by Lin Carter
The trouble was, Tharn of Thandar did not really know what he was looking for. A settlement of some kind, obviously—but how easy was it to find, and what did it look like? If he had been Kâiradine Redbeard, called Barbarossa, with many implacable enemies ranged against him, Tharn would have carefully concealed his settlement from chance discovery.
For this reason, the Cro-Magnons must search each island that was large enough to support a village of some nature. Which took time.…
The one thing that made Tharn of Thandar realize that it was only a matter of time before his fleet discovered the whereabouts of El-Cazar, was the ship on which the Barbary Pirates had carried off Darya and Fumio. Nothing that size can easily be hidden, and while huts may be concealed in thick jungle, or behind hills or mountains, there isn’t much you can do to hide a galley the hugeness of the Red Witch.
Before embarking on the voyage, the tribe of Thandar had brought along supplies of food and drinkable water. As these ran low, the hunters brought down sea fowl with their arrows or speared primitive fish with their javelins. The women and children and older people fished, for the seas hereabouts were teeming with the finned and scaly denizens of the deep.
Water, however, became a problem. They were forced ashore to refill their waxed leather water-hides from fresh streams on many of the larger islands. But water was not such a problem as it might have been, for it rained frequently in these parts of Zanthodon and the rain water was easily collected.
About the time the Professor and I were hightailing it out of the Scarlet City of Zar with a furious goddess at our heels, they found El-Cazar.
There could be no mistaking it—those soaring walls and sturdy ramparts were clearly the work of human hands, and if further evidence was required, there lay the Red Witch herself, riding at anchor against a long stone quay built out into the shallows.
But there were other ships as well as Kâiradine’s galley, five lean warcraft in all. And the fortress city which rose upon its cliff-walled height was densely populous, as the many roofs and towers which could be glimpsed above the ramparts demonstrated.
Tharn had not guessed that his adversaries would be so strong and numerous. And, never having seen or heard of a real city before, he could not have imagined one like El-Cazar. He stood in the bow of his dugout, arms folded upon his mighty breast, staring up at the soaring wall.
And he would not have been human had he not felt a bit intimidated by the stronghold of the Barbary Pirates.
“How will you enter the place of the Men-Who-Ride-Upon-The-Water, O my Omad?” asked one warrior, half-fearfully.
“I do not know,” he grunted. “But enter it I will, for enter it I must.”
“They will be very many to our few, my Omad,” warned one of the veteran warriors in Tharn’s personal retinue.
The jungle monarch grunted noncommittally, but made no reply. What the fellow had said was perfectly correct, and Tharn was leader enough to know that what was needed here was not brawn, but brain. No strength that he could summon could burst through those mountainous walls of solid rock, and how could men armed with arrows, daggers, clubs and spears defeat the howling hordes of El-Cazar, with their strange weapons of edged metal?
“We must think and plan,” Tharn growled half to himself. “I must take counsel with my chieftains. Let us withdraw to that rocky isle that lies not far off; behind it we can shelter from the eyes of our foes—if indeed they can see us through these accursed mists. There we shall discuss the ways of entering the stone huts of our foe.”
Privately, he wondered to himself if this was at all possible.
As with every other problem, time alone would tell.
* * * *
The majordomo of the household of Yussef ben Ali was a suave, sly and obsequious fellow named ’Dullah. He was mystified, was this ’Dullah, when his master bade him fetch one of the slaves of the house, the young Cro-Magnon, Grond, who had earlier interpreted for Yussef ben Ali the words of Fumio.
Grond was, or had been, a warrior of the Gorthak tribe which inhabited portions of the northern shoreline of the subterranean continent. He had been taken in a slave raid not many months before. While he was surly and took orders poorly, he did not have the cowed, beaten, half-starved look of many of his fellow slaves. He could easily pass for a free warrior.
