Slave of Sarma

by Jeffrey Lord

  “I did, sire. I sent a servant who brought me back word that the Queen Pphira understood.”

  Blade said, “Good. I have done all I could. If we win I will be quits with Pphira. If we lose there will be no harm done and she no worse off.”

  Pelops quavered, “If we lose, sir? But you said - “

  Blade clapped him hard on the shoulder, so hard that the little man reeled and nearly fell. “So I did, my tiny friend, and so I mean it Now look to yourself, for I will be busy. It is beginning.”

  Otto and Pphira were on their respective thrones. Otto the Black, a giant of a man - Blade estimated 400 pounds of richly clad flab - raised a beringed hand to straighten one of the small tapers that flamed in his luxuriant black beard. Blade studied him through the glass. If his plans worked out this would be the last time that Otto would even halfway resemble a man.

  The Queen had one hand on Otto’s fat knee. She leaned and whispered and Blade could almost see the hate and revulsion on her timeless face. He saw it because he knew it was there. Otto did not see it.

  Otto was not much interested in the lady. He toyed with the candles in his beard - Blade confessed wonderment that the fat man did not go up like a Christmas tree - and eyed the behind of one of Pphira’s house slaves. He smiled and licked his liver lips and nodded to something that the Queen said. The spying Blade remembered that Otto had given special orders - Blade to be taken alive and unhurt, to be brought to his quarters in the Palace immediately. Where the twelve, undoubtedly, would be waiting to subdue him and ready him for the grand entrance of Otto.

  Otto raised a fat hand and dropped a gayly colored scarf.

  Immediately the catapults on Otto’s ships, Captain Equebus in command, began to thunk and twang. The range was too great. Towers of water built as the huge projectiles fell short. The enemy’s nine ships, formed in a bow shaped line, began to move toward Blade’s little fleet.

  His preparations had been long and thorough. He had had no sleep and until now had been drooping with weariness. The moment the first catapult spoke he came alive. He spoke softly to Ixion.

  “What of the wind?”

  That expert pointed out to sea, reading something in the purple haze that escaped Blade. “Not yet,” said Ixion. “In an hour or less we will have wind. None before.”

  Blade nodded in satisfaction. “Fair enough. They have more canvas and would soon have the gauge of us. Look - the fools are going under sail anyway.”

  True. Each of Otto’s, ships carried a huge square sail rigged to a single slanting spar. The sails hung limp and lifeless, impeding, doubling the work of the sweating slaves. By that stupidity alone Blade gained the edge in speed.

  Blade raised his sword and made a chopping motion. Ixion began bellowing orders through his leather trumpet. The orders were picked up by a slave in the bow, with another trumpet, and passed on to each galley in turn.

  He had pulled his hooks at precisely the right moment and now he watched as the four ships, looking miniscule by the side of the large craft attacking, began to fall into a single file behind the trireme. Blade smiled grimly. There was already shouting and gesticulating on the command decks of the enemy. Equebus had expected Blade to assume a broad frontal defense, to spread his ships into a smaller bow to ward off the larger attacking one. Equebus wanted a series of ship to ship battles with his the larger craft and almost double in number.

  Blade raised a finger, Ixion his trumpet, and three rows of oars began to rise and dip, flinging droplets of water like a million diamonds. The big trireme leaped forward. These were galley slaves promised freedom and they would row their hearts out for it.

  The drumming came up in a regular monotonous thrum from the second tier: Dum-dum-dum-Dum-dum-dum-Dum-dum-dum.

  “I put Chephron on the drum,” said Pelops. “He seemed best fitted for it and he is no better with the sword than I.”

  Blade ignored him. He spoke to Ixion. “Increase the beat - up twenty a minute.”

  Ixion bellowed the order and the trireme began to throw a bow wave as the long oars flashed in unison. The slaves were putting their scarred backs into it. They began to sing. The drum increased the cadence - dum-dum-dum-dum-dum…

  Blade took the helm himself. It was a side rudder, a big oar that reminded Blade of those on Viking ships. It was alive in his hand. He could feel pressure tingling in the wood. Pphira had enough way on her to answer immediately. Blade studied the battle line of Otto’s ships. About three hundred yards now.

