He had a hidden advantage over his competitors, in any event. Along his heavy keel, beneath the fire-breathing apparatus that worked his oars, his ship bore a second demon-driven device, a steam-devil ram. Using water-spirits already vexed to madness in his boilers, readily diverted by the mere opening of a valve astern, he could unleash a metal-fisted ram that would thrust out a dozen paces from the bow with hull-smashing force. It would then retract steadily of its own inclination as the demons’ fervour cooled.
This contrivance Alaph had tested repeatedly in recent days by smashing barrels and knocking down old pilings in the harbour. He expected it to afford a crucial battle advantage: It would enable him to ram his enemies swiftly and unexpectedly, even from a near stop in the water or by merely matching speeds with a fleeing vessel’s stem. Where galleys customarily must swing wide, gather speed on the approach, and ram the target vessel’s beam or quarter, he would be able to splinter hulls from any speed and angle, even while standing clear of a boarding party’s desperate retaliation.
An odd destiny for a humble baker’s-boy, so Alaph told himself, grim-lipped. Yet he felt more than reconciled to it as he hunched over his controls, his small figure peering sooty and demonic through the smoke and glare. While he planned, he adjusted fuel and steam cocks to secure the maximum speed from his demons; Zalbuvulus and Crotalus were closing with him on either side, and he wanted to be the first to reach the Remorseless.
“Row, dogs, Tarim curse you! Bend your backs and make your spindly tendons snap! If you think the Naval Garrison was wet and miserable, wait until you serve a term in Dagon the Sea God’s watery locker! Ponder on that and row for your lives!”
Restlessly, Conan strode the catwalk. While exhorting the convicts, he kept one watchful eye on the disposition of Imperial ships in the naval port and estuary. His starboard eye was swollen half-shut, bruised and abraded along with half his body from his headlong flight into the harbour. Yet on the whole, he had regained his strength; from time to time he seized hold of one of the long upper-deck oars and plied it single-handed, vainly trying to improve the warship’s speed, before thumping it down in annoyance.
Fortunate they were, at least, that the whole force of Turan’s home fleet had not yet been sent to stave in their sides or bottle them up in the harbour. Several fair-sized warships lay idle in port, while others appeared to have withdrawn from the area completely... why it was so, Conan could not guess. He personally believed that the Brotherhood’s ships could outmanoeuvre and outrun the Imperial fleet, even in these close confines, but not all his captains were so confident. If Yildiz was holding back strength, it might be that he judged the three sorcerous ships that had been sent out adequate to do the job—a proposition that Conan was in no position to argue, since he had no idea of what powers these mysterious vessels might have.
They looked fearsome enough, to be sure—in particular, the foremost and central one, seething with hell-fires and spewing forth smoke. A blazing fireship that never consumed itself, it raced forward with oars but no oarsmen, trailing a pall of grey over the water. Ill luck it was that the devil-ship bore down on them dead astern; if Conan’s oarsmen could have seen it from their benches, it would have speeded up their exertions considerably.
The two ships closing from the sides were less unearthly, though still sinister in aspect. The trim bireme came on with scarcely a drumbeat, its rowers stroking together with unnatural speed and a symmetry that was far too perfect. The long, low-roofed galley on the other flank paced equally fast, its oars rippling in a pattern that looked eerily familiar, if hard to place. Assuming that the three ships could maintain such speeds, it would scarcely be possible to outrun them even with a full and robust crew, much less with Conan’s ruffians. Their only alternative, whether acting alone or as a fleet, would be to turn and fight.
“Say, Captain, we could lure her in close and try to board.” Ivanos, standing astern at the steering-oar, called out his plan. “A dozen of us can leap across and hack up her paltry crew before they can unleash any of their ensorcellments. If we strike before the other two draw near, we might still dodge a ram.”
“And avoid catching fire, as well?... or being set on by fanged devils in the smoke? No, Ivanos, ’tis best not to dawdle here. Oar-teams, give it all your strength,” he barked to the convicts. “Pull, dogs. You toil not half hard enough!”
