“You’ll hide if I must bind you hand and foot. But if it comes to that, I promise you’ll not sit without wincing for a tenday. Give me your sword,” he added abruptly.
“My sword? No!”
She clutched the hilt protectively, but he snatched the blade from her and started down the deck. She followed in silence, hurt, tear-filled eyes seeming to fill her face.
In front of the mast the ship’s grindstone, where the crew sharpened axes and swords alike, was fastened securely to the planking. Working the foot treadle, Conan set the edge of the blunt sica to the spinning stone. Sparks showered from the metal. With his free hand he dripped oil from a clay jug onto the wheel. The heat must not grow too great, or the temper of the blade would be ruined.
Yasbet scrubbed a hand across her cheek, damp with tears. “I thought that you meant to … that you … .”
“You are no woman warrior,” he said gruffly. “Not in these few days. But you may have need to defend yourself, an the worst comes.”
“Then you will not make me,” she began, but he quelled her with an icy glance. The blood of battle was rising in him, driving out what small softness he had within. When steel was bared, the slightest remnant of gentleness could slay the one who bore it. Fiery sparks fountained from steel that was no harder than him who sharpened it.
XVI
About Foam Dancer’s deck men rushed, readying the parts of Conan’s plan. The clouds darkened above as if dusk had come two turns of the glass before its time, and wind strummed the rigging like a lute, yet no moisture fell on the deck save spume from waves shattering on the bow.
Bit by bit the galley closed the distance, a deadly bronze-beaked centipede skittering across the water, seemingly unimpeded by the rising waves through which Foam Dancer now labored, wallowing heavily from trough to trough. Foam Dancer seemed a sluggish water beetle, waiting to die.
“They busy themselves in the bows!” Muktar bellowed suddenly.
Conan finished tying the line around Yasbet’s waist where she lay between stacked bales, themselves lashed firmly to the deck. “You’ve no fear of being washed overboard now,” he told her, “no matter how violent the storm becomes.”
“It’s the catapult!” Muktar cried.
Conan started to turn away, but Yasbet seized his hand, pressing her lips to his calloused palm. “I shall be waiting for you,” she murmured, “when the battle is done.” She tugged his hand lower, and he found his fingers inside her leather jerkin, a swelling breast nestled in his hand.
With an oath he pulled his hand free, though not without reluctance. “There is no time for that now,” he said roughly. Did she not realize how difficult it was for him already, he wondered, protecting a wench he longed to ravish?
“They prepare to fire!” Muktar shouted, and Conan put Yasbet from his mind.
“Now!” the young Cimmerian cried. “Cut!”
In the stern Muktar raced to the steering oar, roughly shoving aside the burly steersman to seize the thick wooden shaft himself. In the bow two scruffy smugglers drew curved swords and chopped. Lines parted with loud snaps, and the bundles of extra sailcloth Conan had had put over the side were loosed. The sleek vessel leaped forward, all but jumping from wave-top to wave-top.
Almost beneath her stern a stone fell, half-a-man-weight of granite, raising a fountain that drenched Muktar.
“Now, Muktar!” Conan shouted. Snatching an oilskin bag, he ran aft. “I said now! The rest of you watch the pots!”
The deck was dotted with scores of covered clay pots, scavenged from every corner of the ship. Some hissed as foaming water swirled around them and ran across the planking.
Cursing at the top of his lungs, Muktar heaved at the steersman’s oar, its massive thickness bowing from the strain. Slowly Foam Dancer responded, coming around. The crew dashed to run out long sweeps, stroking and backing desperately to aid the turn.
This was the point that had made Muktar’s face pale when Conan told him of it. Turned broadside to the line of waves, the vessel heeled over, further, further, till her rail lay nearly on the surface. Faces twisted with fear, the smugglers worked their oars with feverish intensity. Akeba, Sharak, and the Hyrkanians scrambled to keep the clay containers from toppling or washing over the side. For a froth-peaked gray mountain of water now rolled over the rail, till it seemed that men waded in shallows.
Among those laboring men Conan’s eyes suddenly lit on Yasbet, free of her bonds, struggling among the rest of the pots. His curses were borne away by the wind, and there was no time to do anything about her.
