Conan - Conan 106

by Conan the Avenger # L. Sprague De Camp [ed]

  He tossed up the dagger he had borrowed from Rolf and caught it again.

  It was a formidable weapon with a broad, eighteen,-inch blade, but still no sword. He and Rolf had cast aside their swords in order to swim to the sloop, so the dagger was the only weapon they had between them.

  The crew murmured, for all knew that in such a duel Conan would have to fight with whatever weapon he had with him at the time, while Yanak could choose what weapons he pleased. Yanak’s armor, too, would give him a further advantage.

  “This is madness, Conan!” Arms plucked the Cimmerian’s elbow. “Yanak will cut you to pieces. I have seen him fight three brawling drunkards at the time and lay them low. We’ll depose him instead and choose you for captain. All your old followers are on your side.”

  Conan shook his head and rumbled: “Half the crew don’t know me and would oppose such a move. The men would be split into factions and our strength would be weakened. No, it must be done the traditional way.”

  Several crewmen were already clearing a space around the mast. Yanak approached, a gleeful smile on his scarred face as his hands tested the supple strength of a keen, straight sword. It was a weapon forged by a master craftsman, as could be seen by its brightly gleaming blade and sharply honed edges, tapering to a needle point.

  Conan gripped his dagger firmly and strode towards the mast. A wide circle six yards in diameter was already drawn in charcoal on the deck around the mast. The rules of the fight were simple. The antagonists were to fight inside the circle. Any trick was allowed. The fight would be to the death, or until one of the duelists was so badly hurt he could not go on. In that case he would simply be flung overboard anyway. If one of the fighters stepped out of the circle, the onlookers would at once thrust him back in.

  The instant Conan entered the circle, Yanak bounded forward, cleaving the air with a whistling stroke. But the barbarian was too old a hand to be surprised. He leaped sideways, and Yanak was saved from a dagger thrust in his side only by twisting his body aside at the last moment.

  After that, he moved more warily, although he was clearly at an advantage. The longer reach of his weapon almost matched him evenly with Conan’s brawn and stature. Now and then he made a sudden attack, shouting and cursing, but the silent Cimmerian parried or evaded the blows with effortless ease and continued to circle around the mast.

  Conan ignored the pirate captain’s taunts and exhortations to stand and fight.

  Then Yanak tried a trick. Conan and he were temporarily on the same side of the mast. With all the power of his knotted leg muscles, the captain sprang upward in a mighty leap, at the same time smiting downward at the Cimmerian’s bare head.

  But Conan’s instinct triggered his lightning-fast responses. Instead of retreating, he sprang forward. Yanak’s blade whistled harmlessly down behind the barbarian’s back as Conan buried his knife to the hilt in his foe’s abdomen, shearing through the light mail links with the immense force of his thrust. The pirate fell to the deck, cursing and gagging on blood. His sword fell with a clank. Conan stooped and lifted him up. With a mighty heave, he flung the corpse over the heads of the crew into the sea. Picking up the fallen sword, he swept their ranks with a cold gaze.

  “Now who is captain, my lads?”

  The shouts of “Conan!” would have satisfied any doubter. Conan drank in the heady satisfaction of his new-won power. Then his thunderous voice bellowed them to silence.

  “To the sails and oars, lubbers! A man to the masthead as lookout! I have Yezdigerd himself hot on my trail.

  But we will lead him a merry chase, by Crom!”

  Taken aback by the announcement that their archenemy was abroad, the crew’s idolatrous confidence in Conan was yet so strong as to wash away all misgivings. Many remembered how the Cimmerian had fought and tricked his way out of seemingly impossible odds. Tales of these exploits were circulated among the rest of the crew.

  Conan sprang to the bridge in one mighty leap, shouting: “Set sail! Course southeast!”

  Men hauled at lines, voicing lusty sea songs. Yellow canvas spread before the breeze. The pirate at the helm strained with knotted muscles at the steering oar, bringing the slim vessel about. She fled eastward before the wind, fleet as the deer of the moorlands.

  “So you think I’m mad, Artus? By Crom, I hope Yezdigerd thinks so too!”

