“Are you Kane’s woman?” he blurted out.
Her voice was bitter. “So Kane would have it. His mistress. His possession. Once, though, I was my own woman—before I was fool enough to let Kane draw me into his web!”
“Can’t you leave him—leave this city?”
“You don’t know the power Kane commands! Who would risk his anger to help me?”
Mavrsal squared his shoulders. “I owe no allegiance to Kane, nor to his minions in Carsultyal. This ship may be weathered and leaky, but she’s mine, and I sail her where I please. If you’re set on—”
Fear twisted her face. “Don’t!” she gasped. “Don’t even hint this to me! You can’t realize what power Kane—
“What was that!”
Mavrsal tensed. From the night sounded the soft buffeting of great leathery wings. Claws scraped against the timbers of the deck outside. Suddenly the lantern flames seemed to shrink and waver; shadow fell deep within the cabin.
“He’s missed me!” Dessylyn moaned. “He’s sent it to bring me back!”
His belly cold, Mavrsal drew his cutlass and turned stiffly toward the door. The lamp flames were no more than a dying blue gleam. Beyond the door a shuffling weight caused a loosened plank to groan dully.
“No! Please!” she cried in desperation. “There’s nothing you can do! Stay back from the door!”
Mavrsal snarled, his face reflecting the rage and terror that gripped him. Dessylyn pulled at his arm to draw him back.
He had locked the cabin door; a heavy iron bolt secured the stout timbers. Now an unseen hand was drawing the bolt aside. Silently, slowly, the iron bar turned and crept back along its mounting brackets. The lock snapped open. With nightmarish suddenness, the door swung wide.
Darkness hung in the passageway. Burning eyes regarded them. Advanced.
Dessylyn screamed hopelessly. Numb with terror, Mavrsal clumsily swung his blade toward the glowing eyes. Blackness reached out, hurled him with irresistible strength across the cabin. Pain burst across his consciousness, and then was only the darkness.
II. “Never, Dessylyn”
She shuddered and drew the fur cloak tighter about her thin shoulders. Would there ever again be a time when she wouldn’t feel this remorseless cold?
Kane, his cruel face haggard in the glow of the brazier, stood hunched over the crimson alembic. How red the coals made his hair and beard; how sinister was the blue flame of his eyes.... He craned intently forward to trap the last few drops of the phosphorescent elixir in a chalice of ruby crystal.
He had labored sleepless hours over the glowing liquid, she knew. Hours precious to her because these were hours of freedom—a time when she might escape his loathed attention. Her lips pressed a tight, bloodless line. The abominable formulae from which he prepared the elixir! Dessylyn thought again of the mutilated corpse of the young girl Kane had directed his servant to carry off. Again a spasm slid across her lithe form.
“Why won’t you let me go?” she heard herself ask dully for the...how many times had she asked that?
“I’ll not let you go, Dessylyn,” Kane replied in a tired voice. “You know that.”
“Someday I’ll leave you.”
“No, Dessylyn. You’ll never leave me.”
“Someday.”
“Never, Dessylyn.”
“Why, Kane!”
With painful care, he allowed a few drops of an amber liqueur to fall into the glowing chalice. Blue flame hovered over its surface.
“Why!”
“Because I love you, Dessylyn.”
A bitter sob, parody of laughter, shook her throat. “You love me.” She enclosed a hopeless scream in those slow, grinding syllables.
“Kane, can I ever make you understand how utterly I loathe you?”
“Perhaps. But I love you, Dessylyn.” The sobbing laugh returned.
Glancing at her in concern, Kane carefully extended the chalice toward her. “Drink this. Quickly—before the nimbus dies.”
She looked at him through eyes dark with horror. “Another bitter draught of some foul drug to bind me to you?”
“Whatever you wish to call it.”
“I won’t drink it.”
“Yes, Dessylyn, you will drink it.”
His killer’s eyes held her with bonds of eternal ice. Mechanically she accepted the crimson chalice, let its phosphorescent liqueur pass between her lips, seep down her throat.
