Shivering from fatigue or fear or both, he stripped a body. The cloths he made into a long kilt and a short cape. A belt went around his waist, a bandolier, over his shoulder; a loaded pistol, into a holster; a cutlass, into his hand. He was armed, but that did not mean that he was ready for combat. He had had enough today to last him for the rest of his life, even if it were a thousand years long.
What he wanted to do was to get back to Joe. The two of them would round up or join a large body of men. And he would be secure again, or as secure as it was possible to be under the circumstances.
For a moment he thought about taking refuge inside a cabin. He could hole up and then come out when the people from the Rex had been cleared out.
It was a nice thought, one which anyone with a logical mind and common sense would have.
Down along the deck, something struck with a metallic clang. A man cursed softly; somebody else spoke just as quietly but harshly, a reprimand. Sam stopped, his shoulder pressed against the cold bulkhead. Near the prow, the shadowy figures of men were coming down the steps from the hurricane deck. There seemed to be about twenty.
He slid backward, his shoulder against the metal. His left hand felt behind him. When he touched the edge of the open hatch, he turned swiftly and went into it. He was in another unlit passageway which went straight to the hatch on the other side. This was open, showing a pale oblong lit only by starlight and a flickering from the burning flight deck. Sam decided to get to that side, and he started trotting. Then he stopped.
It was his duty to ascertain who the men were and what they were doing. He'd feel like a fool if they were his people. And if they weren't, he should determine what they were up to.
Of course, they would be looking into every open entrance before they went past it. He opened the door to a cabin and stepped inside, leaving the door partly open. From this angle, he could see them but they couldn't see him in the darkness.
He had opened another cabin door across the corridor so he could take refuge in that if he had to. He did not want to be trapped.
There was, however, nothing he could do about his situation now. The first of the party had bounded through the opening, stopped against the side of the hatchway, where he was barely visible, and pointed a pistol. A second man also leaped in and hurled himself toward the other side of the hatchway, his pistol ready.
Sam did not fire. If they would only be content to look along the passageway. They were. After several seconds, one said, "All clear!"
Both left for the walkway, and figures began filing past the oblong. The fourth one went by, and Sam gasped. The profile against the indirect light of the stairs was that of a short broad-shouldered man. The figure walked with John's gait. It had been thirty-three years since he had seen the ex-monarch, but he had forgotten little about him.
36
* * *
Rage overcame fear, a rage that was a compression of all the rages he'd felt on Earth and here. He did not even think about the consequences. At last! Here it was! Vengeance!
He stepped outside the cabin and went softly across the deck. Though he was so exuberant that he was almost dizzy, he still had not lost all discretion. He wasn't going to warn them so they could shoot him before he got to John.
The only bad part about this was that he'd have to shoot John in the back. The bastard would never know who had killed him. But you couldn't have everything. He desired passionately to call out John's name, identify himself, and then squeeze the trigger. But John's men would shoot him down the second they were aware of his presence.
Just as he reached the hatchway, hell exploded outside. There was a crash of gunfire that deafened him and made him pin himself against the bulkhead as if he were a two-legged butterfly. His fluttering heart was the wings.
More shooting. Cries and screams. A man reeled backward into the passageway. Sam leaped for the open door of the cabin, spun, shut it, then opened it again. He looked through the narrow opening in time to see others come into the passageway. One was the bulky form of John, no mistake about that, outlined briefly against the light.
Sam opened the door fully (thank God it was well oiled!), leaned out, and rapped John over the side of the head with his pistol barrel. John grunted and fell. Sam stooped, dropped the pistol on the chest of the fallen man, gripped him by his long hair, and pulled him into the cabin. Once the feet were past the entrance, he shut the door and pressed the locking button. Outside, the explosions of gunfire were loud, but nothing struck the door. Apparently, the snatching of their leader had happened so swiftly and in such confusion and dark that they had not yet noticed his absence. Perhaps, when they did, they would assume that he had been downed in the corridor.