Entering the chambers of Yussef ben Ali, he bowed slightly and stood with stern, impassive mien and incurious eyes, awaiting whatever orders should come. Yussef ben Ali looked him over with narrowed, thoughtful eyes; beside him stood the dancing-girl, Zoraida, who also examined Grond. She admired the deep arch of his chest, his broad, muscular shoulders, and the strong thighs of the Cro-Magnon slave.
“Your name is Grond?” inquired Yussef ben Ali in a lazy, drawling voice.
“Yes, Master,” replied Grond.
“Listen to me carefully, Grond. Moored on the other side of the Isle of Nine Peaks is a tribe of people similar to your kind. They have come hither in a fleet of dugout canoes to invade and conquer El-Cazar.”
Grond blinked at this astounding news, but said nothing. Yussef ben Ali paused to drink in a mouthful of perfumed smoke from his nargileh. For a moment there was no sound in the silk-hung chamber but the gurgling of the waterpipe.
“This fact I have discovered for I have posted a watchman in the top of the tallest spire of my house, with a spyglass. He it was who observed, during the past ‘sleep,’ the cautious approach of the savages.”
“And fortunate for you, O Yussef, that it was not the watchmen of Kâiradine Redbeard who espied the fleet of canoes,” murmured Zoraida. The corsair gave her a languid glance.
“Fortune had nothing to do with it, O Moon of Delight! Only I knew from the lips of the other slave that the tribe from which Kâiradine carried off the girl would be hunting her. Kâiradine, doubtless, has no suspicion of the fact.”
Then he returned his attention to Grond, who stood with stolid indifference as if none of this concerned him, although inwardly his heart was racing with excitement. To escape from El-Cazar was the dream that sustained him in his captivity—that, and the love of a girl of his own tribe, one Jaira, who also served in the house of Yussef ben Ali.
“To continue, Grond: I intend to dispatch you as my ambassador to the savages, as you and they share the same speech. You will dress yourself in these garments,” added Yussef, pointing to a carven chest atop which were laid out an abbreviated loincloth of supple fur and high-laced buskins of tanned leather.
With a surly nod, Grond stripped off his present garments and donned those which his master had indicated. Zoraida’s eyes were dazzled as she observed the magnificent nakedness of the yellow-haired slave. She had a zest for men, had Zoraida, and she had long been banned from the bed of Kâiradine Redbeard.
When Grond was attired like a Cro-Magnon warrior of the tribes, Yussef ben Ali unlocked his slave-collar with a tiny key and replaced it with a thong necklace of the claws of a saber-toothed tiger.
The slave collar was a slim band of silver locked about the base of a slave’s throat. Inscribed upon the band, in the hooked cursives of the Arabic tongue, were the slave’s name and number, the number of his quarters, and the emblem of the house of Yussef ben Ali which owned him.
The removal of the hated collar was an enormous relief to Grond. He tried not to let his expression reveal the tumult of emotions which surged within his breast, but Yussef ben Ali was cleverer than he.
“Do not think to escape from your master, Grond!” the corsair captain warned. “In the first place, there is nowhere for you to go, and a single man alone could not cross the breadth of the sea between El-Cazar and the mainland without perishing. In the second place, you will bear with you on this mission no supplies of food or water, and you will not be armed.”
Grond nodded to indicate that he comprehended.
Yussef ben Ali smiled lazily his small, catlike smile.
“If you accomplish your mission and return, I shall give you the girl Jaira, whom my majordomo has given me to understand you desire as she desires you. Also, you will be given lighter and less unpleasant duties, and your new position will be one in which you will enjoy considerably more freedom of movement and a certain measure of authority. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” grunted Grond.
“Then understand this as well,” snapped Yussef ben Ali. “If you do not return, for whatever reason—whether you decide to risk destruction by attempting to sail to the mainland and rejoin your tribe, or whether the savages put you to death as a spy—understand that I shall see to it that the girl Jaira will die, and very slowly. Also, very painfully. She will be taken and used by every male slave, servant and seaman in my house…over and over again, until she dies of it. Let this remind you to hasten to return to the house of your master.…”
Grond flushed, then paled, and gritted his teeth to hold back the roar of bestial challenge which rose unbidden deep in his chest. He would gladly have throttled the mocking villain who sprawled lazily before him, even if to do so meant that he himself would die in the next second.
