The Return of Kavin (2 page)

It was midnight before the saw had finished its long journey up one bank and down the other. The whisper came back from man to man; and there was a rustle as men began to stand up.

Near the forward gangway, where the drummer usually sat, and where the guard now squatted, four men came sliding, swiftly, like seasnakes; up, onto the boards, two from either side. The yellow light fell on their maddened, bearded faces; gleamed in their wild eyes as they sprang. The guard went down beneath them, with only a choked gasp of terror; one of them snatched at his short sword and stabbed, again and again.

The whole act had taken only a moment. Now, more men swarmed up, climbing onto the gangway, panting, but wordless. Zamor, his face grim as carved black stone, thrust forward, through the others; his size made it easy for him to move in spite of the jammed walkway, and Hugon came close in his wake.

Under the closed hatch, there was a muttered conversation; then, Zamor lifted himself up onto the ladder, and his huge shoulder pushed, slowly and carefully, but with enormous force. A hinge gave, with a ripping noise; then, the hatchway was open.
The men behind saw the stars overhead, and the glimmer of the masthead light.

Zamor lifted his head and peered across the darkened deck. Then, with a single thrust, he lifted himself up and out, and the others came pouring out behind him, still in terrible silence.

The big black sprang, in a wolf’s bound, toward the half dozen marines who squatted or stood near the break of the poop; the men had barely time to see him before he was upon them.

They were all big men, wearing the leather armor and round helmets of their corps; but Zamor was not merely bigger, but a man in
whom
rage had waited a long, long time. More than that, he was an Almor of the Numori; that race whose fighters were said to be the best in the world, men who lived for the art of war.

Zamor’s extended hands thrust like swordblades, and two marines went down; his right hand snatched a short sword, which slashed across a third man’s belly in the same movement. The force of the blow was so great as to cut partly through the heavy leather of the marine’s cuirasse, and he staggered back with a scream of agony. But Zamor’s left hand had seized still another man’s neck already; he thrust the man forward, into the sword another lifted, and both men reeled backward, one spitted and screaming.

Hugon, close behind the giant black, had already seized an abandoned blade that came spinning along the deck; he laughed aloud, and cried out, a wordless sound. A moment later, he met a charging marine, blade to blade; the heavy, short weapons met, with a clang like pots falling in a kitchen. The marine tried to thrust, and was deftly parried; he snarled, and drew back his blade, to cut, axe-wise. It was a serious error, but he had no time to regret it. Hugon’s blade entered his throat.

As he drew the sword back, Hugon thought, in a flashing moment of queer regret, “Another poor fool.” He hated killing, and especially men whose skill with the sword was so small.

By now, the silence that had reigned before was lost completely; the roar of battle replaced it. Galley slaves hurled themselves upon marines, clawing, snatching, and shrieking; here and there, men who had already gained weapons slashed and cut at knots of seamen and marines backed against the forward bulkheads and against the mast.

On the quarterdeck, men were emerging, half-dressed, shouting, with whatever weapons they had snatched. Out on the main deck, the crazy rush of the slaves had swept the last defender away; and now, the ragged mob moved purposefully aft, toward the great cabin, Zamor, splashed with blood, a sword in each hand, was first; he came up the ladder toward the last defenders, looking like a demon out of the pit, with a wild yell as he sprang up. The knot of men on the quarterdeck shrank back before him, their faces white with terror. But near the port rail, a seaman
stood,
legs apart, leveling a heavy crossbow and taking aim at Zamor.

Hugon, at that moment, swung a leg lightly over the quarterdeck railing, starboard; he was behind the group of defenders, and Zamor faced them, moving tigerishly toward them. Hugon saw the crossbowman; he narrowed his eyes, thoughtfully, and swung back his right hand over his shoulder, with the sword. Bringing it forward, he let go; the sword flew, like a huge dart, and nailed the crossbow wielder to the rail. The bolt flew up, as the trigger snapped.

Zamor paused, and his eyes flicked to the falling body of the crossbowman, back to Hugon, who grinned at him. Then, Zamor roared, a sound that might have been either a giant laugh or a war cry in an unknown tongue, and met the first defender.

