“You give nothing, Sharane,” he answered her. “I—take!” He lifted her in his arms; he strode through the rosy cabin’s door; shut it with thrust of foot and hurled down its bar.
Sigurd, Trygg’s son, came and sat at the threshold of the rosy cabin. He polished the black priest’s sword, chanting low some ancient bridal lay.
Upon the black deck Gigi and Zubran moved, casting the bodies of the slain into the sea; ending the pain of those not yet dead; casting them then after the others.
One dove and then another fluttered down from the balcony of the little blossoming trees. The Viking watched them, still chanting. Quick after the first dropped others, twain upon twain. They cooed and bent inquisitive heads; they billed and murmured. They formed a half ring before the cabin’s closed door.
The white-breasted doves—red-beaked, vermilion-footed; the murmuring, the wooing, the caressing doves—they set their snowy seal upon the way to Kenton and Sharane.
The doves of Ishtar wedded them!
PART III
The Black Priest Strikes
CHAPTER 14
“Dear lord of mine—Kenton,” whispered Sharane. “I think that even you do not know how greatly I love you!” They sat within the rosy cabin, her head upon his breast. It was a new Kenton who looked down upon the lovely face upturned to his. All that had been modern had fallen from him. He had gained in height, and brown as his face was the broad chest bared by open tunic. His blue eyes were clear and fearless, filled with a laughing recklessness; touched, too, with half fierce ruthlessness. Above the elbow of his left arm was a wide bracelet of thin gold, graven with symbols Sharane had cut there. Upon his feet were sandals that Sharane had embellished with woven Babylonian charms—to keep his feet upon a path of love that led to her and her alone.
How long had it been since that battle with the black priest, he wondered, as he drew her closer to him. Eternities it seemed—and but yesterday! How long?
He could not know—in that timeless world where eternities and yesterdays were as one.
And whether yester-moment or eternities ago, he had ceased to care!
On and on they had sailed. And ever as they slipped through the azure seas, memory of that other life of his had dwindled and sunk beneath the horizon of consciousness, as the land sinks behind the watcher on an outward bound ship. He thought of it, when at all, with a numbing fear that he might be thrust back into it again—that old life of his.
Away from the ship! Away from Sharane—never to return!
On and on they had sailed. The black cabin, swept clean of evil, housed now the Viking, Gigi and the Persian. Sigurd or Gigi handled the two great oars that, fastened to each side of the stern, steered the ship. Sometimes, in fair weather, maids of Sharane took their place at the rudder bars. The Viking had found an anvil in the hold under the black cabin; had made a forge and on it hammered out swords. One he had made for Gigi, full nine feet long, that the dwarf-legged giant handled like a wand. Better, though, Gigi liked the mace that Sigurd had also made for him—long as the sword, with huge bronze ball studded with nails at its end. Zubran clung to his scimitar. But the Viking labored at his forge, beating out lighter brands for Sharane’s warrior maids. He made them shields and taught them to use both sword and shield as they had been used on his dragons in the old Viking days.
Part fruit of that instruction, sword play with Sigurd, wrestling with Gigi, fencing with his own blade against the scimitar of Zubran, was Kenton now.
All this Gigi had encouraged.
“No safety while Klaneth lives!” he would croak. “Make the ship strong.”
“We have done with Klaneth!” Kenton had said, a little boastfully.
“Not so,” Gigi had answered. “He will come with many men. Sooner or later the black priest will come.”
There had been recent confirmation of this. Soon after his battle Kenton had taken one of the blacks, a Nubian, and set him in Zachel’s seat. But this had made them short one slave at the oars. They had met a ship, hailed it, and demanded an oarsman. Its captain had given them one—fearfully, quickly, and had sped away.
“He did not know that Klaneth was no longer here,” chuckled Gigi.
But not long after this they had met another ship. Its captain would not halt when hailed and they had been forced to pursue and to fight. It was a small vessel, easily overhauled and easily captured. And that same captain had told them, sullenly, that Klaneth was at Emakhtila, High Priest of a temple of Nergal there, and one of the council of the House of Nergal in the temple of the Seven Zones. And more, the black priest was high in favor with one he called the Lord of the Two Deaths—the ruler, so they gathered, of Emakhtila.
