THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures)

by Graham Diamond

  Argyle did not turn around; he laughed soundlessly in his place and said, “Listen well, Friends, for the time is upon us. Soon we will know.”

  And on that note of despair they heard the first dim whines. So faint and soft were they that Mariana had to strain her ears to hear anything. But there it was, just as Argyle had described it.

  The haj licked his tongue over dry lips and gulped. The sound of the Sirens was like a moan. He thought of an injured stallion he once owned whose leg had broken while on a run. The poor animal had cried in a similar way, pitiful and pleading, until the haj’s knife had slit the horse’s throat and put it out of misery.

  The ship was moving faster now with a strong current, which pulled it deeper and deeper into the fog. The Sirens’ cry, meanwhile, was becoming steadily more intense. It was now a humming akin to a ship’s horn, powerful and resilient. The crew were becoming uneasy, many fidgeting in their places, others restlessly moving from their posts, pulling anxious faces as they stared bleakly out into the nothingness, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.

  The bow of the Vulture had begun to rise and dip, rise and dip, the foreboding waters becoming more turbulent at an alarming rate.

  “We’re being pulled pretty fast, Cap’n,” called the helmsman, trying his best to hold a steady course.

  Osari needn’t have been told. He could feel the dramatic change for himself, and the suddenness of it all disturbed him greatly. He knew well just how swift and treacherous undercurrents could be, but never could he recall one that had come on quite as fast as this. Rubbing his mouth tensely with a sweaty hand, he shouted for the first mate to take the wheel. Then he ordered all unnecessary crewmen below and set his ship several points more off to starboard in a desperate effort to counteract the violent pull.

  Mariana cupped her hands and pressed them tightly over her ears; all across the deck she could see the crew doing the same. The pitch of the wail rose, and while not deafening, it clearly had begun to take its effect.

  As Mariana began to groan, Ramagar pulled her closer to him and tightened his arms around her. But the dancing girl could easily tell from his pained expression that the Sirens were having a far worse effect on him than on her. By virtue of his trade as a thief of the night Ramagar’s hearing had become finely attuned to sound, and Mariana wondered how much longer he would be able to tolerate the noise.

  Suddenly there was a loud cry from the forecastle, followed by another and still another. Looking up in horror Mariana saw several sailors, numbed by the ravishing pain dizzily spinning inside their heads, bolt from their posts and run screaming along the deck.

  “Grab them!” cried the captain, his own face contorting from the terrible pounding. Other sailors boldly took their hands from their ears and tried to hold down their frantic comrades. The stricken men cavorted and moaned, one gurgling and whimpering like an infant as strong arms held him down, stuffed his ears with cotton, and bound his hands and feet with cord.

  And the call of the Sirens rose again. It was precisely as Argyle had predicted. Mariana watched brave and resolute men suddenly become reduced to sniveling half-wits as the pressure on their eardrums increased.

  “Sing!” shouted Argyle, frantically doing his best to stem the tide. “Sing at the top of your lungs!”

  Amid the screams and anguished prayers Captain Osari’s resonant voice sounded. The words were familiar to all, a sailors’ song, renowned throughout the North and also in much of the East. Quickly the helmsman and first mate joined in, followed by the haj and the Prince. As their voices lifted the shattering violence of the Sirens was blunted. From every corner of the deck the crew, hands yet to their ears, added in harmony to the pitiful chorus until virtually everyone had taken part.

  Over and over the verses were repeated, fervor diminishing the monotony, even as the Sirens’ own shrill tune continued to unfold. For a time the battle of matched strength went on, the men of the Vulture doing all they could to counteract the fearsome wail. Soon, though, as men’s throats grew parched and their vocal cords cracked, the hopelessness of their situation became all too clear. One by one some of the sailors began to fall, first crumpling to their knees where they moaned and cried, then banging the decks with clenched fists, finally baying like jackals at the moon.

  The ship’s wheel was spinning out of control; the helmsman and the first mate, hands clasping their ears, looked on in hapless desperation as their lips continued to force out the lyrics of Osari’s sea chanty.

