Conan’s voice was tinged with scorn as he swept the throng with his ice-blue glance. “We have Turanian ships here, my friends. We have not escaped Yezdigerd; we have caught him in a trap! I promised you a feasting of swords. You shall have it.” He paused, looking upward. “The wind freshens; we are coming out of lee. Set a course to round the larboard island!”
Eager hands sprang to the lines as all realized the full genius of Conan’s planning.
King Yezdigerd paced the poop of his shattered flagship in blazing anger. Some of it he vented upon the seaman at the sounding post and the steersman, by having both beheaded forthwith. There was no immediate danger of sinking, for the hull had settled firmly upon the reef. But the hold had quickly filled with water from many sprung seams, indicating that the ship could probably never be saved. And the trick played upon the long by the escaping pirate infuriated his always irascible temper.
“I will hunt that dog to the ends of the earth!” he shouted. “The whole thing smacks of that devil Conan. I’ll warrant he is aboard. Will Khogar never get his cursed tub afloat?”
Thus he raged while work progressed on the Khoralian Star. As the long day wore on, the crews slowly coaxed the ship off the sandbank by inches, by tugging and having with the ships’ boats. The captain of the Star was deeply preoccupied with directing this work when his attention was drawn by the warning cry of the lookout. The man’s voice was shrill with excitement, and his hands waved frantically.
Rounding the point, her yellow sail billowing majestically, came the ship they had expected to be in full flight.
Sleek and beautiful she came. 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 Turanians fought bravely. Surprised by their enemy, yet their captain got them into a semblance of order.
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, led by their mail-clad barbarian captain, who shattered helmets and severed limbs left and right with an ease that seemed magical.
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 bloodthirsty horde swarmed over the poop, scattering the Hyrkanians like chaff.
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 clanking 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 Onagnu, a secret stronghold of the Vilayet pirates, loud voices called for more wine. The cool clear liquid poured into old Arms’ 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 to them, but they were ready for us. 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, and the fighting was fast and furious. 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 from a rock-bound shore.”
“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. Their hatred of their masters must have run deep.
Heedless of their own lives, they drove into the Turanian ranks, shouldering us aside. Some flung themselves forward to be spitted upon Hyrkanian swords and spears, while others climbed over their corpses to strangle Turanians with their bare hands. I saw a giant galley slave use a Hyrkanian’s body as a club, knocking his foes to the deck, before sinking down with a dozen arrows in his body.”
“Confusion reigned. The glittering ranks wavered. Conan yelled a weird battle cry and flung himself into the press. We followed, determined to win or die. After that, red hell reigned. In a bloody tidal wave we swept the ship from stem to stern with steel. We scattered the foe like chaff before the wind of our swords, and the scuppers were choked with blood. Conan was terrible as a tiger. His broadsword struck like a thunderbolt. Corpses were scattered about him like wheat stalks before the sickle. He plunged in where the fighting was thickest, and always his advent spelled doom for the Hyrkanians, With all his savage passion, he moved toward the poop where Yezdigerd himself stood bellowing orders, surrounded by his picked men.”
“Conan smote their ranks like a charging elephant. Men went down beneath his sword like dolls. Then a cry of rage came from Yezdigerd, and the king himself rushed to meet him. I think Yezdigerd must have missed him before then, as his surprise was patent to all. Savage curses streamed from his lips as they engaged.”
“ ‘I saw 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 is superior to a dozen ordinary men. With a jarring impact, he parried it in a flashing movement too quick for the eye to follow.”