As Conan and his crew watched, the man suddenly extended a bony arm in a curious gesture. As he did so, each fire smouldering on the deck went abruptly out. The spirals of smoke faded and vanished.
'Magic!' boomed Sigurd wrathfully, clutching Oman's shoulder with a grip like a steel trap.
'Yakov!' yelled Conan. 'Feather that dog!' But before the order could be carried out, the tall, feather-robed figure plucked a small flask from under his robe and cast it over the side, to splash in the surging green waters between the two ships.
As the flask struck the waves, the heaving water erupted into an explosion of dazzling flame. A wall of seething, crimson fire sprang up between the two ships. Conan's men shouted with astonishment, gesticulating with wonder. Consternation and superstitious fear was written on their features. They were brave enough to face sharp steel and whistling shafts for the chance of loot and rapine -but who could fight sorcery?
'Magic!' Sigurd repeated. 'By the heart of Ahriman and the loins of Tammuz, do ye see it, Amra? Yonder slant-eyed wizard builds a wall of fire in less time than it takes a man to spit!'
Staring with narrowed eyes, Conan noted that the unnatural flames did not spread, as they should have if caused by some inflammable oil. They remained in one position, forming a wall of flame that almost hid the alien galley and that leaped so high as to threaten the Red.-Lion's mainsail.
'Eight points to port! Trim sail for wind on the port beam!' bellowed Conan. 'We'll see if we can go around it,' he added to Sigurd.
'By the guts of Shaitan and Ymir's beard, the fire follows us!J said Sigurd, clutching the rail with whitened knuckles.
And so it was. As the Red Lion swung upwind to port, the wall of fire moved as if to keep itself between the carack and the fleeing galley. Conan shaded his eyes to look at his imperiled canvas overhead. As yet it had not caught fire - in fact, did not even look singed. Nor did the thick, oily smoke so much as smudge the white sails. Conan burst into laughter.
'Steersmen ho!' he thundered. 'Tillers down, and pay no mind to the fire! Trim sail to run free!'
'Amra?' said Sigurd, goggling. 'What in the name of all the devils—'
Conan grinned through his bristling gray beard. 'Watch, old walrus, and learn.'
The Red Lion clove through the burning wall as if it were not there. The ship's company felt no heat of its passage. Once on the other side, the magical barrier winked out of existence. The crew gaped with astonishment.
'Just a mirage, and illusion!' roared Conan. 'Now muster for boarding, dogs, and we'll see how yon feather-robed sorcerer likes cold steel!'
As the bow of the Red Lion came closer and closer to the stern of the galley, those on the carack could see the stern, masklike features of the shaven-skulled magician working with rage. Then he lifted both arms, so that his gorgeous cloak spread in the wind like the blazing pinions of some legendary phoenix.
'Hal, Xotli! Chahuatepak ya-xingothF he screamed. And the Red Shadows struck. From the four quarters of the sky they gathered, as they had on that deadly day when they first appeared in Conan's royal palace. They clung about a screaming Argossean helmsman, and he winked out of existence. The Red Lion lurched as the man at the other tiller strove to keep her on course by his unaided strength.
This was no illusion. As Conan watched, the feathered sorcerer laughed an ugly cackle, and spread his arms to summon the Terror again. This time, his eyes were full upon Conan.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE PHANTOM WARRIORS
Though manned by devils and walled with flame
From pits infernal., whence she came,
The Lion will break the galley's spell
And rape the treasure shipped from Hell!
- The Voyage of Amra
Old Sigurd saw, understood, and quick-wittedly roared a command to Yakov on the forecastle deck: 'Skewer that devil in the feathers!’
Bowstrings twanged, and swift shafts flashed over the green water toward the high., gilded poop where the magician stood, arms raised to summon the Terror again. As the arrows hissed toward him, he broke off his shadow-conjuring stance to gesture with the flat of his hand. The first shaft was somehow deflected from its target and thudded harmlessly into the deck. The second and third were likewise sent awry - but then several whistled at him at once, too many for him to ward off by his magicial powers. And one sank to the feathering in his right hand.
His swarthy features pale with shock, the sorcerer staggered back, nursing his injured hand to his bony chest. He swept the Barachans with a burning glance and vanished.
The pirates recoiled. Sigurd grunted and rubbed his stubby nose. 'What can we do against this cursed devilry, Amra? Shall we turn tail before the. Shadows scoop us all up?'
Conan glared. 'Have you lost your wits, old walrus?
This hell-ship is what we are looking for! Tis here the Red Shadows are spawned!'
'But cold steel is no defense against that kind of magic—'
'You saw Yakov's lad put an arrow through the hand of the head devil, didn't you?' growled Conan, cuffing Sigurd on the shoulder. 'He'll summon no more devils with that crippled hand, so now's the time to strike!' He strode to the forward end of the poop deck. 'Helmsmen, one point to port! Grapnels out! Stand by for collision! Prepare to board!'
The bow of the Red Lion slid up parallel with the stern of the galley, and then the massive stem of the carack crunched into the emerald flank of the galley, with a great snapping and shattering of broken oars. Grapnels soared through the air to catch in the alien ship's woodwork, and brawny arms hauled taut the ropes that trailed from them. Other sailors caught the galley's rail with boat hooks.
'Boarders away!' shouted Conan, leaping down the ladder to join the throng of armed men pouring over the rails of the two interlocked ships to the galley's deck, knives in teeth and swords, pikes, and axes in fists. Most of them wore a cuirass of some sort - here a shirt of rusty chain mail; there a leather jack sewn with brass plates or bronze rings. A few of the wilder spirits went naked to the waist. Helmets of a score of designs capped their touseled heads.
Conan's boots crashed through one of the thin wicker mantlets, and he fell heavily into one of the rowing spaces between the deck and the rail. The rowing benches, each wide enough for two men handling a single oar apiece, were sunken half a man's height below the narrow deck. If the benches had been occupied, the heads of the rowers would have risen just above the deck level. But now the benches were empty. Whatever hands had wielded the oars were gone; the oars trailed idly in their oarlocks.
His scalp bristling with the superstitious fears of the barbarian - which all his years in civilization had not wholly ousted - Conan scrambled up out of the rowing space to the main deck. As he did so, glaring about for some foe to fight, the giant black, Yasunga, clutched his arm and pointed to the ornate poop deck.
'Amra, look! The plumed devil!'
The skull-faced wizard had reappeared. Now, instead of his magnificent cloak of feathers, he wore a long coat of chain mail, made from some unknown, rosy metal that blazed in the sunlight. A fantastic helm, shaped like a bird's head, was upon his head. In his left hand he bore a long, straight sword with saw teeth of glittering crystal, such as Conan had never seen in all his wanderings. Strapped to his right arm was a jagged-edged shield of green-enameled metal, embossed-with a Kraken emblem like that on the galley's bow.