Conan of the Isles Part 3

He lowered himself to the deck, where Sigurd and the giant black, Yasunga, stood, 'Cursed odd indeed, Amra,' said the old Northerner. 'And look at the cut of her hull! I've never seen such a s.h.i.+p in all me days.'

'Green s.h.i.+p of h.e.l.l,' muttered Yasunga in his deep, musical ba.s.s. 's.h.i.+p of ghosts, Amra!'

'Belay that!' barked Conan. 's.h.i.+p of h.e.l.l or s.h.i.+p of earth, she's running free as if she bore the Empress of Khitai and all her treasure! Look at that stem slice the swells!' He raised his voice. 'Milo! Hoist the raffee tops'l! And if you get the lines fouled I'll skin you.' He spoke to Sigurd and Yasunga again: 'She's fast, with both oars and sails; but with our greater spread of sail we may run her down yet. Wherever she's from, she's in a hurry to shake us off her tail!'

'But with no escort,' growled Sigurd. 'd.a.m.ned suspicious! Whoever heard of a king's galley or treasure s.h.i.+p barging around the seas without extra protection?'

The crew had now mustered in their places. Archers were stringing their bows on the forecastle deck and looking over the arrows in their quivers to make sure that none had warped. In the waist, men stood to the ropes, while the deck fighters cl.u.s.tered at the rail, buckling the chin straps of helmets., tying the laces of cuira.s.ses and leather jacks, and sharpening their cutla.s.ses with whetstones.

'By Crom!' boomed Conan. 'We'll find out what she bears so precious that she flees like a frightened maid at the mere sight of us!'

The men, inflamed by the excitement of the chase, sent up a cheer. Sigurd, now covered from neck to crotch by a s.h.i.+rt of bronzen scales sewn to leather, puffed up the ladder to the p.o.o.p deck. Conan clapped him on the shoulder.

cCrom and Mitra, old sea horse, but the taste of battle makes my heart swell like that of an old charger sniffing blood!'

The Northman grinned broadly and gave a bellow of joy that would have summoned a hippogriff in the mating season had one been within earshot.

'Hah! Well, Lion, old Sigurd said things would look up soon, and here they are! I have a feeling in me bones that this'll be a treasure the likes of which we never saw in all our days.'

'Aye?' laughed Conan. 'Then let's at it!'

With every sail she possessed filled with wind, the carack plunged after her prey. The following swells boosted her along, slowly rising and falling as they foamed by underneath her. Her blunt bow threw up twin fans of green foam., and white foam bubbled in her wake. And ever ahead of her, pitching on the swells, the mysterious green galley rowed and sailed, her two triangular sails set wing-and-wing, like the leathery pinions of some flying reptile of old.

CHAPTER SIX.

MAGIC FIRE.

A long, green galley from the unknown West, The dread Black Kraken on her bow impressed, In full sail hastens from a land untold, With h.e.l.l's foul secret in her deep, dark hold.

- The Voyage of Amra The sun hung high in the clear, blue vault when the Red Lion at last caught up with the mysterious green galley with the symbol of the Black Kraken of Atlantis on her bow. All morning the galley fled before them, with her tall black triangular sails swollen with the wind and her oars rising and falling as if her oarsmen knew no human fatigue. But, foot by foot,, the big carack closed the distance between them.

Conan, in a horned steel helmet and a long s.h.i.+rt of link mail over a haqueton of soft leather, strode about the deck, inspecting the arm and armor of his boarding party. Then he climbed back to the p.o.o.p, where Sigurd stood spraddle-legged, watching the galley's every move and barking commands to the steersmen who stood with muscular, brown arms gripping the twin tillers.

'She's giving up the chase at last and putting about,' grunted Sigurd.

As if owning the futility of flight, the galley was turning and slowing as the Red Lion neared. Now they were almost within bowshot. Conan glanced to the forecastle deck, where Yakov's archers stood behind the wicker mantlets hung along the rail, awaiting the command to shoot.

