tore it from its socket, Cormac flung Skol back on the divan.
“Save your whims for your slaves, you drunken fool,” the Norman rasped.
Skol sprawled on the divan, grinning like an idiotic ogre and trying to work his fingers which Cormac’s savage grasp had numbed. The Norman rose and strode from the chamber in fierce disgust; his last backward glance showed Skol fumbling with the wine jug, with one hand still grasping the Blood of Belshazzar, which cast a sinister light all over the room.
The door shut behind Cormac and the Nubian cast him a sidelong, suspicious glance. The Norman shouted impatiently for Jacob, and the Jew bobbed up suddenly and apprehensively. His face cleared when Cormac bruskly demanded to be shown his chamber. As he tramped along the bare, torch-lighted corridors, Cormac heard sounds of revelry still going on below. Knives would be going before morning, reflected Cormac, and some would not see the rising of the sun. Yet the noises were neither as loud nor as varied as they had been when he left the banquet hall; no doubt many were already senseless from strong drink.
Jacob turned aside and opened a heavy door, his torch revealing a small cell-like room, bare of hangings, with a sort of bunk on one side; there was a single window, heavily barred, and but one door. The Jew thrust the torch into a niche of the wall.
“Was the lord Skol pleased with you, my lord?” he asked nervously.
Cormac cursed. “I rode over a hundred miles to join the most powerful raider in the Taurus, and I find only a wine-bibbing, drunken fool, fit only to howl bloody boasts and blasphemies to the roof.”
“Be careful, for God’s sake, sir,” Jacob shook from head to foot. “These walls have ears! The great prince has these strange moods, but he is a mighty fighter and a crafty man for all that. Do not judge him in his drunkenness. Did – did – did he speak aught of me?”
“Aye,” answered Cormac at random, a whimsical grim humor striking him. “He said you only served him in hopes of stealing his ruby some day.”
Jacob gasped as if Cormac had hit him in the belly and the sudden pallor of his face told the Norman his chance shot had gone home. The majordomo ducked out of the room like a scared rabbit and it was in somewhat better humor that his tormentor turned to retire.
Looking out the window, Cormac glanced down into the courtyard where the animals were kept, at the stables wherein he had seen that his great black stallion had been placed. Satisfied that the steed was well sheltered for the night, he lay down on the bunk in full armor, with his shield, helmet and sword beside him, as he was wont to sleep in strange holds. He had barred the door from within, but he put little trust in bolts and bars.
II
Cormac had been asleep less than an hour when a sudden sound brought him wide awake and alert. It was utterly dark in the chamber; even his keen eyes could make out nothing, but someone or something was moving on him in the darkness. He thought of the evil reputation of Bab-el-Shaitan and a momentary shiver shook him – not of fear but of superstitious revulsion.
Then his practical mind asserted itself. It was that fool Toghrul Khan who had slipped into his chamber to cleanse his strange nomadic honor by murdering the man who had been given priority over him. Cormac cautiously drew his legs about and lifted his body until he was sitting on the side of the bunk. At the rattle of his mail, the stealthy sounds ceased, but the Norman could visualize Toghrul Khan’s slant eyes glittering snake-like in the dark. Doubtless he had already slit the throat of Jacob the Jew.
As quietly as possible, Cormac eased the heavy sword from its scabbard. Then as the sinister sounds recommenced, he tensed himself, made a swift estimate of location, and leaped like a huge tiger, smiting blindly and terribly in the dark. He had judged correctly. He felt the sword strike solidly, crunching through flesh and bone, and a body fell heavily in the darkness.
Feeling for flint and steel, he struck fire to tinder and lighted the torch, then turning to the crumpled shape in the center of the room, he halted in amazement. The man who lay there in a widening pool of crimson was tall, powerfully built and hairy as an ape – Kadra Muhammad. The Lur’s scimitar was in his scabbard, but a wicked dagger lay by his right hand.