  Ramagar spun in writhing torment, his body wracked with growing pain. “When will it stop?” he cried, reeling from side to side and pressing so hard against the sides of his head that tiny veins had begun to bulge from his forehead.

  “The only chance we have is to ride it through,” rejoined Argyle, equally tormented as he experienced the ordeal for the second time in his life. Then he shouted that dire warning to all the others, raising his voice above the din to make sure that everyone could hear.

  The ship itself had begun to reel now, tossing wildly as though in a terrible storm. It was reminiscent to Mariana of the frightful tempest they had battled the night of the mutiny. Her own ears were bursting, but she could think only of Ramagar, who suddenly had begun to pale and shake uncontrollably, his misted silhouette doing a grisly dance before her worried eyes. And the moan of the Sirens, the foreboding Calling, was still growing louder; she knew the worst was yet to come.

  Sailors were openly weeping now, sobbing like small children, some in frantic prayer, others tearing at their hair. She watched the scene in near panic, observing them become madder and madder, fighting among themselves, hurling each other in furious and insane rage—and she realized the truth in Argyle’s scorned warnings.

  Captain Osari himself had fallen to the deck, his senses wrenched from him, and now mindless and witless. The words of Argyle’s song still formed at his lips though no sound would venture forth. Then she saw the Prince grasp for Homer; the youth was staggering beside the flimsy railing at the quarterdeck and it seemed that he was intent on throwing himself overboard. It was all the Prince could do to hurl the lad away in time and wrestle him to the deck while both screamed for the shrilling to cease.

  The Vulture, meanwhile, was lurching ahead on its own at what seemed to be breathtaking speed, dragging them all to Fates knew what strange Hell, while insanity took over completely. Men were dragging themselves toward the open hatches, seeking some refuge from the din in the stores and cabins below. But there was no shelter to be found. The Calling of the Sirens proved all-pervasive, whining through the moaning pine and oak, reverberating along the walls from floor to ceiling, shaking the decks until planks literally began to quiver, nails and pins and bolts flying loose, popping from sockets like bursting bubbles.

  Ramagar pitched forward upon the deck and Mariana screamed. Then he blacked out into unconsciousness, blissfully unaware of everything around him. Mariana threw herself over him, to shelter him with her body, oblivious to her own cries and the tears pouring down her face.

  Argyle kneeled beside Captain Osari, tugging at his tunic and wetting his mouth with fresh water in a futile effort to draw him out of his crazed state. Deranged sailors were running up and down along the deck; a few, no longer able to cope with the Song of Death, blindly flung themselves over the side, where their limp corpses were greedily swallowed by the fog-enshrouded waters.

  Mariana could feel her mind slipping from her; she gazed about in a trance, no longer able to think coherent thoughts. Looking on at the whimpering sailors her brain swam with dark dreams—hideous and shapeless discolorations pranced before her, formless images somehow reaching out for her, tormenting her, laughing at her. Yes, laughing, and that was the worst.

  Around the edges of her mind thought played: something about the last verse of the Sirens’ song, something about laughter. But then even that was gone, and she fell over, sobbing wildly …

  A voice was shouting at her, she was sure. Strong, persiste
nt, it wouldn’t go away. She was dimly aware it was Argyle’s voice, but what he was trying to say she couldn’t tell.

  “‘Tis the laughter of the Sirens!” he was shouting frantically to any who could hear. “We’ve passed! The worst is done! The worst is done!”

  Dizzily, the dancing girl lifted her heavy head and stared at him uncomprehendingly as he repeated his words over and over. Slowly her eyes regained focus and her nightmares shattered. Consciousness returned and she could hear him clearly.

  “Listen!” he was shouting. “Can you hear?”

  Mariana strained her ears. The Sirens’ moan had changed. Though still as loud and strong as before, it was somehow different. The pitch had lowered; it was no longer the shrill sameness that had dulled her brain, but rather an intense drone that came in spurts, indeed sounding strangely like laughter, low and mocking laughter, coming from somewhere distant.

