Find the Feathered Serpent (Winston Science Fiction)

by Evan Hunter

  For several seconds, his eyes bore into Neil’s, and Neil almost wanted to turn away from the serious intensity of them.

  Erik gestured with his head, a sharp movement, a twisting that indicated the area behind his right shoulder.

  “What do you see out there?” he asked in Swedish.

  “Water,” Neil said.

  “And there?” Erik pointed to the ocean on the port side of the ship.

  “Water.”

  “And there?” He pointed forward.

  “W-water.”

  “Do you see any land?” Erik snapped.

  “N-n-no,” Neil answered, his voice wavering.

  “When?” Erik demanded. “When will you find land?”

  “I-I don’t know, exactly.”

  “Do you know what will happen if you don’t find land?”

  “Yes.”

  Erik smiled with his mouth, but his eyes remained cold and impassive. “Would you like a bit of advice?”

  “Well,” Neil said uncertainly, “sure.”

  Erik’s answer was brief. “Find land.”

  He turned his broad back on Neil then, and his right hand went to the glistening ax that dangled from his belt.

  Neil walked slowly to the bow of the ship and sat down beside Dave.

  “Well, what did our captain want?” Dave was lighting a cigarette with his lighter. He puffed on it, put the lighter in his shirt pocket, and looked quizzically at Neil.

  “He wants land,” Neil said.

  Dave blew out a puff of smoke. “Does he really? Well, well.”

  “He’s serious, Dave.”

  “I know. If only it weren’t for Shorty. That runt has been giving Erik the needle ever since he took us aboard. I can’t blame him for being a little uneasy.” He blew out more smoke.

  Neil noticed that several of the crew members were watching Dave’s cigarette. Their eyes widened, and they turned to each other, speaking in concerned tones.

  “You’d better put that out, Dave. I don’t think our friends like it too much.”

  Dave took a last drag on the cigarette and stamped it underfoot. Almost immediately, Olaf was standing beside them, looking down at the crushed cigarette.

  “What is that?” he asked Neil.

  “My friend was smoking,” Neil replied.

  Olafs face remained blank. “Tell your friend to throw this evil cylinder overboard.”

  “He wants you to throw it overboard, Dave,” Neil explained.

  “Throw what overboard?”

  “The cigarette.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell him,” Dave said, his eyes glued to Olafs face, “that the cigarette is no longer burning. It can do no harm.”

  Neil swallowed and said, “My friend’s cylinder no longer burns. It cannot harm . . .”

  Olafs arm shot out with a sudden movement, and he gripped Neil by the shirt front.

  “Tell your friend to pick it up!” he shouted.

  Dave’s face went tense, and tight lines formed about his mouth and his eyes. Before Olaf knew exactly what was happening, Dave’s hand had come down on his wrist, hard, forcing it away from Neil’s shirt.

  Olaf backed off a few paces, and his hand dropped to his ax. Slowly he pulled it from his belt and tested the blade with his finger tips.

  Dave backed off. “Tell him I’ll fight him with fists if he’s not too scared to put his meat chopper away.”

  Erik strode to the bow of the ship. “What is this?” he asked, his voice rising in threat.

  “One of the demons defies my command,” Olaf said.

  A tight knot of sailors formed around the group huddled in the stern sheets.

  A fat sailor with a black mustache stepped forward and said, his eyes round with excitement, “The demon breathed fire. I saw it, I saw it.”

  “Aye,” another sailor piped up. “Fire from his mouth and from his nostrils.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Erik asked. “No man breathes fire.”

  “These are not ordinary men,” Olaf said. “They are cursed, and their vessel is transparent. We should never have taken them aboard.”

  “Aye,” a sailor with a patch over his right eye added, “I too saw the one with the twisted nose breathe smoke. Olaf is right. They are more than men, and nothing less than demons.”

  “Three days we have sailed,” another seaman said, “and no land.”

  “And no sign of land,” another spoke up.

  “Olaf is right. Kill the demons and throw them to the sharks.”

  “Aye, kill the demons.”

  “Kill the demons!”

  “Kill the demons!”

  The cry rose like a chant around the clustered deck of the Norse ship. Axes slid noiselessly from their halters, and browned arms sliced at the air in protest.

