Hiero Desteen (Omnibus) (34 page)

"I won't have them attack if we can scare the other ship off," Brother Aido said to the priest. "Even the Lowan are not invulnerable, and that ship is full of weapons,"

For a moment the two vessels hung, bowsprits to the wind, while the crews simply stared at one another and the birds, each seeming to wait for the other to take some action. Then a human voice, speaking
batwah,
rose above the wind and carried easily over the two hundred feet of foaming water.

"Ahoy, there, is that you, Gimp, you little tub of rat puke? Speak up, lardguts, if you're not afraid to."

Bald Roke, his orange suit glittering even in the gray light of the cloudy sky, hung rakishly from one of his ratlines, leering across at the
Foam Girl.
As he shouted, his crew exploded in a storm of laughter and obscene jeers, glad to have a relief from the strain of watching the great birds, whose appearance seemed sheer magic to them.

"I'm here, Roke, you dirty corpse-eater!" Gimp yelled in reply. "Better get your carrion barge out of here before we turn our little friends loose on it!"

"Will you indeed?" Roke said, smiling" gently. He seemed to ignore the giant birds, and Hiero silently gave him credit for possessing his share of nerve, Roke went on.

"Tell you what, fatty, I think whoever runs these two pretty chickens would have turned 'em loose already, that is, if he dared. What do you think of that, now?" Again his crew screamed in delight, and a sea of edged weapons was brandished as they did. Moke waved one skinny hand and they quieted instantly.

"We could take you, birdies and all, you little blubber bag, but it might cost me some paint," the pirate continued, staring hard at the silent group on the poop of
Foam Girl.
"So, being inclined for fun, I'll make you an offer, a generous one. Give us the dirty-looking rat with the paint on his nose and the whiskers, and the girl. In return, you're free to depart. What say you, short pizzie?"

Gimp answered instantly, but not before spitting into the sea. "Go fry your crew of man-eaters in human grease, Roke. You'll get nought from us. But you brag, don't you, about how tough you are, skinhead? I dare you to fight
me
for a free passage, under Inland Seas Truce, man against man, hand weapons of choice. What do you say to that, you bony bag of slave girl's gauds?" This time it was the
Foam Girl's
crew who shouted and brandished weapons, while the
Bride's
crew were silenced. The wonderful birds still held their place, as if they were mere ducks on some farm pond, Hiero thought absently.

After a brief colloquy with two of his subordinates, Roke swung back into the rigging, a vicious look on his face, the smile gone.

"All right, you little blot of slime weed, I take you. Anchor, and so will I. But not us two alone, see. Me and one of my mates will meet you and that brown-skinned savage with the painted face. Otherwise no go, and I gives the order to attack. What do you say now, turdhead?"

"They're determined on you, Master Desteen," Captain Gimp said in a low voice. "They want you somehow, and what's more, Roke'll risk his whole ship and crew to get you. Can you fight? Are you game?"

"Try me," Hiero said, slapping him on the back. In truth, he was tired, but he saw no way out of this. "Will these dirty rogues keep such a bargain if they lose?"

"Oh, yes!" Gimp was shocked. "Even the worst sea scum will honor a Seas Truce for single combat. Oh, yes, have no fear. But Roke is a notable fighter. And who knows whom he'll bring with him? We'd better get ready." Captain Gimp turned and waved assent to Roke, who left the rigging at once.

Hiero now saw a ship's boat launched from
The Ravished Bride;
and while Gimp armed himself, he explained that the challenging vessel was always the scene of the combat.

"We have nought to lose," he went on. "All of the others will be slaves if we two are killed. But at least not killed and eaten. And if we win, we get their cargo or a good part of it; all we can carry, at any rate."

Luchare helped Hiero strip to his pants and soft boots. Daughter of soldier-kings, she said nothing and did not need to, but he could feel her body trembling through her hands. He knew she would not survive him by a minute, should he fall. Brother Aldo simply patted his hand and then turned away, back to his control of the birds.

Hiero weighed his short sword. He then turned and, from a pile on deck, selected a heavy, square brass shield, curved from side to side, for his left arm. His poniard was thrust, unsheathed, into his belt. With his bronze helmet on, he was ready. Gimp was now stripped to his kilt and was barefoot as well. He bore no shield, but a long, gently curved sword, rather slender, something on the order of an immense saber, save that the point was slightly angled. It was designed, obviously, for both hands. His arms were very long and rippled with muscle as he waved the big sword delicately about. He no longer appeared comic, and his square jaw was set.

