Rounding the point, her yellow sail billowing majestically, came the ship they had expected to be in full flight. Her bulwarks and shrouds were lined with eager corsairs. Faintly, their mocking challenges reached the Turanians' ears, like the cries of faraway demons in Hell.
Straight for the helpless Khoralim Star she bore like a striking eagle.
She rammed a ship's boat, cutting it in two and sending splinters and bodies flying. Then she shortened her sail, made a quick turn, and in an instant lay board and board with her prey. Grappling hooks bit into Turanian wood, and a rain of arrows preceded the yelling, murderous host that surged over the gunwales.
The corsairs swept the lower deck, littering the planks with corpses. But they were checked by a blast of arrows from the poop, where the Turanian soldiery were drawn up behind a bristling hedge of spears. Only a moment they checked their attack. Then they swept on irresistibly.
The Turanians could not stand against these hardened fighters, led by the ferocious Cimmerian. A vicious swipe of Conan's broadsword opened a breach in the spear hedge.
The captain, knowing that his only chance of saving his ship lay in slaying the pirate leader, sprang to meet Conan. Their blades clashed in a circular dance of steel. But the Turanian could not master the swordcraft of Conan, veteran from a thousand battlefields. The sharp edge of the Turanian's yataghan shaved a raven lock from the Cimmerian's ducking head; then the heavy broadsword smashed into the captain's mailed side. Khogar sank down dying, his rib cage caved in.
The fight went out of the Turanian soldiery as their captain fell. Cries for quarter were heard. The men flung down their arms in heaps.
Conan surveyed the scene with grim satisfaction. He had lost a score of men, but he had captured the only navigable ship at his enemy's disposal. Several of the pirate crew were already at work striking the fetters from the slaves' ankles. They shouted for joy as they found long-lost friends among them. Others herded the captive Turanians into custody below.
While a prize crew continued the labor of freeing the vessel, the pirate ship cast off. Her decks were jammed, for her own crew was augmented by scores of freed and hastily-armed galley slaves. She headed straight for the bigger prize.
In a tavern in Onagrul, a secret stronghold of the Vilayet pirates, loud voices called for more wine. The cool clear liquid poured into old Artus' cup as the ears of the throng itched for more of his tales. The grizzled shipmaster washed down the draught in thirsty gulps. Satisfied, he wiped his lips upon the back of his hand and took in the crowd of listeners with a glance.
"Aye, lads, you should have been there! Great and glorious was the fighting as we took the first one. Then we swept down upon Yezdigerd's Scimitar. We must have seemed like very devils out of Hell, but they were ready. They severed the lines of our grapnels with swords and axes, until our archers blasted them back from the rail and we warped in to their side by mighty efforts. We laid her board and board, and every man among us was fired with killing lust.
"Conan was the first aboard her. The Turanians closed in about him in a circle of swords, but he slashed at them so savagely that they gave way. Then we all came in a rush. The Turanians were all well-trained and hardened fighters, Yezdigerd's household troops, fighting under the eye of their king. For a moment the outcome was precarious, in spite of the ferocity of Conan, who smashed Turanian mail and arms like rotten wood. They stood in perfect unity, and our attacks recoiled from their massed ranks like bloody waves.
"Then came a cry of triumph, for some of us had jumped down among the galley slaves, slain the overseers, and struck the chains from the rowers' ankles. The slaves surged up on the deck like a horde of lost souls. They snatched whatever weapons they could find from the corpses. Heedless of their own lives, they drove into the Turanians, shouldering us aside.
"The glittering ranks wavered. Conan yelled a weird battle cry and flung himself into the press. We followed, determined to win or die.
"Conan was terrible as a tiger. He plunged in where the fighting was thickest, and always his advent spelled doom for the Hyrkanians, With all his savage passion, he moved towards the poop where Yezdigerd himself stood bellowing orders, surrounded by his picked men.
"Conan smote their ranks like a charging elephant. Then a cry of rage came from Yezdigerd, and the king himself rushed to meet him. Savage curses streamed from his lips as they engaged.
" 'I recognized your hand in this, Cimmerian cur!' he screamed. 'By Erlik, now you shall reap your deserts! Die, barbarian dog!'
"He aimed a terrific stroke at Conan's head. No ordinary man could have avoided or stopped that swift and powerful blow, but Conan parried it in a flashing movement too quick for the eye to follow."
"'Die yourself, jackal of Turan!' he thundered. For an instant they struck and parried like lightning, while the rest of us stopped fighting to watch. Then a mighty blow shattered Yezdigerd's shield and made him drop his shield arm. In one lightning sweep, Conan smote the bearded head from the king's giant body, which crumpled to the deck."
"After that, the Turanians surrendered meekly enough. We did not get many prisoners, for the swords had taken too heavy a toll. A bare half of our original two hundred were left standing, but we had captured or slain five hundred of the Hyrkanian dogs."
He gulped down more wine and held out his cup for a refill. During the pause, a hearer asked: "What about the Turanian yedka? What became of her?"
Artus' brows clouded and he gave a visible shudder. "That was the strangest event of that memorable day. We were binding up wounds and herding prisoners, when the sun seemed to cloud over and a chill of doom fell upon us. The water swirled blackly about our ships. Wind moaned in the rigging like the lament of a lost soul, though we were under the lee of a cliff.
"Someone cried and pointed up. In the sky appeared a black dot, growing swiftly larger. At first it looked like a bird or bat. Then it grew to a fantastic, horrible shape, manlike but winged. With a rush of vast leathery wings it swooped to the poop deck, uttering a shrill cry that smote our hearts like death.
"At that cry, the woman of Maypur stepped from the poop cabin, which none of us had yet entered. In the wink of an eye, the monster snatched her up and bore her off, flapping heavily over the oily waters of the channel. In a few seconds both were out of sight, and the sun shone once again.
"We stared at one another, white-faced. Had the fiend stayed, I am sure we should have all leaped into the sea to escape it, though it was gone so quickly that we had no time for panic. Even Conan looked shaken and pale.
"I have seen that thing before," he muttered, but he would not explain. Some of us surmised that the devil had come to drag Thanara off to the hell of Erlik's worshipers. But others, who had been standing close to her when the creature swooped upon us, said that she showed no fear of it, but rather eagerness, as if she had summoned it herself.
"At last Conan shook himself like one coming out of a daze and bellowed orders to strip the slain of valuables and pitch the corpses over the side, even the body of the king. All he would say of the abduction of Thanara was:
"'Let the damned hussy escape with her bogeyman. I do not war upon women, though I would have striped her hide for her treachery.'
"And that was the end of the matter. We burned the grounded galley and sailed the other one hither."
"And where is Conan? " cried another listener. "Why is he not here to tell us tales of his adventures himself? Will he return as our leader to sweep the Turanians from the sea?"