“Is something wrong?” asked Mariana, rubbing her mittened hands as she approached the lonely figure.
Argyle did not turn or speak to her. He kept his stare fixed, features frozen in a mask of study. At length, while the girl stood watching him doubtfully, he said, “Look deeply into the fog. Tell me what you see.”
Mariana shrugged and leaned slightly beyond the frosty rail. Her dark eyes simmered, dancing from the mist to the sea and the tips of glistening rocks pushing back the waves.
“What should I be seeing?” she asked.
Argyle sighed. “Best that you see little or nothing,” he reflected. “But look again, Mariana. Tell me if you can detect any light…”
Assuming that he meant some light from shore, a torch perhaps or a candle flickering in a window, she did as he asked and swept her glance from one end of the Darkness to the other.
“Well?” queried the burly sea warrior.
The girl hesitated. “I … No, nothing. I couldn’t see a thing.”
Argyle tilted his head and peered down at her. “But you think you might have seen … something?”
“I don’t know. Just for an instant, though, I thought I saw a flash of some kind. Very far off,” she pointed in the direction, “but it was so fast—”
“Like a glow, perhaps? A red glow?”
They stared at each other. Mariana slowly nodded her head. She saw Argyle grimace and the look in his eyes harden.
“What was it?” she asked breathlessly, but the fiery lord turned from her and gruffly ordered a nearby sailor to put out the torch. The sailor hesitated at the odd request, and Argyle strode past him, yanked the leaping light from its brace, and tossed it into the sea.
All eyes concentrated on him, as the only brightness in their black world was quickly extinguished beneath the waves.
“Are you mad?” cried Osari, dashing from the bridge and confronting the hefty Aranian. “Why did you do that? Don’t you know—”
Argyle lifted his right arm and stretched it out toward the gloom. Captain Osari’s mouth hung open, his thought unfinished. There was a dim reddish tint, almost circular in form, glowing from afar, a faint light that flickered in the distance, nearly obliterated by the mist.
“A beacon,” whispered Mariana as the others looked on. “It must be a beacon.”
Argyle shook his head. “There are no beacons in these strange waters,” he replied.
Osari eyed him nervously. “Then what?”
“A Dragon Ship.”
The captain gasped. He lifted his shoulders and unconsciously let his hand slip toward the hilt of the double-edged sailor’s knife strapped at his waist. “Night-Watchers,” he rasped.
Argyle nodded darkly. “They must not sight us, my friend, or we’ll find hell itself a better place to be …”
“Can we hope to elude them before they come any closer?”
“It depends how good a sailor you are,” replied the seasoned warrior. “It will take a strong hand to lead us safely between these reefs while a Dragon Ship follows in pursuit.”
Captain Osari gritted his teeth, aware that he was about to face the most difficult task of his life, a grim test of wits against the sea and the dreaded Night-Watchers. He glanced up at the swelled sails, studying the strength of the wind and its direction. Then with hands on hips, he said, “We have our work cut out for us, Friend Argyle. We’re both men of the North, are we not?” He spun around, not waiting for a reply, shouting the order for battle stations.
All around men scurried. Some, crossbows in hand, took up fighting positions along the bulwark and the raised deck of the bridge; others scampered to emergency posts where they would manipulate the lines under siege conditions.
“I want every stitch we can draw,” Osari shouted to the startled first mate.
“But, sir! We can’t handle any more speed—not while we’re caught between the reefs—”
“Every stitch!” repeated the captain. And, while he ran to the wheel to instruct the helmsman, a smile of satisfaction crossed Argyle’s somber face. His intuition had been right; Osari of Cenulam was the best, and if they were all to die, they would do so in good company.
Behind the rank of archers beside the prow both Ramagar and the haj drew their own weapons. Across the deck the Prince drew Blue Fire, not to summon her terrible flame, which would only alert the nearby Dragon Ship, but to thumb the razorsharp blade in anticipation of a head-on clash with the finest Druid fighters the Dwarfking of Speca had to throw against them.