Sluggishly but certainly Foam Dancer’s bow came into the waves, and the vessel lifted. She did not ride easily, as she had before—there was likely water enough below decks to float a launch—but still she crested that first wave and raced on. Back toward the galley.
On the other ship, the catapult arm stood upright. If another stone had been launched, the splash of its fall had been lost in the rough seas. On the galley’s decks, seeing their intended prey turn back on them, men raced about like ants in a crushed anthill. But not so many men as Conan had feared, unless they kept others below. Most of those he could make out wore the twinned gueues of sailors.
“We’ve lost half the pots!” Akeba shouted over the howling wind. “Gone into the sea!”
“Then ready what we have!” Conan bellowed back. “In full haste!” The Hyrkanians took up oilskin sacks, like that Conan carried.
Those on the other ship, apparently believing their quarry intended to come to grips, had now provided themselves with weapons. Swords, spears and axes bristled along the galley’s rail. In its bow, men labored to winch down the catapult’s arm for another shot, but too late, Conan knew; Foam Dancer was now too close.
Undoing the strings that held the mouth of his sack, Conan drew out its dry contents: a quiver of arrows, each with rags tied behind the head, and a short, recurved bow. Near him a Hyrkanian, already holding his bow, knocked the top from a clay crock. Within coals glowed dully, hissing from the spray that fell inside the container. A few quick puffs fanned them to crackling flame, and into that fire Conan thrust an arrow. The cloth tied to it burst into flame.
In one swift motion the big Cimmerian turned, nocked, drew and released. The fire arrow flew straight up to the galley, lodging in a mast. His was the signal. A shower of fire arrows followed, peppering the galley.
Conan fired again and again as the two ships drew closer. Though now the galley tried to veer away, Foam Dancer gave chase. On the galley men rushed with buckets of sand to extinguish points of flame, but two blossomed for each that died. Tendrils of fire snaked up tarred ropes, and a great square sail was suddenly aflame, the conflagration whipped by shrieking wind.
“Closer!” Conan called to Muktar. “Close under the stern!”
The bull-necked man muttered, but Foam Dancer curved away from her pursuit, crossing the galley’s wake a short spear-throw from its stern.
Hastily Conan capped the pot of coals, edging it into the oilskin bag with ginger respect for its blistering heat. Once the sack whirled about his head, twice, and then it arcked toward the galley, dropping to its deck unnoticed by men frantically cutting away the flaming sail.
“The oil!” Conan shouted even as the sack fell. He seized another jar, this with its lid sealed in place with pitch, and threw it to smash aboard the galley. “Quickly, before the distance widens!”
More sealed pots flew toward the other vessel. Half fell into tossing water, but the rest landed on the galley’s stern. The two ships diverged, but now the galley’s burning sail was over the side, and her men were turning to Foam Dancer.
Conan pounded his fist on the rail. “Where is it?” he muttered. “Why has nothing—”
Flame exploded in the stern of the galley as spreading oil at last reached the coals that had burned out of the sack. Screams rose from the galley, and wild cheers from the men of Foam Dancer.
In that instant the rains came at last, a solid sh
eet of water that cut off all vision of the other ship. Wind that had howled now raged like a mad beast, and Muktar’s vessel reeled to the hammer blows of waves that towered above her mast.
“Keep us sailing north!” Conan shouted. He had to put his mouth close to Muktar’s ear to be heard, even so.
Straining at the steering oar, the bearded man shook his head. “You do not sail a storm of the Vilayet!” he bellowed. “You survive it!”
And then the wind rose, ripping away even shouted words as they left the mouth, and talk was impossible.
The wind did not abate, nor did the furious waves. Gray mountains of water, their peaks whipped to violent white spray, hurled themselves at Foam Dancer as if the gods themselves, angered by her name, would prove that she could not dance with their displeasure. Those who had dared to pit this cockleshell against the unleashed might of the Vilayet could do naught but cling and wait.
