by David Mason
Zamor’s extended hands thrust like swordblades, and two marines went down; his right hand snatched a short sword, which slashed across a third man’s belly in the same movement. The force of the blow was so great as to cut partly through the heavy leather of the marine’s cuirasse, and he staggered back with a scream of agony. But Zamor’s left hand had seized still another man’s neck already; he thrust the man forward, into the sword another lifted, and both men reeled backward, one spitted and screaming.
Hugon, close behind the giant black, had already seized an abandoned blade that came spinning along the deck; he laughed aloud, and cried out, a wordless sound. A moment later, he met a charging marine, blade to blade; the heavy, short weapons met, with a clang like pots falling in a kitchen. The marine tried to thrust, and was deftly parried; he snarled, and drew back his blade, to cut, axe-wise. It was a serious error, but he had no time to regret it. Hugon’s blade entered his throat.
As he drew the sword back, Hugon thought, in a flashing moment of queer regret, “Another poor fool.” He hated killing, and especially men whose skill with the sword was so small.
By now, the silence that had reigned before was lost completely; the roar of battle replaced it. Galley slaves hurled themselves upon marines, clawing, snatching, and shrieking; here and there, men who had already gained weapons slashed and cut at knots of seamen and marines backed against the forward bulkheads and against the mast.
On the quarterdeck, men were emerging, half-dressed, shouting, with whatever weapons they had snatched. Out on the main deck, the crazy rush of the slaves had swept the last defender away; and now, the ragged mob moved purposefully aft, toward the great cabin, Zamor, splashed with blood, a sword in each hand, was first; he came up the ladder toward the last defenders, looking like a demon out of the pit, with a wild yell as he sprang up. The knot of men on the quarterdeck shrank back before him, their faces white with terror. But near the port rail, a seaman stood, legs apart, leveling a heavy crossbow and taking aim at Zamor.
Hugon, at that moment, swung a leg lightly over the quarterdeck railing, starboard; he was behind the group of defenders, and Zamor faced them, moving tigerishly toward them. Hugon saw the crossbowman; he narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully, and swung back his right hand over his shoulder, with the sword. Bringing it forward, he let go; the sword flew, like a huge dart, and nailed the crossbow wielder to the rail. The bolt flew up, as the trigger snapped.
Zamor paused, and his eyes flicked to the falling body of the crossbowman, back to Hugon, who grinned at him. Then, Zamor roared, a sound that might have been either a giant laugh or a war cry in an unknown tongue, and met the first defender.
It was no longer a battle, now; the others had reached the quarterdeck, and the officers and nobles went down. Orsha broke free and ran, screaming, toward a door; a dozen swords swung at him as he clawed at the door, and he was down, hacked into pieces. For a moment, the sailing master held his own, his back against a rail; then, two slaves grappled with him, and all three fell into the black sea below. Others leaped into the darkness.
Lord Barazan fought well; there were dead men piled against his legs as he hacked and slashed. But a dozen swords thrust at him, and a half dead slave clutched at his knees; he went down, like the others.
The doors to the great cabin were flung open; beyond, in the light of lamps, figures moved in a panicked rush, and women screamed wildly.
Hugon, knocked against a bulkhead in the rush of men, saw a big slave with a hideously scarred face turn, grinning insanely, his arms spread wide.
“There’s women!” the slave roared; and the mob howled in demonic answer as they burst in.
In the turmoil, Hugon was carried forward; a door opened, and he fell forward, into an inner cabin. He saw the woman, and, lightning-fast, he kicked shut the door, placing his back against it. Behind him, he heard screams; the other women.
The woman was tall, with a breathtaking body, plainly visible; she had drawn a sheet around herself, but that was all she wore. She had a mass of dark red hair, loose on her shoulders; her eyes flashed, green, wide with fury as she stared at Hugon.
“You traitorous dirt!” the redhead spat, staring at him. “You… here!”
“My Lady Gwynna,” Hugon said, and grinned. “What, a traitor? I? Would you care to discuss it, lady, as to which of us…”
Men were thrusting at the door behind him, and a hand tried to enter the crack of the opening; Hugon rapped the hand with his sword hilt, and leaned close to the door, turning.