  Conan’s hearty laughter resounded in the well-appointed cabin as he sprawled in a chair, a tumbler of wine in his hand. Conan had casually possessed himself of the wardrobe of his predecessor and clad himself in the colorful garb of a Vilayet pirate: scarlet breeches, flaring sea boots, a yellow shirt of fine Vendhyan silk with wide sleeves, and a wide, varicolored sash around his waist. The costume was topped off by a red cloth around his head. Into the sash was thrust a long dirk with an ornately-carved ivory handle.

  Together with Rolf, Artus the shipmaster lounged in Conan’s company while the galley swiftly cleaved the waters of the inland sea. With clouded brow, he set his goblet on the table.

  “No, Conan, I know you too well. But this seems a hare-brained scheme, dashing straight into the jaws of the Turanian. You could at least tell us what you are planning. The men are drunk with confidence and do not think of the fact that Yezdigerd will bring at least two large war galleys. I am old and sober enough to stop and ponder.

  What are your intentions?”

  With sudden gravity, Conan rose and went to a gilded wooden cupboard.

  Opening it, he brought out a roll of parchment. This he spread upon the table. It was a chart of the waters they were now sailing.

  “Here is our position. Yezdigerd has been four days on his way from Aghrapur. The Turanian ships are running free. With their mean speed, I compute them to be somewhere in this area.” He pointed to a spot on the chart.

  “With our present course and speed, we shall rendezvous with Yezdigerd somewhere off the Zhurazi Archipelago.”

  “The Zhurazi, eh?” muttered Artus. “Those are dangerous waters. The charts show no soundings. That cursed cluster is shunned by sane men. Some say it is haunted by demons and monsters from the darker realms and that you are lost if you set foot on its shores.”

  “Lost, Hell!” rumbled Conan. “I once lived on the north main island for a fortnight after shipwreck. There was a tribe of yellow savages dwelling among the crags, and I had the devil of a time stopping them from sacrificing me to their lizard-god!”

  Thus lightly he dismissed the hair-raising drama played out on these islands years before. The pantherish Cimmerian had not only stayed alive in a land of hostile people but also had slain the monster out of forgotten ages that terrorized the inhabitants. Conan was not wont to dwell upon the past; the violent and colorful present held all his attention.

  He stood for a while in silence, regarding the chart. Then, with a sudden gesture, he swept it off the table and swung about to face his friends.

  “Right you are, Arras. There are no soundings on this chart. Turanian, isn’t it? Drawn by the king’s own surveyors in Aghrapur…the very type of map our bloodthirsty pursuer will have. That is our advantage.”

  And however they pressed him, he would not explain further.

  Muscles played on the sweating backs of the slaves at the oars. The blades rose and fell in steady rhythm, speeding the huge war vessel over the waves. The burly slavemaster strode the catwalk with his braided whip, his skin gleaming with sweat and oil. Now and then the whiplash uncurled like a striking cobra, to hiss out and mark the back of a faltering oarsman. The slaves of Turanian ships were cruelly driven, and none so cruelly as those in King Yezdigerd’s own flagship, the Scimitar. . The king took his ease on a silken couch on the poop, shaded by an awning and sipping wine from a golden beaker. On a similar bed by his side lounged the lady Thanara.

  The king was sunk in one of his spells of gloom. His gaze was brooding and somber, as he slowly swirled the pale-yellow liquid in the golden bowl. He said:

  “Evil powers aid the Cimmerian devi
l! He must have stolen a boat immediately upon his escape. My cursed admirals need half a day to put my flagship to sea, and then the devils that ruin human patience have turned the wind against us. We move like snails.”

  “Better than he can do, though,” said Thanara, looking lazily at the monarch from under long eyelashes. “His puny oars will avail him little in this wind. Every stroke of the club on the block lessens his head start. Be patient, my lord! Erlik will deliver the barbarian into our hands.”

  “My henchmen have often thought so, yet that scoundrel has tricked his way out of every trap. Now for once I am the hunter? I will personally see that he escapes not. By the beard of my father Yildiz, there will be a reckoning!” Yezdigerd’s voice became eager and his eyes filled with new energy. He shaded his face and looked out over the glittering waters.