The rowers, still mindful of the lurid death the Admiralty had in store for them, did their best to obey. And as steadily as the pursuing ships gained on the Remorseless, the pirate fleet converged faster. Doubtless the captains and crews of the smaller vessels, inspired by the sight of the giant ship cruising under the skull-banner of the Brotherhood, bore some illusion that its presence would make them safer. Conan knew this to be unlikely; a large ship could be holed a good deal more easily than a small one, if its war weapons were unmanned and its fighting-decks undefended by slingers and archers. Yet even so, Conan was pleased at this show of unity, and at the impression it must make on the watching Turanians. After all, his allies might just as well have bolted for the open sea.
One ship in particular, the ram-galley Venom, under Hrandulf’s command, raced ahead to meet the decireme. When it came about, plying oars nimbly to match speeds and stay clear of the bigger ship’s ram, several figures transferred to the Remorseless by means of a launch.
First to come over the stem quarter was Philiope, clad in one of her cut-off gowns, with a pirate cutlass sheathed at her waist. She threw herself into Conan’s embrace and pressed a long, passionate kiss on his mouth. Then she leaned back to survey him. “Oh, Amra!” she cried in dismay, taking in his bruised, battered figure and the few smirched rags that had been all but flayed from him on his plunge into the harbour. “Thank the gods you are free, in all events.” She rested her head carefully against his chest. “Be it for all time or for but a few brief moments of life, ’tis good to be with you.”
In her wake came several captains, including the sea chief, Hrandulf. “This is a fine ship you have seized, Amra!” The Aetolian gazed about him, impressed. “Large for a pirate craft... but then, if you wish to, you can ransom it back to the Turanians as you would any captured princeling or religious relic.”
“Methinks I can find a use for it,” Conan assured him, keeping one arm across Philiope’s shoulder. “What we need now is more hands. Skilled rowers, if possible.” He nodded to indicate the near-empty upper oarbank. “Can you give me the extra crew from yonder felucca, and of all those smaller ships that can travel under sail? Their main business, as I see it, will be to stay clear of battle.” “A good idea,” Hrandulf said. “As time permits, I will send a galley ’round to collect them.” He glanced at the fuming fireship astern. “The enemy bays close on your hells, and a fearsome pack it is! What is that evil thing? It seems like a floating funeral pyre, with that great bronze coffin awash in smoke and flame.”
“Worse than rank treachery,” Philiope declared, “is necromancy. They plan to unleash the foulest sorceries on us all.”
“The bargaining fell through, then?” Conan asked her. “I feared that my capture might put the fleet in danger.” “The Turanians were never in earnest, Santhindrissa now says. They would not offer a reasonable price for our gems, yet they kept demanding to see them, likely just to learn where they were kept. Our spies heard rumours ashore that Yildiz planned to destroy us, regardless. He was only waiting for this festive day, so he could do it before an audience.”
‘ ‘That would be very like him. ’ ’ Conan cast an eye ashore, where brightly dressed crowds thronged to watch the sea-chase. “If his sorcerers cannot accomplish it, he will use the regular navy and shore batteries, I should think.” He turned to Hrandulf. “Signal the fleet to go about and stay ahead of us at its best speed. We must stretch out this chase as far as we can, out toward the harbour mouth. Then, when we turn and fight, it will be with our best ships only—Tormentress, Victrix, your Venom, and this one. Together we can cover the fleet’s esca
pe.”
Swiftly over the ensuing minutes, the pirates enacted Conan’s plan. The felucca sailed with Hrandulf to gather spare crew. Signals were flown from the mast, and the whole close-knit fleet came about to run before the Remorseless in the mild current and the offshore breeze. Shortly afterward, fresh rowers swarmed aboard, giving the ship better speed against its pursuers. Last to arrive were a score of Santhindrissa’s pirate women; they set themselves to working six oars astern, to the delight of the convict rowers. Conan guessed that the example they set, standing and toiling half-naked at the long oars, would do more to pace and inspire his crew than a dozen thumping, tweeting hortators.
The big ship’s enhanced speed, as it laboured. ahead with a full oar-crew under broad, double sails raised by the new arrivals, stretched out the chase. Yet the Remorseless and the rest of the fleet were still within the broad arena of Aghrapur's harbour when it became necessary to turn and face the inevitable. By that time, the pirates’ three sinister pursuers had drawn into a nearly even phalanx, their speeds almost matched, with the fiery coffin-ship central and foremost. It raced scarcely a cable-length behind the slow, bulky flagship—which, by prearrangement, was flanked by the Tormentress, the Victrix, the Venom, and the stolen penteconter, whose acting captain, a sea-chief, had opted to fight.