Klaneth, said the captain, had sent forth word that the Ship of Ishtar was no longer to be feared, that it now held neither Nergal nor Ishtar but only men and women. It was to be sunk when met, but its men and women were to be saved. For them he offered a reward.
“And had my boat been but a little bigger and my men more, I would have claimed that reward,” he had ended, bluntly.
They took what they wanted from him and let him go. But as the ship drew away, he shouted to them to take what joy of life they could at once, since Klaneth on a great ship and with many men was searching for them and their shift was apt to be short!
“Ho-ho!” grunted Gigi, and—“Oh-ho! Klaneth searches for us, does he? Well, I warned you he would, Wolf. What now?”
“Make for one of the isles, pick our vantage ground and let him come,” answered Kenton. “We can build a fort, raise defenses. Better chance we would have against him than on the ship—if it be true that he pursues us in a great vessel with many soldiers.”
They had found Kenton’s word good, and they were sailing toward such an isle, Sigurd at the helm, Gigi and the Persian and the women of Sharane on watch, alert.
“Yea—dear lord of me—even you do not know how greatly I love you,” whispered Sharane again, eyes worshipping, arms fettering his neck. His lips clung to hers. Even in the sweet fire of their touch he marvelled, blind to his own renaissance, at this changed Sharane—Love’s changeling since that time he had carried her within her bower, disdaining her as gift, taking her by right of his two strong arms.
Swift memories shook him; of Sharane—conquered; of some unearthly wonder that had flamed over the shrine and with fingers of pure fire had woven his soul with hers in threads of flaming ecstasies!
“Tell me, lord of me—how much you love me,” she murmured, languorously.
There came a shout from Sigurd:
“Waken the slaves! Drop oars! Storm comes!” Imperceptibly, the cabin had darkened. He heard the shrilling of the overseer’s whistle, a shouting and patter of feet. He unclasped Sharane’s arms; gave her one kiss that answered her questioning better than words; passed out upon the deck.
Swiftly the sky blackened. There was a splintering flash of the prismatic lightning, a clashing of cymbaled thunder. A wind arose and roared. Down came the sail. Before the blast, held steady by the hands of Sigurd, the ship flew.
Then fell the rain. Through it scudded the ship, hemmed in by blacknesses which when the lightnings fell were threaded by myriads of multi-colored serpents of glass from sky to sea.
A tremendous gust of wind swept down upon the ship, careening her far over. It buffeted at Sharane’s door; tore it open. Kenton staggered over to Gigi, shouted to the women to leave their watch, go inside. He watched them stumble in.
“Zubran and I will watch,” he cried in Gigi’s ear. “Go you and help Sigurd at the helm.”
But Gigi had not gone a yard before the wind died as quickly as it had risen.
“To the right!” he heard Sigurd shout. “Look to the right!”
To the starboard rail the three ran. Within the darkness was a broad faint disk of luminescence, like a far away searchlight in a fog. Rapidly its diameter decreased, growing ever brighter as its size diminished,
The disk burst out of the mists; it became a
blazing beam that shot over the rushing waves and glared upon the ship. Kenton glimpsed double banks of oars that drove a huge bulk down upon them with prodigious speed. Beneath the light was a gleaming ram, lance tipped. It jutted out from the prow like the horn on a charging rhinoceros.
“Klaneth!” roared Gigi, and ran shouting to the black cabin, Zubran at his heels.
“Sharane!” shouted Kenton, and raced to her door. The ship veered abruptly, careening until the sea poured over the port rail. Kenton’s feet flew from under him; he rolled head over heels to the bulwarks; struck and lay for an instant stunned.
Sigurd’s manoeuvre could not save the ship. The bireme had changed course, swept down parallel with it to shear off its starboard bank of oars. The Viking had thought to escape the impact. But the attacking vessel’s oarsmen were too many, its speed too great for the ship of Ishtar’s single banks of seven. Down dipped the bireme’s sweeps, checking its rush. It swung broadside on straight against the ship, crushing the starboard oars, like sticks!