  He made a quick gesture. The admiral hurried forward, the gilded scales of his mail winking in the sunlight.

  “I see land, Uthghiz. Have we veered from our course?” said the king.

  The admiral, knowing his sovereign’s irascible temper, quickly unfolded a map and pointed.

  “That, my lord, is the Zhurazi Archipelago. The Cimmerian has probably landed there for food and water. I intend to scan the coast for signs of his boat. Furthermore, the straightest course for the eastern shores of Vilayet leads close to these islands.”

  “You may be right. But keep every man alert. How close can you sail?”

  “These are unknown waters, my lord. The conditions of life on the islands are shrouded in superstition. Horrible tales are told of fiendish monsters haunting the crags. No surveying has been done in this area. We dare not go too close lest we strike unseeen rocks.” but the yedka continued to scan the ragged coastline.

  The king sank back on his gilded couch, muttering,

  Had her eyes deceived her? Was that a sail she glimpsed before it disappeared behind a rocky islet on the fringe of the cluster? The Turanian ships drew closer with every oar stroke. She waited eagerly for another glimpse of the sail.

  She stiffened and pointed. The sail had reappeared.

  “Look, my lord!” she cried. “Yonder is a prize for your ships! A pirate! We have surprised them!”

  The yedka was not the only one who spied the corsair. Swift orders were shouted. The crew prepared for battle, while signals were run up to warn the sister vessel to do likewise.

  The overseers moved among the benches to check the fetters chaining the rowers. Stacks of arms were readied by the mast, and the ship’s soldiery ran to their stations. Archers climbed into the rigging to suitable points of vantage, while groups of burly seamen, armed with grapnels, stood by the gunwales.

  Though Conan’s sharp eyes could not discern the details of these preparations, he knew that they began as soon as he let his ship be sighted. The pirate ship was long since ready for battle. Despite the heavy odds against the pirate crew, all trusted their barbaric captain implicitly. Men who had sailed with Conan years ago told fantastic tales about former sea fights and the ingenious ways the Cimmerian had turned the tables on his foes. Keen blades were shaken at the distant Turanian ships, while bearded mouths muttered oaths in many tongues.

  “Prepare to go about.” The sharp voice of their captain cut like steel through the din.

  The order was a shock to the crew. Here they were, ready for the attack, with the greatest captain in the world to lead them…and what did this captain do? Prepare to run like a rabbit! Bewildered, they went halfheartedly to their chores. Conan noticed their listlessness and snarled: “Be swift, you mangy rascals, or I’ll have your backs raw under the lash! Do you think I’m fool enough to fight two war galleys, each with twice my strength, on the open sea, when I have a better plan? Do not worry, lubbers, we shall have a feasting of swords, that songs will be written about. Now go to it!”

  Fired with new enthusiasm, the men sprang into the rigging. Soon the ship was speeding toward the inner parts of the Zhurazi Archipelago.

  Before putting his plan into operation, Conan conferred with the ship’s carpenter. The information gleaned, together with his own knowledge of the waters, left him no doubts.

  The Zhurazi Archipelago was made up of two large islands surrounded by a great number of smaller isles. The strait between the two main islands was a long, narrow channel, and for this Conan guided his ship.

  There was grim expectation in his mien as he viewed the Turanian galleys following astern, their oars laboring with all the power that could be wrung from the slaves.

  King Yezdigerd paced the poop, armed in silvered Turanian mail and a gold-spired helmet He bore a round, emblazoned shield on his left arm; a long scimitar hung by his side. The cruel and gloomy Turanian monarch was also a fierce and intrepid warrior, who loved to take part in a good fight in person.

  “See how the yellow hyenas flee!” he cried. “Will they play games with us? They will lose the wind among the islands, and then our oars will make them easy prey. Faster!”

  Meanwhile the admiral conferred in low tones with the â€shipmaster, who argued his point with many gestures and head shakings. The admiral, looking doubtful, went back up to the poop. He said: “Your Majesty, these waters are unsounded. We have no charts we can. trust, and the shipmaster fears we shall ground. I suggest we circle the islands and catch the corsair in open sea.”

  Yezdigerd’s voice swept aside the misgivings of his admiral with a sweeping gesture. His voice was hot with exasperation.

