The Snaring of Sharane

Chapter Fifteen

Kenton raised his head, cautiously. The place where he lay was the anchor deck. The chains up which he had climbed passed through a hawser port, wound around a crude windlass and were fastened to a thin, double hook that was more like a grappling iron than anchor. Near it lay a similar hook, and on the starboard bow was another windlass with chains running from it through another port. On each bulwark were deep, metal-lined grooves, over which the lowering links slid. Evidently, although control of steering gear, mast and rowers’ pit was in the hands of the black priest, the women of Sharane looked after anchorage. He noted, with some anxiety, a door leading out of the cabin’s farther side—the portion that housed her warrior maids. But it was not likely, he thought, that any would come out as long as the ship was under sail and oar. At any rate he would have to take that risk.

Through the opened window above him he could hear the hum of voices. Then that of Sharane came to him, pitched high and clear—and bitter.

“He broke his chains, even as he had promised—and then fled!”

“But mistress,” it was Satalu. “Where could he go? He came not here. How know you that Klaneth did not take him? That he is not even now feeding his deviltries?”

“No mistaking Klaneth’s wrath!” answered Sharane. “No mistaking the scourging he gave Zachel! Both were real, Satalu.”

So the black priest had scourged Zachel, had he? Well, that, at any rate, was good news.

“But what puzzles them most is that he fled while the horn of sleep still held the slaves in thrall,” mused Satalu.

“We know it held him not in thrall,” answered Sharane, sharply. “Nay, Satalu, why argue? He had grown strong. He broke his chains. He fled. And thereby proved himself the coward I called him—and hoped he was not,” she added softly. “Did I not promise him his sword if he broke chains and came to me?”

“But he did not promise to come and ask you for it,” said Satalu slyly. “I think he said he would come and take it—and—”

“Be silent, girl!” Sharane’s voice was wrathful. “Remind me not of that, if you would not be whipped!”

There was silence in the cabin. Then Sharane spoke again, softly, sorrowfully:

“Forgive me, Satalu. You know I would not whip you. But—he will not come again, either to ask or to take.”

Then after another silence:

“I am weary. Luarda—watch outside the door. You others to your cabin to sleep—or what you will. Satalu, brush my hair a little and then leave me.”

Another silence; a longer one. Then Satalu’s voice:

“Mistress, you are half asleep. I go.”

Kenton waited—but not long. The sill of the window was about as high above the anchor deck as his chin. He raised himself gently; peered within. His gaze rested first on the shrine of the luminous gems, the pearls and pale moonstones, the milky curdled crystals. He had the feeling that it was empty, tenantless! There were no flames in the seven little crystal basins.

He heard a woman sobbing. He looked down. The head of the wide divan of ivory with its golden arabesques was almost beneath him. Upon it lay Sharane, face down upon its cushions, clothed only in one thin silken veil and the floods of her red gold hair, and weeping, weeping bitterly, broken-heartedly; weeping like any woman with bruised heart, white shoulders heaving with the deep sobbing she sought to stifle in her cushions.

Weeping for—him?

He hardened his heart against her; fought down fierce desire to go to her and take her in his arms; comfort her.

A gleam of sapphire, a glint of steel caught his eyes. It was his sword—the sword of Nabu! The sword he had vowed he would not take from her hands—would take, unaided, with his own. It hung upon a low rack on the wall just above her head; so close that she need but reach up a hand to grasp it.

He drew back, waited impatiently for her weeping to cease. Love for her—or passion—he had in full. But search his heart now as he might—no pity.

And soon her sobbing lessened; died away. And after another while of waiting he slowly thrust his head again through the window; looked down upon her. She lay asleep, face turned toward the cabin door, tears still on the long lashes—but the fair breast rising and falling softly in the measured respiration of slumber.

The window was about three feet square, its casement opening inward. Kenton gripped the sill, drew himself softly up until shoulders and breast were within. Then he bent over until his waist rested on the ledge. Now his hands touched the softnesses of one of the rugs upon the floor. Lithely, noiselessly as a serpent, he slid down, gripping the sill with his insteps. Slowly, like a tumbler, he brought his legs down; lay prone, full length, at the head of Sharane’s bed.