“Zamor!” he roared. “Zamor, here, quickly!”
There was renewed noise outside; then, Zamor’s deep voice bellowed in answer. Hugon moved, and the door opened; Zamor’s bulk filled the narrow opening, as he stared in.
“Zamor!” Hugon barked. “There’s a prize pigeon here we’ll need to keep alive! Keep the others out, man!”
Zamor turned, his body still blocking the door, and roared out, “There’s enough, all of you! This one’s mine!” A couple of slaves tried a moment’s protest, and Zamor’s fists slammed out; then, as he backed into the cabin, there was no more dissension. He kicked the door shut, and turned with a puzzled look toward Hugon.
“Let me introduce you, friend Zamor,” Hugon said, in a queer, strained voice. He made a sweeping bow, a strange figure in his rags. “The Lady Gwynna… formerly of Armadoc, and lately wife of the late lord Barazan. We’ve made her a widow, poor lass.” His teeth gleamed in the dim lamplight. “But she made many another widow, not too long ago, and she’s welcome to the new estate.”
The girl who stood, her back pressed against the carved panels, was tall, pale, with a loosened mass of dark red hair flowing over her bare shoulders. She was beautiful, like a trapped panther; her green eyes flared with hate as she stared at Hugon and Zamor. She was in near-nakedness, but she seemed unconscious of her near nudity, and there was no fear in her face, only rage. “Hugon,” she said, in an icy voice. “Pimp, thief, and scribbler of bad rhymes. You filth…”
“Ah, not that, my lady,” Hugon said, smiling. “My rhymes have been said to be quite good… the rest, perhaps, true enough.” His expression changed slightly. “But I doubt there’s time for an exchange of wit, lady. I shall make no mention of… your first widowing.”
“Araaak!”
At the sound, Zamor crouched, his sword up, and Hugon leaped back. They froze, eyes searching; then, the voice came again, high and screeching, and they saw its source.
“Aaak! Who you?”
A cage was hung near the ceiling, which was why they had not seen it at first; and the voice came from there.
Between the bars, a triangular, scaled and whiskered head poked, inquisitive bright eyes fixed on the two men. A long tongue flickered out, and there was a slight puff of smoke.
“Aak, what men? What you do?”
“A dragonet!” Zamor said, staring.
“Eee!” the dragonet said, in a pleased tone.
“The lord Barazan had an expensive taste in pets,” Hugon said, straightening up and peering at the creature. He glanced at the girl. “Two such beasties must have cost him many a gold piece. I know what price he paid for you, my lady, of course…”
There was a renewed banging at the door, and Hugon looked in that direction, worriedly.
“Zamor,” he said, hastily, “Listen. This woman might be held for ransom… there are those who will pay well for her. It would be a waste to let her be raped and flung over the side.”
The Lady Gwynna laughed, suddenly and coldly. “You! And you called yourself a gentleman!”
“Oh, no, never,” Hugon told her. “I’ve never had the wealth for that. Not yet.”
“Aaak!” the dragonet, in its cage, said. “I like you, man.”
“And I like you as well, small ugly one,” Hugon said. “But I’ve no time for conversation, I fear. You, woman… I’d assume you want to live. Get you into that closet, there…” He opened a door, and yanked out masses of garments, making room.
The woman glared at him, and he seized her arm, impatiently. “In, damn it!” He thrust her inside, and slammed the door.
Someone was banging drunkenly on the cabin door, and Zamor, with a quick glance at Hugon, moved to open it. A bearded face appeared.
“Where’sh women?”
“No women, bucko,” Hugon said, with a broad grin. “Got wine, though. Here.” He tossed a bottle from the cabin sideboard.
The other took the bottle and upended it, gulping; he moved back, leaving the door half open.
“I could use a pair of boots, at that,” Hugon said, loudly, kneeling beside the piles of clothing tossed out of the closet. “Ah, now…”
“If that woman has sense enough to keep quiet…” Zamor muttered, beside him. “It’s a mad scheme, man. Ransom…”
“Mad?” Hugon whispered, pawing at the clothes.
“You’ll see,” said Zamor.