  Blake called out, “Fire buckets ready.”

  Ixion relayed the order.

  “Shields up.”

  Crewmen scurried to secure wooden shielding along the railings. They would give some protection from arrow fire, none from the catapults.

  “Archers aloft,” cried Blade and Ixion sent the order on its way.

  Blade’s attacking force was now in a single line, led by the trireme Pphira. The flagship of Equebus was a hundred yards ahead and coming up fast. Blade touched the tiller and took the trireme a point to starboard. The huge flagship, a quadreme, a clumsy floating palace, nevertheless had a nasty underwater ram. Blade’s little fleet had not been allowed rams.

  Blade put his glass squarely on Equebus for a moment. The Captain paced the command deck of his flagship, brave in scarlet cloak and silver helmet, heavily armored, waving a sword as he screamed commands. He had realized the mistake of hoisting sail in a dead calm and was trying to repair the damage. Meantime his slaves, lacking the inspiration of Blade’s, fell out of rhythm and caught air instead of water and cursed and cringed at the lash. There was no whipping on Blade’s ships.

  Equebus had no speaking trumpets and had to transmit his orders by flag. This added to confusion - wrong flags were flown and even these misread. Blade grinned satanically as he watched Equebus lose his temper and strike out at his junior officers.

  To add to the Captain’s woes there came an errant gust of wind, precursor of the breeze promised by Ixion. It did not last long, but while it did it blew steadily against Equebus’ ships, most of which had not yet furled their sails. The wind negated the labor of the oar slaves. The nine ships of Otto slowed, halted, and began to drift aimlessly without rudder or way.

  Blade cupped his hands and screamed at Ixion. This order must not be delayed or misunderstood,

  “Diverge!”

  Ixion trumpeted the word through leather. The four little galleys behind Blade fell off to right and left, two in each direction, and rowed at top speed to pierce the line of enemy ships.

  Blade took the Pphira another point to starboard, avoiding the ram of the flagship, then brought his ship back in close. From the corner of his eye he saw a great jagged stone, flung by a catapult, smash one of his galleys amidships. The galley, one that had diverged to the left, its back broken, fell off and began to sink. The harbor was dotted with slaves sinking or swimming as best they could. Blade could do nothing. He counted on losing his four galleys in any case - his hopes lay only in the trireme - and at least the oar slaves had not been chained to their benches.

  Arrow fire was heavy now. Blade took Pphira in close to run alongside the flagship at top speed. He was within lance and javelin range. One of his archers fell screaming from the top lines and landed bloodily on the poop deck. Pelops screeched and cowered against the rail. Blade gave the little man a shove. “Get rid of it!”

  Blade brought the tiller hard over and the big trireme ran past the flagship. Ixion had ordered the port oars retracted just in time. Not so aboard the flagship. Equebus did not guess at Blade’s maneuver until too late.

  Pphira, propelled by her starboard oars, flashed down the side of the flagship. Scraping, sliding, bumping. The big quadreme carried fifty oars to a side. As Blade’s heavy ship smashed the oars like matchsticks the carnage on the rowing benches was all the worse for being unseen. One great cry of anguish and terror and pain lifted to the Sarmaian skies. Broken oars smashed heads and limbs, flying splinters disemboweled deck office
rs. The flagship lost what little way she had and began to drift aimlessly, already half destroyed.

  “Fire pots,” yelled Blade.

  Pelops had trained the men well. Blade gave him credit now as dozens of flaming pots were whirled at the end of long lines and tossed. Smoke and flame mounted. More screaming from the holds as the white hot coals scattered amid wracked flesh. One of the pots caught in a fold of the half furled sail and a bright sheet of flame leaped and devoured. Smoke billowed back over the command deck where Equebus still fought to bring some order out of this chaos he had never foreseen. Blade was not fighting by the rules.

  They were past the flagship and into a tight turn, Blade meaning to run back on the other side and smash the remaining oars left to Equebus. The Captain guessed at that and ordered the oars in. Blade smiled. The wind dropped away as suddenly as it had come and now the flagship had no propulsion, was little better than a drifting burning hulk. Ixion had the port oars out again and, with the starboard side backing water, was turning the Pphira in her own length. Blade took a moment from the fray to focus his crude glass on the pier.

