Witch of the Demon Seas Resailed

by Poula Anderson

deck for a while. A sailor who stood watch near the forecastle followed her with frightened eyes and muttered prayers to the amulet about her neck.

  Presently the devil-beast curled up before the cabin. The lids drooped over her green eyes, but they remained unwinkingly fixed on the door.

  V

  Under a hot sullen sky, the windless sea swelled in long slow waves that rocked the tangled kelp and ocean-grass up and down, heavenward and hellward. To starboard, the dark cliffs of a small jungled island rose from an angry muttering surf, but there were no birds flying above it.

  Coruna pointed to the shore. 'That's the first of the archipelago,' she said. 'From here on, we can look for the Xanthi to come at any time.'

  'We should get as far into their territory as possible, even to the black palace,' said Shorzona. 'I will put a spell of invisibility on the ship.'

  'Their sorcerers can break that,' said Chryseir.

  'Aye, so. But when they come to know our powers, I think they will treat with us.'

  'They'd better!' smiled Imaza grimly.

  'Steer on toward the island of the castle,' said Shorzona to the pirate. 'I go to lay the spell.'

  She went into her cabin. Coruna had a glimpse of its dark interior before the door was closed—draped in black and filled with the apparatus of magic.

  'She will have to be in a trance, physically, to maintain the enchantment,' said Chryseir. He smiled at Coruna, and her pulses raced. 'Come, my dearest, it is cooler on the afterdeck.'

  The sailors rowed steadily, sweat glistening on their bare blue hides. Imaza paced up and down the catwalk, flicking idlers with her whip. Coruna stood where she could keep an eye on the steerswoman and see that the right course was followed.

  It had been utter wonder till now, she thought, unending days when they plowed through seas of magic, nights of joy such as she had never known. There had never been another man such as Chryseir, she thought, never in all the world, and she was the luckiest of women. Though she died today, she had been more fortunate than any woman ever dared dream.

  Chryseir, Chryseir, loveliest and wisest and most valiant of women—and he was hers, before all the jealous gods, he loved her!

  'There has only been one thing wrong,' she said. 'You are going into danger now. The world would go dark if aught befell you.'

  'And I should sit at home while you were away, and never know what had happened, never know if you lived or died—no, no, Coruna!'

  She laid a hand on the sword at her waist. They had given her arms and armor again after he had come to her. Logical enough, she thought without resentment—he could be trusted now, as much as if she were one of Shorzona's ensorcelled warriors.

  But if this were a spell too, the gods deliver her from ever being freed of it!

  She blinked. There was a sudden breath of chill on her, and her eyes were blurring —no, no, it was the ship that wavered, ship and women fading—He clutched at Chryseir. He laughed softly and slipped an arm around her waist.

  'It is only Shorzona's spell,' he said. 'It affects us too, to some extent. And it makes the ship invisible to anyone within seeing range.'

  Ghost ship, ghost crew, slipping over the slowly heaving waters. There was only the foggiest outline to be seen, shadow of mast and rigging against the sky, glimpses of water through the gray smoke of the hull, blobs of darkness that were.the4 crewmen. Sound was still clear; she heard the mutter of superstitious awe, the crack ofand Imaza's oaths that sent the oars creaking and splashing again. Coruna's hand was a misty blur before her eyes. Chryseir was a shadow beside her.

  He laughed once more, a low exultant throb, and pulled her lips down to his. She ruffled the streaming fragrant hair and felt a return of courage. It was only a spell.

  But what were the spells? she wondered for the thousandth time. She did not hold with the simple theory that wizards were in league with gods or demons. They had powers, yes, but she was sure that somehow these powers came only from within themselves. Chryseir had always evaded her questions about it. There must be some simple answer to the problem, some real process, as real as that of making a fire, behind the performances of the sorcerers —but it baffled her to think what it might be.

  Blast it all, it just wasn't reasonable that Shorzona, for instance, should have been able actually to change herself into a jungle monster many times her size. Yet she, Coruna, had seen the thing, had felt its wet scales and smelled its reptile stink. How?

  The ship plowed slowly on. Now and then Coruna looked at the compass, straining her eyes to discern the blurred needle. Otherwise they could only wait.

  But waiting with Chryseir was remarkably pleasant.

  It was at the end of a timeless time, perhaps half a day, that she saw the Xanthian patrol. 'Look,' she pointed. 'There they come.'