It was no longer a battle, now; the others had reached the quarterdeck, and the officers and nobles went down. Orsha broke free and ran, screaming, toward a door; a dozen swords swung at him as he clawed at the door, and he was down, hacked into pieces. For a moment, the sailing master held his
own,
his back against a rail; then, two slaves grappled with him, and all three fell into the black sea below. Others leaped into the darkness.

Lord Barazan fought well; there were dead men piled against his legs as he hacked and slashed. But a dozen swords thrust at him, and a half dead slave clutched at his knees; he went down, like the others.

The doors to the great cabin were flung open; beyond, in the light of lamps, figures moved in a panicked rush, and women screamed wildly.

Hugon, knocked against a bulkhead in the rush of men, saw a big slave with a hideously scarred face turn, grinning insanely, his arms spread wide.

“
There’s women
!” the slave roared; and the mob howled in demonic answer as they burst in.

In the turmoil, Hugon was carried forward; a door opened, and he fell forward, into an inner cabin. He saw the woman, and, lightning-fast, he kicked shut the door, placing his back against it. Behind him, he heard screams; the other women.

The woman was tall, with a breathtaking body, plainly visible; she had drawn a sheet around herself, but that was all she wore. She had a mass of dark red hair, loose on her shoulders; her eyes flashed, green, wide with fury as she stared at Hugon.

“You traitorous dirt!” the redhead spat, staring at him.
“You… here!”

“My Lady Gwynna,” Hugon said, and grinned. “What, a traitor? I? Would you care to discuss it, lady, as to which of us…”

Men were thrusting at the door behind him, and a hand tried to enter the crack of the opening; Hugon rapped the hand with his sword hilt, and leaned close to the door, turning.

“Zamor!” he roared.
“Zamor, here, quickly!”

There was renewed noise outside; then, Zamor’s deep voice bellowed in answer. Hugon moved, and the door opened; Zamor’s bulk filled the narrow opening, as he stared in.

“Zamor!”
Hugon barked. “There’s a prize pigeon here we’ll need to keep alive! Keep the others out, man!”

Zamor turned, his body still blocking the door, and roared out, “There’s enough, all of you! This one’s mine!” A couple of slaves tried a moment’s protest, and Zamor’s fists slammed out; then, as he backed into the cabin, there was no more dissension. He kicked the door shut, and turned with a puzzled look toward Hugon.

“Let me introduce you, friend Zamor,” Hugon said, in a queer, strained voice. He made a sweeping bow, a strange figure in his rags.
“The Lady Gwynna… formerly of Armadoc, and lately wife of the late lord Barazan.
We’ve made her a widow, poor lass.” His teeth gleamed in the dim lamplight. “But she made many another
widow
, not too long ago, and she’s welcome to the new estate.”

The
girl
who stood, her back pressed against the carved panels, was tall, pale, with a loosened mass of dark red hair flowing over her bare shoulders. She was beautiful, like a trapped panther; her green eyes flared with hate as she stared at Hugon and Zamor. She was in near-nakedness, but she seemed unconscious of her near nudity, and there was no fear in her face, only rage. “Hugon,” she said, in an icy voice.
“Pimp, thief, and scribbler of bad rhymes.
You filth…”

“Ah, not that, my lady,” Hugon said, smiling. “My rhymes have been said to be quite good… the rest, perhaps, true enough.” His expression changed slightly. “But I doubt there’s time for an exchange of wit, lady. I shall make no mention of… your first widowing.”

“Araaak!”

At the sound, Zamor crouched, his sword up, and Hugon leaped back. They froze, eyes searching; then, the voice came again, high and screeching, and they saw its source.

“Aaak!
Who you?”

A cage was hung near the ceiling, which was why they had not seen it at first; and the voice came from there.

Between the bars, a triangular, scaled and whiskered head poked, inquisitive bright eyes fixed on the two men. A long tongue flickered out, and there was a slight puff of smoke.

“Aak, what men?
What you do?”

“A dragonet!”
Zamor said, staring.

“Eee!” the dragonet said, in a pleased tone.

“The lord Barazan had an expensive taste in pets,” Hugon said, straightening up and peering at the creature. He glanced at the girl. “Two such beasties must have cost him many a gold piece. I know what price he paid for you, my lady, of course…”

There was a renewed banging at the door, and Hugon looked in that direction, worriedly.