Mariana ignored the thief’s pleas and remained steadfast at his side. The haj stood to protect her at her left, and from the corner of her eye she saw mighty Argyle raise his ax, ready to heave it the moment that Druid flesh came within range.
The sails fluttered briefly as the Vulture shifted tack and glided easily between a ragged bed of jutting rock. In the distance the red glow had become brighter; it was plain to all that the Dragon Ship was pressing in, heading straight for them, whether by chance or by design.
These were tense moments. To a man, the crew and passengers stood steadfast and ready, come what may. All, of course, except for Oro, who by devious design of his own had hidden himself in an empty water barrel with all the gold he still possessed, prepared to barter for his miserable life if worst came to worst and he found himself at the wrong edge of a Druid sword.
“The wind is shifting!” shouted the lookout.
Osari called for the ship to be swung ten points off starboard. As the helmsman complied, the waves sent a crushing spray falling over the deck. Deeper into the treacherous reefs Captain Osari negotiated the Vulture, knowingly playing a most dangerous game of cat and mouse.
“Closing in!” cried the lookout.
Mariana looked behind them; the red glow was larger and brighter, and it seemed to be spreading from a fixed place to encompass everything around it.
“Steady as she goes!” called Osari. He balled his hands and kept them firmly on his hips as he watched the glow of the Dragon Ship rapidly close in. Damn fast, that ship must be, he thought to himself in grudging admiration. Too bad he couldn’t command her himself.
Mariana squinted into the Darkness, straining for a clear first sight of the enemy ship. Though mostly formless, it already showed itself to be massive in size, easily twice as large as the Vulture. This of course was what Captain Osari was hoping for: a vessel too cumbersome to maneuver at top speed in these tricky lanes.
“I can see her!” the lookout bellowed, fear apparent in his voice.
Osari swallowed hard. “What does she look like?”
The lookout shaded his eyes and peered again. “Huge, sir. And… mastless…”
“Mastless?” The captain shared a fretful glance with Ramagar. “Are you certain, boy? She carries no canvas?”
“None at all, sir! Not a stitch!”
This was indeed ominous and distressing news. Argyle caught Osari’s troubled look and shook his head with worry. If the Dragon Ship carried no sails, then what powered her? What force gave her the ability to plow these forbidden waters with such ease and speed?
Apart from the whistling of the wind, all grew silent. The red glare moved in steadily, blindingly. Suddenly the rocks and the waves began to reflect the glow; for the first time Osari was able to get a good look at what lay beyond the prow of his ship. And the sight was not one to gladden the heart; scattered hither and yon, poking up from the murk for as far as he could discern, were numberless rising, jagged rocks, all protruding in grisly array from the red-tinted water.
The captain saw that the Vulture would have to veer and twist precisely through these obstructions—one slip in her navigation would send the ship’s hull crunching into knife-sharp walls. But an equal threat loomed from behind.
“I think she’s seen us, skipper!” came the frantic cry of the lookout.
Argyle heard and spun around with the speed of a man half his size. One hand clutched at the hilt of the great broadsword he always wore,
the other closed upon the handle of his ax. He leaned forward and stared at the vessel which was bearing down upon the Vulture like a demonic wingless bird.
It was then that Mariana put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. The Dragon Ship was not really a ship at all; it was a floating fortress the likes of which no mariner had ever seen. Slowly the image took form as it rolled out from the mist. Burning in red light, its bulwark and prow made of metal encased with armor, the Dragon Ship now cast fantastic shadows over the water, setting everything aglow like burning coals, causing every silhouette to glimmer in dark hues of crimson.
Gradually the crew of the Dragon Ship came also into view. These Night-Watchers of the Eternal Dark stood dressed in plated armor, plumed helmets adorning their heads, fierce images of dragons embroidered into their black tunics and painted onto their metallic shields.
Huge men they were, beardless, broad-shouldered men with curling lips and cruel mouths, a sinewy, hairless lot, all grim and silent. They sought no identity of the intruders, swore no foul oaths, sang no chants, uttered no war cries. It was plain to all that the Night-Watchers would give no quarter, nor ask for any.
