by Lin Carter
But a miracle had occurred, and her name was the Scimitar, as he soon learned. And the brawny, bronze-tanned pirate who gave him the broth was the same Thangmar who had dived from the Scimitar’s rail to save them when the two floating bodies had been spied by a lookout aloft in the rigging.
Thangmar was a towering giant from the forest country west of Tsargol, a wooded wilderness where savage clans of the untamed Kodanga roamed and fought. He stood seven feet tall, a mighty-thewed colossus of dark bronze, his bright golden mane braided in a thick rope down his back. He grinned broadly when he saw that Charn Thovis was strong enough to stand and his strange blue eyes twinkled with friendly good-humor—strange, that is, because Charn Thovis had never seen a person with blue eyes in all his life before this. Most of the peoples of the West were of the brown-skinned, black-haired and dark-eyed Turanian race. Blond-haired, blue-eyed men were rarely met in the Nine Cities.
But then he had never encountered a Kodangan before. The Kodangans were wild barbarian warriors who shunned cities and dwelt in the unexplored Red Forest kingdom that lay on the southern coasts of Lemuria between the cities of Tsargol the Scarlet and Tarakus. Forest savages, they had a wild, fierce contempt for the ways of city-dwelling folk and much preferred their rude wooden towns with palisade walls hidden amid the trees. But Thangmar, as Charn Thovis later learned, was one Kodangan who had adopted city ways. Captured as a boy by a slaving expedition from Tarakus, he had survived to become one of them and sail the high seas, preferring the wild life of a Sea Rover to the tribal existence of his own primitive people.
“You and boy well now,” the blond giant said with a grin. “What you do in gulf so far from land?”
Charn Thovis thought swiftly. These corsairs were the enemies of every kingdom and had no friends among the walled cities of the gulf or the southern coast, whose shipping they attacked and plundered. Were he to reveal the true identities of Prince Thar and himself, the pirate captain of the Scimitar would beyond question hold Thar for ransom and sell him back to Dalendus Vool for a handsome price—they would end up back in the hands of their enemies once again, and all their struggles to escape and to elude pursuit and capture would have gone for nothing.
He looked down at himself. His cloak and boots he had discarded when he struck the water, for greater ease in keeping afloat. He had removed and flung away both the urlium harness and the electripotent sithurl crystal, fearing that immersion in the water might cause the power jewel to short-circuit. Hence, in his leathern kilt and water-soaked leathern girdle, he looked like an ordinary person and retained upon his garments no token or insignia which marked him as a fighting man of the elite Black Dragons of Patanga. As for Thar, he wore only a loin-cloth, and in his present soaked and bedraggled state looked nothing at all like a prince.
So he hastened to put together some sort of tale that would satisfy the curious crewmen without revealing there was anything special about the boy or himself.
As it happened, though, there was no need for invention on his part. The pirates were perfectly capable of creating a story of their own.
“Fisherfolk, I say,” whined a lean and bewhiskered old seaman whose lined, dour and leathery face was seamed with the white marks of ancient cutlass scars. A crimson kerchief was knotted around his brows and a black patch hung over one empty eye-socket.
“Fell in with a sea-dragon and lost they boat,” the old sailor commented further, eyeing them shrewdly with his one keen eye.
“Aye, old Durgan’s hit on it,” nodded a fat Kovian with a vast leathern girdle bristling with dirks and dags around his mighty paunch. His red, perspiring moon-face nodded in a kindly manner at the silent Thar, which set an immense gold hoop in his earlobe to wobbling and twinkling. “Zangabal-born, by the looks of the lad,” the fat pirate puffed, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Right, young fellow? Tell Blay the truth now!”
Before Charn Thovis could marshal his wits sufficiently to reply, a thunderous bellow from the foredeck split the air.
“Blay, you blubber-guts! I’ll do the questioning on my own deck—Durgan, bring those two forward if they can walk, and let’s see what kind of fish we’ve hauled up from the waves this time—hurry on, you spindleshanks!”
“Aye, Captain! Fisherfolk from Zangabal, they be,” old Durgan whined as the pirates helped Charn Thovis and the boy forward. “Tossed overboard in a squall, I say,” he added with a knowing wink.
“Well, let’s have a look at them,” the captain roared.
Blay, Durgan and grinning Thangmar helped Charn Thovis and Thar up the steep wooden stair to the foredeck, then fell back respectfully as their master strode forward.
