Conan of the Red Brotherhood

by Leonard Carpenter

  “A prize, you say?” Eyeing him suspiciously, she twisted free of his grasp. “Which ship will you take in pursuit? I will go with you only if you leave that little baggage behind. Promise me!”

  “Leave her to be ravished, you mean, and break the oath I swore? I cannot do that, for her sake and for yours.”

  “Then give her to Santhindrissa, by Ishtar’s girdle! There she will fit in quite well, with other hussies of low birth.”

  “A girl like Philiope? Those pirate harridans would slash her to ribbons in a day!” Conan shook his head firmly. “Nay, Olivia, we sail in both ships, and the two of you must come along. But if you insist, I will leave her aboard the Hyacinth. You may come with me in the Vixen, perilous as it may prove to be.”

  “What?—and let her sail in luxury, while I wallow in bloody bilge water? Never, I tell you!” At that moment Conan sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a perfume bottle that came flying past his head to shatter on the bulwark. “You think I enjoy watching you waltz with death? Or that I like binding up your pirate cronies’ bloody stumps, and rolling them overside when they croak their last? I have put up with it for love of you, but if that love is to be shared with a serving-wench...!”

  More crockery came flying. Conan beat a retreat, pulling the cabin door shut upon the sound of strident complaints.

  “Crom!” he muttered to himself. “I can see why women were but seldom allowed on shipboard in the Western Sea.” Philiope looked on wide-eyed, only half-amused. Conan turned aside and muttered final instructions to his sailing-master Ferdinald regarding the voyage. Then he turned to the girl. “I have ordered that you both be kept here safe, and separate for as long as possible. Olivia will recover from this fit, and I expect you to be kind to her. ’ ’ He paused, watching the Turanian girl’s face.

  “I will try,” she told him with an earnest look. “If you want me to go with you in the fighting-ship—”

  “No, remain here aboard. I will be in reach, so none will dare harm you.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping barely short of a kiss. “Farewell.”

  As he strode away across the deck, he sense the sail-hands smirking at his woman-troubles; a fierce sidelong glare quieted their snickers, wiping their faces to pale, respectful blankness.

  Swinging down into the launch, he felt suddenly free, his shoulders loose and mobile. He took up the oars and pulled straight for shore, where a gaggle of pirates assembled next to the beached galliot.

  “A fine lot of tavern-crawlers and trollop-bait!” he proclaimed as he dragged the launch ashore. “Where are the rest?”

  Ivanos, ready with cudgel in hand to make sure none of the pirates bolted, said, “I have five sturdy knaves combing the gutters and brothels for our lads, and for enough others to fill in the empty benches. Here they come now,” he added, indicating a mob of human flotsam that was being kicked and dragged along the beach from the lower end of town.

  “Good work! I promise to pay any newcomers one hundredth part of half the spoils. For my regular crew, it will be a fiftieth, as before. Now, you men, wash yourselves in the good, clean Vilayet. Drink your fill of fresh water from yon bucket and spew up last night’s sour dregs, for we soon shove off in pursuit of a prize.”

  Only a few of the pirates moved to comply, and those but slowly. “By Bel’s sagging purse,” one of the slackers complained, “why must you rouse us up so early? Fetch me back at noontide and I will row and fight for you in good spirit!” “Not I. Count me out of this cruise,” another declared, half-joking. “I am too deep in debt to Mother Ulitha’s girls to venture my life!”

  “A prize ship, indeed!” a third spoke up. “I have heard what sort of prize they mean—a pair of swift, well-armed war galleys with no sign of treasure or cargo on board! Are we fools, to lift oars in such a chase?”

  “What say you, dog?” Conan roared at last, choosing his target. In a single stride he was at the third complainer’s side, dragging him up by the soiled collar. “Who feeds you such rot?—out with it, rogue!” He glared menacingly into his captive’s face.

  “Why, I heard it from none other than Captain Knulf Shipbreaker, who offered me a place in his crew! ’ ’ The pirate gargled the words defiantly, his throat partly constricted by Conan’s clutch. “What’s more, ’tis said the ships are guided by sorcery!”