  Otto the Black, with the aid of his slaves, had been hoisted to his feet. He peered out over the harbor at the disaster, with a look of petulant disbelief. Blade thought he looked like a giant baby about to have a temper tantrum. The Queen sat quietly, her face masked by a hand as she peered at the carnage. She would be, Blade thought, watching for the black flag. His lips quirked in a little grimace that had some cruelty in it. The Queen did not know what to expect, would not know Blade’s plan until it was too late to alter it. Blade waved his sword at her. He would do what he could, what he must, and after that Pphira must handle it alone. He turned back to the task at hand, taking in the entire picture as the trireme began to run back toward the burning flagship.

  He had lost another galley but five of Otto’s ships were burning and drifting. Blade’s remaining two galleys were attacking one of Otto’s ships, tossing fire pots and sending in heavy arrow fire, while the remaining three lay by and did nothing. Blade put his glass on these ships; it was as he suspected, and had hoped. The slaves aboard them were revolting. For Blade had commanded Pelops to plant spies, provocateurs, men to spread the word that all slaves who survived and could make it to the Pphira would be welcomed. He could not hope to save many of them, in fact had already discounted the four galleys and their crews, but now the strategy was paying off. Hand to hand fighting was raging on all three ships.

  One of the burning vessels got its catapults back in working order and began flinging huge rocks at Blade’s trireme. A slab of rock buzzed across the poop deck, just between Blade and Pelops, and took off the head of the helmsman now back at the tiller. The body stood upright for a moment, the hands still clenched around the blood spattered tiller, then toppled overboard. Blade watched Pelops.

  That little man, having somehow gotten the body of the archer over the side, stood clutching his sword with determination. He glanced at the headless helmsman, swallowed, then looked back at Blade and tried to smile. Blade nodded encouragement and yelled above all the commotion, “We’ll make a warrior of you yet, Pelops!”

  Pelops did not seem convinced, but he nodded, clutched his sword still tighter, and turned to peer at the flagship now coming up on the larboard. Equebus, in the respite granted him, had managed to get some of the fires under control and to man his decks with every available archer and spearman. He had his sail, still burning, over the side. He crowded his lines and fore top with archers and prudently drew in his remaining oars. Four of his catapults, and two of the smaller catapults, were still working and could range the oncoming Pphira. Equebus was fighting back.

  Blade nodded in satisfaction. He did not want the flagship to sink until he was finished with her. He glanced again at the pier. Otto the Black was seated again, staring disconsolately with fat chin in hand. Blade made a brief prayer that Otto would not move. It would spoil everything.

  He yelled at Ixion from his place at the helm. “Step up the beat again. Another twenty.”

  Ixion nodded and bellowed the order. The oars began to flash faster as the drum went into a high frenetic dum-dum-dum-dumming. Slaves from the sunken ships, or those who had broken their chains and gone overboard, cried out piteously as they tried to clutch at the chopping oars and were slashed to bits or slammed beneath the water. There was no help for it.

  Blade manned the tiller with one hand and kept his glass on the flagship. Equebus had worked a miracle by restoring even some semblance of order. He stood near a tall catapult on the afterdeck, speaking to an officer, and pointing to Blade on the Pphira. The offer nodded and yelled commands. The catapult was loaded and levered back - Thwanggggg.

  The boulder smashed six feet of railing just abaft of Blade. He did not move. Arrows flailed the air as the catapultas went into action. They threw six foot arrows that passed with a nasty hissing sound. Pelops and Ixion were both crouching on all fours. Blade remained upright. He was conscious that every man aboard Pphira was watching him. He must set an example now that would last into the future - if there was to be a future. So he ignored the urge to duck, the leaden feeling in his legs and belly, the ice along his spine. It would soon be over one way or the other.

  They were within bowshot now. The hissing flights of arrows came in serried clouds that darkened the skies. Blade began to lose men. Pelops reverted to form for a moment and whimpered. Blade scowled him into silence. An arrow slashed off his helmet, another went through the loose sleeve of his jerkin. Blade smiled at Ixion.

  “In port oars. Lower the beat on the starboard side. Prepare to drop the boarding gangway. Post men at bow and stern with grapnels. When we strike all rowing slaves are to find weapons and join the attack.”

