“The stone is done now,” said the leader of the black-tunicked men, himself now straightened up, lowering the sword he had held before his face, two hands on the hilt. “The chains are nothing.”
The peasant was breathing heavily. The door was in front of him, but men with blades blocked his passage.
“Four will advance,” said the leader of the strangers. “You, and you, will engage,” he said, to two of his men, near him, in the right side of the room, as one would enter it.
“And you, and you,” said the lieutenant, to two of the men on his side of the room, the left, as one would enter.
The peasant looked wildly about himself.
He could not defend himself, he substantially defenseless now, against these blades. The chain might be evaded, or it might be stopped or turned, or tangled, by a blade. Too, as he would move to defend himself on one side, the other would close.
“He is dead,” said the leader of the strangers, quietly.
Suddenly the officer of Treve kicked the sword at his feet, that which had been earlier pried from his hand, toward the peasant. It slid across the stone. The peasant looked down at it.
“Position to advance,” said the leader of the strangers.
The four men formed, one ahead on each side.
“Pick it up!” said the officer of Treve.
The pit master, held by the men at him, looked to the officer of Treve, wildly, gratefully, elatedly.
The peasant bent down and picked up the blade. He looked at it, almost as if he did not understand such a thing. I supposed he may never had had such a thing in his hand before.
The four men prepared to advance looked to one another, and to their captain.
“You do not understand such a thing,” said the leader of the strangers to the peasant. “You are of the peasants. It is not for your caste. Your weapon is the great staff, perhaps the great bow. You are of the Peasants. You do not know that weapon. You are of the Peasants. Remember you are of the Peasants.”
“Yes,” said the giant before us. “I do not know this thing I am of the Peasants.”
“Advance,” said the leader of the strangers to the four men.
I gasped.
The first darting stroke toward the peasant had been parried smartly.
I had scarcely followed either the thrust or its turning. That single, sharp ringing of steel seemed to linger in the cell.
“Do you call this a weapon?” asked the peasant. “It is only a knife. Yet it is quick. It is very quick.”
“Strike!” said the leader of the strangers.
Another man lunged forward and again the blow was turned, almost as though one might blink an eye, by reflex.
“I do not know this thing,” said the peasant, looking at the blade, curiously.
Another fellow thrust but this time the thrust was not merely parried. The attacker lay to the peasant’s right, his knees drawn up. He coughed blood into the straw.
“But it is quick,” said the peasant. “It is quick.”
“Attack, attack!” cried the leader of the strangers.
Steel rang out by the wall of the cell. I think I heard blades cross seven or eight times.
Black-tunicked men drew back. Another of their fellows lay in the straw.
“He is a master,” said a man, in awe.
Suddenly the pit master, with a great cry, with a great surge of strength, like a moving mountain, like a pain-crazed, maddened bull, threw from the black-tunicked men who held him, as the mountain might have uprooted trees and tumbled boulders to the valley below, as the bull, rearing up, tossing its head, might have shaken itself free of besetting dogs.
At the same time the officer of Treve threw the two from him who had held him.
The pit master tore a lantern from the hand of a man and dashed it against the wall. Oil flamed for a moment, running on the wall. He then, with one hand, smote lamps from the wall, tearing them away from their holders. The second lantern was seized by the officer of Treve and dashed to the floor. Flame flickered in the damp straw, then disappeared. The last lamp, to the left, as one would enter, was struck from its holder. I heard one of the girls cry out, scalded by the splashing oil. The flame did not take in the damp straw.
“Light! Light!” cried the leader of the strangers.
We heard a man cry out with pain.
In a moment or two one of the lamps was found and lit.
One of the black-tunicked men lay in the portal, his chest bright with blood.
“Where is the prisoner!” demanded the leader of the strangers.
“He is gone,” said a man.
32
The leader of the strangers, warily, the fellow with one of the lamps, tiny and flickering, preceding him, went to the portal.
“The corridor is dark,” said the fellow with the lamp.
“He extinguished the lamps as he passes,” said a man.
“He cannot get far, not in the pits,” said the leader. “Light more lamps.”
The lamps which were still serviceable were lit. one of the lanterns, even, though its glass was broken, was lit.
“There are more lamps, torches, and such, in my quarters,” said the pit master, helpfully.
The lieutenant, carefully, crouching beside the fellow, spreading the metal, removed the helmet from the first victim of the peasant, he whose head had been struck by the stone on the chain. The lieutenant laid the bloody helmet to one side. On the broken skull within, on its forehead, distorted by the breakage, was a tiny black dagger, set there this morning.
“Your actions have been noted,” said the leader of the strangers to the pit master, “and yours as well,” he added, addressing himself to the officer, “and will be duly reported to the authorities.”
“Surely Lurius of Jad, the paragon of honor,” said the officer, “would not have condoned the murder of a prisoner.”
“From whom do you think we obtained our charge?” said the leader of the strangers.
“He cannot escape us,” said the lieutenant, standing up. “He is in the vicinity.”
“You need only find him,” said the pit master.
Neither the officer of Treve nor the pit master were now in custody of the black-tunicked men. The pit master had, I supposed, slipped his stiletto back within his tunic. He did not have it, at any rate, in his hand.
“I trust we may, from this point further, now, that he is free, and dangerous, have the assurance of your support,” said the leader of the strangers.
“Do not doubt it,” said the pit master.
“He will be trapped against the first gate, that sealing this tunnel,” said the lieutenant.
“Arm your bows,” said the leader of the strangers. “Fire even at a shadow.”
Gito was still half buried in the straw, huddled there, shaking, whimpering, to the left, as one would enter.