The boat of the enemy grated alongside. Over the rail first came the bald head of the pirate captain, and behind him came his partner. Hiero shuddered inwardly. A Leemute, and one of unknown type! And it also wore a mind shield about its neck.

The creature was as tall as a man and, Hiero realized, might really be descended from men. It wore only a short leather jerkin, but its natural skin was a mass of tiny, dull gray scales. It had no visible nose or ears, only holes in both places, and its dull eyes were lashless under massive, bony brows. In one powerful arm it carried a single-edged, heavy axe; in the other, a small shield. The crew shrank away from it.

Bald Roke still wore his orange finery, and numerous rings glittered on his hands. Brooches and necklaces spangled his stained jacket, which had slashed sleeves for easy movement. He carried a slender, straight sword with a basket hilt and, in the other hand, a long, two-edged dagger.

The men
of Foam Girl
now scattered to the extremes of bow and stern, with a good few hanging on to the ratlines, but all well out of sword stroke.

"We fight around the ship, Skinny," Gimp said, "up to the fore-peak line and back to these steps. No holds barred, no survivors. You get forward now, we'll stay here. At my word we'll start for each other, you and Corpseface there against me and my friend."

The creature with Roke snarled, displaying a mouthful of sharp, yellow fangs, but Roke laughed jeeringly.

"Suits me, Low-pockets. But you and your mind-twisting magician here ain't met a Glith before. Loaned to me, he was, by good friends up north and west of here. We'll see how funny you think he is in a minute."

Hiero spoke for the first time, in a calm voice which nevertheless carried easily. "I know your fine friends, Captain Roke. They are among the living dead. The grave yawns for all of them and for this creature and for you as well." His vibrant tone seemed to carry flat certainty.

For a second, Roke appeared to pale. If the horrid thing with him, the Glith, was new to the company of
Foam Girl,
the Metz priest was equally so to him; and despite his new amulet's protection, Roke was unsure of himself. But he was a hardy scoundrel and rallied.

"Glad you found a voice, Whiskers. We'll mark your pretty paint in a few seconds. Come on, Daleeth, let's get forr-ard."

In a moment all was ready. The ship fell silent, save for the creak of timbers and straining cordage as her anchor line sawed the hawsehole. The two rogues who had rowed Roke and the Glith over clung to shrouds above the rail by their boat's painter, eyes glittering with excitement. A sea bird called, far off, a faint, piercing cry.

From his place to Hiero's right, Gimp shouted, "Go!" and marched forward. The four, two and two, one to each bulwark, advanced cautiously toward one another. This care alone would have told anyone of experience that trained warriors were meeting. There would be no headlong rushes and novice blunderings here. All four of them knew their business.

Hiero faced the Glith, and the two captains, tall and short, each other. They met on either side of the little cabin, almost exactly amidships. A vagrant gleam of sunshine momentarily pierced the racing clouds and illumined the foul creature's axehead as it advanced, but aside from that, it was a thing of dead hues, gray-scaled skin, gray garment, and lustreless eyes. Yet it was alert, and every rippling muscle revealed power and agility. Nevertheless, it advanced slowly, very slowly. As it came cautiously on, Hiero heard the clash of metal to his left, where the other two had commenced. As any trained swordsman does, he watched fixedly his foe's eyes for a sign of its intentions.

Those eyes! Great, somber, empty pools, seeming to have no bottom. Even as he watched, they grew larger. Larger! The Glith was no more than a few yards away, its axe poised on its shoulder, shield lowered. And all Hiero could see were the eyes, the round, lightless caverns of emptiness, which seemed to swell and grow until all else faded. Far off, he heard a woman scream. Luchare! The eyes vanished, shrunk to normal size, and the consciousness of where he was returned. Almost too late!

Reflex and training saved Hiero. The old, retired Ranger Sergeant who had first trained him had always stressed one point in the Abbey school of arms. Close in! "Look," the old veteran had insisted, "always try to close in quick, particularly if your opponent looks better than you. There's no monkey tricks with sword or spear at someone's throat from two inches away, boys. Give luck and plain meanness a chance!"

