XXVI
THE SONG OF THE SWORD
It did not take long for Constans to arouse and collect his men; tiredof inaction, they were only too glad to respond to the summons. And atthe last, Constans, unable to withstand the entreaty in Red Oxenford'seyes, 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 readyassent to the condition.
Under the south rampart of the citadel they halted. There were but twoguards on duty here, and they were easily surprised and secured beforethey could give an alarm. As one by one the rest of the company ascendedthe scaling-ladder, they were ordered to throw themselves prone on theflat top of the wall, to await the final signal. Over at the north gatethe clamor grew momentarily--there were blows of axes on wood, and clashof 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 byhis son. The chances of a frontal attack had already been discussedbetween him and Constans, and the latter had devised a formation which,in theory at least, should make such an undertaking feasible. In itsbasic idea it was the Roman _testudo_, described by Julius Caesar in theGallic Commentaries. The phalanx of marching men were protected fromarrows, darts, and ordinary missiles by a continuous covering formed oftheir ox-hide shields, the latter being held horizontally above the headand interlocked. The overlapping shields bore a fanciful resemblance tothe scaly carapace of a tortoise--hence its name; and, so long as theessential principle of unity of action was maintained, it might bereckoned an effective engine of warfare.
As the _testudo_ moved down the Palace Road and towards the woodenbarrier of the north gate, it was to be observed that the front-rank menand the file-closers carried their shields in the ordinary fashion, inorder to ward off horizontally flying missiles. Once under the shelterof the walls, the leaders would immediately discard their now uselessbucklers and begin to ply their axes, protected from overhead assaultsby the overlapping shields of their comrades. The formation advancedsteadily; there was a suggestion of terrific irresistibility in the veryslowness of its progress; to the eager fancy it might have been theveritable recreation of some prehistoric monster, the illusion beingheightened by the torchlight that flickered uncertainly over the roundedbellies of the shields of greenish leather and was reflected redly fromtheir 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 broughtinto action, and their huge projectiles hurtled constantly through theair, but for the most part innocuously, the machines not being in thebest of order and the artillerymen unpractised in their use. It was notuntil the _testudo_ had advanced to within fifty yards that a shotdischarged by a machine, worked by Quinton Edge in person, took effect,the missile striking the _testudo_ on the left wing and disabling threemen. Before the advantage could be followed up the files had been closedagain and the formation had advanced so far that the catapults becameuseless, it being impossible to depress them beyond a certain angle. Thefront rank had now reached the barrier, and the axes fell furiously uponthe wooden leaves of the gate. The Doomsmen on the walls renewed theattack with hand-weapons, the slingers and archers hurling theirmissiles vertically downward and the spearmen watching their opportunityfor an effective body-thrust. The affair would be short and sharp, forthe _testudo_ could not be expected to hold its position for longer thana few minutes--it was not in flesh and blood to withstand indefinitelythat fierce and deadly shower. Already there were gaps in the protectiveroof of shields--impossible to repair, for in that close-packed mass thebodies of the wounded and dead impeded the progress of those who wouldotherwise have taken their places. Yet the struggle went stubbornly on.
A sharp-eyed youth who was lying next to Constans touched him on thearm, directing his attention to a squad of the defenders who wereworking to dislodge one of the massive coping-stones of the gatewayarch. Already it was oscillating under the heave of the levers; if itfell, a score of men might be crushed beneath its weight, and thedestruction of the _testudo_ would be a certainty. Constans raised hisrifle. 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 andanother nursed a broken wrist. The workers at the gate were thrown intoconfusion and the stone settled back into its bed. The assailantsredoubled their efforts, and the thunder of the axe-blows becamecontinuous.
"Through! they are through!" shouted Constans, and sprang down upon thebanquette. In his excitement he entirely forgot about the new weaponthat had but just now rendered such signal service; he threw aside therifle for the more familiar sword. And he noticed that his followers hadacted under the same primitive impulse; the fire-stick might be giventhe honor of drawing first blood, but it was for cold steel to finishthe work.
Shoulder to shoulder the men raced across the square to the gate. Theattempt to block up the passage, had failed for lack of time, and theStockaders were pouring through pellmell, intent on securing foothold inthe open. The Doomsmen, forsaking the now useless walls, met them man toman; there was the clash of opposing bucklers, and through the dinpierced 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 hadso far greatly out-numbered the Stockaders, and the latter were beingforced back into the vaulted passage, thereby blocking it against themain body of their comrades. But now the Doomsmen, attacked from behind,were obliged to devote part of their attention elsewhere, the pressureat the gateway was relieved, and reinforcements, with Piers Major andPiers Minor at their head, made their way through and took active partin the struggle. Even then the defenders were slightly superiornumerically to the invading party, and the issue remained in doubt.