Kane sighed and took the empty goblet from her listless grip. His massive frame seemed to shudder from fatigue, and he passed a broad hand across his eyes. Blood rimmed their dark hollows.
“I’ll leave you, Kane.”
The sea wind gusted through the tower window and swirled the long red hair about his haunted face. “Never, Dessylyn.”
III. At the Inn of the Blue Window
He called himself Dragar....
Had the girl not walked past him seconds before, he probably would not have interfered when he heard her scream. Or perhaps he would have. A stranger to Carsultyal, nonetheless the barbarian youth had passed time enough in mankind’s lesser cities to be wary of cries for help in the night and to think twice before plunging into dark alleys to join in an unseen struggle. But there was a certain pride in the chivalric ideals of his heritage, along with a confidence in the hard muscle of his sword arm and in the strange blade he carried. Thinking of the lithe, white limbs he had glimpsed—the patrician beauty of the face that coolly returned his curious stare as she came toward him—Dragar unsheathed the heavy blade at his hip and dashed back along the street he had just entered.
There was moonlight enough to see, although the alley was well removed from the nearest flaring streetlamp. Cloak torn away, her gown ripped from her shoulders, the girl writhed in the grasp of two thugs. A third tough warned by the rush of the barbarian’s boots, angrily spun to face him, sword streaking for the youth’s belly.
Dragar laughed and flung the lighter blade aside with a powerful blow of his sword. Scarcely seeming to pause in his attack, he gashed his assailant’s arm with an upward swing, and as the other’s blade faltered, he split the thug’s skull. One of the two who held the girl lunged forward, but Dragar sidestepped his rush, and with a sudden thrust sent his sword ripping into the man’s chest. The remaining assailant shoved the girl against the barbarian’s legs, whirled, and fled down the alley.
Ignoring the fugitive, Dragar helped the stunned girl to her feet. Terror yet twisted her face, as she distractedly arranged the torn bodice of her silken gown. Livid scratches streaked the pale skin of her breasts, and a bruise was swelling out her lip. Dragar caught up her fallen cloak and draped it over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she breathed in a shaky whisper, speaking at last.
“My pleasure,” he rumbled. “Killing rats is good exercise. Are you all right, though?”
She nodded, then clutched his arm for support.
“The hell you are! There’s a tavern close by, girl. Come—I’ve silver enough for a brandy to put the fire back in your heart.”
She looked as if she might refuse, were her knees steadier. In a daze, the girl let him half-carry her into the Inn of the Blue Window. There he led her to an unoccupied booth and called for brandy.
“What’s your name?” he asked, after she had tasted the heady liqueur.
“Dessylyn.”
He framed her name with silent lips to feel its sound. “I’m called Dragar,” he told her. “My home lies among the mountains far south of here, though it’s been a few years since last I hunted with my clansmen. Wanderlust drew me away, and since then I’ve followed this banner or another’s—sometimes just the shadow of my own flapping cloak. Then, after hearing tales enough to dull my ears, I decided to see for myself if Carsultyal is the wonder men boast her to be. You a stranger here as well?”
She shook her head. When the color returned to her cheeks, her face seemed less aloof.
“Thought you might be. Else you’d know better than t
o wander the streets of Carsultyal after nightfall. Must be something important for you to take the risk.”
The lift of her shoulders was casual, though her face remained guarded. “No errand...but it was important to me.”
Dragar’s look was questioning.
“I wanted to...oh, just to be alone, to get away for a while. Lose myself, maybe—I don’t know. I didn’t think anyone would dare touch me if they knew who I was.”
“Your fame must be held somewhat less in awe among these gutter rats than you imagined,” offered Dragar wryly.
“All men fear the name of Kane!” Dessylyn shot back bitterly.
