Part 12 (1/2)
Conan met Akeba's gaze. It seemed more likely that those on Foam Dancer would be meat on a spit.
”How many men does such a vessel carry?” the Turanian asked. ”I know little of naval matters.”
Conan's own knowledge of the sea was limited to his short time with the smugglers in Sultanapur, but he had been pursued by such vessels before.
”There are two banks of oars to a side, but the oar-slaves will not be used to fight. A vessel of that size might carry five score besides the crew.”
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the rigging lines humming in the rising wind. Then Sharak said hollowly, ”So many? This adventuring begins to seem ill-suited for a man of my years.”
”By the One-Father, I shall die happy,” Tamur said, ”an I know Baalsham goes with me into the long night.”
Akeba shook his head bleakly. ”He will not be on this s.h.i.+p. Such men send others to do their killing. But at least we shall find blood enough to pay our ferryman's fee, eh, Cimmerian?”
”It will be a glorious fight in which to die,” Tamur agreed.
”I do not intend to die yet,” the Cimmerian said grimly.
”The storm,” Sharak said, his words holding a new excitement. ”The storm will hide us.” The clouds were thicker now, and darker, obscuring the lowering sun.
”Mayhap,” Conan replied. ”But we will not depend on that.”
The G.o.d of the icy peaks and wind-ravaged crags of Conan's Cimmerian homeland was Crom, Dark Lord of the Mound, who gave a man life and will, and nothing more. It was given to each man to carry his own fate in his hands and his heart and his head.
Conan strode aft to Muktar, who still stood gazing at the galley. The bronze glint of its ram could be seen plainly now, knifing through gray swells. ”Will they reach us before night falls?” Conan asked the captain. ”Or before the storm breaks?”
”The storm may never break,” Muktar muttered. ”On the Vilayet lightning may come from a sky where the sun was bright an instant before, or clouds may darken for days, then lift without a drop of rain. Do you lose me my s.h.i.+p, Cimmerian, I'll see your corpse.”
”It was in my mind you were a sea captain,” Conan taunted, ”not an old woman wanting only to play with her grandchildren.” He waited for Muktar's neck to swell with anger and his face empurple, then went on. ”Listen. We may all be saved for as long as we are able, we must run before them. Then...”
As Conan spoke the dark color slowly left Muktar's face. Once he blanched, and tried to stop the Cimmerian's flow of words, but Conan would notpause for the other's objections. He pressed on, and after a time Muktar began to listen intently, then to nod.
”It may work,” he said finally. ”By Dagon's Golden Tail, it may just work. See to your nomads, Cimmerian.” Whirling with more agility that would have seemed possible, the bulky captain roared, ”To me, you wh.o.r.eson dogs! To me, and listen to how I'll save your worthless hides still another time!”
”What in Mitra's name is that all about?” Akeba asked when Conan was back at the rail.
As Muktar's voice rose and fell in waves, haranguing the crew in the stern, Conan told his companions what he planned.
A grin appeared on Sharak's thin face, and he broke into a little dance.
”We have them. We have them. What a grand adventure!”
Tamur's smile was wolfish. ”Whether we escape or die, this will be a thing to be told around the campfires. Come, Turanian, and show us if any remnant of Hyrkanian blood remains in you.” With a wry shake of his head Akeba followed Tamur to join the other nomads.
It was done then, Conan thought. Nothing remained but... Yasbet. Even as her name came into his head, she was there before him. Her soft round eyes caressed his face.
”I heard,” she said. ”Where is my place in this?”
”I will make you a place in the midst of the bales,” he told her, ”where you will be safe. From archers or slingers, at least.”
”I will not hide.” Her eyes flashed, suddenly no longer soft. ”You've taught me much, but not to be a coward!”
”You'll hide if I must bind you hand and foot. But if it comes to that, I promise you'll not sit without wincing for a tenday. Give me your sword,” he added abruptly.
”My sword? No!”