“Hmm. A bedraggled pair, fry my guts if they’re not,” the captain grunted as he raked them up and down with fierce gray eyes under scowling tufted brows. He was an immense man, built like a bull, broad-chested, thicknecked, with sturdy massive legs and heavy arms like mighty tree-roots. The most astonishing thing about him was the vast beard that covered half his face and streamed down almost to his gem-studded girdle. It was curly as a fleece and red as raw gold. The contrast between the burning bush of beard and the leathery bronze of his deeply tanned face was startling. A gaudy kerchief of crimson and gold silk was wound about his brows. He wore breeches of bottle-green and enormous boots of black leather. A great scimitar hung at his side from a baldric slung across his bare chest, which was shaggy with curly golden hair. He resembled nothing more than a towering blond bear as he stood there in the bright dawn glaring down at them.
“Who fetched ’em from the gulf—you, Thangmar?” he demanded in that great bull-throated voice that seemed to come from deep down in the monstrous girth of his belly, gathering volume as it travelled.
The Kodanga giant nodded cheerfully.
“Well, the next time you jump in the sea to save scrawny wretches such as these, the Scimitar sails on without you. Look at the two of ’em—not enough meat on their bones to feed the fish! Why, they’ll cost us more to feed ’em up to man-size than they be worth,” he grumbled. Then he fixed Charn Thovis with his frosty gray eyes, cold as fractured steel.
“If you be thinking I’ll about helm and take you back to Zangabal, my lad, think again. My name be Barim of Belnarth, called Barim Redbeard by some. And just ere dawn we took a merchant galley out of Zangabal, looted her to the bare boards, and scuttled her as well. They in Zangabal would not take kindly to Barim Redbeard if he were fool enough to carry you two back—aye, they’d string us up in a moment. What d’you say to that?”
Charn Thovis forced a smile.
“Captain Redbeard, my name is Charn and this is Tharn, my brother,” he said, giving the first names that came into his head. “At the moment, we are both too grateful for kindness in saving us from drowning to feel anything but thankful. May I ask, sir, what you intend doing with us?”
The burly captain subsided a little at these graceful words, and sounded a little more affable and a little less fierce as he replied: “Well, now, as for that, we’re bound back to home port, and making no stops, so you’ll come along with us whether you like or no! But I guess we can spare a couple of bunks and a few square meals—the little lad could use some beef on his bones, fry my guts if he couldn’t!”
Thar did not like being patronized. One brown fist clutched at his waist where his small sword would have been if it hadn’t been lost during the hours they floundered through the waves.
“I’ll have you know—” the boy began sharply, subsiding when Charn Thovis clutched his bare shoulder in a tight grip. The warrior forced a cough.
“My brother Tharn is still a little light-headed, Captain Redbeard. We floated for two or three hours before your ship saw us and your man Thangmar saved us from the waves . . .”
“That’s all right, I like a lad with spirit,” Barim Redbeard chuckled. “Well, being fisherfolk, you know your way about a deck, I fancy, and can earn your keep mopping the decks and repairing cordage, tackle and gear. Get them below, Durgan,
and let the lads rest a bit and take some grub aboard those empty bellies. And now let’s up sail and head for home and no more delays, or we’ll have half the navy of Zangabal on our necks!”
The mate, a thickset, black-whiskered and villainous-looking little man, bellowed commands. Seamen clambered into the rigging. Sails unfurled and shook out with hollow booms, swelling as the morning breeze caught them. The Scimitar bent seawards under a quickening breeze.
As Charn Thovis climbed down into the cabins, he cast a last despairing glance at open sea and morning sky. He had never heard the phrase “out of the frying pan, into the fire,” but he knew the reality of the dilemma. With daring, courage and ingenuity, he had managed to save Thar from the clutches of Dalendus Vool—only to fall into the hands of the dread pirates of Tarakus.
Chapter 12: A KNIFE IN THE BACK
The night is clear, the tide is fast,
Break out the sails once more!
We’re forth upon the sea at last
To seek a golden shore. . . .
