Treasure or no treasure, I must go!”
Conan gave him
a slit-eyed glance of speculation.
“Well, then,” said he, “how about this plan: we divide the loot as I suggested. Then Strom sails away with Zarono, Valenso, and such members of the Count’s household as he may select, leaving me in command of the fort and the rest of Valenso’s men, and all of Zarono’s. I’ll build my own ship.”
Zarono looked slightly sick.
“I have the choice of remaining here in exile, or abandoning my crew and going alone on The Red Hand to have my throat cut?”
Conan’s laughter rang gustily through the hall, and he smote Zarono jovially on the back, ignoring the black murder in the buccaneer’s glare.
“That’s it, Zarono!” quoth he. “Stay here while Strom and I sail away, or sail away with Strom, leaving your men with me.”
“I’d rather have Zarono,” said Strom frankly. “You’d turn my own men against me, Conan, and cut my throat before I raised the Barachans.”
Sweat dripped from Zarono’s livid face.
“Neither I, the Count, nor his niece will ever reach the land alive if we ship with that devil,” said he. “You are both in my power in this hall. My men surround it. What’s to prevent me cutting you both down?”
“Not a thing,” Conan admitted cheerfully. “Except the fact that if you do Strom’s men will sail away and leave you stranded on this coast where the Picts will presently cut all your throats; and the fact that with me dead you’d never find the treasure; and the fact that I’ll split your skull down to your chin if you try to summon your men.”
Conan laughed as he spoke, as if at some whimsical situation, but even Belesa sensed that he meant what he said. His naked cutlass lay across his knees, and Zarono’s sword was under the table, out of the buccaneer’s reach. Galbro was not a fighting man, and Valenso seemed incapable of decision or action.
“Aye!” said Strom with an oath. “You’d find the two of us no easy prey. I’m agreeable to Conan’s proposal. What do you say, Valenso?”
“I must leave this coast!” whispered Valenso, staring blankly. “I must hasten – I must go – go far – quickly!”
Strom frowned, puzzled at the Count’s strange manner, and turned to Zarono, grinning wickedly: “And you, Zarono?”
“What can I say?” snarled Zarono. “Let me take my three officers and forty men aboard The Red Hand, and the bargain’s made.”
“The officers and thirty men!”
“Very well.”
“Done!”
There was no shaking of hands, or ceremonial drinking of wine to seal the pact. The two captains glared at each other like hungry wolves. The Count plucked his mustache with a trembling hand, rapt in his own somber thoughts. Conan stretched like a great cat, drank wine, and grinned on the assemblage; but it was the sinister grin of a stalking tiger. Belesa sensed the murderous purposes that reigned there, the treacherous intent that dominated each man’s mind. Not one had any intention of keeping his part of the pact, Valenso possibly excluded. Each of the freebooters intended to possess both the ship and the entire treasure. Neither would be satisfied with less. But how? What was going on in each crafty mind? Belesa felt oppressed and stifled by the atmosphere of hatred and treachery. The Cimmerian, for all his ferocious frankness, was no less subtle than the others – and even fiercer. His domination of the situation was not physical alone, though his gigantic shoulders and massive limbs seemed too big even for the great hall. There was an iron vitality about the man that overshadowed even the hard vigor of the other freebooters.
“Lead us to the treasure!” Zarono demanded.
“Wait a bit,” answered Conan. “We must keep our power evenly balanced, so one can’t take advantage of the others. We’ll work it this way: Strom’s men will come ashore, all but half a dozen or so, and camp on the beach. Zarono’s men will come out of the fort, and likewise camp on the strand, within easy sight of them. Then each crew can keep a check on the other, to see that nobody slips after us who go after the treasure, to ambush either of us. Those left aboard The Red Hand will take her out into the bay out of reach of either party. Valenso’s men will stay in the fort, but will leave the gate open. Will you come with us, Count?”
“Go into that forest?” Valenso shuddered, and drew his cloak about his shoulders. “Not for all the gold of Tranicos!”
“All right. It’ll take about thirty men to carry the loot. We’ll take fifteen from each crew and start as soon as possible.”
Belesa, keenly alert to every angle of the drama being played out beneath her, saw Zarono and Strom shoot furtive glances at one another, then lower their gaze quickly as they lifted their glasses to hide the murky intent in their eyes. Belesa saw the fatal weakness in Conan’s plan, and wondered how he could have overlooked it. Perhaps he was too arrogantly confident in his personal prowess. But she knew that he would never come out of that forest alive. Once the treasure was in their grasp, the others would form a rogues’ alliance long enough to rid themselves of the man both hated. She shuddered, staring morbidly at the man she knew was doomed; strange to see that powerful fighting man sitting there, laughing and swilling wine, in full prime and power, and to know that he was already doomed to a bloody death.
