Entr'acte
:
The Doomsman
There had been no final understanding between Constans and Piers Major
as to the precise line of the attack upon the citadel. That must depend
upon the successful carrying of the defences at the boundary and upon
the duration of the skirmishing in the streets. Both had agreed,
however, that a night assault offered the better chances of victory. The
Stockaders had no siege artillery with which to batter down the gates at
long range; they would have to march straight to the walls, and the
darkness would be in the nature of a protection from the missiles of the
enemy. The moon, a little past the full, rose about nine o'clock, but
its light was liable to be obscured by clouds. One of the sudden changes
characteristic of the month of May was in progress, and a cold wind was
blowing from the northwest. It promised to be half a gale by midnight,
and already the sky was partially overcast. The initiative lay, of
course, with Piers Major, and Constans must use his own judgment in
making the diversion in the rear.
"They are throwing up an inner barricade," said Piers Minor, at
Constans's elbow. He looked, and saw that the space immediately in front
of the storehouses was being enclosed by a barrier of earth and
paving-stones. The Doomsmen were prepared, then, for the possible
carrying of the main walls by assault. What could be the weak point in
the defence?
"The gate," suggested Piers Minor.
Constans levelled his glass and examined the barrier with attention. The
vaulted archway through the walls was about sixteen feet long by ten
wide and as many high. At the street end it was closed by a gate
consisting of two wooden leaves, swung on hinges in the ordinary manner,
and having as a central support a stout post firmly sunken into the
ground. The timber construction was of the heaviest, but axe and sledge
would make short work of it could they be brought near enough for
effective use.
At the inner entrance to the archway was suspended a portcullis of
wrought-iron bars. This was the real barrier, for, even if the attacking
party succeeded in battering down the outer gate, they would find
themselves cooped up in the passageway and exposed to missiles
discharged both through the grating and from trap-doors in the vaulted
ceiling. A well-conceived theory of defence, but its present practice
was complicated by an unexpected difficulty--the portcullis, long
unused, had become jammed in the ways and refused to descend. A squad of
men were sweating at the task, but so far they had accomplished nothing.
"You are right," said Constans, letting the glass fall and turning to
Piers Minor. "What can they be thinking of--wasting time in that
hopeless tinkering? The one important thing is to close the
passageway--if possible, by means of the portcullis; failing that, to
block it up. If Piers Major but knew--nay, he must know."
Piers Minor nodded; he understood the appeal.
"I am going to tell him," he said, imperturbably. "I will be careful
about keeping out of sight until well away from the vicinity of the
'Flat-iron.' So as not to spoil sport for you," he added, smiling.
Constans accompanied Piers Minor to the street entrance, going over in
detail the message that he was to bear to his father. A final admonition
of caution, and they parted. It was still broad daylight, and Constans
returned to his post of observation.
Of course, the expected happened. A report of the portcullis's
unserviceable condition had been finally made to Quinton Edge, and
already he was on the scene--a master indeed. The confusion, the
contradictory babel of voices, dies away into order and silence, and, as
Constans had foreseen, his orders were to suspend operations on the
portcullis and proceed with all speed to the blocking-up of the archway.
Choked to the ceiling with loose stones and other debris, it would be a
formidable barricade to carry by assault.
Constans strode up and down the room, devoured by impatience. Piers
Minor had been gone now upward of half an hour, and yet there was no
sign of preparation in the camp of the allies. It would take possibly an
hour longer to make the vaulted passage impassable; Piers Major must
advance within half that time if he would take advantage of this secret
weakness in the defence. Failing to do so, he would be thrown back upon
the desperate adventure of the scaling-ladders, and the whole issue
would then hang upon the effectiveness with which Constans could bring
off his attack from the rear.
The restless fit passed, and Constans leaned out upon the window-sill,
watching the darkening sky. A fierce revulsion seized him as he pictured
to himself the scene upon which the morning sun would look--the kennels
red with blood, the horrors huddled in every corner, all the dreadful
jetsam cast up by the ensanguined tide of war. Of necessity, perhaps,
must such things be--the endurance of a lesser evil that the greater
wrong might be forever blotted out. And yet his heart was heavy.
He looked out again upon the ruined wilderness of stone that hemmed him
in. How he hated this monstrous city of Doom, infernal mother of
treacheries and spoils! How weary he was of wandering through its stony
labyrinths, fit symbol of his own oft-thwarted hopes! A vision of green
fields and quiet waters rose before him, he seemed to be walking
knee-deep in the lush grass starred with purple asters and the sweet
meadow-flag--it was the old home paddock of the Greenwood Keep; there
was the copse of white beeches, and through it came the flutter of a
woman's gown. Eagerly he watched as she came to meet him--Issa; then she
turned her face full towards him, and he saw that it was Esmay. He
sprang forward.
A roll of drums beating the charge, and Constans started. "At last!" he
said.