At the hoisted signal, those rearmost five ships commenced a turn to port. This bore them away from the smaller vessels, whose crews still raced for the sea under all possible oar and sail. For a brief time, the defenders’ vulnerable flanks were exposed to the enemy; then their turn continued into a smooth about-face to meet their pursuers.
The Remorseless, ever the slowest and clumsiest, made a broader half-circle and so joined the line a little behind and off station. Although facing their pursuers, the jaded crews were not allowed the luxury of rest. Sails were swiftly lowered as impediments to manoeuvre, while rowers were harangued to maintain brisk speed for the sake of ramming or evading a ram.
“Steady,” Conan grated to his crew from his place at the port sweep. “Keep at it smartly, your work lies ahead of you! Do not think to slack off now, you miserable curs...” he glanced uncertainly at the female rowers, wanting to be fair “... and bitches,” he finished gallantly.
From his place at the portside steering-oar, he watched the squadrons converge, three ships against five, although one of the latter was an oversized galliot, barely large enough to drive a ram. The Remorseless's rearmost and centre-most position might be an advantage, so it seemed to Conan, if it enabled him to see the fight taking shape and to act decisively—as by letting one of the enemy ships turn aside to ram one of his fellows, then cutting it down with his own ram.
But the turn to port had made the battle lines ill-matched. Conan’s ship now headed in between the two outermost enemies, the fire-galley and the mysterious, roofed-over oar-ship. His Remorseless, with Santhindrissa close on his right, and beyond her the penteconter, were all three well positioned to attack the roofed vessel. But that would leave the Venom cruising ahead and to port, facing the fireship alone, and Knulf’s former flagship the Victrix against the enemy two-decker. A dangerous situation; Conan was not surprised when the Tormentress, pulling effortlessly ahead even though she had shared out her crew, cut smoothly across his bow to reinforce the centre of the line.
The she-captain, after all, had the fleetest and best-drilled ship. She was best prepared to change position, strike unexpectedly, and snatch the greatest profit and glory from the fight. Now she steered, without doubt, for the fireship. Conan watched the oars dip smoothly, the dogged strokes of the male rowers on the lower deck meshing with the partial rank of oars on the upper one. The ram cut the blue-green water brilliantly, sending up curls of diamond spray in the bright sun. Santhindrissa herself could be seen on the afterdeck, slender and clean-lined. She steered one-handed, standing under the curving, overhanging stem of the keel, her free arm brandishing bright steel as she exhorted her crew to courage and effort. Faintly from across the water came the lilt of a flute setting the oar tempo. Agilely, like some graceful winged fish native to both sea and air, her ship raced across blue water.
Ahead, though, lay a murky enigma. The smoke of the fire-galley, borne forward on the freshening land breeze, clung and hovered over the craft like a sinister smudge of night blotting out morning. Within the gloom, at intervals, flashes of red fire could be seen, though Conan could not often distinguish the line of the craft’s bows as it snorted and surged through dark-shadowed water, nor catch the sinister gleam of the metal coffin that was its heart. Toward that looming pall, and then straight into it, fearlessly plunged the Tormentress.
Conan watched and waited as both ships vanished from sight. He strained his ears over the puffing and rasping of the coffin-ship for the splintering noise of a ram—for shrill screams, clanking of weapons, the howling of demons or any other hint of an outcome. He watched grimly, feeling certain that the she-pirates’ ship had been sucked into some dark pit of elder magic from which it could never be conjured back.
Then, as he watched, he saw a curved prow emerge from the far side of the murk. It was the Tormentress racing unscathed, with speed unabated and shreds of smoke swirling free as it broke into sunlight. Astern of the bireme, the smoke continued puffing and advancing.
Unbidden, a laugh rose in Conan’s throat. The churning smoke, after all, had been too thick; Santhindrissa had lost her quarry in it, passing astern of the galley, no doubt, without suffering or dealing any damage in the process. Now she was loose in the bosom of the enemy, free to brave the smoke again or to take on the farther sorcerous ship, the bireme. She seemed to choose the latter course.
