Every hut seemed to have poured forth its inhabitants for now the plaza swarmed with life—men, women, event children, running this way and that, some with weapons rushing towards the wall, others running wildly hither and yon with unintelligible cries.
A spear pierced the vapors; it fell clashing at Stern’s feet and slid rattling away over the black stones, worn smooth and greasy by uncounted feet.
Past him as he ran a man staggered; the whole side of his head was bashed in, as though by a frightful blow from a mace. Up the wounded man flung both arms, and fell twitching.
The fog covered him with its drifting folds. Stern shuddered that Beatrice should see such hideous sights; but even now he almost fell over another prostrate body, hideously wounded in the back, and still kicking.
“Ready, now!” panted Stern. “Ready with the pistols!”
Where was the patriarch?
He no longer knew. About him the Folk pressed, but none molested either him or Beatrice.
In the confusion, the rush of the outskirts of battle, he could have shot down a score of them, but he was reserving his fire. It might, perhaps, be true, who could tell—that safety lay in battling now against the Lanskaarn!
All at once the captives saw vague fire-lights in the gloom—seemingly blazing comets of blue, that tossed and hurled and disappeared.
Then came the nearer sound of shouting and the clash of arms.
Stern, with the atavistic instincts of even the most civilized man, scented the kill. And with a roar he whirled into the confused and sweltering mass of men which now, emerging from the darkening mists, had suddenly become visible by the uncanny light of the cressets on the wall.
Beside him the girl, her face aglow, nostrils dilated, breath quick, held her revolver ready.
And then, quite suddenly, they found themselves at the wall.
“Shoot! Shoot!” bellowed Stern, and let drive, pointblank, at an ugly, grinning face that like a nightmare-vision all at once projected over the crest. His own revolver-fire was echoed by hers. The face vanished.
All down there, below him on the beach, he caught a dim, confused impression of the attacking swarm.
Subconsciously he realized that he—he a man of the twentieth century—was witnessing again a scene such as made the whole history of the Middle Ages sanguinary-siege, by force of human strength and rage!
Even as he vaguely saw the swift and supple men, white-skinned yet larger than the Folk, which crowded the whole beach as far as he could pierce the mists with his straining sight, he knew that here was a battle of huge scope and terrible danger.
Up from the sea the attackers, the Lanskaarn, were swarming, from their dimly seen canoes. The place was alive with them.
At the base of the wall they were clotted in dense hordes; and siege-ladders were being raised; and now up the ladders the lithe men of darkness were running like so many ants.
Automatically as the mechanism of his own gun which he pumped into that dense mass as fast as he could pull trigger—while beside him the girl was shooting hard and straight, as well—he seemed to be recording these wonderful impressions.
Here he caught a glimpse of a siege-ladder hurled backward by the Folk, backward and down to the beach. Amid frightful yells and screams it fell; and a score of crushed and mangled men lay writhing there under the uncanny glare of the cressets.
There he saw fire-bales being hurled down from the walls—these, the comet-like apparitions he had seen from a distance—hurled, blazing, right into the brown of the mob.
Bevond, a party had scaled the wall, and there the fight was hand to hand—with gruntings, thrustings of spears, slashings of long knives that dripped red and cut again and rose and fell with hideous regularity!
He jacked his pistol full of shells once more and thrust it into the girl’s hand—for she, excited beyond all control, was snapping the hammer of her weapon on empty steel.
“Give it to ’em! Shoot! Kill!” he yelled. “Our only chance now! If they—get in—we’re dead!”
He snatched her weapon, reloaded, and again rained the steel-jacketed bolts of death against the attackers.
In the tumult and wild maelstrom of the fight the revolvers’ crackling seemed to produce little effect. If Stern expected that this unknown weapon would at once bring panic and quick victory he reckoned without the berserker madness and the stern mettle of this horde of raging Lanskaarn.
White men, like himself, they yielded not; but with strange cries and frightful yells, pressed on and on, up to the walls, and up the ladders ever; and now came flights of spears, hissing through the dark air—and now smooth black rocks from the beach, flung with terrible strength and skill by the slingers below, mowed down the defenders.
Here, there, men of the Folk were falling, pierced by the iron spears, shattered by the swift and heavy rocks.
The place was becoming a shambles where the blood of attackers and attacked mingled horribly in the gloom.
One ladder, pushed outward, dragged half a dozen of the Merucaans with it; and at the bottom of the wall a circling eddy of the Lanskaarn despatched the fighting Folkmen who had been hauled to their destruction by the grappling besiegers.
Blows, howls and screams, hurtling fire-bales and great rocks flung from above—the rocks he had already noted laid along the inside of the wall—these, and the smell of blood and fire, the horrid, sweaty contact of struggling bodies, the press and jam of the battle that surged round them, all gave Stern a kaleidoscopic picture of war—war as it once was, in the long ago—war, naked and terrible, such as he had never even dreamed!
But, mad with the lust of the kill, he heeded nothing now.
“Shoot! Shoot!” he kept howling, beside himself; and, tearing open the bandoliers where lay his cartridges, he crammed them with feverish fingers into the girl’s weapon and his own—weapons now burning hot with the quick, long-continued firing.
The battle seemed to dance, to waver there before his eyes, in the haze of mist and smoke and stifling air. The dark scene, blue-lit by the “uttering torches, grew ever more sanguinary, more incredibly hideous. And still the attackers swarmed along the walls and up them, in front and on both sides, till the swirling mists hid them and the defenders from view.
He heard Beatrice cry out with pain. He saw her stagger and fall back.
To her he leaped.
“Wounded?” he gasped.
She answered nothing, but fell limp.
“God of Battles!” he howled. “Revenge!”
He snatched her automatic from beneath the trampling, crowding feet; he bore her back, away from the thick press. And in the shelter of a massive hut he laid her down.
Then, stark-mad, he turned and leaped into the battle-line that swayed and screamed along the wall.
Critical now the moment. In half a dozen places the besiegers had got their ladders planted. And, while dense masses of the Lanskaarn—unminding fire-balls and boulders rained down upon them—held these ladders firm, up the attackers came with a rush.
Stern saw the swing and crushing impact of the maces and iron clubs; he saw the stabbing of the spears on both sides.
Slippery and red the parapet became.
Men, killed there, crawled and struggled and fell both outward and inside, and were trampled in indiscriminate heaps, besieged and besiegers alike, still clawing, tearing, howling even in their death agony.
Now one of the ladders was down—another fell, with horrid tumult—a third!
An automatic in each hand, Stern scrambled to the glairy summit of the fortification.
A mace swung at him. He leaped sidewise, firing as he sprang. With a scream the ax-man doubled up and fell, and vanished in the gloom below the wall.