Sam quivered with delight. He was in great danger, but at the moment that meant nothing. By the Providence that did not exist, events had worked out perfectly. Whatever he had suffered, it was worth it – well, almost worth it. To have his greatest enemy, the only person he had ever really hated, in his power! And in such strange circumstances! Even John, when he awoke, would not be more surprised than he. Truth was stranger than fiction, and he could go on quoting many more clichés.
He pressed the light switch plate with one hand, the pistol held in the other. The ceiling globes shed a flickering light. John groaned, and his eyelids fluttered. Sam tapped him not too lightly on the head again. He did not want to kill him or to damage his brain overly much. John had to have all his senses operating one hundred percent. Otherwise, he wouldn't appreciate to the fullest what had happened to him.
Sam opened the drawers of a chest attached to the bulkhead.
He withdrew some of the thin semitransparent cloths used as brassieres. With these he tied John's hands together behind his back and then bound his feet together. Puffing and grunting, he dragged the unconscious man to a chair bolted to the deck. Managing to get the heavy body onto the chair, he tied John's hands to the rungs of the back. Then he went into the head, drank two cups of water from the faucet, and filled a third cup. As this was done, the faucet rattled, and the flow thinned to a trickle. The water pump had suddenly quit.
Sam returned to the main cabin and threw the water in John's face. John gasped, and his eyelids opened. For a minute, he did not seem to know where he was. Then, recognizing Samuel Clemens, his eyes opened fully, and he drew in his breath with a harsh noise as if he had been struck in the pit of his stomach. Where his skin was not covered with smoke, it became gray-blue.
"Yes, it's me, John."
Sam grinned widely.
"You can't believe it, can you? But you'll get used to the idea in a moment. Though you won't like getting used to it."
John croaked, "Water!"
Sam looked into the red-shot eyes. Despite his hatred, he felt sorry for John. Not sympathy, just pity. After all, he wouldn't let a rabid dog suffer, would he?
He shook his head. "The water is all gone."
"I'm dying of thirst," John said hoarsely.
Sam snarled, "Is that all you can think about after what you've done to me? After all these years?"
John said, "Satisfy my thirst, and I'll satisfy yours."
His skin had recovered its normal color, and his eyes looked steadily into Sam's. Knowing John, Sam could see what strategy the cunning fellow had already formulated. He would talk reasonably to his captor, would talk quietly and logically, would appeal to his humanity, and would, in the end, avoid execution.
The hell of it, Sam realized, was that John would succeed.
The anger was draining out of him now. The thirty-three years of vengeance fantasies were blown away like farts in a high wind.
What was left was a man who was basically Christian, though a howling atheist, to use a phrase applied to him by one of his Terrestrial enemies.
He should have shot John in the head the moment he had turned on the light. He should have known what would happen if he did not. But he could not kill a man who was unconscious. Not even King John, whose blood he had lusted
for all these years and who had been tortured so ingeniously and so excruciatingly in his daydreams. Never in his night-time dreams. Then it was John who was about to do something to a paralyzed or hopelessly trapped Sam Clemens. Or, mostly, it was Erik Bloodaxe who was about to be revenged upon him.
Sam grimaced and went back into the head. As he suspected, the shower pipes contained enough water for several cupfuls. He drank one and filled a second. Returning to the cabin, he put the cup to his captive's lips and tilted it as the man drank. John smacked his lips and sighed.
"Another, please?"
"Another! Please?" Sam said loudly. "Are you crazy! I just gave you one so you'll be able to stand up to what I'm going to do to you!"
John smiled briefly. He was as undeceived as his captor.
Knowing that infuriated Sam so much that he almost became capable of doing what he had threatened. The anger ebbed swiftly, leaving him with the pistol upraised to strike.
John's smile faded, but only because he did not wish to push Sam too far.
"Why are you so sure of yourself, of me?" Sam said. "Do you think I wouldn't have blasted you out of the water, sunk you to hell, watched you drown, and shoved you away if you had tried to get aboard?"