After an endless age, the rains began to slacken and, at last, were gone. The wind that flogged choppy waves to whitecaps became no more than stiff, and whipped away the clouds to reveal a bright gibbous moon hung in a black velvet sky, its pale light half changing day for night. There was neither sight nor hint of the galley.
“The fire consumed it,” Sharak gloated. “Or the storm.”
“Perhaps,” Conan answered doubtfully. An the fire had not been well caught, the storm would have extinguished it. And if Foam Dancer could ride that tempest, then the galley, if well handled, could have too. To Muktar, who had returned the steering oar to the steersman, he said, “Find the coast. We must find how far we’ve gone astray.”
“By dawn,” the bearded man announced confidently. He seemed to feel that the battle with the sea had been his alone; the victory had put even more swagger into his walk.
Yasbet, approaching, laid a hand on Conan’s arm. “I must speak with you,” she said softly.
“And I with you,” he replied grimly. “What in Mitra’s name did you mean by—”
But she was walking away, motioning for him to follow, stepping carefully among the night-shrouded shapes of men who had collapsed where they stood from exhaustion. Growling fearsome oaths under his breath, Conan stalked after her. She disappeared into the pale shadow of her sagging tent, its heavy fabric hanging low from the pounding of the storm. Furiously jerking aside the flap, he ducked inside, and had to kneel for lack of headroom.
“Why did you leave where I put you?” he demanded. “And how? I made that knot too firm for your fingers to pick. You could have been killed, you fool wench! And you told me you’d stay there. Promised it!”
She faced his anger, if not calmly at least unflinchingly. “Indeed your fingers wove a strong knot, but the sharp blade you gave me cut it nicely. As to why, you have taught me to defend myself. How could I do that lashed like a bundle for the laundress? And I did not promise. I said I would be waiting for you when the battle was done. Did I not better that? I came to find you.”
“I remember a promise!” he thundered. “And you broke it!”
Disconcertingly, she smiled and said quietly, “Your cloak is wet through.” Delicate fingers unfastened the bronze pin that held the garment, and soft arms snaked about his neck as she pushed the cloak from his shoulders. Sensuous lips brushed the line of his jaw, his ear.
“Stop that,” he growled, pushing her away. “You’ll not distract me from my purpose. Had I a switch to hand, you would think yourself better off in your amah’s grasp.”
With an exasperated sigh she leaned on one arm, frowning at him. “But you have no switch,” she said. As he stared in amazement, she undid the laces of her jerkin and drew it over her head. Full, rounded breasts swung free, shimmering satin flesh that dried his throat. “Still,” she went on, “your hand is hard, and your arm strong. I have no doubt it will suffice for your—purpose, did you call it?” Boots and trousers joined the jerkin. Twisting on her knees to face away from him, she pressed her face to the deck.
Conan swallowed hard. Those lush buttocks of honeyed ivory would have brought sweat to the face of a statue, and he was all too painfully aware at that moment that he was flesh and blood. “Cover yourself, girl,” he said hoarsely, “and stop this game. ’Tis dangerous, for I am no girl’s toy.”
“And I play no game,” she said, kneeling erect again, her knees touching his. She made no move toward her garments. “I know that all aboard this vessel think I am your … your leman.” Her cheeks pinkened; that, more than her nudity, made him groan and squeeze his eyes shut. A brief look of triumph flitted across her face. “Have I not complained to you before,” she said fiercely, “about protecting me when I did not want to be protected?”
Unclenching white-knuckled fists, he pulled her to him; she gasped as she was crushed against his chest. “The toying is done, wench,” he growled. “Say go, and I will go. But if you do not … .” He toppled them both to the deck, her softness a cushion under him, his agate blue eyes gazing into hers with unblinking intensity.
“I am no girl,” she breathed, “but a woman. Stay.” She wore a triumphant smile openly now.
Conan thought it strange, that smile, but she was indeed a woman, and his mind did not long remain on smiles.
XVII
From a rocky headland covered with twisted, stunted scrub, waves crashing at its base, Conan peered inland, watching for Tamur’s return. The nomad had claimed that he would have horses for them all in three or four turns of the glass, but he had left at dawn, and the sun sat low in its journey toward the western horizon.
