The Isle of Sorcerers

Chapter Twenty-One

Luck clung to them. The silver mists hung close about the ship, shrouding her so that she sailed ever within a circle not more than double her length. Ever the mists hid her. Kenton, sleeping little, drove the slaves at the oars to point of exhaustion.

“There is a great storm brewing,” warned Sigurd.

“Pray Odin that it may hold back till we are well within Emakhtila,” answered Kenton.

“If we but had a horse I would sacrifice it to the All-Father,” mourned Sigurd. “Then he would hold that storm till our needs called it.”

“Speak low, lest the sea horses trample us!” warned Kenton, half laughing, half serious.

He had questioned the Viking about that interruption of his when the captain of the captured galley had said that Sharane was Priestess of Bel’s House. The Viking had been subtly evasive.

“She will be safe there, even from Klaneth—so long as she takes no other lover than the god,” Sigurd had said.

“No other lover than the god!” Kenton had roared, hand dropping to sword and glaring at Sigurd. “She will have no lover but me—god or man, Sigurd! What do you mean?”

“Take hand from sword, blood-brother,” Sigurd had replied. “I meant not to offend you. Only”—he hesitated—“gods are gods! And there was something in that galley captain’s talk about your woman walking in dream, memory withdrawn from her—was there not? If that be so—blood-brother—you were in those memories she has lost!”

Kenton winced. He had not forgotten. Insistently the same thought had gnawed at him since their journey’s beginning; was, perhaps, prime reason for his desperate haste. Another thought, that also since then had comforted him, prompted his tongue.

“Nergal once tried to part a man and a woman who loved,” he said, “even as Sharane and I. He could not. I do not think Nergal’s priest can succeed where his infernal master failed.”

“Not well reasoned, comrade.” It was Zubran who had come quietly upon them. “The gods are strong. Therefore they have no reason for subtlety or cunning. They smite—and all is done. It is not artistic, I admit—but it is unanswerable. But man, who has not the strength of the gods, must resort to cunning and subtlety. That is why man will do worse things than the gods. Out of his weakness he is forced to it. The gods should not be blamed—except for making man weak. Therefore Klaneth is more to be feared by you than Nergal, his master.”

“He cannot drive me out of Sharane’s heart!” Kenton cried. “He cannot!”

The Viking bent his head down to the compass.

“You may be right,” he muttered. “Zubran may be right. All I know is that while your woman is faithful to the God Bel, no man may harm her!”

Vague as he might be on that one point, the Viking was direct and full of meat upon others of vital importance to them all. The Norseman had been observant while slave to the priests of Nergal. He knew the city thoroughly and the Temple of the Seven Zones intimately. Best of all he knew a way of entering Emakhtila by another road than that of its harbor.

This was indeed all important, since it was not within the bounds of possibility that they could enter that harbor without instant recognition. In fact it had never been thought of. Their loose plan had been to find some lonely secret place, hide the ship and go overland to the city.

And it turned out that Sigurd knew exactly such a place. It was not far from Emakhtila itself as the crow flies, yet a long sail for galleys coming out of the harbor.

“Look, comrades.” Sigurd scratched with point of sword a rude map on the planks of the deck. “Here lies the city. It is at the end of a fjord. The mountains rise on each side of it and stretch in two long spits far out to sea. But here”—he pointed to a spot in the coast line close to the crotch where a left hand mountain barrier shot out from the coast—“is a bay with narrow entrance from sea. It is used by the priests of Nergal for a certain secret sacrifice. Between it and the city a hidden way runs through the hills. That path brings you out close to the great temple. I have traveled the hidden way and have stood on the shores of that bay. I went there with other slaves, bearing priests in litters and things of the sacrifice. While it would take two good sleeps for a ship to make that journey from Emakhtila, it is by that way only half so far as a strong man could walk in my own land between the dawn and noon of a winter day. Also there are many places there where the ship can be hidden. Few galleys pass by and none lives near—which was why the priests of Nergal picked it.

“Also I know well the Temple of the Seven Zones—since long it was my home,” went on Sigurd. “Its height is twenty times the ship’s mast.”

Kenton swiftly estimated. That would make the temple four hundred feet—a respectable height indeed.

“Its core,” said the Viking, “is made up of the sanctuaries of the gods and the goddess Ishtar, one upon each other. Around this core are the quarters of the priests and priestesses and lesser shrines. These secret sanctuaries are seven, the last being the House of Bel. At the base of the temple is a vast court with altars and other shrines where the people come to worship. Its entrances are strongly guarded. Even we four could not enter—there!

“But around the temple, which is shaped thus”—he scratched the outline of a truncated cone—“a stairway runs thus”—he drew a spiral from base to top of cone. “At intervals, along that stairway, are sentinels. There is a garrison where it begins. Is this all clear?”

