Master of the Ship!

Chapter Sixteen

Upon the black deck squatted Gigi, forehead resting on the edge of the serpent drum, long arms trailing disconsolately down its sides. There was a forlornness about the drummer that made Kenton want to shout out to him. It was an impulse to which the sight of Zachel’s head put speedy check. He could see just the top of it over the low rail between Sharane’s deck and the rowers’ pit. But he could hear the vicious crack of the lash as it struck now here, now there.

He crouched low, until the head was out of sight—knowing that in that position Zachel could not see him. He knotted the sword in his girdle. On hands and knees he crept out of the cabin door, closed it softly behind him. Suddenly he saw that there was a window in the place where her women slept. He had not remembered that! But there was no door. They must pass through Sharane’s cabin to gain the deck—unless they slipped through the window. If they suspected something amiss with their mistress, found the door barred, undoubtedly they would come through that window. Well—he would have to take his chances on that; only hope that he could get most of the work ahead of him done before they were aroused.

And if he could surprise the black priest in his den, strike swiftly and silently—then he and the Viking could make short work of the rest, and the women do what they pleased. They could neither help nor hinder. It would be too late.

He flattened himself to the deck; wriggled beneath the window; listened. There was no sound of voices now. Slowly raising himself he saw that from this point the overseer was hidden from him by the mast. Keeping a cautious eye on the disconsolate Gigi, he stood up and peered within. There were eight girls there, lying asleep; some pillowed on each other’s breasts, some curled up on the silken cushions. He reached in a hand, closed the window noiselessly. Any sounds from without would be at least a little more deadened.

Again he lay flat and squirmed along the side of the cabin to the starboard rail. He slipped over it. He hung for a moment, fingers gripping the rail top, feet feeling for the chain that stretched below. Only half the distance he must travel to put the mast between himself and Zachel did that chain go. For that distance he swung along it, fingers having released rail to clutch links. When he came to its end, he raised himself, caught the rail again and swung along it swiftly hand over hand.

Now the mast was directly in front of him; he had reached the spot from which he had planned to strike his first blow. He chinned himself, and even as he had entered Sharane’s cabin, he streamed over the rail like a snake and lay flat against the bulwarks until breath came once more easily.

He was in plain sight of Gigi—and as he lay Gigi’s head came up with a jerk from his drum, his eyes stared straight into Kenton’s own. The ugly face broke into a thousand wrinkles of amazement; then instantly became indifferent, immobile. He yawned, got upon his feet; then, hand over eyes, peered intently over to the port side as though he had sighted something far away upon the sea.

“By Nergal, but Klaneth must know of this,” he said, distinctly. Then waddled quickly as dwarfed legs would let him, over to the black cabin.

Kenton wriggled over to the edge of the pit. He had glimpse of Zachel standing upon his platform stool, peering as intently as had Gigi over the sea, searching for whatever it was that seemingly had so aroused the drummer’s interest. He realized Gigi’s stratagem; took instantly the move he had opened for him.

Kenton dropped into the pit. One leap he took and was beside the mast. The overseer turned sharply. With instant recognition of his danger Zachel opened mouth to yell and swept hand down to belt where long poniard was sheltered, but the sword of Kenton hissed through air and through his neck.

The sheared head of Zachel leaped from his shoulders, mouth stretched open, eyes glaring. For three heartbeats the body of Zachel stood upright, blood spouting from the severed arteries, hand still gripping at the dagger.

The body of Zachel fell, splashing Kenton with its life streams as it dropped.

From the benches of the oarsmen came no sound, no outcry; they sat, blades drooped, staring.

He groped in Zachel’s belt for the overseer’s keys, the keys that would unlock the manacles from Sigurd’s wrists, unloose the metal belt from round his waist. He found them, snatched them loose, tore the dagger from Zachel’s stiffening fingers, and raced down the narrow passageway to the Viking.

“Brother!” babbled the Norseman, half incoherent. “I thought you gone! Blood brotherhood forgotten! And by Odin, what a blow! The dog’s head leaped from his shoulders as though Thor had struck it with his hammer!”