“Kane!” The name exploded from his lips in amazement. What had this girl to do...? But Dragar looked again at her sophisticated beauty, her luxurious attire, and understanding dawned. Angrily he became aware that the tavern uproar had become subdued on the echo of his outburst. Several faces had turned to him, their expressions uneasy, calculating.
The barbarian clapped a hand to his sword hilt. “Here’s a man who doesn’t fear a name!” he announced. “I’ve heard something of Carsultyal’s most dreaded sorcerer, but his name means less than a fart to me! There’s steel in this sword that can slice through the best your world-famed master smiths can forge, and it thrives on the gore of magicians. I call the blade Wizard’s Bane, and there are souls in Hell who will swear that its naming is no boast!”
Dessylyn stared at him in sudden fascination.
And what came after, Dessylyn?
I...I’m not sure.... My mind—I was in a state of shock, I suppose. I remember holding his head for what seemed like forever. And then I remember sponging off the blood with water from the wooden lavabo, and the water was so cold and so red, so red. I must have put on my clothes.... Yes, and I remember the city and walking and all those faces.... All those faces...they stared at me, some of them. Stated and looked away, stared and looked compassionate, stared and looked curious, stared and made awful suggestions.... And some just ignored me, didn’t see me at all. I can’t think which faces were the most cruel.... I walked, walked so long.... I remember the pain.... I remember my tears, and the pain when there were no more tears.... I remember.... My mind was dazed.... My memory.... I can’t remember....
IV. A Ship Will Sail....
He looked up from his work and saw her standing there on the quay—watching him, her face a strange play of intensity and indecision. Mavrsal grunted in surprise and straightened from his carpentry. She might have been a phantom, so silently had she crept upon him.
“I had to see if...if you were all right,” Dessylyn told him with an uncertain smile.
“I am—aside from a crack on my skull,” Mavrsal answered, eyeing her dubiously.
By the dawnlight he had crawled from beneath the overturned furnishings of his cabin. Blood matted his thick hair at the back of his skull, and his head throbbed with a deafening ache, so that he had sat dumbly for a long while, trying to recollect the events of the night. Something had come through the door, had hurled him aside like a spurned doll. And the girl had vanished...carried off by the demon? Her warning had been for him; for herself she evidenced not fear, only resigned despair.
Or had some of his men returned to carry out their threats? Had too much wine, the blow on his head...? But no, Mavrsal knew better. His assailants would have robbed him, made certain of his death—had any human agency attacked him. She had called herself a sorcerer’s mistress, and it had been sorcery that spread its black wings over his caravel. Now the girl had returned, and Mavrsal’s greeting was tempered by his awareness of the danger which shadowed her presence.
Dessylyn must have known his thoughts. She backed away, as if to turn and go.
“Wait!” he called suddenly.
“I don’t want to endanger you any further.”
Mavrsal’s quick temper responded. “Danger! Kane can bugger with his demons in Hell, for all I care! My skull was too thick for his creature to split, and if he wants to try his hand in person, I’m here to offer him the chance!” There was gladness in her wide eyes as Dessylyn stepped toward him. “His necromancies have exhausted him,” she assured the other. “Kane will sleep for hours yet.”
Mavrsal handed her over the rail with rough gallantry. “Then perhaps you’ll join me in my cabin. It’s grown too dark for carpentry, and I’d like to talk with you. After last night, I think I deserve to have some questions answered, anyway.”
He struck fire to a lamp and turned to find her balanced at the edge of a chair, watching him nervously. “What sort of questions?” she asked in an uneasy tone.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
Mavrsal made a vague gesture. “Why everything. Why did you get involved with this sorcerer? Why does he hold to you, if you hate him so? Why can’t you leave him?”
She gave him a sad smile that left him feeling naïve. “Kane is...a fascinating man; there is a certain magnetism about him. And I won’t deny the attraction his tremendous power and wealth held for me. Does it matter? It’s enough to say that there was a time when we met and I fell under Kane’s spell. It may be that I loved him once—but I’ve since hated too long and to deeply to remember.