  Chryseir stared boldly over the sea. The hand beneath hers was steady as his voice: 'So I see. They're—beautiful, aren't they?'

  The cetaraea came leaping across the waves, big graceful beasts with the shapes of fish, their smooth black hides shining and the water white behind their threshing tails. Astride each was a great golden form bearing a lance. They quartered across the horizon and were lost to sight.

  The crew mumbled in fear, shaken to their hardy souls by the terrible unhuman grace of the Xanthi. Imaza cursed them back to work. The ship went on.

  Islands slipped by, empty of man-sign. They had glimpses of Xanthian works, spires and walls rearing above the jungle. These were not the white colonnaded buildings of Tauros or the timbered halls of Conahur—of black stone they were, with pointed towers climbing crazily skyward. Once a great sea serpent reared its head, spouted water, and writhed away. All creatures save woman could sense the presence of wizardry and refused to go near it.

  Night fell, an abyss of night broken only by faint glimmers of sea-fire under the carpeting weed. Women stood uneasy watch in full armor, peering blindly into the somber immensity. It was hot, hot and silent.

  Near midnight the lookout shouted from the masthead; 'Xanthi to larboard!'

  'Silence, you fool!' called Imaza. 'Want them to hear us?'

  The patrol was a faint swirl and streaking of phosphorescence, blacker shadows against the night. It was coming nearer. 'Have they spotted us?' wondered Coruna.

  'No,' breathed Chryseir. 'But they're close enough for their mounts—' There was a great snorting and splashing out in the murk. The cetaraea were refusing to go into the circle of Shorzona's spell. Voices lifted, an unhuman croaking. The erinye, the only animal who did not seem to mind witchcraft, snarled in saw-edged tones, eyes a green blaze against the night.

  Presently the squad turned and slipped away. 'They know something is wrong, and they've gone for help,' said Coruna. 'We'll have a fight on our hands before long.'

  She stretched her big body, suddenly eager for action. This waiting was more than she could stand.

  The ship drove on. Coruna and Chryseir napped on the deck; it was too stiflingly hot below. The long night wore away.

  In the misty gray of morning, they saw a dark mass advancing from the west. Coruna's sword rasped out of the sheath. It was a long, double-edged blade such as they used in Conahur, and it was thirsty.

  'Kill them!' roared Imaza. 'Kill the misbegotten snakes!'

  'Get inside, Chryseir,' she said tightly. 'Get inside yourself,' he answered. There was a lilt in his voice like a little boy's. She felt his quiver with joyous expectation.

  The ghostly outlines of the ship wavered, thickened, faded again, flickered back toward solidity. Suddenly they had sight; the vessel lay real around them; they saw each other in helm and corselet, face looking into tautened face.

  'They have a wizard along—he broke Shorzona's spell,' said the Conahurian. 'We looked for that,' answered Chryseir evenly. 'But as long as Shorzona keeps fighting her, there will be a roiling of magic around us such that none of their beasts will approach.'

  He stood beside her, slim and girlish in polished cuirass and plumed helmet,
shortsword belted to his waist and a bow in one hand. His nostrils quivered, his eyes shone, and he laughed aloud. 'We'll drive them off,' he said. 'We'll send them home like beaten iaganaths.'

  Imaza blew the war-horn, wild brazen echoes screaming over chi sea. Her women drew in the oars, pulled on their armor, and stood along the rails, waiting.

  'But did we come here to fight them?' asked Coruna.

  'No,' said Chryseir. 'But we've known all along that we'd have to give them a taste of our might before they'd talk to us.'

  The Xanthian lancers were milling about half a league away, as if in conference. Suddenly someone blew a harsh-toned horn and Coruna saw half the troop slide from the saddle into the water. 'So—they'll swim at us,' she muttered.

  The attack came from all sides, converging on the ship in a rush of foam. As the Xanthi neared, Coruna saw their remembered lineaments and felt the old clutch of panic. They weren't human,

  With the finked tail, one of them had twice the length of a woman. The webbed hind feet, on which they walked ashore, were held dose to the body; the strangely human hands carried weapons. They swam half under water, the dorsal fins rising over. Their necks were long, with gills near the blunt-snouted heads; their grinning mouths showed gleaming fangs. The eyes were big, dark, alive with cold intelligence. They bore no armor, but scales the color of beaten gold covered back and sides and tail. They came in at furious speed, churning the sea behind them.

  Chryseir' voice rose to a wild shriek.