Kenton reeled to his feet; saw Gigi leaping down to him, battle mace in hand; beside him Zubran, scimitar gleaming. And close behind them, the useless tiller abandoned, was Sigurd the Viking, shields under arm, his great sword held high.
They were beside him. His giddiness was gone. The Viking thrust him a shield. He drew his own sword.
“To Sharane!” he gasped. Forward they ran.
Before they could reach her door, defend it, a score of soldiers, chain mailed and armed with short swords, had poured down the side of the bireme and closed the way to the cabin. And behind them poured other scores.
Out whirled Gigi’s giant mace, striking them down. Blue blade of Nabu, scimitar of Zubran, brand of Sigurd rose and fell, struck and thrust. In a breath were dripping red!
Yet not a step could they advance! For every soldier they slew, another took his place. And still the bireme rained men.
An arrow whistled, stood quivering in Sigurd’s shield. Another flew and hung from Zubran’s shoulder.
Came the bellowing of Klaneth: “No arrows! Take the black-haired dog and yellow-hair alive! Slay the others—if you must—with swords!”
Now the fighting men from the bireme were all around them. Back to back in hollow square the four fought, Upon the deck the mail clad men fell. Steadily growing mounds of dead around them, they fought on. There was a sword gash across Gigi’s hairy chest from which blood ran in little trickling streams. Sigurd was bleeding from a dozen cuts. But Zubran, save for the arrow wound, was untouched. He fought silently, but Sigurd chanted and howled as he struck and Gigi laughed as his giant mace crushed bone and sinew.
Yet still the barrier of the black priest’s men held fast between them and Sharane!
What of Sharane! Kenton’s heart sank. He cast a swift glance up at the balcony. She stood there with three of her warrior maids, swords in hands, battling against soldiers who crept two by two down a narrow bridge of planks that had been dropped from the bireme’s deck.
But that glance had been no wise one. A sword bit into his unguarded side, paralyzing him. He would have fallen but for the Viking’s hand.
“Steady, blood-brother!” he heard him say. “My shield is before you. Take breath!”
There came a triumphant shouting from the ship of Klaneth. Out from its deck two long poles had been thrust. There had been a tugging of ropes and from their ends a net had fallen—squarely over Sharane and her three women!
They were struggling to cut the meshes. They bound them, fettered them. The women beat against those meshes as helplessly as butterflies.
And suddenly the net tightened, was drawn together by cords. Slowly the poles began to lift carrying the net’s burden upward to the deck of the attacking ship!
“Ho! Sharane!” mocked Klaneth, “Ho! Vessel of Ishtar! Welcome to my ship!”
“Christ!” groaned Kenton. Strength renewed by his fury and despair, he charged. Before his onslaught the warriors gave way. Again he rushed. Something whirled through, struck him upon the temple. He fell. The men of Klaneth swarmed upon him, clutching at his hands, his feet, smothering him.
They were hurled from him. The dwarf legs of Gigi were astride of him, his mace whistling, men dropping under its stroke. Dizzily he raised his head; saw Sigurd guarding him at right, Zubran at left and rear.
He looked upward. The net that held the struggling women was being dropped upon the bireme’s deck.
Again he heard the bellow of Klaneth:
“Welcome, sweet Sharane! Welcome!”
He staggered up, broke from the Viking’s grip, staggered forward—toward her.
“Seize him!” came the howl of the black priest. “His weight in gold to the men who bring him to me—alive!”
And now there was a ring of Klaneth’s men around him, sweeping him away. Between him and the three who had fought beside him eddied another stream of warriors, falling smitten by mace and sword and scimitar—but their places taken by others; others wedging in, widening steadily the distance between Kenton and his comrades.
He ceased to struggle. After all—this was what he wanted! This was best. They could take him—he would be with Sharane!
“Hold him up!” roared Klaneth. “Let the slut of Ishtar see him!”
He was lifted high in the hands of his captors. He heard a wail from Sharane…
A dizziness seized him! It was as though he had been caught in some vortex and was being sucked away—away!
He had a vision of Sigurd, the Persian and Gigi staring at him, their faces incredulous bloody masks. And they had stopped fighting. There were other faces, scores of them, staring at him with that same incredulity—though now, it seemed, shaded with terror.
