THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (34 page)

The Prince felt his heartbeat begin to quicken; here before him was a sailor of Aran who had actually dared the waters of the Lost Kingdom, a man who could be of enormous value in his quest. It was an unexpected opportunity that could not be lost.

“My ship has need of you, Argyle,” he said honestly. “Will you join us and guide the way to Speca?”

The thick-necked lord of Aran scowled. “And join you in death? No, Friend. I have told you, the way cannot be found. Not I nor any other man of Aran would dare to try. Go yourselves if you must—but I share no responsibility for your fate.”

And Argyle’s words were joined by the agreeing calls of all the other lords of the
Sklar,
save for the Sage, who stood his ground and remained silent.

“Then you are still a fool, Argyle,” snapped Mariana, the words skipping off her tongue before she could stop them.

The warrior’s face grew crimson; he put his hands on his hips and stared down at the slight young girl who had dared to speak to him in such a manner.

Mariana defiantly stared back, then swept her glance over all the members. “All of you’ are fools,” she declared. “You yourselves have told us the danger Aran faces. Yet you are unwilling to do anything about it!”

“Nothing can be done,” said the Sage. “All efforts are useless.”

“And how do you know?” she flared, spinning to face the wise man. “I and my friends have dared to risk all in reaching Speca; to save it and to save the North as well. We know our chances are slight at best. We know that we may die. But at least we want to
try.
The
Sklar
ponders and debates, weighs and measures, thinks only of the dangers. And when the records of history are written, and these pages are looked back upon a thousand years hence, who will be remembered? You who have debated? Or we who have tried?”

Her words stung the august body; the lords of the
Sklar
looked at each other in amazement.

The Sage sighed deeply and hung his head. “You have shamed us, child,” he said in a whisper. “But try and understand us. We have lived beneath the shadows for so long …”

“Then it’s time to do something about it,” said Ramagar, eager to put forth his own views but not wanting to chide them as Mariana had.

The Sage limply turned to face the row of his peers and looked into their eyes one by one. And in each and every face he saw the same thoughts of concern and despair. Then he nodded slightly and focused his gaze back on the Prince.

“Exactly what is it that you want of us, Friend?” he asked.

“Your help,” replied the Prince. “The assistance of Argyle to lead us through the black waters, and Aran’s fighting ships to defeat the Druid fleets.”

“You ask much, Friend, perhaps more than we can give you. Before the
Sklar
can commit its sons to your cause we must first be assured that your own part in the matter has been played.”

The Prince nodded slowly. “What are your terms?”

The Sage looked to his peers for their approval before he began. Then, when it was plain that to a man they agreed to let him set the demands, he turned to the Prince and said, “If Argyle is willing, then certainly we shall permit him to lead you into the Eternal Dark. But as for our ships, that is another matter. Aran cannot risk all she has on the thread of your blade. Our
knaars
will be gathered and prepared, as you asked, and we shall sail to the very limits of the Darkness itself. But not one ship shall sail within the blackness—not until we have seen some sign that you have found the key to dispelling the Druid magic.”

“And what would such a sign have to be?” queried Ramagar.

The Sage rolled his eyes toward the heavens. “The Eternal Dark itself. Blue Fire, by whatever means it can, must first dispel the clouds. The sun must shine over Speca. Then, and only then, will the ships of Aran complete their part of the bargain and attack the powerful forces against us.”

Ramagar sucked in a long, deep breath. The terms were harsh, indeed, he saw. The Sage had decided his strategy most carefully. Aran would bide her time and wait before committing herself fully; she would ask the Prince to do more than any one man could possibly hope to accomplish alone.

“Are these terms acceptable?” asked the Sage.

The Prince smiled shrewdly. “More than acceptable, my lord.” And he glanced across the amphitheater at Argyle, who stood with fists clenched at his thighs.

“Will you share my burden, Lord Argyle?” he asked in a strong and clear voice.

The sea warrior thought for a moment and then nodded. “I give my pledge, both to you as a Friend and to the
Sklar.
All my knowledge of the Darkness will be at your command.” Then he peered down at Mariana and the thief, looked briefly to the silent haj and the tense Homer beside him. “You are a brave band of souls,” he told them all. “But with all my heart I pray that when I have told you all I know of the Dark Lands, you will take my warnings more seriously and change your minds.”

Mariana threw back her head and grinned. “Not a chance, my lord. We have come too far. And there are too many wrongs yet left unrighted.”

The Sage seemed impressed. “Then you actually believe it can be done?”

Mariana’s dark eyes burned with dancing moonlight softly reflected. “My lord, all things are possible—if you believe.”