She clutched the hilt protectively, but he s.n.a.t.c.hed the blade from her and started down the deck. She followed in silence, hurt, tear-filled eyes seeming to fill her face.
In front of the mast the s.h.i.+p's grindstone, where the crew sharpened axes and swords alike, was fastened securely to the planking. Working the foot treadle, Conan set the edge of the blunt sica to the spinning stone. Sparks showered from the metal. With his free hand he dripped oil from a clay jug onto the wheel. The heat must not grow too great, or the temper of the blade would be ruined.
Yasbet scrubbed a hand across her cheek, damp with tears. ”I thought that you meant to... that you...”
”You are no woman warrior,” he said gruffly. ”Not in these few days. But you may have need to defend yourself, an the worst comes.”
”Then you will not make me,” she began, but he quelled her with an icy glance. The blood of battle was rising in him, driving out what small softness he had within. When steel was bared, the slightest remnant of gentleness could slay the one who bore it. Fiery sparks fountained from steel that was no harder than him who sharpened it.
XVI.
About Foam Dancer's deck men rushed, readying the parts of Conan's plan. The clouds darkened above as if dusk had come two turns of the gla.s.s before its time, and wind strummed the rigging like a lute, yet no moisture fell on the deck save spume from waves shattering on the bow.
Bit by bit the galley closed the distance, a deadly bronze-beaked centipede skittering across the water, seemingly unimpeded by the rising waves through which Foam Dancer now labored, wallowing heavily from trough to trough. Foam Dancer seemed a sluggish water beetle, waiting to die.”They busy themselves in the bows!” Muktar bellowed suddenly.
Conan finished tying the line around Yasbet's waist where she lay between stacked bales, themselves lashed firmly to the deck. ”You've no fear of being washed overboard now,” he told her, ”no matter how violent the storm becomes.”
”It's the catapult!” Muktar cried.
Conan started to turn away, but Yasbet seized his hand, pressing her lips to his calloused palm. ”I shall be waiting for you,” she murmured, ”when the battle is done.” She tugged his hand lower, and he found his fingers inside her leather jerkin, a swelling breast nestled in his hand.
With an oath he pulled his hand free, though not without reluctance.
”There is no time for that now,” he said roughly. Did she not realize how difficult it was for him already, he wondered, protecting a wench he longed to ravish?
”They prepare to fire!” Muktar shouted, and Conan put Yasbet from his mind.
”Now!” the young Cimmerian cried. ”Cut!”
In the stern Muktar raced to the steering oar, roughly shoving aside the burly steersman to seize the thick wooden shaft himself. In the bow two scruffy smugglers drew curved swords and chopped. Lines parted with loud snaps, and the bundles of extra sailcloth Conan had had put over the side were loosed. The sleek vessel leaped forward, all but jumping from wave-top to wave-top.
Almost beneath her stern a stone fell, half-a-man-weight of granite, raising a fountain that drenched Muktar.
”Now, Muktar!” Conan shouted. s.n.a.t.c.hing an oilskin bag, he ran aft. ”I said now! The rest of you watch the pots!”
The deck was dotted with scores of covered clay pots, scavenged from every corner of the s.h.i.+p. Some hissed as foaming water swirled around them and ran across the planking.
Cursing at the top of his lungs, Muktar heaved at the steersman's oar, its ma.s.sive thickness bowing from the strain. Slowly Foam Dancer responded, coming around. The crew dashed to run out long sweeps, stroking and backing desperately to aid the turn.
This was the point that had made Muktar's face pale when Conan told him of it. Turned broadside to the line of waves, the vessel heeled over, further, further, till her rail lay nearly on the surface. Faces twisted with fear, the smugglers worked their oars with feverish intensity. Akeba, Sharak, and the Hyrkanians scrambled to keep the clay containers from toppling or was.h.i.+ng over the side. For a froth-peaked gray mountain of water now rolled over the rail, till it seemed that men waded in shallows.