  Excitedly she bent over Ramagar and nudged him gently, taking his cold hands into her own and rubbing them, soothing his brow and whispering soft words. The thief slowly began to rouse; his eyes opened and he stared up at her blankly. Then they filled with recognition, and he smiled.

  Tears flooded through her long lashes as she closed her eyes with a thankful prayer. “It’s over,” she whispered. “The Sirens’ song has passed.”

  The thief put a hand to his throbbing temple and sighed. After a moment’s pause he managed to prop himself up on one elbow, casting a brief glance over the main deck. On all sides fallen sailors were lifting themselves from their stupors, trying to collect jumbled thoughts and piece together what had happened while the madness had overtaken them.

  Captain Osari responded to Argyle’s aid and bolted back to his feet, ignoring his own throbbing head pains and tending to his crew. The haj dunked his head inside a water barrel and cleared a foggy mind. Nearby, Homer was sitting dumbly, spindly legs crossed, chin hung low on his chest and his face turned a sickly white. Behind him, still crouched beside the store of lashed provisions where he had lain prostrate and quivering, was Oro. The Prince pulled a distasteful face as be lent the glum hunchback a helping hand, then it was off to young Homer’s side to see how badly the boy had been injured. The youth smiled broadly, although wanly, at the sight of his friend; he accepted the Prince’s outstretched hand and stood wobbly to his feet. “We made it,” he rasped, and the two of them exchanged cheerful grins.

  As the effects of the Sirens’ call wore off the mood of the crew became one of elation. The last vestiges of’ the terrible drone faded rapidly into nothingness, and suddenly all fears were vanished. Together they had faced the first test of Speca’s dark waters and come through with hardly a scratch. Osari held a moment of silence for the poor hands who had flung themselves into the sea and then resumed his normal stance, barking commands and setting his men back to their posts.

  Surprised and pleased at their good fortunes, every man happily went back to his duties, eager to face the next task. Only brooding Argyle, lord of Aran, remained dour. He lost no time in studying the ship’s new position. Of them all, only he had realized that with the end of the Sirens, the mysterious current had also passed. No longer was the Vulture carried deeper into the fog; rather, the ship was now motionless upon a glassy sea.

  Mariana left Ramagar’s side momentarily; she stood gazing out into the gloom, her small, slim hands clutching at the rails. It did not take very long to realize the new predicament they were all facing, for with neither wind to swell the sails nor a current to pull them forward, the ship was trapped, a prisoner, in these eerie waters.

  Had the powerful undercurrent dragged them to this particular spot by mere happenstance, she wondered. Or had they been brought here by some unknown Druid force? Were they nearer to Speca’s shores? Or farther away than ever? These were questions without answers, she knew, and there was little time to ponder.

  “What’s our plan, Captain?” asked the Prince, glumly noting the ship’s stationary stance.

  Osari frowned and bit down at his lip. “We’ll have to row.”

  He shouted to the first mate, who in turn called for the two small skiffs to be lowered. Osari’s best and hardiest sailors climbed aboard, and as the boats hit the waterline with a soft splash long twine ropes were securely fastened from the skiffs to the ship’s prow. The rowing commenced; the lines became taut and the sailors stroked in unison, straining to the limits. The Vulture groaned with its first lurch forward. It was a slow and painful venture, pressing onward without direction, hoping that soon a breeze might rise and swell the sails.

  Hours passed; murky waters swilled all around. The oaken oars dipped, cutting through the placid depths cleanly, stroke after stroke. It was grueling work, futile work, for after what should have been the end of a long night, the ship found itself as lost and as helpless as before the rowing began. A man could barely see as far as the end of his outstretched hand, and even were land close, there was no way for anyone to know it.

  Ship’s routine, though, never wavered. Six bells rang, signaling the coming of dawn. But of course there was no dawn, not even a shade of light to break through the black sky. “If this be dawn then indeed it’s a grim one,” Osari was heard to remark. And Mariana listened in silence.

  “It’s no use,” said Argyle, after some time. “We might as well bring our skiffs back aboard.”

  Captain Osari shook his head and reluctantly agreed. “Then what do we do next?” he asked.