V

… And into the Lost Kingdom

16

“Dead ahead, sir!” cried the lookout from his lonely perch atop the mast. “Three points off the starboard bow!”

Captain Osari turned from his place and grasped at the bridge railing with both his hands. All around him passengers and crew scrambled to the bulwark to see for themselves.

Ramagar tightened his arm around Mariana’s shoulder and she nudged herself closer against him. Breathless and unspeaking, the two of them stood and stared at the unreal sight looming ever closer, only leagues away.

The bow of the
Vulture
dipped gracefully and easily through the choppy waters as it plowed its way toward the gruesome scene. From far away the Darkness had seemed like thick, black hovering clouds. But the nearer the ship came to it, the more the Eternal Dark showed itself to be a mist; thin and cold, gently swirling in the gusty winds, tauntingly daring them to enter the place from which few had returned.

Above their heads the sun was shining; puffs of gentle white clouds drifted slowly by. Mariana glanced briefly behind her and realized she could still make out the distant peaks of Aran poking like tiny fingers in the east. Thinking fondly of that peculiar land, she felt herself shudder and tightly drew her shawl around her, again forcing her gaze to the alien fog silently pulling them nearer.

The haj gulped; for the first time since joining the expedition he felt queasiness knot in his belly. He drew a step closer to Mariana and her lover, hardly aware of Oro, who stood on his toes shivering from head to foot as he peered with unguarded alarm at what lay ahead.

“Trim the sails,” called Captain Osari to his mate, and seconds later the well-trimmed ship slowed sharply in its tack. Osari swallowed hard and bit at his lip, realizing that if they did not turn back now they would never again be able to.

“Not much to look at, is it?” the Prince commented with a frown.

The sea captain grunted in reply. The more he stared into the mist, the more foul it seemed to become. It danced malevolently only centimeters above the waterline and rose as high as he could see. Beyond its entrance there was nothing; it was like staring at an empty hole, a vast and endless void of nothingness. No bottom, no top, no form or substance. Only the dank and grim Darkness itself, covering everything. Ancient mariners had told tales of the Pits of Hell, Osari recalled, and right now he was sure that here was where they began. And his ship was heading straight for them.

The huge lord of Aran lifted his shoulders and fondled the hilt of his long sheathed sword. Argyle had spent half his life trying to forget his first visit to the Darkness; except for the nightmares where he still saw his brothers’ ghastly deaths at the hands of the prowling Night-Watchers, he had almost succeeded in putting it from his mind. Now, though, the bold sea warrior saw his memories streaming back at him in a rush and so disturbing his thoughts that it was all he could do to put down the impulse to scream.

Realizing what he must be going through, the Prince came to the lord’s side and clasped him firmly on the shoulder, saying, “Be at ease, Friend Argyle, and bear in mind that what we do today shall soon free men everywhere from the suffering Speca has known for an eternity.”

The brawny lord cast his gaze down at the youthful Prince and nodded, tears welling in his icy eyes. But now was not a time for crying, he knew. Now was the time for gathering strength. And with a sigh of resolve he, too, looked deeply into the mist, which now seemed so close that outstretched fingertips would touch it.

“What shall our course be?” asked Osari, ready to give his instructions to the helmsman.

“A quarter to port,” replied Lord Argyle, his eyes still fixed ahead. “Once we enter there shall be no need of charts or instruments. Speca herself lies directly before us. Our only fear is of the Night-Watchers; once they sight us, we can only fight.” With that, Argyle fell silent again; he shut his eyes and lifted his gaze skyward, a small prayer to the Fates for guidance and protection soundless upon his lips.

As Mariana looked about she saw that other sailors were doing the same. A religious lot are mariners, she thought, whatever land they come from. Turning to speak with Ramagar she saw that the thief was doing the same. Eyes lidded, he was softly mumbling a sacred song of the East. Mariana watched him, smiled, and blew a kiss he would never feel. It was the first time she had seen him pray, and she realized how much he had changed since leaving Kalimar, indeed how much they had all changed since the strange beggar of a prince had touched their lives.

Mariana smiled and sighed. She was painfully aware that this day could well be the last they would spend together. She squeezed Ramagar’s hand tightly and closed her eyes as the dismal Darkness closed in, thinking now only of the true happiness they had shared in days past and the contentment that had come from their shared love. Mariana knew she was at peace, with herself and with the world. In her own prayer that moment she asked only that if the end for them must come, then let it be swift and silent.

Then slowly, very slowly, the
Vulture
quietly entered within the cloak of the mist.

The strong winds of the North died, and the ship groaned under its own weight as it drifted with the rippling undercurrent. Captain Osari was the first to reopen his eyes; he stared about in wonder and disbelief as the black world of the Druids became reality all around him.

