Several crewmen were already clearing a space around the mast. Yanak approached, a gleeful smile on his scarred face as his hands tested the supple strength of a keen, straight sword.
Conan gripped his dagger firmly and strode towards the mast. A large circle six yards in diameter was already drawn in charcoal on the deck around the mast. The rules of the fight were simple. The antagonists were to fight inside the circle. Any trick was allowed. The fight would be to the death, or until one of the duelists was so badly hurt he could not go on. In that case he would simply be flung overboard anyway. If one of the fighters stepped out of the circle, the onlookers would at once thrust him back in.
The instant Conan entered the circle, Yanak bounded forward, cleaving the air with a whistling stroke. But the barbarian was too old a hand to be surprised. He leaped sideways, and Yanak was saved from a dagger thrust in his side only by twisting his body aside at the last moment. After that, he moved more warily, although he was clearly at an advantage. Now and then he made a sudden attack, shouting and cursing, but the silent Cimmerian parried or evaded the blows with effortless ease and continued to circle around the mast.
Then Yanak tried a trick. Conan and he were temporarily on the same side of the mast. With all the power of his knotted leg muscles, the captain sprang upwards in a mighty leap, at the same time smiting downward at the Cimmerian's bare head.
But Conan's instinct triggered his lightning-fast responses. Instead of retreating, he sprang forward. Yanak's blade whistled harmlessly down behind the barbarian's back as Conan buried his knife to the hilt in his foe's abdomen, shearing through the light mail links with the immense force of his thrust. The pirate fell to the deck, cursing and gagging on blood. Conan stooped and lifted him up. With a mighty heave, he flung the corpse over the heads of the crew into the sea. Picking up the fallen sword, he swept their ranks with a cold gaze.
"Now who is captain, my lads?"
The shouts of "Conan!" would have satisfied any doubter. Conan drank in the heady satisfaction of his new-won power. Then his thunderous voice bellowed them to silence.
"To the sails and oars, lubbers! A man to the masthead as lookout! I have Yezdigerd himself hot on my trail."
Taken aback by the announcement that their archenemy was abroad, the crew's idolatrous confidence in Conan was yet so strong as to wash away all misgivings. Many remembered how the Cimmerian had fought and tricked his way out of seemingly impossible odds.
Conan sprang to the bridge in one mighty leap, shouting: "Set sail! Course southeast!"
Men hauled at lines, voicing lusty sea songs. Yellow canvas spread before the breeze. The pirate at the helm strained with knotted muscles at the steering oar, bringing the slim vessel about. She fled eastward before the wind, fleet as the deer of the moorlands.
"So you think I'm mad, Artus? By Crom, I hope Yezdigerd thinks so too!"
Conan's hearty laughter resounded in the well-appointed cabin as he sprawled in a chair, a tumbler of wine in his hand. Conan had casually possessed himself of the wardrobe of his predecessor and clad himself in the colorful garb of a Vilayet pirate: scarlet breeches, flaring sea boots, a yellow shirt of fine Vendhyan silk with wide sleeves, and a wide, varicolored sash around his waist. The costume was topped off by a red cloth around his head.
Together with Rolf, Artus the shipmaster lounged in Conan's company while the galley swiftly cleaved the waters of the inland sea. With clouded brow, he set his goblet on the table.
"No, Conan, I know you too well. But this seems a hare-brained scheme, dashing straight into the jaws of the Turanian. The men are drunk with confidence and do not think of the fact that Yezdigerd will bring at least two large war galleys. I am old and sober enough to stop and ponder. What are your intentions?"
With sudden gravity, Conan rose and went to a gilded wooden cupboard. Opening it, he brought out a roll of parchment. This he spread upon the table. It was a chart of the waters they were now sailing.
"Here is our position. Yezdigerd has been four days on his way from Aghrapur. The Turanian ships are running free. With their mean speed, I compute them to be somewhere in this area." (He pointed to a spot on the chart.) "With our present course and speed, we shall rendezvous with Yezdigerd somewhere off the Zhurazi Archipelago."
"The Zhurazi, eh?" muttered Artus. "Those are dangerous waters. The charts show no soundings. That cursed cluster is shunned by sane men. Some say it is haunted by demons and monsters from the darker realms and that you are lost if you set foot on its shores."
"Lost, Hell!" rumbled Conan. "I once lived on the north main island for a fortnight after shipwreck. There was a tribe of yellow savages dwelling among die crags, and I had the devil of a time stopping them from sacrificing me to their lizard-god!"
Thus lightly he dismissed the hair-raising drama played out on these islands years before. The pantherish Cimmerian had not only stayed alive in a land of hostile people but also had slain the monster out of forgotten ages that terrorized the inhabitants
He stood for a while in silence, regarding the chart. Then, with a sudden gesture, he swept it off the table and swung about to face his friends.
"Right you are, Artus. There are no soundings on this chart. Turanian, isn't it? Drawn by the king's own surveyors in Aghrapur—the very type of map our bloodthirsty pursuer will have. That is our advantage."
And however they pressed him, he would not explain further.
Muscles played on the sweating backs of the slaves at the oars. The blades rose and fell in steady rhythm, speeding the huge war vessel over the waves. The burly slavemaster strode the catwalk with his braided whip, his skin gleaming with sweat and oil. Now and then the whiplash uncurled like a striking cobra, to hiss out and mark the back of a faltering oarsman.
The king took his ease on a silken couch on the poop, shaded by an awning and sipping wine from a golden beaker. On a similar bed by his side lounged the lady Thanara.
The king was sunk in one of his spells of gloom. His gaze was brooding and somber, as he slowly swirled the pale-yellow liquid in the golden bowl. He said:
"Evil powers aid the Cimmerian devil! He must have stolen a boat immediately upon his escape. My cursed admirals need half a day to put my flagship to sea, and then the devils that ruin human patience have turned the wind against us. We move like snails."
"Better than he can do, though," said Thanara, looking lazily at the monarch from under long eyelashes. "His puny oars will avail him little in this wind. Every stroke of the club on the block lessens his head start. Be patient, my lord! Erlik will deliver the barbarian into our hands."
"My henchmen have often thought so, yet that scoundrel has tricked his way out of every trap. Now for once I am the hunter? By the beard of my father Yildiz, there will be a reckoning!" Yezdigerd's voice became eager and his eyes filled with new energy. He shaded his face and looked out over the glittering waters.
He made a quick gesture. The admiral hurried forward, the gilded scales of his mail winking in the sunlight.
"I see land, Uthghiz. Have we veered from our course?" said the king.
The admiral, knowing his sovereign's irascible temper, quickly unfolded a map and pointed.
"That, my lord, is the Zhurazi Archipelago. The Cimmerian has probably landed there for food and water. I intend to scan the coast for signs of his boat."
"You may be right. But keep every man alert. How close can you sail?"
"These are unknown waters, my lord. The conditions of life on the islands are shrouded in superstition. Horrible tales are told of fiendish monsters haunting the crags. We dare not go too close lest we strike unseeen rocks."