  Argyle put his hands on his hips and glared beyond the bridge. His awesome shadow loomed over half the deck as he set his powerful jaw and pressed cold lips together. “We wait,” was his only answer.

  17

  In Kalimar it would have been evening, Mariana thought, a beautiful summer’s evening with a purple sky and a blazing crimson sun setting majestically at the horizon. But here there was only increasing cold, and dampness from the mist that malevolently invaded her bones.

  Most of the crew sat shivering and sullen, not speaking, with blankets tossed over their shoulders. A single torch burned like the herald of a wraith from its brace near the prow.

  Ramagar was sleeping peacefully beside her. Homer was quietly dozing, and beside him sat the Prince, awake but with eyes shut and head bowed.

  Mariana knew they were close, perhaps only a few leagues from shore, yet it might as well have been a million. There was no way they could move without the aid of some wind or current.

  And the chill deepened; a thin veneer of frost formed over the masts and the railing and along the deck, caking the halyards and the braces. The men’s hands grew numb and stiff. It was like going through the icebergs again, only this time with no assurance that all would be well once the perilous passage was complete.

  Mariana huddled closer to her lover and managed to close her eyes for some well-deserved rest. She did not know how long she had been asleep when a wild shout from the lookout brought her half leaping to her feet.

  She rubbed at her red eyes and stared. Sailors were madly dashing to and fro, lines were being tugged, canvas beginning to flap, the ship bobbing and the deck slanting.

  Looking about in confusion, she caught sight of the bulky form of the haj, laughing and calling to her. “Wind, Mariana!” he shouted gleefully. “Can you feel it?”

  Billowing sails spread open with a whump. Mariana stared up in wonder and disbelief. Wind! Real wind! The ship was moving again; plying the cold, dark waters like an eel, streaming into the mist like an agile cat prowling the dim alleys of Kalimar.

  Captain Osari was beside himself with delight. Out of nowhere it had come, for how long he could not tell. But he was determined to take as much advantage of it as he could. An able mariner from Cenulam needed far less wind than this to make up for lost time.

  Ramagar sprang to his feet and shared the mirth. Hugging the dancing girl, he forgot the bitter cold and the dangerous trials still ahead. Again there was hope, and more than that he could not ask.

  The flame of the torch swayed dizzi
ly as the ship plunged on to the west. Captain Osari took the wheel, relieving the helmsman, and from his post set the Vulture onto her new tack, a true course this time, straight for the coves of Speca.

  Even Argyle seemed pleased; he had expected a wind to rise sooner or later, but not one so strong, and certainly not so soon. He glanced at the beaming silhouette of the Prince and pondered, wondering if the man were indeed charmed. For a moment he even believed that perhaps Speca could be taken—wrenched away from her conquerors by the stolid belief and determination of this single man whose mission was his life.

  For half a day’s time by the hourglass in the captain’s cabin the Vulture moved on steadily. If anything, the wind continued to rise all the more. This, according to the Prince, was due to the closeness of Speca’s shores, where gales were said to sweep down frequently between her majestic peaks and spill into the natural harbors and the open sea.

  Lord Argyle stood at the prow, contemplating the land they were certain to reach within hours. His long cape swirled behind him, and he buried his frigid fingers deep within the folds of the woolen scarf wrapped around his face. Gray eyes narrowed, then blinked. A shudder ran down his spine. Jagged rocks had begun to appear spottily in the near distance; he knew they were approaching the treacherous reefs that fishermen used to speak of. Many a vessel had been wrecked upon these awesome rocks, some as large as mountains hidden beneath the waterline with edges as sharp as blades. Even with starlight to guide them such a passage was tricky at best. But in the gloom of the Eternal Dark, it was all the more difficult, and if it wasn’t for his belief in Captain Osari’s expert seamanship, he would have doubted their chances.

  Yet it was not sight of the reefs that disturbed the lord of Aran now. It was something far more dangerous than was evident. Something wicked and evil, and it played at the edges of his mind. His only prayer was that what he had just glimpsed, fleeting as it was, had been nothing more than illusion. But if it wasn’t…