"Of course," John said. "But that was in the heat of battle. You won't torture me, much as you'd like to do so. Nor will you shoot me in cold blood."
"But you'd do all that to me, wouldn't you, you heartless bastard?"
John smiled.
Sam started to reply, then closed his mouth. The uproar in the passageway had suddenly stopped. John also started to say something, but at a sign from Sam he stopped. Apparently, he knew that if he tried to yell, he would regret it. His enemy was not that soft.
Minutes passed. Sam stood by the door, his ear against it, one eye on John. Now he could hear the faint voices of men. These cabins were soundproofed, so there was no determining how far away the voices were. He went back to John and placed a cloth over his mouth, tying it tightly behind his head.
"Just in case," he said. "But if you do manage to shout for help, I'll be forced to shoot you. Remember that."
And I hope you do cry out, he thought.
He turned off the light, unlocked the door, and pushed it slowly out, holding the pistol in his other hand. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were more bodies than there had been before. He looked cautiously around the door and down the corridor. Still more bodies. It looked as if the fight had progressed down it to the other side and on out. The handgun firing had ceased sometime during the struggle. It was replaced by the ring of blade on blade. And the distant din was composed only of voices and metal clash. It seemed that both sides had run out of ammunition.
He did not see how the numerically smaller boarders could hold out for long against his own people. He'd wait a little while to make sure that it was safe to emerge with his prisoner.
But, wasn't he rationalizing? Wasn't it his duty to get out there and lead his people? Yes, it was. But what about his prisoner?
That was easy. He would lock John in the cabin with the key now hanging by the door. Then he'd look for his crew. It wouldn't be difficult to find it. A good part would be where the noise was.
He returned to the cabin, shut the door, and turned on the light. John looked curiously at him.
"It's just about over," Sam said. "Your crew's about cleaned out. I'm going now, but I'll be back soon. And sometime in the future you'll be on trial."
He paused. John's expression did not change. Gurgling sounds came from behind the gag. Evidently, he wanted to speak. But what could he say? Why waste time?
"I don't want it said that I am not fair or that I am too personally involved to be just," Sam said. "So, you'll get a trial. It won't be by your peers. How many kings are running loose out there or within easy call? But it'll have a jury of twelve good men and true. That's only a phrase, since the ladies'll be represented too.
"Anyway, you'll get a fair hearing, and you can pick your own defense lawyer. I'll abide by the verdict, I won't even act as judge. Whatever the jury says, I'll go along with it."
Mangled words came through the gag.
"You can have your say at the proper time," Sam said.
"Meantime, you can sit here and meditate on your sins."
He closed and locked the door, hesitated, then unlocked it, reached in, and switched off the light. John would suffer more if he was in darkness.
He should have been jubilant. He was not. Somehow, in some way he could not define, his old enemy had triumphed.
Most things were disappointments, but this, this should have been one of the most enjoyable events in his life. His victory was as unappetizing as a steaming dog turd served under glass.
Where to hide the key? Ah, of course, in the first cabin with an unlocked door. That was three cabins down. He threw the key onto the floor and closed the door. Now to get to Joe. To do that, he would have to have a large number of men behind him.
He went down a corridor which ran longitudinally through the vessel. The lights were off, but he dared turn them on briefly. He ran down its length for a hundred feet, then stopped at another corridor. Here was a stairway that led up to the hurricane deck. After turning the lights off, he went up the steps, aided by a pale square at the top. Once on the hurricane deck, he trotted down the passageway to the starboard side. Noise came to him, but it seemed far off. He peered around the corner onto the walkway. Joe should be somewhere near.
"Why're you hanging around here, Joe? Don't you have anything to do?"
"I'm vaiting for a buth, Tham."
"A buss? Who'd kiss your ugly mug, Joe?"