“Zamor,” he said, hastily, “Listen. This woman might be held for ransom… there are those who will pay well for her. It would be a waste to let her be raped and flung over the side.”

The Lady Gwynna laughed, suddenly and coldly.
“You!
And you called yourself a gentleman!”

“Oh, no, never,” Hugon told her. “I’ve never had the wealth for that. Not yet.”

“Aaak!” the dragonet, in its cage, said. “I like you, man.”

“And I like you as well, small ugly one,” Hugon said. “But I’ve no time for conversation, I fear. You, woman… I’d assume you want to live. Get you into that closet, there…” He opened a door, and yanked out masses of garments, making room. The woman glared at him, and he seized her arm, impatiently.
“In, damn it!”
He thrust her inside, and slammed the door.

Someone was banging drunkenly on the cabin door, and Zamor, with a quick glance at Hugon, moved to open it. A bearded face appeared.

“Where’sh women?”

“No women, bucko,” Hugon said, with a broad grin.
“Got wine, though.
Here.” He tossed a bottle from the cabin sideboard.

The other took the bottle and upended it, gulping; he moved back, leaving the door half open.

“I could use a pair of boots, at that,” Hugon said, loudly, kneeling beside the piles of clothing tossed out of the closet. “Ah, now…”

“If that woman has sense enough to keep quiet…” Zamor muttered, beside him. “It’s a mad scheme, man. Ransom…”

“Mad?” Hugon whispered, pawing at the clothes.

“You’ll see,” said Zamor.

The uproar outside was deafening. As the two of them found garments and put them on, they could see others in the outer cabin
who
had the same idea. Men reeled to and fro, waving wine bottles, dressed in fragments of the finery looted from the cabins beyond. There were wild shrieks from other parts of the ship, where the women had been dragged to their fate; and quarreling over them had evidently broken out, from the sounds.

“We’d be no more than twenty or thirty miles from the Quenda shore,” Zamor said, frowning. “And there’s no man at the rudder now.”

“Could we find a sober man,” Hugon said, and moved into the riot, Zamor behind him. He pushed open the door to the quarterdeck, and stepped out into the torch-splashed darkness. He stopped, staring into the night, and stiffened.

“Damnation!”

The starlight on the sea was bright enough to outline a row of jagged masses, black against the dim light. Beneath, flashes of lightness appeared, and there was a distant thunder.

“Surf,” Zamor said, behind him.

“You were wrong about the coast, I think,” Hugon said. He stared at the chaos on the deck, and then glanced up at the slanted sails. “Could we tack, with no hands at the lines?”

“It’s worth trying,” Zamor grunted. “Else we’ll be aboard those breakers in another hour.”

Together, they went swiftly aft, to where the twelve-foot whipstaff swung idly; stepping over bodies as they went. There were three more dead men, one hanging limply over the staff itself; Zamor plucked the corpse away, and dropped it as Hugon seized the staff and thrust it hard over.

Slowly, the galley began to turn away from the threatening white line of surf. As the sails caught on the other tack, the booms slammed over, and the ship heeled slightly; Zamor lent his own huge strength to the work, holding the turn.

Now, the ship moved in a straighter course, with more speed, since the wind set slightly away from the land. Hugon let go, and found a line coiled on deck, which he looped around the staff, holding it in place.

“Knowing something of that lady down there,” Hugon said, “I’d feel better if I could see her with my eyes. Come on, Zamor.”

The cabin was undisturbed; the dragonet, in its cage, squawked a greeting, and the closet door was still closed.

“Hello, aak!” the dragonet squawked. Hugon chuckled, and moved closer to the silver cage; he lifted the hook that closed its door, and opened it.

The dragonet uttered a high, musical trill and leaped out, its wings spreading for a moment. Hugon’s arm was extended, like a falconer’s, and the creature landed there, and clung, its tail wrapping around Hugon’s arm. It emitted a thrumming musical note, and a small puff of smoke, obviously pleased.

“My name is Fraak!” it sang, preening. “I like you, man!”

It was a handsome little monster, its scales a coppery red, shading into purple, bright yellow eyes, and whiskers that seemed to be made of gold wire. Zamor reached out and touched it, gingerly, and it uttered another pleased note.

“I’ve seen the bones of such a beast, in the west country,” Zamor said, “but much larger, bigger than ten horses. This one is so small. Is it a young one?”