To the Open Sea

Chapter Thirty-One

Now the four for whose freedom the Persian had died were far away. Safely they had passed the terraces; the dead sentries lay as they had fallen. None had been sent to relieve them, none had found them—but the four heard a humming begin inside the ziggurat like that of a disturbed and colossal hive. Heard the great drum begin its throbbing and sped faster under cover of the balustrade of stone down to where the grapnel of Gigi hung. One by one they slipped down its rope and into the sheltering trees. The tempest scourged them—but it shielded them. None were on the wide street to challenge their going. Emakhtila lay within its painted houses hiding from the storm.

When the cup of flame had dipped to the Persian’s lips they were well along that other way upon which opened the hidden path back to the ship.

When the soldiers had at last mustered courage to swarm the stairs once more, and with the black priest on their heels had poured within the silent bower, they were far beyond the clustered houses, stumbling through the deep mud of the farm side, the Viking at lead, Sharane carried in Gigi’s arms, Kenton guarding the rear—and watching, ever watching, for the Persian.

And back in that chamber where the Persian’s ashes lay mixed with the dancer’s, the black priest stood, mazed and with something of fear touching his wicked heart, looking upon those ashes—until his wandering gaze caught gleam of the butterflies in Narada’s veils that had slipped from her when the Persian had lifted her, caught, too, the trail of blood that led to the open window and had flowed from the body of the priest of Bel as the Persian had carried him there. And staring out that window the black priest saw in the livid dusk the crumpled body of Bel’s priest—dead, white face raised to his own, forty feet below.

The priest! Then whose were the charred bodies on the pyre? Sharane’s and Narada’s? If not—who had been the man fighting in golden helm and buckler, face hidden in the god’s mantle? So swift had been the sword play, so much had that man been hidden by the soldiers, so much by cover of the wall that the black priest watching from below had caught few glimpses of him; had taken it for granted that it was Bel’s priest. But had it been?

Back ran the black priest; kicked savagely at the ashes of the pyre and what still lay among them. Something clanged upon the floor—a broken scimitar! He knew that hilt—Zubran, the Persian’s!

Something glittered at his feet—a buckle, gems undulled by their bath of fire! He knew that, too—the buckle of Narada’s girdle!

Why then—these blackened forms were the Persian—the dancer!

Sharane had been freed! But how—how!

The black priest stood rigid, eyes flaming, face so dreadful that the soldiers shrank back from him, threw themselves against the walls, out of his way.

Then he plunged howling out of Bel’s bower, down the angled stairway, through the secret shrines, on and on until he had reached that cell where he had left Kenton with the six archers. Howling, he threw open the door, saw archers and officer still deep in sleep and Kenton—gone!

And shrieking curses, rage and baffled cruelty racking him with tortures as fiery as those he had promised Kenton and Sharane, the black priest staggered out of that cell, roaring for men to go forth and search the city for the temple drab and the slave; offering all he owned for them—all, all! If only they brought the pair back to him alive!

Alive!

But now the four had left the road and had halted in that wood where the hidden path began and where the Persian, in his craft, had bade them wait for him. And here Sigurd told them of Zubran’s sacrifice and why that sacrifice had to be. While Sharane wept and Kenton’s throat ached with sorrow, Gigi’s beady black eyes grew soft and his tears ran down the furrows of his wrinkles.

“What’s done—is done,” said Sigurd. “He sups, by now, with Odin and the heroes!” Brusquely he shouldered by them and took the way. Silently they followed. And for a little, in his grief, Kenton hated his love, walking now before him, since through her he had been dragged from the side of this friend who had given up his life that Kenton might have his love!

But hated her not for long. Again he saw her fighting beside him; knew that as gladly as he would she would have stayed within that chamber; gone unshrinkingly to death beside him and the Persian had she but known—and had he desired it. He strode beside her; took her in remorseful arms. She clung to him—

On they went and on, along the hidden way. The rain drenched them, the wind beat them. When storm lightened they went swiftly; when it darkened so that the Viking could no longer see the trail, they halted. On and on—beating back to the ship.

Now Sharane faltered and fell, nor could she rise again; and the three, clustering round her, saw that her thin sandals were in rags and that her slim feet were bare and bleeding and that for long each step must have been an agony. So Kenton took her in his arms and carried her, and when he tired Gigi took her; and Gigi was untiring.

And at last they came to where the ship lay hid. They hailed her and found the warrior maids on watch. To them they gave Sharane and they carried their mistress into her cabin and ministered to her. The slaves were awake beneath the awning spread to shield them from the rain, and the overseer reported that he had seen nothing, heard nothing but the tempest.

Now arose discussion as to whether they should stay hid until that tempest had abated. At last they decided that they would not; that it was better to push out to sea than stay so close to Emakhtila and Nergal’s haunted place. So the chains were unshackled from the trees, the ship drawn out of shelter, her bow warped round and pointed to harbor’s mouth.

Then up came the hook; down dipped the oars. Slowly the ship gathered speed. She swung out round the point of rocks and, Sigurd at the steering oar, shot into the eye of the wind, breasted the roaring combers and leaped like a racer out into the open ocean.

Kenton, utterly spent, dropped where he stood. To him came Gigi, lifted and carried him into the black cabin.

Long squatted Gigi beside him, wide awake, though weary as he was, peering here and there with bright eyes; listening, watchful. For it seemed to Gigi that the black cabin was not as it had been when they had left it; it seemed to him that it had become darker, that shadows of shadows moved fitfully about the walls, cowered in the corners; and it seemed to Gigi that he heard a whispering, ghosts of whispers, coming and going.

And now Kenton moaned and muttered in his deep sleep, gasped as though hands sought his throat. Gigi, pressing paw on Kenton’s heart, stilled him.

But after a time the watchful eyes of Gigi dulled, their lids dropped, his head nodded.

In the empty niche where the idol of Nergal had stood above the bloodstone slab of worship a darkness gathered, a cloudy shape of curdled shadows.

The shape darkened. Within it began to form the semblance of a face, a face that brooded upon the sleeping pair, hate filled, menacing and gloating—

Again Kenton groaned and fought for breath against nightmare terror. And Gigi threshed out long arms, leaped to his feet, glared about him—

Swiftly as it had come, before Gigi’s sleep-heavy eyes could open, the shadowy face had vanished—the niche was empty.