When the nimbus of green light was actively pulsating, the Stygian had held before his face a mirror of black metal, framed by an iron wreath of intertwined monsters. As Zarono watched with mounting awe, the emerald radiance seemed to be drawn to the surface of the mirror and reflected thence to the distant deck of the Sea Queen. Faint in the sunlight, the green beam was nevertheless plainly visible, stretching straight across the heaving gap between the ships. Something was happening on the caravel, although Zarono could not quite see what because of the distance.
With the loss of control of her tiller, the Sea Queen lost seaway and lay wallowing with sails flapping. Zarono brought his carack alongside. The Stygian emerged from his trance and sagged wearily against the rail. His dark features were the color of dirty linen, and cold sweat be-dewed his impassive countenance.
"I am done," sighed Menkara. "That conjuration taxes one's strength to the limit. And yet, it is no great spell, being easily warded off by one who knows how… But those silly beings yonder are ignorant of magical matters. Go; you will find them harmless to you for an hour."
"Are they dead, then?"
"Nay; merely in a suspension of animation. Help me to my cabin."
Zarono assisted the enfeebled sorcerer to his feet and led him, stumbling, to his quarters, while the boatswain carried the altar with its cone.
When he had closed the door upon the exhausted Stygian, Zarono wiped the sweat from his forehead with a lace kerchief. Wizardry was all very well, but it was a fearsome weapon. Far more would he, Black Zarono, prefer the clash of cutlasses, the whine of arrows and bolts, the smash of catapult balls, and the crash of a bronzen ram into the side of a hostile ship. He had committed not a few villainies in his career, but at least they had been sins of the normal human kind, not this dabbling with dark and perhaps uncontrollable powers from unearthly planes and dimensions.
"Ernando!" he roared at the cook. "A double flagon of wine, and the strongest we have in the butts!"
Thus the Sea Queen was taken and, very shortly, died. Boarders from the Petrel swung aboard, picked up the frozen figure of the girl, and carried her to Zarono's quarterdeck. Others piled combustibles around the bases of the masts and doused the piles with oil. Then all returned to the Petrel and shoved off with poles and boathooks.
When there was a safe gap between the two ships, a squad of archers lit fire arrows and discharged them at the Sea Queen. In a few minutes, the piles caught fire. One by one, the sails blazed up with a roar, spreading black, charred fragments far and wide. Flames spread over the ship, engulfing the living but motionless crewmen.
The Petrel spread her sails again and plodded onward toward the coast of Shem, leaving the blazing wreck behind.
From the main top of his own carack, Conan gazed toward the mushroom of smoke that marked the end of the Sea Queen and muttered an oath to his grim Cimmerian god, Crom. The Wastrel lay off the horizon to the northwest, invisible from the deck of the Petrel … although, had any of Zarono's folk thought to scan the sea in that direction from the mastheads, they might have glimpsed the tops of Conan's rigging as the Wastrel rose on the swells.
From his Eyre, Conan had watched the doom of the Zingaran royal yacht. Why Zarono should stop to destroy a ship of his own nation, Conan could not imagine.
There must, he thought, be more to the plot than a simple rape of a treasure chart and a dash to seize the fabled hoard. But the mighty Cimmerian had long ago learned to set aside unanswerable questions until further information should cast light upon them, rather than futilely to brood and fret over them.
Whoever the unknown victims on the caravel were, he thought, he would avenge them at the same time that he settled his own score with Zarono. Perhaps he would soon have an opportunity.
Chapter Four: THE NAMELESS ISLE
Sunset transformed the cloudy vault of heaven into a canopy of burning splendor.
Over the dark waves, flecked with crimson reflections, the blunt black bow of the Petrel threw up a snowy bow wave as she ran free to the southwest under a quartering west wind. Far behind her and unknown to any aboard her, Conan followed in the Wastrel, hovering just beyond easy detection under the burning sunset and later under the silently wheeling stars.
In the master's cabin, Zarono sprawled in his great chair, brooding over a silver goblet set with uncut smaragds. The bouquet of strong Shemitish wine filled the wood-paneled chamber. The swaying lamps, hung by chains from overhead, shed wavering light on crinkled parchments pinned to the walls between ribbed stanchions. The light winked on the jewels in the hilts of swords and daggers, which also adorned these walls.
Zarono's sallow features were gloomy and his cold black eyes withdrawn. He wore a loose, full-sleeved blouse of soiled white silk, with lacy ruffles at throat and wrist. His thick black hair was tousled, and he was deep in drink.
When knuckles rapped lightly on his door, he growled a curse, then called a grudging permission to enter. In came Menkara with the rolled chart in one hand.
The lean Stygian surveyed the sprawled figure of the privateer with prim disfavor.
"More sorceries?" sneered Zarono, and hiccuped. Can you never leave an ordinary mortal to the pleasures of the vine, without thrusting your ugly face into his thoughts? Well, say your say."
Without answering this flare of drunken temper, Menkara unrolled the chart on the table before Zarono and pointed a bony finger at the lines of cryptic glyphs wherewith the enigmatic scroll was inscribed.
"I have been puzzling over the Mitraist priest's chart ever since we took it from him," said the Stygian, with unusual tension in his normally dull and listless voice. "The coastline shown here is obviously that of southerly Stygia. Although the language is unknown to me, I found that some of the captions bore a tantalizing familiarity. I have bent my intellect to the task of deciphering the inscription, while you have sat here swilling like a fool …"
Zarono flushed and started to rise, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. But Menkara halted him with a raised palm.
"Control your personal feelings, man. This is a matter of greater importance. Listen: I have studied comparable tongues in my magical apprenticeship, and I know that the ancient Valusian tongue, like those of ancient Stygia and Acheron, was writ with an alphabetic script, each symbol denoting a sound. Since certain parts of this chart show the lands we know as Shem and Stygia, with cities like Asgalun and Khemi, I was able to deduce the meaning of certain letters in the inscription, where they appear in the captions denoting these places. Other inscriptions seem to mark the sites of such vanished elder cities as Kamula and Python."
The music of these devil-haunted names sent a chill of sobriety into Zarono's befuddled wits. Frowning, he bent forward to listen closely. Menkara continued:
"Thus, adding to my familiarity with this ancient tongue through the symbols representing known names, I was at length able to elucidate the inscription about this particular island, which I had never seen on a chart before."
Zarono frowned at the dot on the chart indicated by Menkara's gaunt forefinger.
"Unknown to me as well, sorcerer. Pray continue."
The Stygian went on: "I deciphered the inscription marking this isle as something like siojina-kisua. Now, this would seem to be from the old Stygian word siojina, or at least a cognate thereto. And siojina, in the oldest known form of Stygian, may be rendered into Zingaran as 'that which hath no name.' ''
Zarono's black, restless eyes, fully sober, were alight in his mask-like ivory features. "The Nameless Isle," he whispered.