The Horn of Sleep

Chapter Eleven

The heart of Kenton swelled, grew warm; his scourged back was forgotten in the glow that followed the Viking’s vow. Chained to his oar, Sigurd might be even as he, and as helpless under the lash; but still—a friend here in the galley-pit. And once the two were loosed, a mighty friend indeed, a blood brother worth the having. This Master of Dragons, as he had called himself, and by that phrase Kenton knew he meant captain of war fleets of the old Norse galleys, should command the Ship of Ishtar—under him, of course.

Thus Kenton decided, letting no doubt of future victory assail him.

Now he was but a slave with whip-torn back and chained to an oar. That did not matter; he would conquer!

Against him were the black priest, the dread power he served, and his score of acolytes. Nor knew he, actually, when it came to grips with Klaneth, whether the drummer Gigi, for all his apparent friendliness, and the Persian Zubran, would not, bound by vows, give their strength to his enemies. Still, it did not matter. He would conquer!

And Sharane and her fighting women—them, too, would he conquer! What mattered the odds against him of men and women with their Nergal and their Ishtar? Burned steady within him unquenchable conviction that one day he would conquer the ship.

Master—Sharane!

The Viking’s hand still gripped his. He placed his other hand upon it.

“Sigurd,” he said, “blood brothers you and I from now on. Glad is my heart because of it. In ill luck and fair luck, in peace and in war, my fortune shall be your fortune and your bane my bane until the Norn who cuts the thread of life severs mine. Skoal, blood brother! Skoal! And may Odin All-Father give us strength to take this ship and sail it as we will!”

The grip of the Viking tightened. He withdrew his hand and bent once more to the oar. Nothing said he—but Kenton knew the vow was sealed.

The whip of the overseer cracked, a shrill whistle sounded. The four rowers in front lifted high their oars, shunted them into a niche. The Viking raised his sweep, set it in a similar rest.

“Sit,” he said. “They wash us now and feed.”

A cascade of water fell over Kenton, and another. The salt of it stung his wounds, brought tears to his eyes.

“Quiet!” warned Sigurd. “Soon the pain passes, and the salt will heal.”

Then down over him too swished the water. Two brown men, naked to the waists, backs scarred, went by. In each hand they held buckets, raised them, and poured the water over two of the men at the stroke oars. They turned and went back along the narrow way between the benches. Powerful were their bodies. Their faces were those of men come to life out of some ancient Assyrian frieze, narrow, hook-nosed, full-lipped. No mind dwelt behind those faces. Their eyes were staring, empty. They moved like automatons. An irrepressible tremor shook Kenton; the Viking noted it.

“Their souls are gone,” he whispered. “They have long been gone. They are like the slave who died beside me. They have been so long upon the ship that it has sucked their souls from them. They are all like that, save two black men behind us. By the Æsir,” he swore, “it was what I feared for myself until you came!”

Back the pair came with other buckets, which they dashed over the other two oarsmen. Bucket after bucket they emptied over the floor of the pit, washing it clean. And when this was done two other slaves set upon the bench between Kenton and the Norseman a rough platter and a bowl. On the platter were a dozen long pods and a heap of round cakes resembling the cassava bread the tropical folk press out and bake in the sun. The bowl was filled with a dark, thick liquid, purplish red.

He munched the pods; they were fleshy, with a curious meaty flavor. The round cakes tasted exactly like what they resembled—cassava bread. The liquid was strong, pungent, a trace of fermentation in it. There was strength in that food and drink. As he ate, Kenton felt strength rising in him. And the dousing had done him good. His back had ceased to smart, the wounds no longer throbbed. He relaxed. The Norseman smiled at him.

“No lash now, so we speak not too loudly,” he said. “It is the rule. So while we eat and drink ask what you will of me without fear, blood brother.”

“Two things I would first know of many,” said Kenton. “How came you on the ship, Sigurd? And how comes this food here?”

“From here and there comes the food,” answered the Viking. “It is a ship of warlocks and a cursed one. Not long may it stop at any place, nor at any place is it welcome. Nay, not even at Emakhtila, which is full of warlocks. Where it harbors they bring food and gear quickly and with fear. Quickly do they give to speed it quickly away, lest the demons who possess it grow angry and destroy. They have strong magic—that pale son of Hela and the woman on the white deck. Sometimes I think her a daughter of Loki, whom Odin chained for his wickedness. And sometimes I think her a daughter of Freya, the Mother of Gods. But whatever she be, she is very fair and has a great soul. I have no hatred toward her.”

He lifted the bowl to his lips.

“And as for how I came here,” he went on, “that is a short tale enough. Southward I had sailed with the ships of Hagnor and Red Spear. Twelve great dragons had we when we set forth. Southward sailed we through many seas, raiding as we went. Then after long, with six of our twelve dragons left us, we came to the land of the Egyptians, to a city named Alexandria. It was a very great city and full of temples to all the gods in the world—except our gods.

“It irked us that among all these temples Odin All-Father had none. It irked us, and we grew wroth. So one night when we had drunk overdeep of the Egyptian wine six of us set forth to take a temple, cast out its god, and give it to Odin for a home.

“We came to a temple and entered. It was a dark temple and full of black robes like these on board the ship. When we told them what we meant to do, they buzzed like bees and rushed us like a wolfpack. Many then we slew, shouting. And we would have won that temple for Odin, the six of us fighting in a ring, but—a horn blew!”

“Summoning too many for you?” asked Kenton.

“Not at all, blood brother,” said Sigurd. “It was a warlock horn. A horn of sleep. It blew sleep through us as the storm wind blows the spray through a sail. It turned our bones to water, and our red swords dropped from hands that could no longer feel their hilts. And down we all dropped, sodden with sleep, among the slain.

“When we awoke we were in a temple. We thought it the same temple, for it was as dark and the same black-robed priests filled it. We were in chains, and they whipped us and made us slaves. Then we found we were no longer in the land of the Egyptians, but in a city named Emakhtila, on an isle of warlocks set in the sea of what I think a warlock world. Long I slaved for the black robes, I and my comrades, till they dragged me to this ship that had dropped anchor in Emakhtila harbor. And here ever since I have bent over my oar, watching their wizardries and fighting to keep my soul from being sucked from me.”

“A horn that poured out sleep!” said Kenton, puzzled. “But that I do not understand, Sigurd.”

“You will, comrade,” Sigurd said grimly. “Soon enough you will. Zachel plays it well—Listen—it begins.”

From behind them a deep, droning, mellow horn note sounded. Low pitched, vibrant, continuous, it crept into the ears, and seemed to pour through them along every nerve, touching them, caressing them with the soft fingers of the very soul of poppied sleep.

The note droned on, dripping sleep.

The Viking’s eyes were fierce and strained with struggle against slumber. Slowly, slowly the lids closed over them. His hands relaxed, the fingers opened, his body swayed, his head dropped upon his chest. Then like a man from whom all life is suddenly withdrawn, every muscle flaccid, he slumped down upon the bench.

The note droned on. The four slaves at the stroke oar lay with heads on outstretched arms.

Fight as hard as Kenton might, he could not thrust away that soft, clinging slumber that pressed inexorably in on him from every side. A numbness crept through his body. Sleep, sleep—swarms of infinite particles of sleep were drifting through him, drifting with his blood through every vein, along every nerve, clogging his brain.

Lower and lower dropped his own lids.

And suddenly he could no longer fight. Chains rattling, down against Sigurd he fell, wrapped in that same impenetrable web of sleep.