* * * * *
Piers Minor, keeping as closely as possible to cover, worked his way
slowly to the northward and towards the Stockader camp, on the Palace
Road. But, being unfamiliar with the topography of the district, he
insensibly kept edging into dangerous proximity to the Citadel Square;
suddenly he found himself within a short block of its eastern front. He
turned to retreat, and came face to face with a slender, black-eyed
youth who must have been following close upon his heels. Discovered, he
tried to dodge, but Piers Minor was too quick, and they closed. The
youth struggled gallantly, but the Stockader had all the advantage in
strength; in another moment Piers Minor had his antagonist crushed
helplessly into a corner. He looked at the boy contemptuously.
"Not a sound, mind, or I'll twist your throat as I would a
meadow-lark's. Why were you following me?"
The black eyes snapped back at him unwinkingly.
"Let me speak, then--you hurt me."
Piers Minor loosened his hold upon the slender throat.
"Go on."
"You are a Stockader, and there is a young man with you, fair-haired and
with dark eyes--Constans by name? Do you know him?"
"Well, and if I do?"
"Will you tell me where and how I can see him? Just a word, or, if not,
then to send him a message."
"It is impossible," said Piers Minor, stolidly. "This is a time of war,
and only for life and death----"
"It is a question of that," insisted the youth.
Piers Minor shook himself impatiently.
"Speak out, can't you? What is it that he would care to know?"
"Tell him, then, that last night Esmay disappeared, and yet still
remains in Arcadia House. He will understand, for he knows Quinton
Edge."
"A woman!" ejaculated Piers Minor, in supreme disdain. "Always that."
"Yes, always that," retorted the boy, and Piers Minor burst into a
laugh.
"You are a bold one," he said, half admiringly. "Well, I will tell him;
I promise you that. And now what am I to do with you?"
The boy made a grimace. "We may part as we have met, with no one the
wiser."
"I am not so sure of that," said the other, suspiciously. "You are a
Doomsman, and you know me to be a Stockader--a spy, if you like. If it
were for myself alone I might trust you, but so much may hang----"
He stopped abruptly and his eyes darkened. "The only sure way lies at my
knife-point." He scanned intently the face which paled before his gaze,
yet changed not in the smallest line.
"Good!" said Piers Minor, heartily. "Although, indeed, I could never
have done it. Yet I must bind and gag you," he added.
The boy pouted. "No; I will not have you touch me." He tried by a sudden
movement to slip under Piers Minor's detaining hand. The shock displaced
his cap, a fastening gave way at the same instant, and a mass of long,
black hair tumbled down upon the youth's shoulders. Even then Piers
Minor, being of masculine slow wit, might not have guessed the truth but
for a bright blush that overspread brow and cheek, a confession that
even his dull senses could not misinterpret.
"A woman!" he said, confusedly, and blushed as unrestrainedly in his
turn.
Beholding his embarrassment, Nanna was relieved of her own.
"You will have to trust me, you see," she said, coldly.
The abashed Piers Minor murmured an indistinct assent.
"And you will not forget my message?"
"No, no! He shall have it at the earliest possible moment."
"Very good--it is understood, then. Now you may go."
Piers Minor had not a word to say. He had been meditating upon a
thousand possible explanations, excuses, apologies, and his tongue would
not utter one of them. He accepted his orders meekly, but as he turned
to go he managed to stammer out, "Of course--to meet again."
Nanna, to her own infinite amazement, answered with a look that meant
yes, and knew that he had not failed to so understand it. As she walked
over to the Citadel Square she could feel that he was standing where she
had left him and looking after her. She would have turned to fittingly
rebuke behavior so indecorous, but something told her that her insulted
dignity would be better saved by removing it to a greater distance.
Nanna entered the Citadel Square after some parley with the sentinels on
the walls, who grumbled at the trouble to which they were put to let
down a rope-ladder; but, being a daughter of the Doomsmen, she could not
be denied.
A little crowd of women and elderly men gathered about an ox-cart in the
centre of the square attracted her attention. They were listening to a
speaker who, standing upright in the wagon-body, was haranguing them
earnestly. Nanna recognized him--Prosper, the priest.
It was the old story--repentance, the wrath of the Shining One, and the
imminence of the judgment. The men of the garrison, absorbed in their
preparations for defence, paid no heed; only this handful of old men and
fearful women, who crept a little closer together as they listened and
sought one another's hands. "To-day, to-day, even to-day, and Doom is
fallen, is fallen!"
A disquieting thought flashed into Nanna's mind, the remembrance of
those carefully arranged broken wires in the empty house not more than a
block away from the Citadel Square. Then of those other wires in the
temple of the Shining One, spluttering their wicked-looking sparks. She
strained her ears to catch the humming drone of the engines in the House
of Power, but there was no sound to be heard--they could not be running.
"Yet there will be mischief worked to-night if the priest has his way,"
said Nanna to herself, and shook her black-polled head safely. "I almost
wish that I had told him of that, too." And then, unaccountably, she
blushed again, for all that it was dark and no one was looking at her.