Part 11 (1/2)

Suddenly a sharp voice sheared through the clamor: ”Avast, there!

What's going on? Who are they? I told you to fetch them to me as soon as they were picked up!”

A tall man, wearing a light mail s.h.i.+rt, stood on the bridge, one fist banging the rails. A blazing red cloth was wound around his head. A badly-healed scar from eye to chin disfigured his long, narrow face.

”It is Conan, Captain!” cried old Artus, the s.h.i.+pmaster. ”Our old admiral has returned!”

The captain's close-set eyes narrowed as his own sight sought confirmation of the oldster's words. An evil light blazed in those eyes as he picked out the bronzed form of the Cimmerian. He opened his mouth to speak, but Conan beat him to it.

”Are you not glad to see me, Yanak? Remember how I kicked you out of the fleet for h.o.a.rding spoils that belonged to all? How have you managed to trick your way to a captaincy? Ill days must have dawned for the Brotherhood!”

With his mouth working, Yanak spat back: ”For that, barbarian, I will have you hung by the heels and roasted over the s.h.i.+p's fire! I am captain and give the orders here!”

”That may be,” retorted Conan. ”But I am still a member of the Brotherhood.” He looked challengingly around, and n.o.body chose to deny his a.s.sertion. ”I claim a right according to the articles. The right of any member of the brotherhood to fight the captain of a s.h.i.+p for the captaincy in a captain's duel.”

He tossed up the dagger he had borrowed from Rolf and caught it again.

It was a formidable weapon with a broad, eighteen,-inch blade, but still no sword. He and Rolf had cast aside their swords in order to swim to the sloop, so the dagger was the only weapon they had between them.

The crew murmured, for all knew that in such a duel Conan would have to fight with whatever weapon he had with him at the time, while Yanak could choose what weapons he pleased. Yanak's armor, too, would give him a further advantage.

”This is madness, Conan!” Arms plucked the Cimmerian's elbow. ”Yanak will cut you to pieces. I have seen him fight three brawling drunkards at the time and lay them low. We'll depose him instead and choose you for captain. All your old followers are on your side.”

Conan shook his head and rumbled: ”Half the crew don't know me and would oppose such a move. The men would be split into factions and our strength would be weakened. No, it must be done the traditional way.”

Several crewmen were already clearing a s.p.a.ce around the mast. Yanak approached, a gleeful smile on his scarred face as his hands tested the supple strength of a keen, straight sword. It was a weapon forged by a master craftsman, as could be seen by its brightly gleaming blade and sharply honed edges, tapering to a needle point.

Conan gripped his dagger firmly and strode towards the mast. A wide circle six yards in diameter was already drawn in charcoal on the deck around the mast. The rules of the fight were simple. The antagonists were to fight inside the circle. Any trick was allowed. The fight would be to the death, or until one of the duelists was so badly hurt he could not go on. In that case he would simply be flung overboard anyway. If one of the fighters stepped out of the circle, the onlookers would at once thrust him back in.

The instant Conan entered the circle, Yanak bounded forward, cleaving the air with a whistling stroke. But the barbarian was too old a hand to be surprised. He leaped sideways, and Yanak was saved from a dagger thrust in his side only by twisting his body aside at the last moment.

After that, he moved more warily, although he was clearly at an advantage. The longer reach of his weapon almost matched him evenly with Oman's brawn and stature. Now and then he made a sudden attack, shouting and cursing, but the silent Cimmerian parried or evaded the blows with effortless ease and continued to circle around the mast.

Conan ignored the pirate captain's taunts and exhortations to stand and fight.

Then Yanak tried a trick. Conan and he were temporarily on the same side of the mast. With all the power of his knotted leg muscles, the captain sprang upward in a mighty leap, at the same time smiting downward at the Cimmerian's bare head.

But Conan's instinct triggered his lightning-fast responses. Instead of retreating, he sprang forward. Yanak's blade whistled harmlessly down behind the barbarian's back as Conan buried his knife to the hilt in his foe's abdomen, shearing through the light mail links with the immense force of his thrust. The pirate fell to the deck, cursing and gagging on blood. His sword fell with a clank. Conan stooped and lifted him up. With a mighty heave, he flung the corpse over the heads of the crew into the sea. Picking up the fallen sword, he swept their ranks with a cold gaze.

”Now who is captain, my lads?”

The shouts of ”Conan!” would have satisfied any doubter. Conan drank in the heady satisfaction of his new-won power. Then his thunderous voice bellowed them to silence.

”To die sails and oars, lubbers! A man to the masthead as lookout! I have Yezdigerd himself hot on my trail. But we will lead him a merry chase, by Crom!”

Taken aback by the announcement that their archenemy was abroad, the crew's idolatrous confidence in Conan was yet so strong as to wash away all misgivings. Many remembered how the Cimmerian had fought and tricked his way out of seemingly impossible odds. Tales of these exploits were circulated among the rest of the crew.

Conan sprang to the bridge in one mighty leap, shouting: ”Set sail!

Course southeast!”

Men hauled at lines, voicing l.u.s.ty sea songs. Yellow canvas spread before the breeze. The pirate at the helm strained with knotted muscles at the steering oar, bringing the slim vessel about. She fled eastward before the wind, fleet as the deer of the moorlands.

”So you think I'm mad, Artus? By Crom, I hope Yezdigerd thinks so too!”