'Strange, Amra,' grumbled the Northman. 'Still no one on deck!'

'It is cursed strange,' agreed Conan. 'They should at least have a party gathered to repel boarders. Are they all hiding below like mice, or is there n.o.body aboard but the oarsmen and steersmen?'

'We're getting close,' said Sigurd.

Facing the bow where the archers stood, Conan raised his voice to a bellow: 'Shoot one!'

'Aye, aye, Captain,' Yakov called back. The bowmaster tapped an archer on the shoulder. The man drew his bow to the ear and released with a fiat tw.a.n.g. The arrow arched over the intervening gulf of water, to fall ten paces short, For a short while the crew stood silent as the wind sighed, the water hissed, and the s.h.i.+ps wallowed.

'Shoot one!'

This time the shaft thudded home in the enamelled planking.

'In range!' boomed Sigurd.

'One volley, your command!' roared Conan.

'Aye, aye!' Yakov lined up his archers. Presently all the bows released at once. With a swish like the rush of wings, a flight of arrows swept across the narowing gulf and thudded home, mostly out of sight behind the mantlets that lined the rail of the galley.

Conan narrowly watched the action of the galley's oars. Ordinarily, such a volley of arrows should have struck at least a few of the rowers, disorganizing the beat of the oars until the men hit could be replaced or their oars s.h.i.+pped. But the oars of the galley, in two banks, continued to rise and fall at the same unvarying, mechanical beat.

'She must be full-decked,' grunted Conan.

'I think she's turning to ram us,' said Sigurd.

'Right. Keep our head toward her. If we hit her bow on, we'll drive her down and break her ram.'

The Vanr bellowed commands to the steersmen and to the sailors at the lines. The tillers were put up and the sails trimmed to take the wind abeam as the Red Lion swung to port to keep the galley dead ahead. Unseen hands brailed the galley's sails up against their yards.

The galley continued her swing, and for an instant the two s.h.i.+ps rushed at each other head-on. From the p.o.o.p, Conan got a good view of the galley's deck. Not a soul was to be seen.

Then the galley, as if losing courage at the sight of the tall, ma.s.sive bow of the Red Lion foaming down upon her, turned again to port, heeling with the sharpness of her turn. A mere fifty paces away, Conan could plainly discern the strange black emblem blazoned on the bow. More like a circular cloud of dense, black vapor it seemed, with whorls of mist escaping in tentacular wisps, than a literal devilfish. But the crimson eye, glaring from the center of the black ma.s.s, blazed with l.u.s.t and fury.

Still n.o.body was to be seen on deck. The green galley could have been a ghost s.h.i.+p, bare of mortal life.

'No watch in the rigging! Not a hand on deck! Not even a helmsman at the tiller!' rumbled Sigurd uneasily. 'By Badb and Mitra, I like it not, mate, not a bit of it!'

'Yakov!' called Conan. 'Have your lads shoot through the oar holes!'

Bowstrings snapped and arrows hissed. Many struck the wood alongside the oar slots, but many more - at that short range - whipped out of sight through the holes and vanished. But there were none of the expected yells of pain and clatter of oars striking one another that would normally be expected. A second volley produced no di-ferent result. Now the galley was running free again, and her triangular sails stood out to take the wind. The Red Lion swung downwind to follow.

'Fire arrows, Yakov!' roared Conan. 'By Crom, I'll rouse some life in that black-sailed b.a.s.t.a.r.d yet.'

There were a few moments of frantic activity on the forecastle deck as torches were fetched from the galley and rags were dipped in oil and wound about the shafts of arrows. Presently a shower of flaming arrows, trailing tails of black smoke, whistled into the mantlets and thudded into the bare, green decks. In an instant, plumes of dirty black smoke crawled up from a dozen spots about the s.h.i.+p, to be whipped away by the brisk breeze.