“Quiet! Sigurd, quiet!” Kenton was working with desperate haste among the keys, trying to find those which would fit Sigurd’s fetters. “No questioning now. Now we stand together you and I—fight for the ship. Hell damn these keys! If we can reach Klaneth’s den before alarm is raised—stand between me and the priests. Leave the black priest to me! Touch not Gigi, the drummer, nor Zubran, the red beard. They cannot help us—but they have given vow not to fight against us. Remember that, Sigurd, ah—”

The manacles at the Viking’s wrists clicked and opened; the lock on the metal belt clicked open, too. He shook his hands free of the chains, reached down and wrenched away the cincture.

Sigurd stood upright, flaxen mane streaming in the wind, clenched hands lifted high.

“Free!” he shouted, “free!”

“Sigurd!” breathed Kenton, and thrust his hands against the shouting mouth. “Be silent, Sigurd! Do you want the pack down on us before we have a chance to move?”

He pressed the dagger of Zachel into his hand.

“Use that!” he said. “It is all you have until you win some better weapon.”

“That!” laughed the Viking. “A woman’s toy! Nay, blood brother—Sigurd can do better than that!”

He dropped the dagger. He gripped the oar; lifted it out of the thole pins from which it swung. He bent forward sharply, bringing its shaft with terrific force against the side of the port. There was a sharp crackling, a rending of wood. He drew himself back, bringing the oar with the same force against the opposite side of the port. There was another crackling. Then Sigurd drew it in, broken squarely in the middle, a gigantic club all of ten feet long. He gripped it by the splintered end, whirled it round his head, the chains and the dangling manacles spinning like the weighted chains of some ancient battle mace.

“Come!” barked Kenton, and stooped to pick up the dagger.

And now from all the pit came clamor; the slaves straining at their bonds and crying to be freed.

“Free us!” they shrieked. “Loose our chains! We will fight with you!”

And from Sharane’s deck came the shrilling of women. Out of the window poured her warrior maids!

No chance now to surprise the black priest! No chance but in battle, fang and claw. His sword and the great club of Sigurd against Klaneth and his pack. And against what else he did not know.

“Quick, Sigurd!” he shouted. “To the deck!”

“I first, blood brother,” grunted Sigurd. “Shield to you!” He pushed Kenton aside, rushed past him. Before he could reach the foot of the stairway its top was filled with priests, white-faced, snarling, swords in their hands, and short stabbing spears.

Kenton’s foot fell on something that rolled away from beneath it, sending him to his knees. He looked straight down into the grinning face of Zachel. His severed head it was that had tripped him. He lifted it by the hair, swung it round and hurled it straight at the face of the foremost priest at the stairway top. It caught that priest a glancing blow, fell among them, then rolled and bounced away.

They cried out. They shrank back from it. Before they could muster again the Viking was up the steps and charging them, oar club flinging like a flail. And at his heels came Kenton, making for the black cabin’s door.

There were eight of the black robes facing them. They realized the meaning of Kenton’s move, streamed forward to block it. The Norseman’s oar struck, shattering the skull of one like an egg shell. Before he could raise it again two of the priests had darted in upon him, stabbing, thrusting with their spears. Kenton’s sword swept down, bit deep into the bone of an arm whose point was touching Sigurd’s breast. With quick upward thrust he ripped the same priest open from navel to chin. The Viking, swift as thought, dropped one hand from the oar, caught the haft of the second spear, twisted it out of the black robe’s grip and ran it through his heart. Down went another under bite of Kenton’s blade.

But now other priests came streaming from every passageway and corner of the black deck, armed with swords and spears and bearing shields. Out they streamed, screaming to their master.

And out of the black cabin rushed Klaneth, roaring, a great sword in hand. Behind him were Gigi and the Persian. The black priest came straight on, charging like a bull through the half ring of his servitors. But Gigi and the Persian slipped over to the serpent drum, stood there watching. Yet even in that short glimpse Kenton saw that the Persian’s eyes were blazing with battle light, his hands running over the daggers at his belt, sheathing and unsheathing his scimitar.