  “Aye, sorcery,” others muttered. “Mayhap it has something to do with the dark doings in Aghrapur’s harbour.” “Aye, hiring witches and spell-casters to interfere with poor, honest pirates.” The complaining voice was Diccolo's. “What an unfair business that is!”

  “Mayhap it is but a trap, and these Turanian galleys are the bait!”

  “Enough of this mutinous blather!” Conan declared, throwing down the troublemaking pirate. “I am your captain, and I say when to launch—”

  “You may be a captain,” unruly voices shouted out in defiance, “but we are a Brotherhood! We bow to no man, least of all to a northern hill-lubber!”

  During the dispute, Ivanos and his crimps had worked the fringes of the mob more and more aggressively, prodding and threatening crewmen with their cudgels. Even so, the pirates looked ready to scatter. Glaring around him, Conan clutched at the hilt of his scimitar but thought better of it.

  One of the shrillest voices was that of Diccolo, who now set up a chant, “Brotherhood or death!” But Conan, striding to the side of the beached galliot, thumped it hard with his fist, catching the pirates’ attention.

  “See this? This is my craft, I am its captain!” He ran his hand with pride of ownership up the smooth-mortised hull. “And this...” Reaching up with one swift move, he seized hold of an oar, hauled it clear of the thole-pins, and flung it one-handed straight into the crowd. “Here is your craft, Diccolo! May you captain it well!”

  The heavy oar struck the unfortunate pirate and two or three of his sympathizers across the middle; the impact knocked them over backward onto the sand, where they floundered and gasped for breath. The deft stroke brought hoots and snarls of laughter from the standing pirates, breaking the tension momentarily.

  “Now then, dogs, have I ever led you on an unsuccessful voyage? No!” Conan did not bother waiting for a chorus of agreement. “Have I ever lied to you? No! And is there a man of you who doubts that I will personally hunt down any slacker and take price of the passage out of his stripy, scabrous hide?” This time he waited for a reply, glaring around, and was rewarded with a few grudging murmurs of agreement.

  “Months agone, when I slew your unrighteous captain Sergius, you took an oath to me. Since then, most of you have lived and prospered under my command. I now promise to do even better for you. Far better, with great things in the offing—but I want you to renew that oath!” Drawing his scimitar, he held it by the blade and raised it on high. “Swear by the hilt, Amra is your chief!”

  Ivanos and his henchmen were the first to raise up their cudgel-hilts and swear; in due course, others joined in. Some vowed in the name of Amra, others by Conan, but their leader scanned the crowd closely to ensure that every man of them had at least muttered an oath of some sort, respectful or profane.

  “Good, then,” he declared. “Now, let’s run this tub of ours into the sea!”

  The pirates fell in behind Conan, and with a half-hearted cheer, they set about hauling the Vixen into the surf. After a few toilsome paces, the ship slid free and floated, its keel scuffing firm sand with the rise and fall of waves. At that point, the men leaped and scrambled up the sides, standing in the bows and using their oars to pole her out into the harbour. As they got under way, a good many pirates came out on the Red Hand’s dock to see them off. Four well-wishers likewise watched from the beach: the crimps, waving their cudgels overhead in farewell.

  Soon the galliot pulled alongside the Hyacinth. The sail-ship was already laying on canvas, making ready to warp out and raise anchor. Ivanos transferred aboard from the Vixen, returning the bigger ship’s launch. Conan, having quizzed Ferdinald at length on his nautical skill
s, trusted his new sailing-master to keep the cog off a reef; he likewise trusted his lieutenant Ivanos to keep a close eye on the Zingaran, to keep order on board, and to prevent the crew from making off with his ship and his women.

  The catapult had been transferred from the cog to the galliot, where it now rode amidships on the crossbraces built to support the oarship’s mast. Keeping control of that weapon and a large preponderance of his crew, Conan felt sure of his ability to retake the cog in the event of mutiny.

  Before long, with the Hyacinth adding sail behind them in the mild morning airs, the Vixen’s crew pulled out of Djafur harbour and Conan steered northward. The islands of the Aetolian chain clustered steep and rugged on either hand. Their rocky slopes afforded little space for agriculture or habitation, and shreds and tufts of sea-mist still clung to their shaded western sides.