"No, not a buthth vith two etheth, you nincompoop. A buth vith vone eth, Vith vheelth and a motor. How in hell vould I know, Tham? I never theen a buth. Get me down off of here before I get mad and tear you apart, you thap."
Thus went the imaginary conversation, modeled on so many previous ones. But there was no great bulk hanging helpless from a rope. There was a rope, severed at one end and noosed at the other, lying on the deck.
Sam smiled with joy. Joe was alive, unhurt! Joe was on the loose, undoubtedly tearing up the opposition.
He turned but stopped halfway. A bellow had come from out on The River. It was a deep cry, one which would have been attributed to a lion or a tiger if it had been heard on Earth. Sam knew better. He ran to a staircase and sped down it, taking two steps at a time, one hand sliding on the railing. On the main deck, he paused. He could not ignore the enemy. But the two fights he heard were far away, one at the prow and one at the stern. There was no gunfire, only the clang of blades against blades.
He ran to the railing and leaned out. "Joe! Where are you, Joe?"
"Tham! Here I am, Tham!"
"I can't see you, Joe!" Clemens called, peering into the darkness. There were objects floating out there, pieces of timber or bodies, unidentifiable flotsam. Though the boat had been drifting with the current, and the fires on the south bank were bright, the starboard side was now toward the dark northern bank. Starlight was not enough there.
"I can't thee you either, Tham!"
He looked on both sides and behind him to make sure no one was creeping up on him. On turning back to look outward, he called, "Can you get back to the boat?"
"No!" Joe bellowed. "But I'm floating! I got hold of a piethe of vood! My left arm'th broken, Tham!"
"I'll get you back, Joe! Hang on! I'll save you!"
He had no idea how he could help Joe but he was determined to find a way somehow. The thought that Joe might drown panicked him. '"Joe, are you still in armor?"
"No, you thilly athth. I'd be on the bottom, food for the fithyeth if I had all that iron on. I got rid of it after I fell in, though my broken arm almotht killed me. Chethuth! The pain! You ever been kicked in the ballth, Tham? Lithten, that ain't nothin' compared to trying to undrethth vith a broken arm."
"Okay, Joe!" Sam said, and he looked around nervously again.
Somebody was running his way from the prow, pursued by two men. All were too far away for him to identify them. Behind them was stillness.
The group near the stern was still battling, though it seemed that it had thinned out somewhat.
"I got cut down by thomebody!" Joe bellowed. "And I got loothe then. I grabbed a fire akthe and cleaned up around me and chathed vhat vath left down to the main deck. And then damned if thomebody didn't knock me over the railing, chuth like that! He mutht have been a hell of a thtrong man, the aththole!"
Joe kept on talking, but Sam didn't hear him. He crouched by the railing, unable to decide what to do. Though the runners were much nearer now, and coming swiftly, they were still unidentifiable in the dark. He was in agony. In the confusion and haste, his own men might attack him.
He raised the pistol in his left hand, keeping the cutlass in his right. He could aim with either hand, though not well. At this range, though, he could not miss. But did he have to shoot?
The decision never had to be made. As he waited, eyes straining, finger tight on the trigger, he was lifted up and hurled over the railing.
For a minute or so, he was so stunned that he had no idea of what had happened. He knew he was in the water, choking, spitting, struggling. But how had he gotten there? And why?
He bumped into something. His hands felt cold flesh. A corpse. He shoved it away and slipped off the heavy bandolier.
Before him, but now about sixty feet away, was the vast boat. How had he gotten so far away from it? Had he been swimming? Or floating? It didn't matter. He was here, and the boat was there. He would swim back to it. This was the second time he'd been in The River. What I dip you in three times is true.
As he thrashed toward the vessel, he saw that the railing of the boiler deck was closer to the water than it should be. The boat was sinking!
Now he knew what had tossed him off the deck like a fly shrugged off by a horse. Except that he had no wings. It had been an explosion below the water line. In the boiler deck where ammunition was stored. And it would have been set off, of course, by John's men.
The Magic Labyrinth Page 28