Out of the pit was coming one long sustained shrieking of the slaves.

For an instant the black priest stood towering over Kenton, the phosphorescence in his pale eyes turned now to leaping hell flames. Then he struck downward, a lightning blow designed to cleave Kenton from shoulder to hip.

But Kenton was not there when the blow fell. Swifter than the sword of Klaneth he had leaped aside, thrust out his own blade—

Felt it bite deep into the black priest’s side!

Klaneth howled and fell back. Instantly his acolytes streamed in between him and the besieged pair. They circled them.

“Back to back, brother!” shouted the Viking. Kenton heard the great club hum, saw three of the black robes mowed down by it as by some giant flail. With sweep and thrust he cleared away the priests ravening at him.

Now the fighting had carried them close to the drum. He saw the Persian, scimitar unsheathed and held by rigid arm. And he was cursing, sobbing, quivering like a hound held in leash and held back from his quarry. While Gigi, froth upon the corners of wide open mouth, face contorted, stood with long arms outstretched, hands trembling, shaking with that same eagerness.

Desire, Kenton knew, to join with him and Sigurd in that battle, held back by mysterious vows not to be broken.

And suddenly Gigi pointed downward. Kenton followed the gesture, saw a priest crawling, sword in hand, and almost within reach of the Viking’s feet. One sweep of that sword against Sigurd’s legs and he was done for; hamstrung. Forgetting his own defense, he leaned forward, cut downward. The head of the creeping priest jumped from his shoulders, rolled away.

But as he straightened he saw Klaneth again above him, poised to strike!

“The end!” thought Kenton. With one last instinctive movement he dropped flat, rolled away from the falling edge.

He had not counted on the Viking. Sigurd had seen all that swift by-play. He swept his oar, held horizontally, in a gigantic punch. It crashed into Klaneth’s chest.

The sword stroke fell short; the black priest was hurled backward, half falling for all his strength and massive bulk.

“Gigi! Zubran! To me!” he howled.

Before Kenton could rise, two priests were on him, clawing him, stabbing at him. He released his grip on his sword; drew the poniard of Zachel. He thrust upward; felt a body upon him stiffen, then collapse like a pricked balloon. Felt, too, the edge of a sword slice into his shoulder. He struck again, blindly; was drenched with sudden flood of blood. He heard a bubbling whispering—and the second weight was gone.

He gripped his sword, staggered upright. In one swift glance he saw that of all Klaneth’s wolf pack not more than half a dozen were on their feet—and Klaneth himself was one of these. They had drawn back, out of reach of the Viking’s oar. Sigurd stood, drawing in great breaths. And the black priest was gasping too, holding his broad chest where the oar of Sigurd had struck. At his feet was a little pool of blood, dripping from where the sword of Nabu had pierced him.

“Gigi! Zubran!” he panted. “Take these dogs! Or Nergal seize you!”

The drummer leered at him.

“Nay, Klaneth,” he answered. “My vow and Zubran’s was that we would not molest you nor your priests as long as you were master of this deck. There was no vow to aid you. And it comes to me that your mastership is ending. And therefore—”

He bent over the tall drum, with heave of broad shoulders hurled it over the side.

“And therefore,” he grinned, “you will no longer need the Summoner of Nergal!”

From the priests arose a groan. Klaneth stood, silent, struck dumb, it seemed, by Gigi’s act; his words.

And as they stood there came from the waves touching the ship a sound—sonorous and sinister!

A thunderous drumming, menacing, malignant—summoning!

Br-oom—rr—oom—oom!

The great drum swinging against the side of the ship! Lifted by the waves and by their arms beaten against the ship!

The—Summoner!

The Summoner of—Nergal!

Br—rr—oom!

The ship trembled. A shadow fell upon the sea. Around Klaneth a darkness began to gather.

More angrily, more evilly, thundered the wave-beaten drum of Nergal. The mists about the black priest thickened, writhed; beginning that hellish transmutation of Nergal’s priest into his own dread self. Out of them came Klaneth’s voice.