'Ha!' thundered Conan. 'That did it! Look, Sigurd!' On the green galley's ornate p.o.o.p deck now stood a tall, gaunt figure. This, from his appearance, was no ordinary seaman. His bony form was wrapped in many-pleated cotton garments, while a fantastic cloak of gorgeous green feathers was thrown over his narrow shoulders. His sallow, swarthy pate was shaven; his stern, gaunt features might have been cast in bra.s.s for all their mobility. Looking more like a priest or a wizard than a seaman, he stood motionless on the gaudily decorated afterdeck, watching the Red Lion with a venomous glare in his sharp, black eyes.

As Conan and his crew watched, the man suddenly extended a bony arm in a curious gesture. As he did so, each fire smouldering on the deck went abruptly out. The spirals of smoke faded and vanished.

'Magic!' boomed Sigurd wrathfully, clutching Oman's shoulder with a grip like a steel trap.

'Yakov!' yelled Conan. 'Feather that dog!' But before the order could be carried out, the tall, feather-robed figure plucked a small flask from under his robe and cast it over the side, to splash in the surging green waters between the two s.h.i.+ps.

As the flask struck the waves, the heaving water erupted into an explosion of dazzling flame. A wall of seething, crimson fire sprang up between the two s.h.i.+ps. Conan's men shouted with astonishment, gesticulating with wonder. Consternation and superst.i.tious fear was written on their features. They were brave enough to face sharp steel and whistling shafts for the chance of loot and rapine -but who could fight sorcery?

'Magic!' Sigurd repeated. 'By the heart of Ahriman and the loins of Tammuz, do ye see it, Amra? Yonder slant-eyed wizard builds a wall of fire in less time than it takes a man to spit!'

Staring with narrowed eyes, Conan noted that the unnatural flames did not spread, as they should have if caused by some inflammable oil. They remained in one position, forming a wall of flame that almost hid the alien galley and that leaped so high as to threaten the Red.-Lion's mainsail.

'Eight points to port! Trim sail for wind on the port beam!' bellowed Conan. 'We'll see if we can go around it,' he added to Sigurd.

'By the guts of Shaitan and Ymir's beard, the fire follows us!J said Sigurd, clutching the rail with whitened knuckles.

And so it was. As the Red Lion swung upwind to port, the wall of fire moved as if to keep itself between the carack and the fleeing galley. Conan shaded his eyes to look at his imperiled canvas overhead. As yet it had not caught fire - in fact, did not even look singed. Nor did the thick, oily smoke so much as smudge the white sails. Conan burst into laughter.

'Steersmen ho!' he thundered. 'Tillers down, and pay no mind to the fire! Trim sail to run free!'

'Amra?' said Sigurd, goggling. 'What in the name of all the devils--'

Conan grinned through his bristling gray beard. 'Watch, old walrus, and learn.'

The Red Lion clove through the burning wall as if it were not there. The s.h.i.+p's company felt no heat of its pa.s.sage. Once on the other side, the magical barrier winked out of existence. The crew gaped with astonishment.

'Just a mirage, and illusion!' roared Conan. 'Now muster for boarding, dogs, and we'll see how yon feather-robed sorcerer likes cold steel!'

As the bow of the Red Lion came closer and closer to the stern of the galley, those on the carack could see the stern, masklike features of the shaven-skulled magician working with rage. Then he lifted both arms, so that his gorgeous cloak spread in the wind like the blazing pinions of some legendary phoenix.

'Hal, Xotli! Chahuatepak ya-xingothF he screamed. And the Red Shadows struck. From the four quarters of the sky they gathered, as they had on that deadly day when they first appeared in Conan's royal palace. They clung about a screaming Argossean helmsman, and he winked out of existence. The Red Lion lurched as the man at the other tiller strove to keep her on course by his unaided strength.

This was no illusion. As Conan watched, the feathered sorcerer laughed an ugly cackle, and spread his arms to summon the Terror again. This time, his eyes were full upon Conan.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE PHANTOM WARRIORS.