  The Vilayet, blue-green under a cloud-flecked sky, frothed white in places around saw-toothed rocks. Elsewhere, the deadly presence of hidden reefs was betrayed only by noiseless eddies of clear, dark water, or by the merest irregularities in the ranks of marching waves. In most passages through these isles, a ship without a skilled pilot was doomed; here in the broad strait, an experienced eye might be enough, if kept constantly open. Conan sent a man of the sea-tribes into the bows with a sounding line, and hoped that Ivanos behind him had the sense to do the same.

  “Where is this prize ship of ours, then?” one of the oarsmen griped. “How far must we paddle before we collect our loot and get back to sleep?”

  “Aye, and where is our mast and sail? A patch of canvas amidships would ease our labour better than yon spear-thrower.”

  Conan did not trouble to answer from his place at the steering-oar; it was obvious that no sail could be raised on this trip, if they wished to pursue unseen. Instead, he prodded old Yorkin with his foot, to step up his fluting and the oar-stroking as an alternative to further conversation.

  Behind them, the Hyacinth hauled out into the strait— not too near, he was pleased to see, yet close enough to match his course between the isles. Luckily, the mild breeze lay westerly, abeam, so the sailing ship was able to follow without wide-ranging tacks and jibes. Yet even so, travelling at a brisk oar stroke, the Vixen pulled steadily ahead. Conan did not slacken pace; he hoped that by the time they reached open water, they could leave the cog hull-down over the sea’s rim.

  Before that came to pass, Conan was moved to alter course sharply. Across their forestem, just in advance of the cry from the bow lookout, he spied another vessel: From beyond the rocky headland of one of the northernmost Aetolian isles there emerged a black-sailed craft, its low hull aflash with stroking oars. “Port oars aback on my command! Ready—now!” He leaned hard on his heavy steering-oar. “Starboard oars double-time—stroke, stroke, and stroke! Good! Now pull stoutly, dogs, all ahead! Bow lookout, sing out your soundings!”

  By steering his vessel sharp into the lee of the island, Conan endeavoured to keep out of sight of the cruising penteconter. The black sailtop and purple pennon could still be glimpsed intermittently over the jagged rocks of the headland; yet he thought it unlikely that his own sail-less craft had been noticed from the deck of the military vessel, which stood a good way offshore, with a northerly heading. Now he bore in toward the rocky coast, keeping the landspit between the two vessels, meanwhile heeding the patient cries of the channel’s depth from the lookout for’ard.

  “No bottom here. Aye, no bottom yet. Reefs to starboard, but there looks to be a clear passage around them. Ten cubits here, but dropping away again. No bottom...”

  Conan spared a glance astern. The Hyacinth, framed among the rugged cliffs of the islands, was quite likely visible to their quarry as well. But the Imperials did not slow or change course. Possibly they did not recognize the cog or regard her as a threat. In any case, if Conan had his way, they would not see her again.

  Raising himself up on the galliot’s low stempost, Conan craned his neck across the headland and saw at last what he expected to see: some way behind the retreating penteconter, the broader sailtop of a full-sized warship. Its sun-bleached purple canvas was blazoned with the gold crescent moon of Turan, and strapped across with cordage to give it a weatherly shape. The dromon posed a greater risk of sighting them, and might even send lookouts to the mast-top from time to time; so Conan continued to bear in close to the rocks, reducing his oar-crew to half-strokes.

  When next he could spy over the headland, the two ships had dwindled toward the horizon. Whether or not they noticed their pursuers, they seemed intent on some business lying away to northward. He let them go, keeping the galliot under way just enough to stay off the rocks, while the Hyacinth ghosted up through the mild airs of the island chain.

  “Why then do we idle in such treacherous waters?” Pirate voices had begun to make impatient inquiries from the waist.

  “Do we now run from our victims? Do we try to lure them onto the rocks, like sirens and shipwrecking maids of the sea-tribes?”

  “There was a vessel ahead. I swear I saw one! Why steer shy of her now?”

  To keep the men quiet, Conan began working clear of the reefs—a touchy business, requiring silent attentiveness, continual soundings, and some backwatering. By the time they rounded the headland, the penteconter was all but out of sight across choppy, open water. Only the dromon’s large, square sail could be seen, and Conan set the oar stroke for brisk pursuit. Using the Vilayet pirates’ crude flag signals, he ordered the looming Hyacinth to back sails for a time, then to follow.