Constans felt himself carried into the thickest of the press; he foughton mechanically, thrusting and cutting with the rest, and yet hardlyconscious of what he was doing. His mind would not work easily; he foundhimself dwelling upon inconsequential trifles--what had become of hiscap? and how tall was that big fellow with the broad-axe who seemed soanxious to come to close quarters with him? He was not in the leastafraid, but he wondered if it were possible for him to come out of allthis alive. It seemed unthinkable that the ring of steel surrounding himcould be broken by any mortal power; sooner or later it must contractand crush him. Even the momentary vision of Ulick, stripped to the waistand with a broad, red streak across his forehead, failed to arouse him.He could think only of a thresher with his flail as Ulick, bludgeoningright and left, won clear from the press of Stockader foes surroundinghim and rejoined his own ranks. A confused idea that he wanted to speakto 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 letthem come to you--don't rush them!"
In a hand-to-hand encounter there can be but little opportunity forstrategy or leadership, except in the purely physical sense. Yet, oneither side, the men fought as though animated by a common instinct, theDoomsmen striving to force the Stockaders back into the gateway passage,and the latter endeavoring to cut their way bodily through the mass ofthe defenders and so divide its strength. For a while the tide began torun with the allies, and the Doomsmen were obliged to fall back slowlytowards the interior barricade on the east side of the square thatprotected the women and children. Constans, panting from his exertions,snatched at this moment of respite to regain his breath. A moment beforehe had stumbled against a small keg that was rolling about under thefeet of the struggling men; this he up-ended and mounted for a betterlook around.
It was true; the Doomsmen were really giving way, a
nd the victory wasall but won. Yet not quite, for even as he gazed the onrushing line ofthe triumphant Stockaders sagged backward at the centre, and theDoomsman yell broke out. What was it? What had happened?
Emerging from the portal of the White Tower came half a dozen bearerscarrying between them a chair in which sat a man--an old man with ashock of snow-white hair covering his massive head. And those shouldersneeded no identification from the familiar wolf-skin that lay acrossthem. This could be none other than Dom Gillian, Chief and Overlord ofthe Doomsmen, Father of the Gray People. He wore no armor and carried noshield, 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 attendantsattempted to assist him, but he waved them back. Ah, the wonder of it asthat huge bulk reared itself to full height! An ordinary man might standcomfortably under his out-stretched arm and barely join the tips of hisfingers in measuring around the monster's girth. But there was more thanmere bigness with which to reckon. The close observer might notice thathis armpits and the corresponding parts under the knee were not hollow,as is ordinarily the case, but were filled with a solid mass of muscleand tendon. And this was Dom Gillian, with the weight of ninety-oddyears upon his back. What manner of man must he have been in the noondayof his strength!
As though by common consent the conflict came to an abrupt end; the twolines drew apart and silence fell between them. Dom Gillian took two orthree forward steps. He seemed to be uncertain of where to plant hisfeet, as is the natural consequent when one has not walked for a longtime; 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 hemanipulated his ponderous mace, swinging it from side to side in great,slow circles. Only Constans noticed that he kept his head turnedconstantly in one direction, where there was a great flare of light, adozen cressets and link-torches burning together. Could it be that hiseyesight had failed save for the mere distinction between light anddarkness? It might be well to know surely, and, stepping down from hisvantage-point, Constans forced his way to the front. Quinton Edge wasspeaking, and Constans listened with the rest.
"If there is one among you," he said, with smooth distinctness, "whothinks himself a man, let him stand forth and make answer to our father,Dom Gillian, face to face, so that our lord may particularly inquireconcerning these dogs of Stockaders who dare to show a naked blade inthe inmost citadel of Doom the Forbidden. You have tracked the gray wolfto his lair, now send you out a gallant who will clip his claws."
Constans, intent upon his theory, noticed that Dom Gillian had turnedhis head in the direction of Quinton Edge's voice when he first began tospeak, but almost immediately his attention had flagged and his eyes hadwandered back to the lights. Now, as Quinton Edge stopped, the old man'sface changed suddenly, the eyebrows contracting and the jaw settingitself rigidly. It seemed as though he were about to speak, but therewas only that murmur in his throat, hoarse and unintelligible. ThenConstans understood that this was no longer a man that stood beforethem, but merely a wild beast in leash. The monster seemed annoyed bythe silence. He moved forward uncertainly for a few steps and stoodstill; 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 groundbehind him. Constans stood for an instant at Oxenford's ear.
"The old wolf is nearly blind," he whispered. "Take care not to getbetween 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 forthese last few days. "Stand clear!" he said, and Constans moved away andstood watching.