But there was Jaira to think of.…
“Yes, Master.”
* * * *
No one paid any attention as Grond, wrapped in a red cloak to conceal his native garb, paddled a crude dugout canoe across the harbor of El-Cazar in the general direction of the rocky island. Many were the feuds and intrigues and romances which brewed in the cookpot of the pirates’ stronghold, and wise is the man who minds his own business and steers clear of the doings of others.
Grond beached his craft and dragged it high up on the pebble-strewn shore so that the waves would not suck it back to sea, leaving him stranded.
Then he began to climb across the tall hills of naked stone which hid the tribe from the eyes of El-Cazar. Yussef ben Ali had carefully coached him in exactly what he was supposed to say to the leader of the expedition, and as he climbed the slave mentally rehearsed the message thus drilled into him.
He wondered how long it would take to find the encampment of the strangers. Actually, it did not take long at all, for they found him, instead.
He was clambering through a narrow way between two steep walls when suddenly there stepped into view blond, stalwart, half-naked men attired in abbreviated fur garments very like his own. His hair was as yellow as theirs was, and his eyes as blue.
The main difference was that they were armed with long, bronze-barbed spears, while he went barehanded.
In fact, these spears were leveled directly at his naked chest.…
CHAPTER 12
THE CUNNING OF YUSSEF
While these events occurred, time was passing with excruciating slowness for the corsair prince. The raw animal vitality of Kâiradine Redbeard, the unquenchable vigor of his lusty physique, was such that his wounds were healing rapidly. But so impatient was the restless pirate, that it grated upon his nerves.
During every “wake” he exercised his wounded right arm, gingerly practising with the cutlass and, later, with a somewhat heavier weapon, his customary scimitar. But the healing process seemed to take forever, and the restoration of his strength occupied an interminable period of time.
Not only was Kâiradine impatient to enjoy the charms of the young slave girl he had captured on his last voyage to the mainland, but he was all too aware of the dangerous opportunity which his incapacitation afforded to his rivals and his enemies. His grip on the throne of El-Cazar was too tenuous, too precarious, for so much time to pass without his foes seizing their chances to plot and connive against him.
In particular, he worried about the wily and catlike Yussef ben Ali, who was conspicuous in his absence. Where was the other corsair chieftain, and what schemes was he up to?
During the enforced leisure of the pirate monarch, it was the loyal and tireless Achmed the Moor who served as the eyes and ears of Kâiradine. But the first mate of the Red Witch had disappointingly little of substance to report to his weakened master. The apparent defection of the dancing-girl Zoraida he had not dared mention—uncertain as to whether or not his master yet retained some traces of his former affection for the sleek and supple Mooress. And concerning the schemes of Yussef ben Ali, even Achmed was unable to ascertain any information. The rival corsair chieftain seemed to be lying low.…
Achmed would have assumed it natural for Yussef ben Ali to seize the advantage of Kâiradine Redbeard’s enforced confinement, to plot with the other members of the Council of Captains. But this did not seem to be happening at all, which the Moor found puzzling in the extreme. The only one of the captains who openly consorted with Yussef was the huge, fat-bellied Algerian, Zodeen, who had become a crony of Yussef’s. The other captains were conspicuous in their absence.
Kâiradine’s staunchest supporter in the council, a towering dark-skinned Barbary Pirate named Moustapha, was momentarily to depart from El-Cazar for a voyage into the northern isles, to raid and plunder the fisher-folk who dwelt in tiny villages along the rock-strewn shores. It did not occur to the simple, faithful Moor that with Moustapha absent, the balance of power in the council would be exactly even: Zodeen siding with Yussef and Kâiradine with the one remaining captain on his side, a lean, vulpine corsair chieftain called Ayyub. And if Yussef could win over or bribe or somehow beguile Ayyub into his camp, the balance of power would tilt in the favor of Yussef.