Again he waited. Her measured breathing did not change. He drew himself up on his feet. Catlike he slipped to the door that lay between this cabin and that of the warrior maids. There was a low murmuring of voices there. He saw a bar that, lowered, slipped into a metal clutch on the other side, securing it. Noiselessly he dropped it, fastened it. Those cats were caged, he thought, grinning.

He glanced over the cabin. Upon a low stool lay a small piece of silk; over a settle a long one, scarflike. He picked up the small piece and rolled it deftly into a serviceable gag. He took the long piece and tested it. It was heavy and strong, just what he needed, he reflected—but not enough. He slipped to a wall, unhooked a similar hanging.

He tiptoed over to Sharane’s bed; stood there for a moment, shaken by her loveliness. She stirred, uneasily, as though she felt his eyes on her; as though she were awakening!

Kenton acted. Before she could raise her lids he had opened her mouth, thrust the silken gag within. Then throwing himself over her, holding her down by sheer weight, he jerked up her head, wound the scarf tightly around her mouth, tied it. As swiftly he raised her from the hips and wound the balance of the scarf around her arms, pinioning them to her sides.

Eyes blazing with wrathful recognition, outrage, desperation, she tried to roll from beneath him, struck up at him with her knees. He shifted his weight, lay across her thighs, dexterously bound knees and ankles with the second scarf that he had torn from the wall.

Now she lay motionless, glaring at him; hate devils in her gaze. He sent her a kiss, mockingly. She turned, tried to throw herself upon the floor. Noiselessly still, he took other hangings, wrapped her round and round with them. And finally he passed a pair of heavy ones under and over the bed; bound her fast with them to the divan.

Heedless of her now, he walked to the outer door. In some way he must get the handmaiden she called Luarda within the cabin, make her as helpless as her mistress—and as silent. He opened the door the merest slit, peered through it. She sat close beside it, back turned to him, gaze upon the black deck. How could he lure her in?

He tiptoed away, found another small piece of silk; snatched from the wall another hanging. The small piece he fashioned into another gag. Then he opened the door as before, placed his lips to the crack, pitched his voice high and softly, as femininely as possible, called to her:

“Luarda! The mistress wants you! Quick!”

She leaped to her feet. He shrank back, pressing himself against the wall close beside the door frame. Unsuspiciously, she opened the door; stepped within it, and paused for an instant, open-mouthed, at the sight of the Lady Sharane, bound and helpless.

That instant was all Kenton needed. One arm was around her neck, throttling her. With his free hand he thrust the gag into her mouth; in the same moment closed the door with his foot. The girl in his arms struggled like a young panther. He managed to keep her mouth closed until he had wound the lower part of her face and her neck with the hanging. Her hands swept up, clawing him; she strove to wind her legs around his, throwing him. He drew the silk tighter around her neck, strangling her. When her struggles grew feeble, he swiftly bound her arms to her side. He laid her on the floor, and pinioned, as he had Sharane’s, her ankles and knees.

Helpless as her own mistress now she lay. He picked her up; carried her over to the divan; rolled her under it.

Not till then did he reach up and take down his sword. And as before, he felt strength flow through it into him. He stood before Sharane, poising it, handling it, thrusting and cutting with it.

There was no fear in the burning eyes that stared up at him. Rage enough and to spare was there—but no fear. And, with an oddly satisfying glow he realized it—neither contempt nor shame! No. Wrath filled as were her eyes, he seemed to see in them wonder—hope.

And Kenton laughed low, bent over her, and pressed his lips to her own gagged and bound ones. He kissed each wrathful eye.

“And now, Sharane,” he laughed. “I go to take the ship—without your help! And when I have taken it, I will come back and cut your bonds and take—you! Yes, Lady Honey-Sweet—with or without your help—take—you!”

He walked to the door, opened it softly, swept gaze over the ship.