Hiero felt the wind of the heavy axe as he dived under it, not trying a blow, but simply shoving with his shield's boss at the Glith's body. Until he was ready and again unshaken, he wanted no more of those eyes!

Hypnotism! No mind shield guarded against that! Roke, or perhaps the creature itself, had been very clever. Almost, Hiero had been lured into the axe, like a calf to the slaughter, helpless to avert the death stroke. Had not Luchare screamed, he would now be dead.

He wrestled now with the scaled thing, his shield arm holding off its axe above him, its own shield keeping his sword arm locked in turn. It gave off a mephitic foulness, and its skin seemed to radiate a chill. Its hissing breath was a charnel stench, but he kept his head lowered to avoid the eyes. God, but it was strong!

Hiero summoned all his own strength and simply shoved, at the same time springing backward. The axe fell again, but he was beyond its reach. For a second, he faced his enemy, panting slightly, watching the pointed chin and the shoulders, but never seeking the eyes. He crossed his shield over so that it hid his body and lowered his short sword so that it hung at the end of his arm. Dimly, he was conscious of the clash of arms continuing on the other side of the cabin, but he kept his attention riveted on his foe. He heard Klootz bellow hideously, knowing his master was in peril, but he paid no heed.

It advanced again, axe held high. Was it inviting a low thrust? he wondered. He had trouble breaking the habit of years and never looking at the enemy's eyes, but somehow he managed it.

Then the Glith charged. As it came, the axe came down in a sweeping stroke and Hiero sprang back, ready to spring in again as the axe struck the deck. He had fought few axemen, and it was almost the death of him for the second time. The Glith's powerful arms straightened and the blade of the axe swung, cutting a sideways arc with all its speed undiminished, straight at Hiero's knees.

This time, instinct took over and the priest leaped straight up in the air. Even so, the follow-through of the Glith's shield arm struck his thigh, a second after the axe itself hissed by under his feet. The impact sent him reeling backward. The downward heave of the deck now caught him dead wrong as he went, and he stumbled away, fighting for his feet, fetching up with a ringing crash against the mizzenmast. With a grating cry as hideous to the ears as its appearance was to the eyes, the Glith charged again, axe on high, clawed toes raking the planks of the deck.

But Hiero had never quite left his feet, though now he was crouching. And this was the chance he had been waiting for. As the Glith leaped forward, the edge of the square brass shield, like some strange quoit, came spinning at its legs with all the force the Metz could put behind it. When he had crossed the shield over his torso moments before, Hiero had also freed the arm straps which held it, in preparation for just this maneuver.

The skimming shield now took the brawny legs out from under the alien creature as neatly as if it had been tripped. The Glith crashed to the deck, prostrate, arms outfiung, its noseless visage striking the wood with an audible thud. Even as it struggled to rise, the heavy, short sword came down on its scaled head, splitting it as a crow splits a cobnut. There was a rush of dark matter, the great limbs twitched once, and then the foul life departed.

The priest managed to recover his shield and he ran clumsily forward past Klootz's pen, ignoring the morse's bleating as he went to where he could still hear the clash of steel. The strained silence of the crew and their eyes glued to the scene up there told him that the issue was still in doubt.

It was indeed. As Hiero arrived, winded but with shield up, he saw Captain Gimp block a high thrust of the pirate's sword and barely miss being skewered by the long dagger held in the other's left hand.

"I'm coming," Hiero yelled. "Hold him a second, and I'll help take care of him." This was no matter of chivalry. In a stark, four-handed duel of this sort, it was expected that the survivors should have won by any means possible, save only illegal weapons such as bows. No quarter!

But Hiero's voice breathed new life into the little merchant skipper. Although his hairy torso was covered with blood from a dozen minor slashes, he still possessed plenty of energy. He stood, eyeing his equally bloody foe for an instant, and then ran in with a great whoop, the long, two-handed sword held high over his head. Nothing loath, Roke came to meet him, his eyes mad with rage and disappointment.

As they both charged, Gimp proved what his long, curved blade could do. Amazingly, he seemed to fall forward on his face, but his left hand caught the deck and held him off it. At the same time his long right arm, clenched fist now holding the long hilt by itself, swept out in a flashing backhand arc, like some monstrous scythe.