This did not occur to Achmed, as I have noted, but it did indeed occur to the restless and fiery Kâiradine, chafing in his leisure and all too aware of simmering plots and counterplots. Kâiradine was often closeted with the saturnine Ayyub, who swore that Yussef had not even attempted to speak to him since the return of the Red Witch to anchor in the harbor of El-Cazar. This baffled the uneasy pirate king, who thus found himself in the peculiar position of almost wishing his enemy were actively plotting against him.
Within another wake and sleep, Moustapha was scheduled to depart for the northern isles. And Kâiradine had a foreboding that then things would start to happen.
* * * *
Far beneath the cellars of the house of Yussef ben Ali was a stone-walled chamber like a burial crypt. The walls of black basalt sweated with glistening moisture. The ceiling was obscured by layers of soot from the greasy smoke of flickering oil lamps. The chamber was furnished only by a rough table of wooden planks and three capacious chairs of Moorish design. That, and a dull and age-stained wallhanging of green cloth, were all the furnishings the crypt contained.
One of these chairs was occupied by Yussef ben Ali, who lounged moodily, one long booted leg draped over the chair arm, staring with brooding eyes into a wine goblet of chased gold.
The second chair groaned under the ponderous weight of Zodeen the Algerian. He was gobbling fruit and cheese from a silver dish, washing the meal down with gulps of red wine. In contrast to the moodiness of Yussef ben Ali, the fat Algerian seemed unconcerned.
A bell tinkled somewhere far off, its chime muffled by the rock walls of the chamber. At the sound, Yussef started and gave voice to an exclamation.
A moment later, the green drapery was drawn aside by the slender hand of the Moorish dancing-girl, Zoraida. She wore a long robe of dark red cloth beneath which her slim legs gleamed in their pantaloons of diaphanous gauze. Bracelets of solid gold clanked upon her supple wrists. Her bewitching features were veiled.
The drawing aside of the drapery revealed an aspect of the room hitherto undescribed—a door of stout wood bound with strips of green brass.
Behind Zoraida’s slim figure loomed a tall gaunt man whose khalifeh or headdress was drawn in loose folds to conceal his long-jawed visage. But had Achmed the Moor been invisibly present, he would at once have recognized the newcomer as none other than Ayyub
, the fifth member of the Council of Captains.
Nodding at Zodeen, who broke off from his guzzling just long enough to grunt a surly greeting, the tall pirate chieftain bowed slightly to Yussef and seated himself in the empty chair. Yussef turned intent eyes upon Zoraida, who stood with folded arms before the portal, as if guarding the secret door.
“None perceived your coming hence, I trust, O Zoraida,” he demanded, “nor the approach of Ayyub the Captain?”
“None, my lord,” replied the Mooress. “The secret tunnel you had dug beneath your house and the cellars of old Rustum’s pleasure-house remains a secret to all.…”
“Aye,” grinned the saturnine Ayyub. “All of El-Cazar saw me stride into the bordello of Rustum, and whatever eyes may scrutinize my movements have doubtless satisfied themselves that even now Ayyub lies in the warm arms of his favorite Negress, Fatima! None will suspect this meeting, O my friend, any more than they have those which preceded it.”
“It is well,” smiled Yussef. “O Zoraida, did all go as I planned?”
“It did, Master. The savage girl found and hid the knife which I caused to be thrown at her feet while my friend Ayesha pretended to fall in a fit. Even now I doubt me not, the savage is cutting her way through the window screen to seek her freedom.…”
Satisfied, Yussef nodded without speaking.
Ayyub poured himself a goblet of wine and sipped it meditatively. “What of your slave and his mission to the savages in the boats?” he inquired.
“Grond reached the island unobserved,” said Yussef. “He has yet to return and report on the success of his embassy. What of the captain, Moustapha?”
Ayyub grinned. “When the world next wakes, he will be gone from El-Cazar! I have this from the lips of his first mate, Abu.…”