  “This looks bad,” Neil whispered. “We’re really in for it, now.”

  “Shorty again,” Dave said. “Always Shorty and his big mouth.”

  “He still says we’re demons, that we should be killed.”

  Dave thought silently for a second. The noise of the sailors reached his ears as they pressed closer to the group in the stern sheets.

  “Ask Shorty there if he’ll fight with a demon.”

  Neil hesitated.

  “Go on,” Dave said. “Ask him!”

  “Do you dare fight a demon?” Neil said to Olaf. “Do you dare fight him with your fists?”

  “A demon is evil,” Olaf pronounced. “I can defeat a demon because evil holds no power on this ship.”

  The crew cheered Olaf’s words, and Neil waited for silence before he spoke again.

  “And if this demon should defeat you, and using your own logic, he is no longer a demon. He is a mere man who beat you in fair combat.”

  “He is a demon,” Olaf declared, “and I will destroy him.”

  “But if he wins,” Neil persisted, “is he not then human? You yourself say that evil holds no power on this ship.”

  Erik’s voice broke in. “If your friend wins, Olaf will have to admit that he is only human.”

  “With bare fists?” Neil pressed.

  “With bare fists,” Erik commanded. “Clear the deck!”

  “He’ll fight you,” Neil said excitedly. “And if you win, they’ll drop all this demon nonsense.”

  “Good,” Dave said, beginning to strip off his shirt. “I’m going to enjoy this. I am certainly going to enjoy this.” He grinned maliciously at Olaf.

  The sailors formed into a circle amidships, a tight circle, shoulder to shoulder. Before them, against their chests, they held their heavy metal shields, rim to rim.

  Olaf peeled his tunic from his shoulders and let it hang down over the belt of his garment. He flexed the enormous muscles on his arms and chest and drew in a deep breath. Several friends patted him on the back and hovered around him, chuckling, glancing every now and then at Dave who had stripped to the waist.

  Dave was taller than Olaf by at least eight inches, and his height gave a lean suppleness to the appearance of his body. But he was as strong as a metal spring, Neil knew, his muscles tough and sinewy, neatly covering the big bones of his body. And he had boxed at college.

  “Just take it easy,” Neil advised. “Don’t let him get those arms around you. I don’t imagine there ‘ll be any rules in this match, Dave.”

  “I’ll take him,” Dave said confidently. “Don’t worry.”

  “Are you ready?” Erik called.

  “We’re ready,” Neil said.

  Olaf stepped into the circle of men, the shields lowering momentarily to admit him, and then closing into a tight, metal ring again.

  Dave entered the circle on the other side, and Erik handed Neil a shield.

  “We will join the circle,” he said.

  The men made room for Neil and Erik. Erik stood on Neil’s right in the circle, his shield touching Neil’s. On Neil’s left was the sailor with the patch over his eye.


  “You may begin whenever you are ready,” Erik said.

  “Good luck, Dave,” Neil called.

  Dave winked at Neil and then concentrated on his burly opponent. Warily, they eyed each other and circled around the human ring.

  Dave fell into a boxing stance, his left arm probing the air ahead of him, his right hand tucked against his shoulder. He came closer to Olaf who stood his ground, his heavy arms weaving ahead of him, his fingers widespread.

  Suddenly Dave lashed out with a left jab that caught Olaf on the point of his chin. Olaf staggered backward, and Dave pressed his advantage, firing two more sharp lefts in rapid succession. His right, Neil saw, was cocked and ready to flash out. Again Dave bounced a left jab off Olaf’s jaw. Olaf’s head rocked on his thick neck, and he retreated again, his hands out in front of him, helplessly trying to ward off the slashing blows that Dave’s left hand was driving into his face.

  Neil grinned and watched Dave’s left flick out again and again as Olaf backed away. This might be over sooner than he’d expected!

  And then Dave uncorked the right. It shot out with all the power of his arm and shoulder behind it, and Neil knew that if that blow landed it would send Olaf sprawling on the deck.

  Olaf seemed to sense this too. With animal agility, surprising in a person so solid and squat, he dropped to his knees and Dave’s fist flew over his head. There was the sickening thud of flesh meeting metal as Dave’s blurred hand smashed against the shield that was behind Olaf. Dave drew back his hand in mute agony, and Neil’s face went pale.