  The waves on the open sea were spirited. Even at a moderate pace, the exertion began to tell on the rowers. As the Aetolians dwindled astern and the sailtops ahead drew no nearer, the men resumed their grousing and grumbling. Conan speeded the stroke accordingly, though not enough to overhaul their quarry. Beside occupying the men, the orders achieved his secondary goal, that of carrying them out of sight of land.

  By mid-afternoon, their place on the open main was marked only by two patches of sail on the northern horizon, and the taller masts of the Hyacinth trailing almost as far behind. The crew, though weary from its labour, was not yet jaded into dull obedience. The men were disgruntled and angry, and still spirited enough to question their captain. Now, if ever, was there a danger of mutiny.

  “Where is our prize, then, and the easy pickings we were promised?”

  “Our captain means to row across the Vilayet in pursuit of a will-o’-the-wisp! I, for one, will not abide it!”

  “’Tis as Knulf the Vanir said: These ships we stalk are lean, tough navy cruisers lacking cargo or plunder. ’Tis time to end this fool’s voyage—”

  “Knaves! Traitors! Be silent!” Conan, abandoning his steering-oar, leaped down from the poop and waded among the oar-benches. Seizing one of the dissenters by the throat, he yanked him out of his seat and flung him head-first over the rail into the sea. “Rascal! If you want this voyage to end here, you can swim back to Djafur or ride on a shark! Stand aside, slaggards!” he told those half-rising to aid the drowning man, who now clutched for an oar blade.

  “And you, you puling, miserable wretch—” He laid firm hold of a second ringleader. “Since you think the work is too hard, I’ll ease the labour by using your guts to grease the tholes of our oars!” Reaching to his waist, he wrenched forth his heavy scimitar. “What say you to that?”

  The oarsmen, uncomfortable at being out of landfall and winded by the long hours of rowing, lacked the spirit to stand against such an onslaught. Letting the ship wallow giddily in beam-on waves, they shrank from the lone madman in their midst. The boldest ones now gave voice to such weak plaints as, “That was hardly a fair thing,” and, “Have some respect, Captain—” while the man in Conan’s clutch grimaced and sweated with the pain of the iron grip on his shoulder. After glaring about him, Conan spoke again.

  “Remember, dogs, on this very dawning you took an oath to me as your captain! It was a sacred vow before the sea-gods.” His accusatory gaze met with few un
flinching looks among them. “If you want to see land again, you will do as I say! If any of you want to give back your oath—” he waved his scimitar on high “—fine then, I will cut it out of your craw and offer it on a fishfork to Dagon!” He pointed the curving blade down at the shell of the ship, toward the weedy sailor’s hell that every man of them feared. “Otherwise, you will obey.” He raised the blade and sheathed it. “To those who follow bravely, I promise either riches or a glorious death!”

  The crew, though still leery of their captain’s wrath, began setting things in order. Some leaned on their oars to steady the hull against the giddy, sidelong motion of the waves; others helped haul the half-drowned pirate back into the ship. Conan returned to the poop, striding from one oar-bench to the next between cringing and sullen rowers. Telling old Yorkin to pipe up a brisk speed, he set about steering the Vixen on the course of the near-vanished square sails.

  For three days the pursuit went on, longer than Conan had expected. At each dusk, the Imperial squadron would strike sails and heave to; the pirates, still out of sight of land, would drop anchor into the weed and sand of the Northern Vilayet and curl up on their oar-benches for an exhausted sleep. At first light, the pursuers would raise anchor, waiting for their quarry to make sail; then they would renew the chase, with the Hyacinth getting under way behind them.

  Fortunately, the weather held, with no gales to swamp them or speed the sailships away out of sight. On the afternoon of the third day, land came into sight to eastward: a low, flat, featureless coastline with no shipping or signs of habitation. Conan had never voyaged this far northward, nor could any of his pirates tell him what to expect or where their quarry might be bound, other than toward the vast tundras of northern Hyrkania. The galliot’s crew had fallen into a sullen torpor, accepting their captain’s tyranny and their daily toil with glowering looks and superstitious murmurs.