No reply; the blue mist swirled in the chamber but remained in its diffused form. Fingering his bruised neck, the Cimmerian recalled a Pictish tale of a demon sent by a wizard to slay a group of strange men from the sea, but who was then confined in that cave by this same wizard lest, having once been conjured across nighted gulfs and given material form, he turn upon those who had snatched him from his native hells and rend them.
Once more, the Cimmerian turned his attention to the chests that lay ranked along the walls of the tunnel…
Back at the fort, the count snapped: “Out, quick!” He tore at the bars of the gate, crying: “Drag that mantlet in before these strangers can land!”
“But Strombanni has fled,” expostulated Galbro, “and yonder ship is Zingaran.”
“Do as I order!” roared Valenso. “My enemies are not all foreigners! Out, dogs, thirty of you, and fetch the mantlet into the stockade!”
Before the Zingaran ship had dropped anchor, about where the pirate ship had docked, Valenso’s thirty stalwarts had trundled the device back to the gate and manhandled it sideways through the opening.
Up in the window of the manor house, Tina asked wonderingly: “Why does not the count open the gate and go to meet them? Is he afraid that the man he fears might be on that ship?”
“What mean you, Tina?” asked Belesa uneasily. Although no man to run from a foe, the count had never vouchsafed a reason for his self-exile. But this conviction of Tina’s was disquieting, almost uncanny. Tina, however, seemed not to have heard her question.
“The men are back in the stockade,” she said. “The gate is closed again and barred. The men still keep their places along the wall. If that ship was chasing Strombanni, why did it not pursue him? It is not a war galley but a carack like the other. Look, a boat is coming ashore. I see a man in the bow, wrapped in a dark cloak.”
When the boat had grounded, this man paced in leisurely fashion up the sands, followed by three others. He was a tall, wiry man in black silk and polished steel.
“Halt!” roared the count “I will parley with your leader, alone!”
The tall stranger removed his helmet and made a sweeping bow. His companions halted, drawing their wide cloaks about them, and behind them the sailors leaned on their oars and stared at the flag floating over the palisade.
When the leader came within easy call of the gate, he said: “Why, surely, there should be no suspicion between gentlemen in these naked seas!”
Valenso stared at him suspiciously. The stranger was dark, with a lean, predatory face and a thin black mustache. A bunch of lace was gathered at his throat, and there was lace on his wrists.
“I know you,” said Valenso slowly. “You are Black Zarono, the buccaneer.”
Again the stranger bowed with stately elegance. “And none could fail to recognize the red falcon of the Korzettas!”
“It seems this coast has become a rendezvous of all the rogues of the southern seas,” growled Valenso. “What do you wish?”
“Come, come, sir!” remonstrated Zarono. “This is a churlish greeting to one who has just rendered you a service. Was not that Argossean dog, Strombanni, just now thundering at your gate? And did he not take to his sea-heels when he saw me round the point?”
“True,” grunted the count grudgingly, “although there is little to choose between a pirate and a renegade.”
Zarono laughed without resentment and twirled his mustache. “You are blunt in speech, my lord. But I desire only leave to anchor in your bay, to let my men hunt for meat and water in your woods, and, perhaps, to drink a glass of wine myself at your board.”
“I see not how I can stop you,” growled Valenso. “But understand this, Zarono: no man of your crew shall come within this palisade. If one approaches closer than thirty paces, he shall presently find an arrow through his gizzard. And I charge you to do no harm to my gardens or the cattle in the pens. One steer you may have for fresh meat, but no more. And, in case you think otherwise, we can hold this fort against your ruffians.”
“You were not holding it very successfully against Strombanni,” the buccaneer pointed out with a mocking smile.
“You’ll find no wood to build mantlets this time, unless you fell trees or strip it from your own ship,” assured the count grimly. “And your men are not Barachan archers; they’re no better bowmen than mine. Besides, what little loot you’d find in this castle would not be worth the price.”
“Who speaks of loot and warfare?” protested Zarono. “Nay, my men are sick to stretch their legs ashore, and nigh to scurvy from chewing salt pork, May they come ashore? I guarantee their good conduct.”
Valenso grudgingly signified his consent. Zarono bowed, a shade sardonically, and retired with a tread as measured and stately as if he trod the polished crystal floor of the Kordavan royal court—where indeed, unless rumor lied, he had once been a familiar figure.
“Let no man leave the stockade,” Valenso ordered Galbro. “I trust not that renegade cur. The fact that he drove Strombanni from our gate is no guarantee that he, too, would not cut our throats.”
Galbro nodded. He was well aware of the enmity that existed between the pirates and the Zingaran buccaneers. The pirates were mainly Argosssean sailors turned outlaw; to the ancient feud between Argos and Zingara was added, in the case of the freebooters, the rivalry of opposing interests. Both breeds preyed on the shipping and the coastal towns; and they preyed upon each other with equal rapacity.
So no one stirred from the palisade while the buccaneers came ashore, dark-faced men in flaming silk and polished steel, with scarves bound around their heads and golden hoops in their ears. They camped on the beach, a hundred and seventy-odd of them, and Valenso noticed that Zarono posted lookouts on both points. They did not molest the gardens, and the steer designated by Valenso, shouting from the palisade, was driven forth and slaughtered. Fires were kindled on the sand, and a wattled cask of ale was brought ashore and broached. Other kegs were filled with water from the spring that rose a short distance south of the fort, and men with crossbows in their hands began to straggle toward the woods. Seeing this, Valenso was moved to shout to Zarono, striding back and forth through the camp:
“Do not let your men go into the forest! Take another steer from the pens if you lack enough meat. But if the men go tramping into the woods, they may fall foul of the Picts. Whole tribes of the painted devils live back in the forest. We beat off an attack shortly after we landed, and since then six of my men have been murdered in the forest at one time or another. There’s peace between us just now, but it hangs by a thread. Do not risk stirring them up!”
Zarono shot a startled glance at the lowering woods, as if he expected to see a horde of savage figures lurking there. Then he bowed and said: “I thank you for the warning, my lord.” He shouted for his men to come back, in a rasping voice that contrasted strangely with his courtly accents when addressing the count If Zarono’s vision could have penetrated the leafy screen, he would have been even more apprehensive. He would have seen the sinister figure that lurked there, watching the strangers with inscrutable black eyes—a hideously-painted warrior, naked but for his doeskin breechclout, with a hornbill feather drooping over his left ear.
As evening drew on, a thin skim of gray crawled up from the sea-rim and overcast the sky. The sun sank in a wallow of crimson, touching the tips of the black waves with blood. Fog crawled out of the sea and lapped at the feet of the forest, curling about the stockade in smoky wisps. The fires on the beach shone dull crimson through the mist, and the singing of the buccaneers seemed deadened and far away. They had brought old sail canvas from the carack and made shelters along the strand, where beef was still roasting and the ale granted them by their captain was doled out sparingly.