  Dave tried to back off a pace, but he was too late. Olaf wrapped his huge arms around Dave’s legs and pulled. Dave crashed to the wooden deck, wincing in pain as his body landed on his right hand.

  Olaf was up already. Quickly he moved to Dave’s side as Dave tried to roll away. Olaf’s foot lashed out, striking Dave in the ribs.

  “Dave,” Neil shouted, “get up!”

  His voice was drowned in the shouts of the sailors as Olaf kicked at Dave again, this time narrowly missing his head.

  His miss seemed to anger him. He opened his mouth and a terrible growl, half-animal, half-human, sprang from his throat. He backed off and lashed out again with his powerful legs.

  But this time Dave was ready. He seized Olaf’s foot with his left hand and, half-rising from the deck, he shoved backward. Olaf danced away on one leg, trying to keep his balance, and then bounced unceremoniously to the deck.

  “That’s it, Dave, that’s it,” Neil shouted.

  “Kill the demon,” the sailor with the patch said.

  “Be careful, Olaf,” another sailor bellowed as Dave leaped across the deck and bounced onto Olaf’s chest.

  Olaf’s arms went out immediately, circling Dave’s back, crushing him to his chest in a bear hug. Dave screamed as the full power of Olaf’s strength tore into his back muscles. Together they rolled over on the deck, two sweating bodies, Dave grunting and Olaf chuckling maliciously.

  “Fight him his own way,” Neil shouted. “Get dirty, Dave!”

  Neil couldn’t be sure that Dave had heard him.

  But Dave suddenly sank his teeth into Olaf’s shoulder, and the Norseman released his grip immediately. Dave leaped away from the sweating, squat body on the deck. He stepped back a few paces and gripped Olaf’s feet with his hands.

  With a deft twist, he snapped the foot away from the ankle. Olaf shouted in pain, and rolled over on his stomach. Dave shifted his grip on the foot and pressed it down, putting all his weight into it.

  With almost superhuman strength, Olaf lifted his body from the deck, using his arms, and suddenly rolled over, lashing out with his legs again. Dave staggered back to crash into the wall of shields again. Only this time the wall was not stationary. Dave slammed into it, and before he could move away, three shields had pushed forward to send him sprawling on his face in the center of the ring.

  Neil opened his mouth in protest, but the sailor beside him seized his arm warningly.

  Olaf ran forward and lifted Dave from the deck. He picked him up in his powerful arms and threw him against the wall of shields again. This time the men behind the shields pushed forward as Dave crashed into them, putting their own weight into the battle.

  Dave crumpled to the deck. Olaf reached for him again, lifted him, tossed him against a new set of shields that reached out to meet Dave with the force of brawny arms behind them.

  Dave got to his knees and shook his head, trying to clear it.

  This was dirty, as filthy as it could get. Neil watched in amazement, as Dave crouched helplessly on the deck, fighting to maintain consciousness. Olaf backed away, his lips curled back over his teeth now, his face dripping sweat, the black hair on his chest matted and wet. He went clear across the ring, his eyes on Dave, backing all the way. He seized the shield of the man with the patch and raised it over his head as he prepared to run across the ring and dash Dave’s brains out.

  As he started his run, Neil’s foot whipped out, catching Olaf just below the ankle. Olaf sprawled forward, his big chest crashing to the deck.

  On the other side of the ring, Dave stared at his fallen opponent dazedly.

  He struggled to his feet then, just as Olaf rose and reached for the shield.

  Dave crossed the ring, pressing close to Olaf before he could reach the shield. He brought up a left from the deck, and it exploded against Olaf’s nose. Olaf screamed again, and thrashed wildly with his hands.

  Dave unleashed another left into Olaf’s eye, and another on the tip of his jaw, and another that caught him on the side of his face. He backed away as Olaf reached for him. Then he swung around and pushed his fist into Olaf’s mid-section. Olaf crumpled over, doubled in pain, as Dave brought another left from the floor.