“But Kane continues to love me in his way. Love! His is the love of a miser for his hoard, the love of a connoisseur for some exquisitely wrought carving, the love a spider feels for its imprisoned prey! I’m his treasure, his possession—and what concern are the feelings of a lifeless object to its owner? Would the curious circumstance that his prized statue might hate him lessen the pleasure its owner derives from its possession?
“And leave him?” Her voice broke. “By the gods, don’t you think I’ve tried?”
His thoughts in a turmoil, Mavrsal studied the girl’s haunted face. “But why accept defeat? Past failure doesn’t mean you can’t try again. If you’re free to roam the streets of Carsultyal at night, your feet can take you farther still. I see no chain clamped to that collar you wear.”
“Not all chains are visible.”
“So I’ve heard, though I’ve never believed it. A weak will can imagine its own fetters.”
“Kane won’t let me leave him.”
“Kane’s power doesn’t reach a tenth so far as he believes.”
“There are men who would dispute that, if the dead cared to share the wisdom that came to them too late.”
Challenge glinted in the girl’s green eyes as they held his. Mavrsal felt the spell of her beauty, and his manhood answered. “A ship sails where its master wills it—may the winds and the tides and perils of the sea be damned!”
Her face craned closer. Tendrils of her auburn hair touched his arm. “There is courage in your words. But you know little of Kane’s power.”
He laughed recklessly. “Let’s say I’m not cowed by his name.”
From the belt of her gown, Dessylyn unfastened a small scrip. She tossed the leather pouch toward him.
Catching it, Mavrsal untied the braided thong and dumped its contents onto his palm. His hand shook. Gleaming gemstones tumbled in a tiny rainbow, clattered onto the cabin table. In his hand lay a fortune in rough-cut diamonds, emeralds, other precious stones.
Through their multihued reflections his face framed a question.
“I think there is enough to repair your ship, to pay her crew....” She paused; brighter flamed the challenge in her eyes. “Perhaps to buy my passage to a distant port—if you dare!”
The captain of the Tuab swore. “I meant what I said, girl! Give me another few days to refit her, and I’ll sail you to lands where no man has ever heard the name of Kane!”
“Later you may change your mind,” Dessylyn warned. She rose from her chair. Mavrsal thought she meant to leave, but then he saw that her fingers had loosened other fastenings at her belt. His breath caught as the silken gown began to slip from her shoulders.
“I won’t change my mind,” he promised, understanding why Kane might go to any extreme to keep Dessylyn with him.<
br />
V. Wizard’s Bane
“Your skin is like the purest honey,” proclaimed Dragar ardently. “By the gods, I swear you even taste like honey!”
Dessylyn squirmed in pleasure and hugged the barbarian’s shaggy blond head to her breasts. After a moment she sighed and languorously pulled from his embrace. Sitting up, she brushed her slim fingers through the tousled auburn wave that cascaded over her bare shoulders and back, clung in damp curls to her flushed skin.
Dragar’s calloused hand imprisoned her slender wrist as she sought to rise from the rumpled bed. “Don’t prance away like a contrite virgin, girl. Your rider has dismounted but for a moment’s rest—then he’s ready to gallop through the palace gates another time or more, before the sun drops beneath the sea.”
“Pretty, but I have to go,” she protested. “Kane may grow suspicious....”
“Bugger Kane!” cursed Dragar, pulling the girl back against him. His thick arms locked about her, and their lips crushed savagely. Cupped over a small breast, his hand felt the pounding of her heart, and the youth laughed and tilted back her feverish face. “Now tell me you prefer Kane’s effete pawings to a man’s embrace!”
A frown drifted like a sudden thunderhead. “You underestimate Kane. He’s no soft-fleshed weakling.” The youth snarled in jealousy. “A foul sorcerer who’s skulked in his tower no one knows how long! He’ll have dust for blood, and dry rot in his bones! But go to him if you prefer his toothless kisses and withered loins!”
The Sword & Sorcery Anthology Page 22