The uproar outside was deafening. As the two of them found garments and put them on, they could see others in the outer cabin who had the same idea. Men reeled to and fro, waving wine bottles, dressed in fragments of the finery looted from the cabins beyond. There were wild shrieks from other parts of the ship, where the women had been dragged to their fate; and quarreling over them had evidently broken out, from the sounds.
“We’d be no more than twenty or thirty miles from the Quenda shore,” Zamor said, frowning. “And there’s no man at the rudder now.”
“Could we find a sober man,” Hugon said, and moved into the riot, Zamor behind him. He pushed open the door to the quarterdeck, and stepped out into the torch-splashed darkness. He stopped, staring into the night, and stiffened.
“Damnation!”
The starlight on the sea was bright enough to outline a row of jagged masses, black against the dim light. Beneath, flashes of lightness appeared, and there was a distant thunder.
“Surf,” Zamor said, behind him.
“You were wrong about the coast, I think,” Hugon said. He stared at the chaos on the deck, and then glanced up at the slanted sails. “Could we tack, with no hands at the lines?”
“It’s worth trying,” Zamor grunted. “Else we’ll be aboard those breakers in another hour.”
Together, they went swiftly aft, to where the twelve-foot whipstaff swung idly; stepping over bodies as they went. There were three more dead men, one hanging limply over the staff itself; Zamor plucked the corpse away, and dropped it as Hugon seized the staff and thrust it hard over.
Slowly, the galley began to turn away from the threatening white line of surf. As the sails caught on the other tack, the booms slammed over, and the ship heeled slightly; Zamor lent his own huge strength to the work, holding the turn.
Now, the ship moved in a straighter course, with more speed, since the wind set slightly away from the land. Hugon let go, and found a line coiled on deck, which he looped around the staff, holding it in place.
“Knowing something of that lady down there,” Hugon said, “I’d feel better if I could see her with my eyes. Come on, Zamor.”
The cabin was undisturbed; the dragonet, in its cage, squawked a greeting, and the closet door was still closed.
“Hello, aak!” the dragonet squawked. Hugon chuckled, and moved closer to the silver cage; he lifted the hook that closed its door, and opened it.
The dragonet uttered a high, musical trill and leaped out, its wings spreading for a moment. Hugon’s arm was extended, like a falconer’s, and the creature landed there, and clung, its tail wrapping around Hugon’s arm. It emitted a thrumming musical note, and a small puff of smoke, obviously pleased.
“My name is Fraak!” it sang, preening. “I like you, man!”
It was a handsome little monster, its scales a coppery red, shading into purple, bright yellow eyes, and whiskers that seemed to be made of gold wire. Zamor reached out and touched it, gingerly, and it uttered another pleased note.
“I’ve seen the bones of such a beast, in the west country,” Zamor said, “but much larger, bigger than ten horses. This one is so small. Is it a young one?”
“It seems full grown,” Hugon answered, absently. He was staring at the closet. “Lady Gwynna?” he called out, softly.
“Pig,” came the muffled reply.
“Good, our prize is untouched,” Hugon said, satisfied. He stroked the dragonet’s scaled head. “A beautiful specimen, this one. Male, I think… they are rare, and hard to catch, but some wealthy lords like to keep them, as we keep falcons in the west. Also, they sing beautifully, and talk most amusingly.”
“I like you,” Fraak repeated, emphatically, lifting his wings. “You let me out of cage.” He trilled a scale, and sailed off, flying to a cornice where he sat, chuckling.
Zamor had been rummaging in chests and cabinets; now, he straightened, with a broad grin, holding a long scabbard and belt out before him.
“A decent sword!” he crowed, drawing the blade half out and testing its edge with his thumb. “A piece of Grothan steel, by Lord Snake! Ach, if I’ve had this beauty in my hand an hour back…”
“You did well enough with what you had,” Hugon said. “Here, is that another blade there?”
“Take it, little man,” Zamor said, passing a second handsome weapon. “But this one’s mine. Ha, you’ve no idea what it feels like to stand free, with a sword in your hand again, after the oarbanks this last half year!”