Though manned by devils and walled with flame From pits infernal., whence she came, The Lion will break the galley's spell And rape the treasure s.h.i.+pped from h.e.l.l!

- The Voyage of Amra Old Sigurd saw, understood, and quick-wittedly roared a command to Yakov on the forecastle deck: 'Skewer that devil in the feathers!'

Bowstrings tw.a.n.ged, and swift shafts flashed over the green water toward the high., gilded p.o.o.p where the magician stood, arms raised to summon the Terror again. As the arrows hissed toward him, he broke off his shadow-conjuring stance to gesture with the flat of his hand. The first shaft was somehow deflected from its target and thudded harmlessly into the deck. The second and third were likewise sent awry - but then several whistled at him at once, too many for him to ward off by his magicial powers. And one sank to the feathering in his right hand.

His swarthy features pale with shock, the sorcerer staggered back, nursing his injured hand to his bony chest. He swept the Barachans with a burning glance and vanished.

The pirates recoiled. Sigurd grunted and rubbed his stubby nose. 'What can we do against this cursed devilry, Amra? Shall we turn tail before the. Shadows scoop us all up?'

Conan glared. 'Have you lost your wits, old walrus?

This h.e.l.l-s.h.i.+p is what we are looking for! Tis here the Red Shadows are sp.a.w.ned!'

'But cold steel is no defense against that kind of magic--'

'You saw Yakov's lad put an arrow through the hand of the head devil, didn't you?' growled Conan, cuffing Sigurd on the shoulder. 'He'll summon no more devils with that crippled hand, so now's the time to strike!' He strode to the forward end of the p.o.o.p deck. 'Helmsmen, one point to port! Grapnels out! Stand by for collision! Prepare to board!'

The bow of the Red Lion slid up parallel with the stern of the galley, and then the ma.s.sive stem of the carack crunched into the emerald flank of the galley, with a great snapping and shattering of broken oars. Grapnels soared through the air to catch in the alien s.h.i.+p's woodwork, and brawny arms hauled taut the ropes that trailed from them. Other sailors caught the galley's rail with boat hooks.

'Boarders away!' shouted Conan, leaping down the ladder to join the throng of armed men pouring over the rails of the two interlocked s.h.i.+ps to the galley's deck, knives in teeth and swords, pikes, and axes in fists. Most of them wore a cuira.s.s of some sort - here a s.h.i.+rt of rusty chain mail; there a leather jack sewn with bra.s.s plates or bronze rings. A few of the wilder spirits went naked to the waist. Helmets of a score of designs capped their touseled heads.

Conan's boots crashed through one of the thin wicker mantlets, and he fell heavily into one of the rowing s.p.a.ces between the deck and the rail. The rowing benches, each wide enough for two men handling a single oar apiece, were sunken half a man's height below the narrow deck. If the benches had been occupied, the heads of the rowers would have risen just above the deck level. But now the benches were empty. Whatever hands had wielded the oars were gone; the oars trailed idly in their oarlocks.

His scalp bristling with the superst.i.tious fears of the barbarian - which all his years in civilization had not wholly ousted - Conan scrambled up out of the rowing s.p.a.ce to the main deck. As he did so, glaring about for some foe to fight, the giant black, Yasunga, clutched his arm and pointed to the ornate p.o.o.p deck.

'Amra, look! The plumed devil!'

The skull-faced wizard had reappeared. Now, instead of his magnificent cloak of feathers, he wore a long coat of chain mail, made from some unknown, rosy metal that blazed in the sunlight. A fantastic helm, shaped like a bird's head, was upon his head. In his left hand he bore a long, straight sword with saw teeth of glittering crystal, such as Conan had never seen in all his wanderings. Strapped to his right arm was a jagged-edged s.h.i.+eld of green-enameled metal, embossed-with a Kraken emblem like that on the galley's bow.

Conan turned to confront the sorcerer. As he did so, the other uttered a sentence in the same unknown tongue he had spoken in summoning the Red Shadows. A gasp burst from the pirates as astonishment froze them in their tracks.