Mariana peered at the line of steely faces and shuddered, for she looked into their eyes and knew true terror. From deep sockets red pupils glowed back at her; the eyes were malevolent, trance-like, and crazed, as cunning as they were savage. It was then that she fully respected Argyle’s fear, for these were like no other men she had ever seen.
Again the winds were shifting, causing the Cenulamian ship to toss wildly about. “Run with the wind!” Osari bellowed, his mind racing to formulate a quick strategy. The Vulture swerved twenty points off to port, and hurtled down an increasingly narrowed path, trying to avoid solid granite and the Dragon Ship, which bore down on them with all haste.
The air filled with strange staccato churnings, as great and terrible wheels chopped through waves, propelling the Night-Watcher vessel forward at speeds Captain Osari could not believe.
And then the sky was alight; metal missiles, arrows and javelins, all twisting and whistling with flame, came sailing gracefully through the air, over the water, with tremendous billows of dark smoke pouring away from the rushing shafts. Steel-tipped missiles stabbed into the Vulture’s frame, slamming into the bulwark, crashing against the hull. Others sailed into the water, sinking untold fathoms before the flames had died.
New and furious gusts struck the Vulture; mountainous waves smashed over reefs and came tearing down upon the heaving ship, dousing many of the arrow-borne fires.
Mariana jerked her gaze up as a horrible scream sounded from the mainsail. She recoiled in shock as the young lookout in the crow’s nest fell with his body aflame, a metal arrow sunk straight through his neck.
And closer in the fearsome Dragon Ship pressed, so close that Ramagar and those beside him could actually see the snickers of delight parting the lips of the enemy Druids. Ghostly shadows swam helter-skelter before them as the massive body of the Dragon Ship parted the waters at the entrance between the reefs. Osari looked on in despair, forcing down his own terror and desperately trying to stick to his job as navigator, leaving the fighting to Argyle and the others.
“To starboard! To starboard!” he shouted, blinking at the sight of a gigantic boulder sticking up from the dark in front of the bowsprit. And even before the masterful helmsman had time to raise a hand, the captain had knocked him out of the way and with all his strength had spun the wheel a full ninety degrees. The sails flapped helplessly, the ship itself groaned with the sudden turn. Half in a spin, the ship tilted, righted itself, and turned on a dangerous sideward course barely in time to miss the threatening mountain.
The maneuver had barely been completed when a second tremendous volley was loosed from the Dragon Ship. The sky brightened for a second time as roaring fire arced down upon them. The Prince, incensed and not to be cowered, wrenched the crossbow away from a dazed sailor at his side and took dead aim at the Druid soldiers standing firmly in their places on the bridge.
Let my mark be true! he hissed, and twang! went the taut bowstring, the dart shooting in a straight and deadly line.
The arrow struck home; a Druid clutched both hands to his flimsy breastplate and pitched forward, his orange-plumed helmet toppling from his head and bouncing over the deck.
Panic grabbed those at his side; the Prince smiled with satisfaction as his companions ran to aid him. For a moment the Dragon Ship came to a complete halt, then it began the charge anew, this time with greater speed than ever.
“We’ll meet in hell for that little deed,” grunted Argyle.
“Why?” asked a panting Mariana.
The Prince’s smile deepened. “I just killed their admiral.”
The pressure of the wind was terrific; the Vulture swayed this way and that as Captain Osari drew on every trick he knew—and some he didn’t—to negotiate her safely through the rocks.
A third volley roared above their heads, this time with the dull moan of catapults adding to the din. Sailing balls of granite smashed with clumsy force fore and aft; arrows of fire cast out wave upon wave of sickening heat, whizzing through the air, sticking into masts and deck, occasionally catching some poor lad unaware and sending him reeling over the side.
The Vulture’s sailors responded in kind. Under Argyle’s steady command, they directed a fearful barrage against the oncoming hulk. But many of their arrows were thwarted; some glanced off the metal protectors, others fell short, and still others were deflected by Druid shields. Through all this, the Dragon Ship continued to gain.