  “I told you the rascal will be an easy prey in the lee of the islands. Let the whips be plied to bring us every ounce of speed. We shall snap our jaws about the pirate soon enough!”

  The king seemed to have reason for his expectations. The slender corsair was now barely halfway through the strait, making laborious headway. The Turanians, seeing their victim as good as caught, shouted with glee.

  Dismay reigned among the pirate crew. Their progress was slow, and the Hyrkanian ships were closing in with every stroke, like hawks plummeting down upon a dove. Rolf stood silent, with the taciturnity of the northern barbarian, but Arms pleaded with his captain:

  “Captain, the Hyrkanians will reach us long before we emerge! We stand no chance. We cannot maneuver in this narrow way, and their rams will splinter us like an eggshell. Could we not warp her ashore with the boats? We might put up a fight in the jungle. Tarim! We must do something!”

  Conan, his calm unruffled, pointed at the oncoming war galleys. They were indeed a formidable sight. In the lead came the Scimitar with white water boiling up around her bow and her ten-foot bronze ram. She seemed a very angel of doom, descending in swift anger upon the wrongdoer. Close behind followed her sister, only a little less imposing.

  “A pretty sight, by Ishtar,” said Conan calmly. “Good speed, too. The slave drivers must be plying their whips with vigor. A heavy ship, that foremost one. Three or four times our weight.”

  His voice changed its tone from light banter to stern efficiency. “What are your soundings now?”

  “Five fathoms, captain, and slowly increasing. We have passed the throat of the shallows. A wonder we did not scrape our bottom off!”

  “Good! I knew we should get through. Now look at our pursuers!”

  The Scimitar, bearing down upon her prey at full speed, suddenly stopped dead. A cracking of timbers and snapping of cordage resounded between the islands. Cries of dismay rent the air as the mast snapped off at the base and toppled, shrouding the decks in folds of canvas.

  The oars began backing to get her off, but her speed at the time of grounding had been too great. The unseen sandbank held her fast like a clutching octopus.

  The other galley was a little more fortunate. Her captain was a man of decision and, when the leading vessel struck, he promptly ordered the oars to back water. But the oars were unevenly applied in the confusion and the galley veered to port toward the shore. She was saved from the cliffs only by another sandbank, into which she plowed deeply. Boats were launched and lines paid ou
t to prepare for the arduous task of warping her afloat.

  The throng on the deck of the corsair howled, shook their weapons, and made uncomplimentary gestures at the Turanians. They cheered Conan, and even the pessimistic shipmaster voiced his frank esteem.

  “Those galleys will be days in getting afloat,” said Artus. “I doubt the bigger one will ever sail again; her bottom must be half stove in. So, captain, whither do we sail? Khoraf, where the slavers put in with the fairest women of the South? Rhamdan, where the great caravan road ends?”

  Conan’s voice was tinged with scorn as he swept the throng with his ice-blue glance. “We have Turanian ships here, my friends. We have not escaped Yezdigerd; we have caught him in a trap! I promised you a feasting of swords. You shall have it.” He paused, looking upward. “The wind freshens; we are coming out of lee. Set a course to round the larboard island!”

  Eager hands sprang to the lines as all realized the full genius of Conan’s planning.

  King Yezdigerd paced the poop of his shattered flagship in blazing anger. Some of it he vented upon the seaman at the sounding post and the steersman, by having both beheaded forthwith. There was no immediate danger of sinking, for the hull had settled firmly upon the reef. But the hold had quickly filled with water from many sprung seams, indicating that the ship could probably never be saved. And the trick played upon the long by the escaping pirate infuriated his always irascible temper.

  “I will hunt that dog to the ends of the earth!” he shouted. “The whole thing smacks of that devil Conan. I’ll warrant he is aboard. Will Khogar never get his cursed tub afloat?”

  Thus he raged while work progressed on the Khoralian Star. As the long day wore on, the crews slowly coaxed the ship off the sandbank by inches, by tugging and having with the ships’ boats. The captain of the Star was deeply preoccupied with directing this work when his attention was drawn by the warning cry of the lookout. The man’s voice was shrill with excitement, and his hands waved frantically.