The whole situation was pregnant with dark and bloody portents. Zarono would trick and kill Strom if he could, and she knew that Strom had already marked Zarono for death, and doubtless, also, her uncle and herself. If Zarono won the final battle of cruel wits, their lives were safe – but looking at the buccaneer as he sat there chewing his mustache, with all the stark evil of his nature showing naked in his dark face, she could not decide which was more abhorrent – death or Zarono.
“How far is it?” demanded Strom.
“If we start within the hour we can be back before midnight,” answered Conan. He emptied his glass, rose, adjusted his girdle, and glanced at the Count.
“Valenso,” he said, “are you mad, to kill a Pict in his hunting paint?”
Valenso started.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you mean to say you don’t know that your men killed a Pict hunter in the woods last night?”
The Count shook his head.
“None of my men was in the woods last night.”
“Well, somebody was,” grunted the Cimmerian, fumbling in a pocket. “I saw his head nailed to a tree near the edge of the forest. He wasn’t painted for war. I didn’t find any boot-tracks, from which I judged that it had been nailed up there before the storm. But there were plenty of other signs – moccasin tracks on the wet ground. Picts have been there and seen that head. They were men of some other clan, or they’d have taken it down. If they happen to be at peace with the clan the dead man belonged to, they’ll make tracks to his village to tell his tribe.”
“Perhaps they killed him,” suggested Valenso.
“No, they didn’t. But they know who did, for the same reason that I know. This chain was knotted about the stump of the severed neck. You must have been utterly mad, to identify your handiwork like that.”
He drew forth something and tossed it on the table before the Count who lurched up, choking, as his hand flew to his throat. It was the gold seal-chain he habitually wore about his neck.
“I recognized the Korzetta seal,” said Conan. “The presence of that chain would tell any Pict it was the work of a foreigner.”
Valenso did not reply. He sat staring at the chain as if at a venomous serpent.
Conan scowled at him, and glanced questioningly at the others. Zarono made a quick gesture to indicate the Count was not quite right in the head.
Conan sheathed his cutlass and donned his lacquered hat.
“All right; let’s go.”
The captains gulped down their wine and rose, hitching at their sword-belts. Zarono laid a hand on Valenso’s arm and shook him slightly. The Count started and stared about him, then followed the others out, like a man in a daze, the chain dangling from his fingers. But not all left the hall.
Belesa and Tina, forgotten
on the stair, peeping between the balusters, saw Galbro fall behind the others, loitering until the heavy door closed after them. Then he hurried to the fireplace and raked carefully at the smoldering coals. He sank to his knees and peered closely at something for a long space. Then he straightened and with a furtive air, stole out of the hall by another door.
“What did Galbro find in the fire?” whispered Tina. Belesa shook her head, then, obeying the promptings of her curiosity, rose and went down to the empty hall. An instant later she was kneeling where the seneschal had knelt, and she saw what he had seen.
It was the charred remnant of the map Conan had thrown into the fire. It was ready to crumble at a touch, but faint lines and bits of writing were still discernable upon it. She could not read the writing, but she could trace the outlines of what seemed to be the picture of a hill or crag, surrounded by marks evidently representing dense trees. She could make nothing of it, but from Galbro’s actions, she believed he recognized it as portraying some scene or topographical feature familiar to him. She knew the seneschal had penetrated inland further than any other man of the settlement.
VI
THE PLUNDER OF THE DEAD
Belesa came down the stair and paused at the sight of Count Valenso seated at the table, turning the broken chain about in his hands. She looked at him without love, and with more than a little fear. The change that had come over him was appalling; he seemed to be locked up in a grim world all his own, with a fear that flogged all human characteristics out of him.
The fortress stood strangely quiet in the noonday heat that had followed the storm of the dawn. Voices of people within the stockade sounded subdued, muffled. The same drowsy stillness reigned on the beach outside where the rival crews lay in armed suspicion, separated by a few hundred yards of bare sand. Far out in the bay The Red Hand lay at anchor with a handful of men aboard her, ready to snatch her out of reach at the slightest indication of treachery. The carack was Strom’s trump card, his best guarantee against the trickery of his associates.