“Not master, eh—Gigi!” he mocked. “Now wait and see! And see what happens to you and that sow’s spittle of a Persian!”

“Strike!” Gigi’s hand fell on Kenton’s shoulder. “Quick! Bite deep! While there is yet time! I go to silence the Summoner!”

He ran to the rail; dropped over it.

And Kenton rushed straight upon that cloudy horror within which the black priest still moved. His sword swept into it; struck! He heard a howl, agonized, unbelieving. The voice of Klaneth! He struck again.

And striking realized that the drumming had ceased; that the voice of the Summoner was stilled. He heard Gigi’s shout:

“Bite again, wolf! Bite deep!”

Abruptly the dark mist around Klaneth cleared. He stood there, dead eyes closed, hand holding an arm from which dark blood welled through clasping fingers.

And as Kenton raised his sword to strike again—to strike this time a blow that would need no other to follow it—the black priest opened eyes that were twin pyres of infernal flame. Into Kenton’s eyes he dashed the blood from the hand that had held the wounded arm. Blinded, Kenton held his sword at mid-stroke. The black priest rushed upon him. Mechanically, through dimmed sight, he raised blade to meet that rush; saw Sigurd driving down upon the remaining priests, heard the crack of bone as red-stained mace met their bodies even as they fled.

His sword was caught in Klaneth’s hand. Swiftly he drew it back. As it slid out of the black priest’s grip, severed fingers dropped. Again he howled.

Kenton’s foot slipped on a gout of blood. He fell. The black priest crashed down on him; the mighty arms encircled him. Over and over they rolled. He saw Sigurd, whimpering with eagerness, striving to strike down; to smash out Klaneth’s life—and finding no opening.

Suddenly Klaneth rolled over, Kenton on top of him. His crushing grip relaxed; he grew limp; lay inert.

Kenton knelt upon him; looked up at the Viking.

“Not yours,” he gasped. “Mine!”

He sought for the dagger at his belt. The body of the black priest stiffened. Then, like a released spring, he leaped upon his feet, throwing Kenton yards away.

And before the Viking could raise the club to strike, Klaneth was at the rail. He hurled himself over it into the sea!

They hung over the ship’s side, Kenton poised to leap upon the black priest. He was not there. They searched with their gaze the waters. Twice perhaps a hundred feet away, the serpent drum floated, its top slit across by Gigi’s knife. And now as they watched the head of Klaneth arose beside it, a hand gripped it. Under the touch the huge cylinder dipped to him with grotesque genuflection. From it came a dismal sound like a lament. Then out of the silver haze a shadow moved. It darkened over black priest and drum. It shrouded them and withdrew—and where it had been was neither black priest nor Summoner! Man and drum—all had gone!

Battle fury still in his veins, Kenton looked about him. The black deck was strewn with Klaneth’s men; men crushed and broken under Sigurd’s mace, men from whom his own sword had let out the life, men in twisted, grotesque heaps, men—but not many—who still writhed and groaned.

He turned to Sharane’s deck. Her women, white-faced, clustered at the cabin door, staring at him. And on the very verge of the barrier between the two decks stood Sharane. Proudly she faced him, but with misty eyes on whose long lashes tears still trembled. Diadem of shining crescent was gone; gone too that aura of the goddess which even when Ishtar was afar lingered like a splendor in this, her living shrine.

Why—she was but a woman after all! Nay—only a girl! A girl all human, exquisite—

He was lifted high on the shoulders of Gigi and the Persian.

“Hail!” cried Gigi. “Hail! Master of the ship!”

“Master of the ship!” shouted the Persian. “Gods of Persia! What a fight!”

“Master of the ship!” repeated Gigi—then softly—“But Klaneth lives!”

Master of the ship!

“Put me down,” he ordered. And when they had set him on his feet he strode from Klaneth’s deck to Sharane’s, stood over her.

“Master of the ship!” he laughed. “And master of—you! Sharane!”

“Not yet,” she answered, steadily. “Not yet—unless I choose.”

He gripped her slender wrists, drew her to his breast.