Man to man, Oxenford, though by no means a weakling, was yet outclassedin every particular of height, weight, and reach. But he possessed oneinestimable advantage--that of agility. Quick footwork should save himat even the closest pinch--that and his wits. Then, if the giant werereally blind!
Realizing the futility of trying to meet Dom Gillian with weaponssimilar to his own, Oxenford had provided himself with a simpletruncheon of lignum-vitae, while in his belt was stuck a broad-bladed,double-edged knife. The latter was for close quarters, but it wouldrequire some manoeuvring to get there, and Dom Gillian would askopportunity but for one clean stroke.
The men faced each other steadily for perhaps a minute. Then Oxenfordrapped his antagonist smartly across the knuckles and sprang back out ofreach. The colossus, with a growl, swung his mace to right and left,striking at random, for Oxenford had cunningly contrived to turn DomGillian so that the light was at his back. Quinton Edge must havenoticed the ruse, for he beckoned to an attendant and ordered thatevery available torch and cresset should be placed about the arena. Butthe affair was over long before the command could be obeyed.
Again the giant struck out, and this time so strongly that he came nearto losing his balance. Oxenford, rushing in, discharged a quick half-armblow on the Doomsman's right wrist, and the mace dropped from thesuddenly paralyzed grip. Confused and terror-stricken, Dom Gilliandropped on all-fours, groping about in the darkness for the weapon thathad rolled away and out of immediate reach. Oxenford, drawing his knife,struck downward, aiming for the angle of neck and collar-bone. But inhis eagerness he overshot the mark, the blade making only a triflingflesh wound, and the next instant Dom Gillian had him in his clutch. Thetwo stood up together.
It seemed a long time, hours indeed, that Dom Gillian waited for hisinjured wrist to recover its strength, holding Oxenford easily in hisleft hand and shaking the other incessantly to restore the interruptedcirculation. Even when at last satisfied that the wrist could be trustedto do its duty, he did not appear to be in any hurry; he seemed to bemeditating upon the most effective use to which he could apply theadvantage that he had gained. Then, suddenly, Dom Gillian bent down andgrasped his victim by the ankles, swinging Oxenford into the air aseasily as a thresher does his flail. With every muscle starting to thestrain, the Doomsman whirled his enemy's body once, twice, and thrice,at full sweep about his head, then downward into crushing contact withthe pavement. A final superhuman effort, and the inert mass was hurledclean over the heads of the on-lookers, falling with the dead sound ofover-ripe fruit against the wall of the White Tower.
A full minute passed, and still every eye remained fixed on Dom Gillian.He had not moved, except to turn his head again in the direction of thelight--a dumb instinct like to the compass-needle that seeks themagnetic pole. A colossal statue, but Constans fancied that it wasswaying at its base, then he saw the great chest heave convulsively anda bubble of reddish foam issuing at his lips.
But the man was dying hard; in another moment he had straightened up,and was resolutely swallowing back the salty, suffocating tide, beatingthe air with his hands as he strove for breath. Only for an instant,however, for now the tide had become a flood, and, with a little fretfulmoan, like to that of a tired child, Dom Gillian, Overlord of Doom, sankto earth, not falling headlong, as does a felled tree, but quietlysettling into a heap, just as an empty bag collapses into itself.
* * * * *
The fighting had begun again; no man could say why or how. True, theDoomsmen had been disheartened by the fall of their champion, but theywere not yet ready to yield themselves; they had retreated to theshelter of the interior barricade, and would make there a final stand.The Stockaders, flushed with anticipated triumph, drove blindly,recklessly at the barrier. Constans felt the blood singing in his ears,then a weight suddenly lifted from his brain; his eyes cleared and thefierce joy of conflict capt
ured him. He forced his way to the front,gaining foothold on the barricade. Ten feet away stood Quinton Edge,and Constans's heart was glad. At last!
A hand caught at the skirt of his doublet, and impatiently he jerkedhimself loose. Again the detaining grasp; he bent down to strike andlooked into Ulick's eyes. Obedient to the unspoken request, he kneltdown and tried to move his friend into a more comfortable position. Thecrushed chest sank horribly under his hands, and he was obliged to giveover.
"Close to me," whispered Ulick, and Constans bent his head to listen.
"It is of Esmay," he said. "Nanna but just now told me--aprisoner--Arcadia House--you will go to her?"
"Yes," said Constans.
But Ulick had followed the direction of his eyes and seen that theyrested on Quinton Edge.
"At once; it must be now--else too late."
Constans did not answer.
"Now!" reiterated Ulick, insistently.
"I cannot."
"Yes."
"I will not."
"Yes."
Constans's voice was hard; he rose to his feet.