“We’re lost,” groaned the haj, beginning to despair for the first time. He stood directly beneath the lumbering red shadows and watched while Druid steel flashed before his eyes. A line of fearsome warriors had now taken places up and down the Dragon Ship’s main deck; they stood poised and silent, defiant in the face of Vulture arrows, biding their time until they were close enough for grappling chains to be thrown. Then they would clamber aboard the puny ship, seal their victims’ deaths, and begin the search for loot.
By this time fully a third of Captain Osari’s men had been either wounded or killed; the situation was growing grimmer with each passing second.
As fire arrows sparked above, Ramagar pulled Mariana away from the fray, shielding her with his body so they could steal a minute together. He was certain that the way events were turning for the worse they would soon find themselves parted. Although he dreaded to think about it, he knew that Mariana must not be taken captive; he shivered when he recalled grim tales the Prince had recounted. Mariana must not fall into Druid hands.
As the girl stood meek and frightened in his arms, Ramagar looked again at the Dragon Ship, bearing down faster and faster, and resolved to do what he must. The first grappling chains had been hurled from the enemy deck, although one had fallen short and the second had been cleaved loose by a single swing of mighty Argyle’s ax. But the end was near; they could not hope to hold out much longer.
Mariana gazed into the thief’s eyes and locked them in love. She put a hand to his face and touched him tenderly; Ramagar swallowed to clear the thickness in his throat. “It seems to be the end,” he whispered.
Mariana sighed, closing her eyes, and tried to smile bravely. “I love you, thief,” she said.
He put one hand on her shoulder and let the other secretly slip toward his knife. “If—if the worst happens, you know what I must do,” he told her.
The girl nodded slowly. “I know. Then there is no chance?”
He shook his head; she sniffed and drew a deep breath. Terrible screaming was coming from behind; Ramagar’s dark eyes drifted to the Dragon Ship, now so close that he could almost touch its steel-plated prow. He could hear commands for boarding being issued by Druid officers, see the looks of horror etched on the races of Cenulamian sailors still holding their positions. Only minutes remained before the ship would be overrun and taken. As for himself, it was a small matter. He would fight to the en
d, of course, dying beside his good friends. Death did not frighten him, nor even capture and torture, at least not as long as he knew that Mariana would not be made to suffer. His own pain was of absolutely no consequence; life without the dancing girl was meaningless anyway.
Mariana threw her arms around him and kissed him. She shut her eyes and tasted the salt of her tears upon her lips. “We almost made it, didn’t we?” she whispered.
The thief of Kalimar held back a sob. It was true; they had come so close, so close to having a life together. He wanted to say something to her, something to explain the way he felt—had always felt—but the words would not come.
She put a hand to his lips. “If you must do it, Ramagar,” she said, “do it now. Swiftly. Don’t make me wait…”
His hand clutched the hilt of his knife and he drew it from the sheath. He raised it, trembling, poised to plunge the blade deep into her heart. Mariana pressed herself closer, clinging to him like a frightened child while the madness of battle filled her ears.
“I love you, Mariana,” he cried. “Remember that, even now. I love you more than life—”
“Land ahoy!” came the croaking cry.
The girl opened her eyes and wrenched herself away, staring out into the blackness; Ramagar spun and let the knife fall to the deck. Beyond the railing of the forecastle they could both make out a dim, swelling form beyond the mist, far beyond the glow of the Dragon Ship, well away from the treacherous reefs. And there was the sound of surf crashing upon a shore.
“Land!” gasped the girl. Ramagar took her hand and looked on in absolute amazement.
“We’ve reached Speca!” cried the Prince, leaping down from the bridge, ducking his head to avoid whistling projectiles as he ran.
But all around them sailors were still staggering and falling under the assault of Druid arrows. The Dragon Ship had moved in with a vengeance, the chains so close that each link of steel could be discerned. Then suddenly the Vulture lurched, nearly sending all aboard flying over the side. Two massive triangular rocks poked up mere meters from the railing. The ship strained to right itself, and turning sharply upwind headed toward the land. The Dragon Ship stayed close, like a dog snapping at an intruder’s heels.
THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) Page 30