At once a faint, rending crash sounded away to starboard. As swiftly as it came, Conan’s joy was banished. While he followed the Tormentress, the penteconter that raced ahead on his right flank had closed too swiftly on the enemy. The mysterious shed-covered ship had rammed home, its bow penetrating just aft of the smaller ship’s in what must have been a contest of speed and agility. By rights, the well-found, nimbler warship might have had an advantage racing bow-on; but the galley had won, if only through some unguessed sorcery. Now it backed oars briskly and drew its ram out of the broken hull, letting its victim settle helpless in the water.
From where he stood on the surging deck, Conan saw and heard grinding timbers, hard-driven oars spraying water, and men thrashing and shouting aboard the stricken ship. He watched for signs of a boarding fight or of missile fire, but saw none; the plank-covered deck of the taller ship remained bare and unbroken, with none of the victim’s crew contriving to climb aboard. The penteconter would not sink, Conan guessed, but float there awash. Its men were of the sea-tribes; they would easily survive in the mild harbour if not slaughtered with pikes and arrows. Any who had not been crushed by the ram would remain to be picked up—either as prisoners or by their pirate brethren, if time and luck permitted.
Watching the ramship pull free and start forward, Conan was struck once again by something he had noticed earlier. The motion of the roofed vessel’s oars, though deft and efficient, was unusual. Movements passed in ripples down the oar-banks as if, instead of the beat of a single hortator, each rower was following the stroke of the man directly in front of him. It did not impede the ship, and the oars never clashed or fouled; on the contrary, the prolonged stroking likely made the oar-surge of the ship smoother and more efficient. But it was difficult to imagine what form of discipline beneath the roofed-over hull would create such a flawless, continuous effort.
In view of his own ship’s slowness, Conan judged it better to take on his nearest enemy, the fireship, rather than to lumber away to starboard to face the victorious galley and rescue the islanders. Likely the roofed vessel would find him soon anyway under its own power. Steadily now, inexorably, he closed with the hellfire-ship, keeping his bow aligned with the puffing vortex of the smoke cloud. There lay the menace that most needed watching, the imminent one.
Even so, there was t
ime for fresh disaster away to port. Conan watched the enemy bireme elude both the Tormentress and the Venom, running by means of a remarkable acceleration past the latter ship. Santhindrissa’s shrewd and seawomanlike attempt to trap and scuttle the new enemy, by attacking in consort and at right angles with Hrandulf, failed. To avoid ramming her ally, she found it necessary to sheer off sharply and lose way; meanwhile, the Venom was forced into a slow turn, also well out of action. That left the bireme feeing the galley Victrix alone. The smaller ship’s commander Jalaf Shah, having witnessed his enemy’s unnatural speed and dexterity, could not hope to turn and flee. No choice was left but to steer straight onward and fence for a ram.
As the two converged in their ill-matched joust, Conan examined the bireme carefully. Whatever sorcery it commanded had thus far been demonstrated only in exemplary speed and precision. The rowers on the upper oar-deck looked pale-faced or grey-complected, with amazing intentness and vigour in their stroke. Behind them on the poop, between similarly impassive steersmen, a white-robed figure stood shaking a raised fist. As the oars flashed through the brine, there was something about their tips... shading his eyes, Conan came to understand that they were metal-bladed, with flukes edged in bright steel that was probably meant to cut through enemy cordage or flesh. An oddly cruel invention of the Turanians, that; yet it did not necessarily imply sorcery.
The ships, two racing silhouettes against the clutter of Aghrapur’s harbour and buildings, joined their duel at last. The Victrix undoubtedly would have suffered worst in a bow-on collision. Jalaf Shah, in an effort to clip the bireme's oars, must have steered slightly to port, while his own starboard oars were drawn swiftly inboard, a deft and well-executed manoeuvre.
Yet the larger ship, in response to a violent gesture from its white-robed commander, leaped again with sudden, unnatural speed. Its ram caught the galley aforeships, before Jalaf Shah’s turn could be completed; it drove in deep, throwing up splintered oars and the bodies of rowers in a progressive, grinding chaos. The heavy keel smashed on through the small ship’s bulwark, crushing and splitting mortised timbers, while the heavier hull shouldered aside the smaller ship’s stem, causing a twisting and rending all down the galliot’s length.
Conan of the Red Brotherhood Page 24