Now they were all staring at him as though over the edge of a prodigious funnel through which he had begun to drop!
And now clutching hands had melted away from him! The faces were gone.
“Gigi!” he called. “Sigurd! Zubran! Help me!”
He heard the howling of winds!
They changed into a trumpet note. The trumpeting changed. It became some familiar sound—some sound known in another life of his, ages and ages gone! What was it? Louder it grew, rasping, peremptory—
The shriek of an auto horn!
Shuddering, he opened his eyes.
He looked upon his own room!
There lay the shining jeweled ship—the ship of toys!
And there was a knocking at the door, agitated, frantic; the murmuring of frightened voices.
Then the voice of Jevins, faltering, panic stricken: “Mr. John! Mr. John!”
CHAPTER 15
Down The Rope Of Sound
Kenton fought back his faintness; reached out a trembling hand, and snapped on the electrics. “Mr. John! Mr. John!”
The old servant’s voice was sharp with terror; he rattled the door knob; beat against the panels.
Kenton steadied himself against the table; forced himself to speak.
“Why—Jevins—” he strove to lighten the dragging words, inject some naturalness into them—“What’s the matter?”
He heard a little gasp of relief, another murmuring from the servants and then Jevins spoke again.
“I was passing and heard you cry out, sir. A dreadful cry! Are you ill?”
Desperately Kenton strove against the racking weakness; managed a laugh.
“Why, no—I fell asleep. Had a nightmare. Don’t worry! Go to bed.”
“Oh—it was that?”
The relief in Jevins’ voice was greater, but the doubt was not altogether gone. He did not withdraw; stood there hesitating.
There was a mist before Kenton’s eyes, a thin veil of crimson. His knees bent suddenly; barely he saved himself from falling. He stumbled to the couch and sank upon it. A panic impulse urged him to cry out to Jevins to bring help—to break down the door. Fast upon it came warning that he must not do this; that he must fight his battle out alone—if he were to tread the ship’s deck again!
>
“Go, Jevins!” he cried harshly. “Hell, man—didn’t I tell you I wasn’t to be disturbed tonight? Get away!”
Too late he realized that never before had he spoken so to this old servant who loved him, he knew, like a son. Had he betrayed himself—crystallized Jevins’ suspicions into certainty that within that room something was wrong indeed? Fear spurred his tongue.
“I’m all right!” He forced laughter into the words. “Of course, I’m all right!”
Damn that mist in front of his eyes! What was it? He passed a hand over them, brought it away wet with blood. He stared at it, stupidly.
“Oh, very well, Mr. John.” There was no more doubt, nothing but affection in the voice. “But hearing you cry—”
God! Would the man never go! His eyes travelled from his hand up his arm. Crimson it was, red with blood to the shoulder. The fingers dripped.
“Only a nightmare,” he interrupted quietly. “I won’t sleep again until I’m done and go to bed—so run along.”
“Then—good night, Mr. John.”
“Good night,” he answered.
Swaying he sat until the footsteps of Jevins and the others had died away. Then he tried to rise. His weakness was too great. He slid from the couch to his knees, crawled across the floor to a low cabinet, fumbled at its doors and drew down a bottle of brandy. He raised it to his lips and drank deep. The fiery stuff raced through him, gave him strength. He arose.
A sickening pang stabbed his side. He raised his hand to clutch the agony, covered it and felt trickle through his fingers a slow, warm stream!
He remembered—a sword had bitten him there—the sword of one of Klaneth’s men!
Flashed before him pictures—the arrow quivering in the Viking’s shield, the mace of Gigi, the staring warriors, the great net dropping over Sharane and her women, the wondering faces…
Then—this!
Again he lifted the bottle. Half way to his mouth he stopped, every muscle rigid, every nerve taut. Confronting him was a shape—a man splashed red from head to foot! He saw a strong, fierce face from which glared eyes filled with murderous menace; long tangled elf locks of black writhed round it down to the crimson-stained shoulders. From hair edge to ear down across the forehead was a wound, from which blood dripped. Bare to the waist was this man and from the nipple of his left breast to mid-side ran a red wide-mouthed slash, open to the ribs!
The A. Merritt Megapack Page 71