There was nothing to be seen, save for black water gently bobbing against the hull of his ship. All around was silence, grim and foreboding solitude. “As quiet as a grave,” Argyle was heard to whisper.

“Light the torch,” called Osari, and from somewhere aft dim sparks flashed, oil-soaked rags burst into orange dancing flame. The sailor holding the torch shakily inched his way closer to the bowsprit and poked the burning light at arm’s length into the fog. Mist swirled around his arm and above the fire, gray-black mist that thickly coated the surfaces of everything it touched.

“Caravans of Kalimar!” wheezed the haj, eyes transfixed on the awesome sight. He glanced to the mast; he could no longer see the topsail, nor even the lookout still perched in the crow’s nest. Above, the abysmal fog seemed to be lowering itself, slowly creeping down the sturdy wood of the mast, sticking to it and wetly glowing in the dim reflection of the torch.

“Hold your course true, Captain,” advised Argyle, his features growing stern again and his mind clicking with a mariner’s sense of navigation. He could not see the sky, nor the stars, nor the horizon. But the sea was second nature to him, be it in calm or tempest, and upon the water he felt a sailor’s confidence in the ability to face any peril.

The helmsman held tight on the wheel and the ship crept ahead like a snail. Mariana looked on in trepidation at this new world where all life seemed to cease. There were no birds in the sky, no wind or breeze, no chatter or banter from either crew or passengers. There was no up, no down, no sideways, only the lasting stillness that made her cringe, and the awful blackness that only deepened. That, and the frightful thumping of her heart.

“How far do you reckon until we might reach some shore?” asked the Prince, breaking the grim mood and fondling the scimitar nervously as he turned to their guide.

Argyle frowned, then shrugged; then folded his powerful arms. “Some say a day’s journey, some say less,” he replied. “No one can know for certain. Soon, though, we shall be hearing the signs of land …”

“Signs?” said Ramagar. “You mean the Night-Watchers?”

The lord of Aran shook his head glumly. “Neither they nor their Dragon Ships. But the Calling. The Calling of the Sirens.”

The thief narrowed his eyes and stared at his enigmatic new companion; he quickly saw that Argyle’s hands had balled into tightly clenched fists, so tight that his knuckles showed white even in the shadows.

The Prince glanced at him sharply. “What are you talking about?”

It was a dark smile that crossed Argyle’s rugged features. “You will know when you hear it,” he answered, his shoulders shaking with a small shudder as he recalled the first time he himself had heard it, so long before. “It begins as a distant cry,” he went on. “Low, and mournful, as if some poor wounded creature were slowly dying in pain. But then the sounds increase, building to such a terrible pitch and fervor that mortal men can no longer bear it. Some will recoil at the sound and press their hands over their ears, others will scream in desperation to try and blot it out; all, though, will fear for their sanity, for many have been driven to madness. And then, the Sirens will laugh …”

Mariana, Ramagar, and the haj all exchanged quick, fretful glances. “What are these Sirens?” Mariana asked. “What causes them?”

“No one can say,” Argyle told her with a long shake of his head. A dark shadow crossed his eyes. “But the mariners of old claim it to be the weeping of lost souls bound forever in Black Hell, begging to be freed from their torment.” He sighed and shifted his great weight so that he leaned squarely against the lashed rope secured along the railing. “The wise men of Aran say another thing; that it is a warning wail to any passing ship. A warning from sorrowful beings calling to the living to flee these waters while there might yet be time …”

The Prince scoffed, saying, “I have heard of these ‘Sirens,’ and I believe them to be no more than noises made by the strong winds of the North as they blow down between Speca’s mountains. Such natural occurrences would be common in these climes during the warm months of the year.”

“You think so?” quizzed the haj, relieved to hear this benign explanation.

“I am convinced of it.”

Argyle grimaced. “Think what you will, all of you,” he replied gruffly. “Perhaps it is no magic. But be assured of this: never has any sailor of the North heard anything more ghastly and terrible.” He tightened his glare at his companions and added, “It is in no man’s interests to deride until he has heard for himself.” With that the lord of Aran turned and faced the all-encumbering fog hovering above the waterline.

Mariana tried hard not to shiver; she realized that the temperature was swiftly dropping.

“Well, whether these Sirens are a natural occurrence or not,” she said thoughtfully, “it’s easy to understand how anyone would be terrified by them while forced to travel in
this
…” She gestured sweepingly at the mist and frowned.

Captain Osari nodded in full agreement. “Our ship is like a sightless child forced to grope its way without direction. Without our vision to guide us it becomes easier for the mind to play tricks.”

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.