Where one armed sorcerer had stood, there now stood dozens, all identical to the last detail of dress and features.

'Charge them!' roared Conan, springing up the ladder to the gold-scrolled p.o.o.p deck and whirling his mighty broadsword. His blade met the swords and s.h.i.+elds of the magical army with a metallic crash; Conan was obscurely relieved to find his foes flesh-and-blood men. Tall, gaunt, and lean-muscled, they fought well. But Conan raged like a rabid wolf among them, battering their weapons aside and crunching through their defenses. Behind him, the screaming horde of pirates swarmed up and fell to, so that steel clanged on steel like the beating of anvils in some infernal smithy.

Howling Cimmerian curses, Conan hacked and thrust at the eagle-nosed, cold-eyed faces that rose before him and then fell, slashed and crimsoned. One staggered back from a backhand slash with half his face shorn away. Another fell, clutching at his spilling intestines. A third stumbled back, pawing at the stump of an arm. A fourth fell with bird-helm and skull cloven to the teeth. Still they came on, and still Conan battled with the blind ferocity of the savage he remained at heart.

Eight or nine he must have slain, and now he found himself ringed about by hawk-faced warriors in bird-helms. His blade was notched like a saw and soaked in blood to the hilt. His mail sagged from a dozen rents where the saw-toothed blades had torn it, and his gaunt but mighty shoulders bled from several small, superficial cuts.

Wielding his sword in both hands, he struck at the ring of steel around him, snarling like a trapped wolf. A tenth warrior fell, thrust through the body. Conan knocked several threatening blades aside with a twist of his wrists, feeling the breath sear his lungs and hearing his heart pound like a Pictish war drum. Blood roared in his temples, and he tottered on unsteady legs, but still deadly steel flickered in his hands like lightning and men fell before him.

Now the vision was dimming before his eyes, and the grim ranks of the inexhaustible foe swam in a ruddy mist, and Conan felt the full weight of his sixty-odd years. With half a heart he cursed the G.o.ds and fate that he no longer had the iron endurance of his stalwart youth; with the other half, he thanked those same G.o.ds that he should fall as he had always wished, face to face with a foe and with steel in hand.

Then, somehow, he had crashed through the hostile ring and confronted a single warrior, who stood at the rear of the deck against the backdrop of sea and sky. In an instant, Conan was upon him. The long blade crunched through the mail links of rosy metal to the foeman's heart - and it was all over.

Gasping and staggering, the Cimmerian whirled to face the rest of the enemy, to find only an empty deck, whereon his own men stood staring. The phantom army had vanished. Every hawknosed warrior had puffed out of existence; even the bodies of the fallen were gone. Conan reeled against the rail. One body remained - that of the last man he had slain. The old Cimmerian hobbled over and, on sudden suspicion, tore away the man's s.h.i.+eld. The right hand of the corpse was swathed in bandages.

Conan drew several deep breaths. Then his thunderous laughter stilled the bewildered babble of his pirates.

'They were copies of this dog here,' he said, slapping the remaining corpse with the flat of his blade. 'They were real, all right - but only so long as he was here to animate them. When he died, they went poof! Now take the wounded back to our own deck. Goram Singh, make up a party to search the forecastle. Hurry up; she's leaking and will soon be awash. If there's any treasure aboard, we had better get it quickly. Sigurd, Yasunga, come with me!'

Conan stumbled down the ladder and thrust open the door of the cabin beneath the pop deck. There, he thought, the sorcerer-captain would probably have berthed. He was bone-weary from the fury of battle and more shaken and exhausted than he wished his men to see. His sixty-odd years weighed down his limbs like armor of lead, and a reviving draught of strong wine would put new strength into his old heart.

Within the shadowy cabin, all was mystic gloom. The walls were hung with strange purple tapestries, whereon horrible demon faces leered and grimaced. On a low tab oret of strange design stood a crystal carafe filled with a dark liquid. Conan stumbled across the cabin to drain the contents.