On a short stretch of muddy sand north of the headland Foam Dancer lay drawn up, heeling over slightly on her keel. An anchor had been carried up the beach to dunes covered with tall, sparse brown grass, its long cable holding the vessel against the waves that tugged at her stern. Cooking fires dotted the sand between the ship and the dunes. Yasbet’s tent had been pitched well away from the blankets of the Hyrkanians and the sailors, scattered among their piles of driftwood.
As Conan turned back to his scanning, a plume of dust inland and to the south caught his eye. It could be Tamur, with the horses, or it could be … who? He wished he knew more about this land. At least the sentry he had set atop the highest of the dunes could see the dust, too. He glanced in that direction and bit back an oath. The man was gone! The dust was closer, horses plain at its base. Tamur? Or some other?
Making an effort to appear casual, he walked up the headland to where a steep downward slope led to the beach, dotted with wind-sculpted trees, their gnarled roots barely finding a grip in the rocky soil. Between the dunes and the plain lay thickets of such growth. He half-slid down that slope, still making an effort to show no haste.
At the fires he leaned over Akeba, who sat cross-legged before a fire, honing his sword. “Horsemen approach,” he said quietly. “I know not if it is Tamur or others. But the sentry is nowhere to be seen.”
Stiffening, the Turanian slid his honing stone into his pouch and his curved blade into its scabbard. He had removed his distinctive tunic and spiral helmet, for the Turanian army was little loved on this side of the Vilayet. “I will take a walk in the dunes. You can see to matters here?” Conan nodded, and Akeba, taking up a spade as if answering a call of nature, strolled toward the dunes.
“Yasbet!” Conan called, and she appeared at the flap of her tent. He motioned her to come to him.
She made a great show of buckling on her sword belt and adjusting its fit on her hips before making her way slowly across the sand. As soon as she was in arm’s reach of him, he grabbed her shoulders and firmly sat her down in the protection of a large driftwood bole.
“Stay there,” he said when she made to rise. Turning to the others, scattered among the campfires, he said, as quietly as he could and still be heard, “None of you move.” Some turned their faces to him curiously, and Muktar got to his feet. “I said, ‘don’t move!’” Conan snapped. Such was the tone of command in his voice that the bearded captain obeyed. Conan went on quickly. “Ho
rsemen will be here any moment. I know not who. Be still!” A Hyrkanian drew back the hand he had stretch forth for his bow, and a sailor, who had risen with a look of running on his face, froze. “Besides this, the sentry has disappeared. Someone may be watching us. Choose your place of cover and when I give the word—not yet!—seize your weapons and be ready. Now!”
In an instant the beach seemed to become deserted as men rolled behind piles of driftwood. Conan snatched a bow and quiver, and dropped behind the bole with Yasbet. He raised himself enough to barely look over it, searching the dunes.
“Why did you see to my safety before telling the others?” Yasbet demanded crossly. “All my life I have been wrapped in swaddling. I will be coddled no longer.”
“Are you the hero in a saga, then?” Was that the drumming of hooves he heard? Where in Zandru’s Nine Hells was Akeba? “Are you impervious to steel and proof against arrows?”
“A heroine,” she replied. “I will be a heroine, not a hero.”
Conan snorted. “Sagas are fine for telling before a fire of a cold night, or for entertaining children, but we are made of flesh and blood. Steel can draw blood, and arrows pierce the flesh. Do I ever see you attempting to be a hero—or a heroine—you’ll think your bottom has suddenly become a drum. Be still, now.”
Without taking his eyes from the dunes he felt the arrows in his quiver, checking the fletching.
“Will we die then, Conan, on this pitiful beach?” she asked.
“Of course not,” he said quickly. “I’ll take you back to Aghrapur and put pearls around your neck, if I don’t return you to Fatima for a stubborn wench first.” Of a certainty the sound of galloping horses was closer.
For a long moment she seemed to consider that. Then suddenly she shouted, “Conan of Cimmeria is my lover, and I his! I glory in sharing his blankets!”
Conan stared at her. “Crom, girl! I told you to be still!”