“It is clear,” said Gigi, “that we would need an army to take it!”

“Not so,” the Viking said, unruffled. “Remember how we took the galley—although they outnumbered us? This is my plan. We will take the ship into that secret harbor. If priests are there we must do what we can—slay or flee. But if the Norns decree that no priests be there, we will hide the ship and leave the slaves in care of the black-skin. Then the four of us, dressed as seamen in the clothes and the long cloaks we took from the galley, will take the hidden way and go into the city.

“When we are there we will separate, having first selected some meeting place. Separately we will study that stairway up the Seven Zones Temple, meet and make a plan to get past that garrison that is at its foot.

“For as to that stairway, I have another plan. It is high walled—up to a man’s chest. If we can pass without arousing the guards at its base, we can creep up under shadow of that wall, slaying the sentinels as we go, until we reach the House of Bel.

“But not in fair weather could we do this,” he added. “There must be darkness or storm that they see us not from the streets. And that is why I pray to Odin, blood-brother, even as you, that this brewing tempest may not boil until we have reached the city and looked upon that stairway. For in that storm that is surely coming we could do as I have planned and swiftly—let Odin All-Father hold it off to our need!”

“But in this plan I see no chance of slaying Klaneth,” growled Zubran. “We creep in, we creep up, we creep out again with Sharane—if we can. And that is all. By Ormuzd, my knees are too tender for creeping! Also my scimitar thirsts for drink of the black priest’s blood.”

“No safety while Klaneth lives!” croaked Gigi, playing upon his old tune.

“I have no thought of Klaneth now,” rumbled the Viking. “First comes Kenton’s woman. Shield swore Sigurd to be to him. My sword as his sword. His fortune Sigurd’s fortune. His bane Sigurd’s bane, and his desire mine to help him gain it. Brothers by the blood runes. He gets his woman. After that—we take up the black priest.”

Tears were in Kenton’s eyes as he gripped the Norseman’s hands. And Gigi grinned and slapped Sigurd’s back.

“I am shamed,” said Zubran. “You are right, of course, Sigurd. I should have remembered. Yet, in truth, I would feel easier if we could kill Klaneth on our way to her. For I agree with Gigi—while he lives, no safety for your blood-brother or any of us. However—the Lady Sharane first, of course.”

The Viking had been peering down into the compass. He looked again, intently, and drew back, pointing to it.

Both the blue serpents in the scarlet bath were parallel, their heads turned to one point!

“We head straight to Emakhtila,” said Sigurd. “But are we within the jaws of that fjord or out of them? Wherever we are we must be close!”

He swung the rudder of oars to port. The ship veered. The larger needle slipped a quarter of the space to the right between the red symbols on the bowl edge. The smaller held steady.

“That proves nothing,” grunted the Viking, “except that we are no longer driving straight to the city. But we may be close upon the mounts. Check the oarsmen, bid the overseer drive slowly.”

Slower went the ship, and slower, feeling her way through the mists. And suddenly they darkened before them. Something grew out of them slowly, slowly. It lay revealed as a low shore, rising sharply and melting into deeper shadows behind. The turquoise waves ran gently to it, caressing its rocks. Sigurd swore a great oath of thankfulness.

“We are on the other side of the mounts,” he said. “Now somewhere close is that secret bay of which I told you. Bid the overseer drive the ship along as we are.”

He swung the rudder sharply to starboard. The ship turned; slowly followed the shore. Soon in front of them loomed a high ridge of rock. This they skirted, circled its end and still sculling silently came at last to another narrow strait into which the Viking steered.

“A place for hiding,” he said. “Send the ship into that cluster of trees ahead. Nay—there is water there, the trees rise out of it. Once within them the ship can be seen neither from shore nor sea.”

They drifted into the grove. Long, densely leaved branches covered them. The bow muzzled the shore.

“Now lash her to the tree trunks,” whispered Sigurd. “Go softly. Priests may be about. We will look for them later, when we are on our way. We leave the ship in charge of the women. The black-skin stays behind. Let them all lie close till we return. Let the slaves sleep. And if we do not return—”

He shrugged brawny shoulders.

“There would be better chance for you to return if you cut off that long hair of yours and your beard, Sigurd,” said the Persian, and added: “Better chance for us, also.”

“Wait!” cried the Viking, outraged. “Cut my hair! Why, even when I was slave they left that untouched!”

“Wise counsel!” said Kenton. “And Zubran—that flaming beard of yours and your red hair. Better for you and us, too, if you left them behind—or changed their color.”

“By Ormuzd, no!” exclaimed the Persian, as outraged as Sigurd. The Viking laughed.

“The fowler sets the net and is caught with the bird! Nevertheless, it was good counsel. Better hair off face and head than head off shoulders!”