“He had no quarrel with me,” growled Cormac, puzzled. “What – ” He stopped again. The door was still bolted from within, but in what had been a blank wall to the casual gaze, a black opening gaped – a secret doorway through which Kadra Muhammad had come. Cormac closed it and with sudden purpose pulled his coif in place and donned his helmet. Then taking up his shield, he opened the door and strode forth into the torch-lighted corridor. All was silence, broken only by the tramp of his iron-clad feet on the bare flags. The sounds of revelry had ceased and a ghostly stillness hung over Bab-el-Shaitan.
In a few minutes he stood before the door of Skol Abdhur’s chamber and saw there what he had half expected. The Nubian Abdullah lay before the threshold, disembowelled, and his woolly head half severed from his body. Cormac thrust open the door; the candles still burned. On the floor, in the blood-soaked ruins of the torn divan lay the gashed and naked body of Skol Abdhur the Butcher. The corpse was slashed and hacked horribly, but it was evident to Cormac that Skol had died in drunken sleep with no chance to fight for his life. It was some obscure hysteria or frantic hatred that had led his slayer or slayers to so disfigure his dead body. His garments lay near him, ripped to shreds. Cormac smiled grimly, nodding.
“So the Blood of Belshazzar drank your life at last, Skol,” said he.
Turning toward the doorway he again scanned the body of the Nubian.
“More than one slew these men,” he muttered, “and the Nubian gave scathe to one, at least.”
The black still gripped his great scimitar and the edge was nicked and blood-stained.
At that moment a quick rattle of steps sounded on the flags and the affrighted face of Jacob peered in at the door. His eyes flared wide and he opened his mouth to the widest extent to give vent to an ear-piercing screech.
“Shut up, you fool,” snarled Cormac disgusted, but Jacob gibbered wildly.
“Spare my life, most noble lord! I will not tell anyone that you slew Skol – I swear – ”
“Be quiet, Jew,” growled Cormac. “I did not slay Skol and I will not harm you.”
This somewhat reassured Jacob, whose eyes narrowed with sudden avarice.
“Have you found the gem?” he chattered, running into the chamber. “Swift, let us search for it and begone – I should not have shrieked but I feared the noble lord would slay me – yet perchance it was not heard – ”
“It was heard,” growled the Norman. “And here are the warriors.”
The tramp of many hurried feet was heard and a second later the door was thronged with bearded faces. Cormac noted the men blinked and gaped like owls, more like men roused from deep sleep than drunken men. Bleary-eyed, they gripped their weapons and ogled, a ragged, bemused horde. Jacob shrank back, trying to flatten himself against the wall, while Cormac faced them, blood-stained sword still in his hand.
“Allah!” ejaculated a Kurd, rubbing his eyes. “The Frank and the Jew have murdered Skol!”
“A lie,” growled Cormac menacingly. “I know not who slew this drunkard.”
Tisolino di Strozza came into the chamber, followed by the other chiefs. Cormac saw Nadir Tous, Kojar Mirza, Shalmar Khor, Yussef el Mekru and Justus Zehor. Toghrul Khan, Kai Shah and Musa bin Daoud were nowhere in evidence, and where Kadra Muhammad was, the Norman well knew.
“The jewel!” exclaimed an Armenian excitedly. “Let us look for the gem!”
“Be quiet, fool,” snapped Nadir Tous, a light of baffled fury growing in his eyes. “Skol has been stripped; be sure who slew him took the gem.”
All eyes turned toward Cormac.
“Skol was a hard master,” said Tisolino. “Give us the jewel, lord Cormac, and you may go your way in peace.”
Cormac swore angrily; had not, he thought, even as he replied, the Venetian’s eyes widened when they first fell on him?
“I have not your cursed jewel; Skol was dead when I came to his room.”
“Aye,” jeered Kojar Mirza, “and blood still wet on your blade.” He pointed accusingly at the weapon in Cormac’s