  The blow erupted on Olaf’s right cheek, and a thin line of red sprang out. Carefully, like the excellent boxer he was, Dave backed away and circled warily. His right hand hung limp at his side. He had to beat Olaf with his left, and he had to beat him his own way.

  The crew fell silent now, watching the struggle with curious fascination.

  Olaf circled around, his big hands weaving, searching for an opportunity to get Dave into his arms again.

  Dave feinted at Olaf’s mid-section, and the burly Norseman dropped his hands to cover his stomach. The left drew back instantly, and then unloaded itself on Olaf’s right cheek again. The blood burst forth like a blossoming flower, staining Dave’s fist, trickling down the side of Olaf’s face.

  Dave closed in now, his eyes slitted in hatred, his teeth clenched tightly. His left flicked out at Olaf’s eye, once, twice, again, again. Methodically, the fist moved to the cut on Olaf’s cheek, worrying it, pounding against it, slitting the cheek wide open. Olaf’s hands dropped to his side, and Dave came in for the kill.

  His fist landed three times in succession on Olaf’s mouth. Olaf shook his head, and the blood spattered onto the shields of the Norsemen in the ring. Dave was beginning to enjoy the punishment he was inflicting.

  Why doesn’t he end it? Neil thought. What is he waiting for?

  The left hand moved with the swiftness of a snake now. Strike and back, strike again, strike, back. Olaf’s face was a crisscross of cuts. His left eye was swollen and puffed, and blood spilled from his mouth.

  He staggered back, crashing against the wall of shields, knocking one to the floor as he lashed out blindly. He shook his head again, and bellowed.

  Dave closed in, the left fist cocked, his eyes gleaming dully.

  Olaf’s hand dropped to his belt, fumbled beneath the top of his tunic which was hanging at his waist. Dave moved closer, his mouth open with each labored breath he took.

  And suddenly, Olaf’s fist emerged from beneath the tunic, and the sun glanced brightly off a shining, metallic object.

  The cry tore itself from Neil’s throat.

  “Look out, Dave! He’s got a knife!”

  Chapter 6 — Lost Again

  DAVE stopped at the sound of Neil’s voi
ce. A faint look of surprise crossed his face as he saw the knife in Olaf’s right hand. It was thick-bladed, with a heavy handle that Olaf’s fingers clutched tightly.

  Olaf stumbled forward now, spittle clinging to his lips. An ugly smile flashed across his twisted, bleeding mouth, evil and deadly on his red-stained teeth. He crouched over, the knife at the end of his dangling arm, the point raised. Slowly, he advanced.

  Neil’s eyes shifted to Erik, who stood next to him in the circle. The big Norse captain stood impassive, his gaze on the figures in the center of the ring.

  “Why don’t you do something?” Neil demanded. “He’s got a knife!”

  Erik turned his head slightly and said, “Your friend showed Olaf your kind of fighting. It is only fair that Olaf show your friend ours.”

  “Fair,” Neil protested, “fair?”

  Without reasoning, he broke away from the circle and ran to where Dave stood waiting for the burly Norseman. He stood beside Dave, the shield out before them.

  “Get back where you belong,” Dave muttered.

  “I’m just evening the odds a little,” Neil answered.

  “I can handle him.”

  “You handle him, and I’ll handle his knife,” Neil said. “That way, it’s even.”

  But the Norsemen in the circle had other ideas. A low grumble rose from the group when Neil stepped into the ring.

  Olaf stopped and reconsidered his advance. Then, throwing his head back, he bellowed to his comrades, “Now I fight two of them!” He waited for this to penetrate and then shouted, “Is there no strong arm to join me?”

  A roar went up from the Norsemen, and they began to tighten the circle, methodically, slowly, shields advanced, axes and knives drawn.

  “Now you’ve done it,” Dave scolded lightly. “Now we’re both in the soup.”

  Olaf, visibly bolstered by the support of his friends, began stalking forward again, the knife gently nudging the air ahead of him. The circle tightened, and Neil saw gleaming, hateful eyes, shaggy beards, grinning mouths come closer, closer.

  And then, from the prow of the ship where a lookout was posted, over the roar of the Norsemen’s blood cry, came another voice. It was an excited voice, high and clear, and it stabbed through the air like the slash of a pointed rapier.