“And better change color of beard and hair, I suppose, than change this world for another I know nothing of,” agreed the Persian grudgingly.

The maids brought shears. Laughing, they snipped his locks to nape of neck, trimmed the long beard into short spade shape. Amazing was the transformation of Sigurd, Trygg’s son, brought about by that shearing. The maids looked on him, admiration in their eyes.

“There is one that Klaneth will not know if he sees him,” grunted Gigi. “But you must pay your price, Sigurd. See how the maids look at you! And they are all of them dark girls! Beware, Sigurd—or hide from them until your hair grows long again.”

Now the Persian put himself in the women’s hands. They dabbled at beard and head with cloth dipped in a bowl of some black liquid. The red faded, then darkened into brown. Not so great was the difference between him and the old Zubran as there was between the new and old Sigurd. But Kenton and Gigi nodded approvingly—at least the red that made him as conspicuous as the Norseman’s long hair was gone.

Remained Kenton and Gigi. Little could be done for either of them. There was no changing Gigi’s frog slit of a mouth, the twinkling beady eyes, the bald pate, the immense shoulders.

“Take out your earrings, Gigi,” bade Kenton.

“Take off that bracelet on your arm,” replied Gigi.

“Sharane’s gift! Never!” exclaimed Kenton, as outraged as had been at first the Norseman and the Persian.

“My earrings were put there by one who loved me as much as she does you.” For the first time since Kenton had known Gigi there was anger in his voice.

The Persian laughed softly. It broke the tension. Kenton grinned at the drummer, somewhat guiltily. Gigi grinned back.

“Well,” he said. “It seems that we must all make our sacrifices—Sigurd of his hair, Zubran his red and you and I—” he began to unscrew the earrings.

“No, Gigi!” Kenton stayed his hands; he could not bring himself to break that golden band upon which Sharane had graven the symbols of her love. “Leave them be. Rings and bracelet—both can be hidden.”

“I do not know—” Gigi paused doubtfully. “It seems to me to be better. That idea of sacrifice—it grows stronger.”

“There is little sense in what you say,” said Kenton stubbornly.

“No?” mused Gigi. “Yet many men must have seen that bracelet of yours that time you fought the black priest’s men and lost Sharane. Klaneth must have seen it. Something whispers to me that token is more perilous than mine.”

“Well, nothing whispers to me,” said Kenton abruptly. He led the way into what had been Klaneth’s cabin and began stripping to clothe himself in the sailors’ gear they had taken from the captured galley. He slipped on a loose shirt of finely tanned, thin leather whose loose sleeves fastened around his wrists.

“You see,” he said to Gigi, “the bracelet is hidden.”

Next came loose hose of the same material drawn tight by a girdle around the waist. He drew on high, laced buskins. Over the shirt he fastened a sleeveless tunic of mail. On his head he placed a conical metal covered cap from whose padded sides dropped shoulder deep folds of heavy oiled silk.

The others dressed with him in similar garments. Only the Persian would not leave off his own linked mail. He knew its strength, he said, and the others were new to him. That was an old friend, often tried and always faithful, he said; he would not cast it off for new ones whose loyalty was still untried. But over it he drew one of the shirts and over that a tunic from the galley. And Gigi, after he had set the cap upon his head, drew close the folds of silk so that they hid his ears and their jet pendants. Also he fastened around his neck another long fold of silk, binding the others fast and hiding his mouth.

And when they had covered themselves with the long cloaks they scanned each other with lightened hearts. The Viking and the Persian were true changelings. Little fear of recognition there. Changed enough by his new garb, it seemed to them, was Kenton. The cloak hid Gigi’s stumpy legs and the cloths around his face, the close fitting, conical cap altered it curiously into one not easily recognizable.

“It is good!” murmured the Viking.

“It is very good!” echoed Kenton.

They belted themselves and thrust into the belts both their own swords and short ones of Sigurd’s forging. Only Gigi would take neither that nine foot blade the Norseman had made for him nor the great mace. The latter was too well known; the other too cumbersome for their journey; impossible, like the mace, to hide. He took two swords of average length. Last he picked up a long, thin piece of rope, swiftly spliced to it a small grappling hook. He coiled the rope around his waist, hanging the grapple to his belt.

“Lead, Sigurd,” said Kenton.

One by one they dropped over the ship’s bow, waded through shallow water and stood upon the shore while Sigurd cast about for his bearings. The mists had grown thicker. The golden leaves, the pannicles of crimson and yellow blooms were etched against them as though upon some ancient Chinese screen. In the mists Sigurd moved, shadowy. The trees were motionless. The whole air was motionless.

As though it were waiting—and fearful!

“Come,” the Viking joined them. “I have found the way.”

Silently they followed him through the mists, under the silver shadows of the trees.