—Sea Chantey of the Pirates of Tarakus
The pirates of Tarakus were the scourge of Yashengzeb Chun the Southern Sea and the terror of the coast. But rarely did they venture this far into the broad waters of the Gulf of Patanga. It was lucky for Charn Thovis and Prince Thar that Barim Redbeard had so dared on this occasion—else they would have drowned in the briny waves. On the other hand, they now found themselves captives, helplessly outnumbered by a crew of ferocious cutthroats who respected neither king nor law nor the very gods of heaven.
In the days that followed their rescue, Charn Thovis—or Charn of Zangabal, as he was now known—adjusted to the life of a seaman and learned much from the rough pirates. They were an uncouth lot, dirty and unkempt, their bearded lips spewing forth a constant stream of oaths and foul language. But the iron hand of Barim Redbeard held them in line, worked them hard, dealt fairly with their transgressions, broke up their frequent quarrels, and kept them away from the strong drink they craved. The corsair chieftain from Belnarth could out-fight and out-fence any man of his crew, even Thangmar, the blond giant from Kodanga, and not excepting the nine-foot-tall Blue Nomad, Roegir. Thus they feared and respected him, and Charn Thovis came to realize that, pirate or no, Barim Redbeard was a man.
It was not easy for the young noble and his princely charge to adjust to this strange new life. As soon as they were alone on that first morning aboard the Scimitar, Charn Thovis had cautioned Thar to guard his tongue with care. He must forget that he had ever been the prince of Patanga. Never by act or stance or slip of tongue must he betray the fact that he was aught else than Tharn, a simple fisherman’s boy from the wharves and quays of Zangabal.
The pirates were not unfriendly to the newcomers. But they worked the warrior and his prince unmercifully and made jest of the fumbling ineptitude of Charn Thovis, a novice to the seaman’s craft. One of them in particular joyed in making mock of the Pantagan’s mistakes. This fellow was named Gothar, a scowling, surly and black-a-vised scoundrel out of Thurdis who was always getting into brawls because of a vicious and uncontrollable temper. His right hand had been hewn off in some sea-battle. In its place he wore a leather cup over the stump and carried at his girdle a variety of tools he could screw into the grooved socket of this cup. Sometimes he used a steel hook or a sawblade. Lean and leathery old Durgan and fat, friendly Blay cautioned Charn Thovis to be wary of Gothar’s vile temper. For he was a killer and had slain nine men in brawls—all of them slashed to death with the razor-keen hook he bore with him at his waist.
“Ever you see that Gothar screwin’ a hook into his leather—watch yourself,” Durgan warned. “That be a sign he means to kill.”
Charn Thovis promised to beware of the scowling Thurdan and ordered Thar to keep clear of him. But it was not so easy as it might sound, especially as Gothar continued to make Charn Thovis the butt of his contemptuous, mocking humor. The young warrior endured as much of the foul-mouthed pirate’s ill usage as he could. But then came the time he caught Gothar mistreating the boy—and he could endure no more.
Young Thar had been repairing some cordage, a delicate task requiring patience and nimble-fingers. The boy’s attention had strayed and he botched the job, which roused the devil in Gothar. He kicked the boy sprawling and loomed over him, spewing abuse and lifting his one hand to strike him in the face.
Charn Thovis was across the deck in two strides. He caught Gothar’s shoulder in a vise-like grip, spun the surprised corsair around—and struck him twice. One balled fist caught him in the belly, just below the ribs. Breath whistled from Gothar’s sallow lips and he sagged. The second blow, which rose from the level of Charn’s knees, caught him square on the point of the jaw. It snapped his head back, lifted him a half-inch off his feet, and slammed him back against the rail.
Silence fell over the deck. Fat Blay rolled the whites of his eyes and Durgan choked off a curse. Charn Thovis stood waiting with fists ready. Purple with fury, Gothar climbed unsteadily to his feet, wiping a trickle of blood from his thin lips. His eyes burned into Charn Thovis with unwavering, venomous hate. One bony hand snaked to his girdle and unsnapped a cleaver-blade. The warrior felt coldness go down his spine but he stood ready to defend himself with bare hands.
Then a black shadow fell across Gothar’s snarling visage and whip-leather sang as it cracked across his face. He staggered back, blood welling from a grisly welt, to meet the cold, ominous eyes of Barim Redbeard himself. The captain’s eyes were frigid and gray—like a swordblade sunk fathoms deep in arctic ice. He let the whip slither restlessly across the deck.