Hugon, weighing the sword thoughtfully, nodded. “A day was enough for me.” He buckled the weapon around his waist, and picked up a bottle from a shelf. “Good wine, too.” He upended the bottle, drank, and passed it to Zamor. As the other drank, Hugon moved restlessly about the cabin, prying and searching.
“A few jewels, but enough to pay our way,” he muttered, pawing about in a small chest. “Ah, some silver pieces…”
“Yo!”
The door was open, and grinning, drunken faces appeared in the lamplight, fists and weapons waving. Zamor and Hugon turned, hands dropping to their own weapons, but the leading invader came in, grinning.
“Ye’re the lads got us loose, ain’t you?” the man said, in a wine-blurred voice. “Come out on deck, we’re aholdin’ a meetin’.” He stared curiously about the room. “Found a bit of loot, eh? Good for you, you’re entitled to it, seeing you’re the clever ones that got us all out of this.”
The dragonet hissed from his high perch, and the man recoiled, wide-eyed; a knife lifted in his hand, but Hugon seized his wrist.
“No, man, it’s nothing but a pet beast!” he said hastily. “Brings good luck… let it be, now.”
“Eh, if you say so…” the other grunted, putting back his knife. “Fair scared me, it did… but come along, will you?”
Out on the main deck, a good half of the mutineers stood, reeling, or sprawled in the scuppers; some were drunker than others, but there had been plenty of wine in the hold, and none were sober. The ship still drove steadily, under the two big sails, unattended; the wind seemed to be rising, too, from the sound in the rigging. But the noise on deck drowned out the other sound.
Some of them cheered drunkenly, seeing Hugon and Zamor; several others, making speeches to each other, paid no attention. Dead men rolled in the scuppers, and drunken men, hardly different in appearance, lolled next to them.
“Now, that’s not an encouraging sight,” Hugon said, surveying the deck from the doorway above. Zamor, behind him, grunted in agreement.
“Listen, little man, you’ve cleverness enough,” Zamor said, coming up beside him. “What’s next, now?”
Hugon glanced at the big man, scowling. “Damn it, would you leave off calling me little man? I’ve got height enough, among ordinary folk.”
Zamor grinned, but said nothing.
“Cleverness won’t get the wine out of that lot, anyway,” Hugon muttered, staring down at the motley mob. “We can’t take this blasted sea-cow anywhere without a few hands to work sail. And where in the Mother’s name she’s heading now is a grand mystery to me. I’m no sea-tracker.�
�� He glanced skyward. “South, I think… damn it, what’s south of Quenda Cape? Nothing at all but sea, and more sea… I’ve never heard of land in this direction at all.”
There was a loud argument progressing among the least drunken of the mutineers on the deck below, led by the man who had called them out.
“Yell not get me to put my hands on any turd-covered oar again, not if you kill me where I stand!” someone roared, and several others agreed with him, loudly. Another, bracing himself on spread legs, pointed at the billowed sail. “Why in hell row? We’ve wind enough!”
“But damn your eyes, we’ve got to make easting!” the first man shouted. “There’s land, eastward, the capes of Meryon…”
The argument grew hotter. Hugon, listening, shrugged.
“No chance at all,” he told Zamor. “They’ll yell till they remember they’ve got weapons, and then… aha, there it begins.”
The knot had exploded into combat, and several other fights spawned from the first, spreading across the deck. The two men stood, on their vantage of the quarter deck, and watched grimly.
“Ha, little man… excuse me, friend Hugon!” Zamor corrected himself. He was staring at the top of the nearer mast.
“Clouds,” Zamor said, thoughtfully. “The stars are gone.”
“And the wind’s rising,” Hugon said. “Hm. Had you noticed any sort of boat, perhaps, about this ship?”
“There’s none at all,” Zamor answered. He glanced out, to the darkness. “Not that it would help us much, anyway. The sea is growing heavier by the minute.”
Hugon rubbed his chin and laughed, sharply. “Do you know, it looks as if we’ve jumped off the roasting spit and into the soup pot, as the saying goes, doesn’t it?”
“If we drown, we drown free men,” Zamor said.
“Yes, but it’s not the best of company to be entering the Rainbow Gates with,” Hugon said. “You and I are the only honest men aboard, at that.”