"I have been waiting upon this chance for years--you do not understand."
"Yes--I understand."
"All along; it was you who loved her."
"But you--whom she loved."
"No," said Constans, sullenly.
"It is--true."
"No!" again cried Constans. Then, suddenly, it seemed that a greatlight shone about him. But the wonder of it lay not in this newknowledge of Esmay's heart, but in the revelation of his own. He lovedher, he knew it now, and not as in that brief moment of passion atArcadia, when even honor seemed well lost. For this was the greater lovethat draws a man to the one woman in the world who has the power to lifthim to the heights whereon she herself stands. A supreme joy, thathumbled even while it exalted, swept over Constans. "I will go," hesaid, and took Ulick's hand in both his own.
The storm-centre of the fighting had moved away from them; above theirheads the stars shone serenely. Constans could not speak, but he pointedthem out to his friend.
* * * * *
Piers Minor, fighting in the press at the gate as became his stoutbreed, chanced to rescue a boy from being crushed to death. The lad hadbeen crowded up against a projecting angle and was quite breathless whenthe Stockader, arching his back against the pressure, broke the jam bysheer strength and pulled the stripling out of his dangerous position.But what a fine color came back into the white cheeks as the twainrecognized each other!
"You!" said Nanna, and at that moment she would have given all shepossessed in the world for just a skirt.
"You!" re-echoed Piers Minor, and immediately a horrible dumbness fellupon him.
The thunder of the captains and the shouting filled their ears, but theyheard not, the red light of battle danced before their eyes, but theysaw not. Some miracle swept them clear of the struggle, and guided themto the shelter afforded by a half-completed barricade of ox-carts. Andhere Piers Minor, seeing that she trembled and edged closer to him likeany ordinary woman, took on a wonderful accession of courage.
"Little one!" he murmured, in his big, bass voice, and laughedcontentedly, just as though death were not standing at his other elbow.But then Piers Minor was not a man to think of more than one thing at atime.
"I have seen Ulick," whispered Nanna, "and he promised to give themessage to Constans. Surely he will do so--tell me?"
Piers Minor put his arm around her. "Of course," he answered, stoutly,without comprehending in the least who Ulick was or what the messagecould be about. But he did understand that she wanted comfort in hertrouble, and so he said and did precisely the right thing. All of whichwas exceedingly clever for Piers Minor.
Some one brushed rudely against them, and Piers Minor turned in anger.But Nanna laid her hand upon his arm. "Hush!" she said, "it is Prosper,the priest."
The old man stood motionless for an instant surveying the wild scenebefore him.
"It is the third day," he muttered, "the day of Doom. The day and nowthe hour. So be it, lord; it is thy will, and I obey."
With the last word he wheeled and disappeared into the shadows. Anintuitive sense of the impending peril seized the girl. "Come!" shepanted, and dragged at her companion's sleeve. "It is the vengeance ofthe Shining One. But there is a chance--if we follow."
Piers Minor did not hesitate. "As you will," he said, briefly, and Nannaflashed back at him a brilliant smile, hand-in-hand they sped throughthe now deserted passageway of the north gate.
* * * * *
For the last time Constans bent his lips to the ear of the dying man."Ulick!" he called. There was no answer, and Constans felt that the handthat lay in his was growing cold. Then for one brief instant the soullooked out from the hollowed eyes.
"The sun!" he said, and smiled as one who, having kept the watches of along night, looks upon the dawn. "The sun!" he cried again, and hisspirit went forth to meet it.
* * * * *
Constans rose unsteadily to his feet.
The sun! A vivid glare beat down upon him. The sun! and rising in thewest!
A vast shaft of fire shot upward to the zenith, and all along thewestern horizon pinnacles and roof-line stood out etched in crimson.Constans saw that the entire quarter of the city west of the CitadelSquare was in conflagration, and the flames, borne on the wings of anorthwest gale, came driving swiftly down. A rain of red-hot cindersfell about him.
A shout of terror went up from Doomsmen and Stockader alike, and thefighting ended abruptly. Then began a rush for the gate, victors andvanquished mingled indiscriminately together, constrained only by theone common impulse to seek refuge in flight. To add to the confusion,fresh explosions were heard on the north and south, followed almostimmediately by the appearance of flames in these latter quarters. Where,then, led the path to safety?
Constans, running towards the southern rampart, where he knew he shouldfind his ladder, saw a tall figure just ahead of him. He recognizedQuinton Edge, but the Doomsman had reached and scaled the wall beforeConstans could overtake him. Yet he caught a glimpse of his enemyproceeding rapidly in a northeast direction. Constans followedimmediately, tightening his belt for the hard run that lay before him.