“I’ve had my eye on you, Gothar,” the Redbeard growled. “Now hark to me, you cowardly black dog: if ever I see or hear of you laying your dirty paws on the little lad here, I’ll take this whip to your back till the ribs show white bone. Hear me? Then back to your kennel, you sneaking filth—go!”
With that, the captain turned to help Thar to his feet, contemptuously turning his back on Gothar whose vicious face had turned dirty gray at the insult. Men turned their eyes away from that face, and only Charn Thovis saw what happened next.
Like a great white spider, Gothar’s one good hand crawled down to his waist and came up with the hook in its grip. Almost before Charn could move or speak, Gothar had set the hook in his leather-capped stump. He took one long step forward and raised his arm to drive the keen hook into the broad back of Barim Redbeard.
Charn Thovis hurled himself at that arm. Time seemed to slow to an imperceptible pace. He flung himself before the descending hook. With both hands he tried to seize the arm and turn it aside. Instead, it slid along his chest, the glittering hook slicing a red furrow through his bronzed flesh. Charn Thovis gasped at the bite of the cold steel. Muscles bunched along his shoulders. He gripped Gothar’s arm and shoved it down—and back. The hook sank to its hilt in Gothar’s guts. White-faced, his mouth open and working, sallow lips frothed with crimson foam, the pirate sagged to the deck. And died there with a half-finished curse on his lips.
Blood gushed from Charn Thovis’ chest wound. He swayed a little on numb limbs and felt the deck wheel around him. The next thing he knew, Barim Redbeard’s brawny arm was about his shoulders, easing him to a comfortable place on a heap of canvas and the captain’s bull-throated voice was commanding hot water and clean cloths. With hands as gentle as a woman’s, the captain bathed and cleansed the cut, and bandaged it.
He said little but his eyes spoke much. Charn Thovis realized that he had made a friend of Barim Redbeard. A friend for life.
The cut was shallow and would heal cleanly and quickly. Charn Thovis spent the day in his bunk resting, but was soon up and around. Almost at once he noticed a remarkable change in the attitude of the pirates towards himself and Prince Thar. They were aloof no longer. He had won their friendship.
For all their bloody-handed trade, they proved a kindly lot. Lonely men living a rough life with death and danger at every hand, they were fiercely loyal to thei
r captain and eager to show their regard for the stranger who had saved him from a traitor’s knife in the back.
While Charn Thovis rested and felt his wound heal swiftly in the open air and salt tang of the sea-wind and the burning sun, old Durgan and fat Blay and the other pirates adopted Thar and vied with each other to teach the eager boy to clamber about in the rigging and balance on the spars.
Thangmar had been their friend from the moment he dove in the blue waters of the Gulf and bore Charn Thovis’ head up out of the waves. Now the grinning, good-natured blond giant from the Red Forests of Kodanga taught Thar how to steer the great ship and handle the broad rudder that thrust into their foaming wake behind the curve of the galley’s keel.
One by one the other men became friendly. Roegir, the Blue Nomad, was generally a silent, grim-faced loner who shunned the companionship of the others and seemed apart from them—perhaps due to his race, for he was the only Hordesman from the farthest East among the pirates of the Scimitar. But Thar had learned a few words of the Nomad dialect from Shangoth and Chundja and the other Jegga warriors who had served in Thongor’s private guard. And soon the laughing boy won even the unspeaking Roegir for a friend and Charn Thovis watched as the indigo-skinned nine-foot colossus rode the boy around on his shoulders.
Even the glum, bad-tempered mate, a thickset, black-whiskered little man named Angar Zend, was won over by Charn Thovis’ act and Thar’s boyish merriment. He bent a benign eye on the little prince and permitted the men to teach him how to handle himself aloft. Soon the brighteyed boy was clambering up rope ladders and treading the perilous, narrow ways aloft among the rigging as fearless and sure-footed as a monkey.
Thar was very young and youth is adaptable. The boy made friends among the pirates, to whom he became a sort of pet. They competed with one another to teach him how to splice a rope or mend a sail, taught him to handle a seaman’s cutlass and to read the winds and the currents and to calculate the direction of the ship’s course from the stars. Thar, who had never been on a sea-going ship in his life, loved every minute of it. And even Charn Thovis began to relax and enjoy himself; surely he could have found no better hiding-place from the scrutiny of Dalendus Vool than here among the pirates of the Southern Sea.