  The boarding gangway Blade had remembered from his study of ancient sea battles. It was a hasty improvised job, a long wooden bridge four feet in width now tied up against the main mast. When the lines were slashed it would fall across the rail of the flagship. The Sarmaians knew of, and used, grapnels. Of the boarding gangway they had never heard.

  Blade brought down the oar beat again. They were drifting close to the flagship. The air around Blade was filled with snakes, a constant sshhh-sshhh-shss-shss -

  The voice of Equebus came roaring over the din. “Kill Blade! He there at the tiller. Every man fire at Blade!”

  Three arrows plucked at Blade, one after the other, nipping his flesh and tearing at his armor. Ixion took an arrow in the throat and went down writhing and screaming and trying to tear it out with his bare hands. Pelops gave a cry that had little human in it.

  Blade left the tiller, Pphira having nearly lost way and drifting, and sprang to gather up the leather trumpet. He lifted it and roared at the top of his voice.

  “Prepare to board. Drop the gangway when we touch. Watch me. Keep your eyes on me!”

  They drifted closer. They were in under the catapults now and safe from all but the arrows and lances, but that fire was steady and deadly. Blade strode to the head of the companionway and stood looking down at his men. Slaves, every one of them, but slaves with weapons in their hands and a determination that warmed him. He raised his sword and they let out a great cry even as the arrows and lances bled them. They were so closely packed on the fighting deck that men who died could not fall.

  The cry went up. “Blade - Blade - Blade!”

  “B-Blade!” It was Pelops, behind Blade, holding his sword aloft with a shaking hand.

  “Brave little man,” said Blade, hoping he was right. “Follow me and watch out for yourself.”

  The ships crunched together.

  Blade yelled: “Grapnels over. Drop the gangway. Over the rails and kill the bowmen first. Keep the gangway clear. Keep it clear!”

  He leaped down to the deck. Sword in his right hand, stabbing dagger in his left. An arrow plunked off his chest armor. Men made a way for him as he ran toward the gangway now fallen and resting on the rail of the flagship. After the first impact
the Pphira had rebounded, drifted a bit, and now two feet of water separated the two ships.

  “Tug your grapnels,” Blade screamed as he pelted toward the gangway. “Bring her in close and bind her.”

  He leaped up on the gangway. He must be first over. Someone tossed him a shield.

  The shield saved his life as a hail of arrows swept the gangway. Blade raised his sword and ran forward, yelling at the top of his voice.

  “To me. Follow me! Board - board! Mercy to slaves - none to masters!”

  Grapnels brought the two ships together again. They kissed. Blade’s slaves swarmed over the rails in a screaming, hacking, howling mass of retribution.

  An officer leaped to the gangway and met Blade as he charged. The swords chimed, sparking, and Blade feinted his opponent’s shield high and ran him through the belly. The dying man fell forward, clutching Blade’s weapon, and as he tried to wrest it free another officer aimed a terrible blow at him with a battle-axe. Blade ducked. The blow killed a man just behind him. Blade backed off, kicked the dead man off his sword, ducked another blow of the axe, taking it on his shield, and hamstrung the officer with a backhand blow. A slave daggered his opponent in the throat.

  Blade was barely off the gangway and needed fighting room. It was too cluttered, too jam-packed, for effective sword play. Blade shouted and brought his sword in at half length and laid about him with a fury that soon widened the circle. He was already covered with grime and sweat and blood. His breath rasped in his throat, though he was not yet tiring, and he tried as best he could to concentrate on killing officers and such freemen as owed a mistaken loyalty to Otto and Equebus.

  He ripped out a throat, daggered another man in the belly, smashed a skull with his shield and began to fight his way back toward the high poop where Equebus stood watching his ship and crew die. Through sweat and blood that stung his eyes like nettles Blade saw the Captain standing, waiting, hands on hips, for what he surely knew was coming. In the same instant that he parried a blow, ran in hilt to hilt with his enemy, stared into shocked Sarmaian eyes, then blinded the man with a dagger slash, Blade regretted slightly what he must do. The Queen had no other son - and she had lavished much on this one. Still it must be done. In the end Pphira would be better off.