THE SHIP OF ISHTAR: Sci-Fi Classic. Abraham Merritt
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to slay you — even as you now plan to send him to slay her!
“He is a strong man — and lets himself be beaten by girls! He had a sword, a sharp blade and a holy one — and he lets a woman take it. Ho! Ho!” laughed Zachel. “Do you believe all this, master? Well — I do not!”
“By Nergal!” Klaneth swore, livid. “Now by Nergal —!”
He gripped Kenton by the shoulders, hurled him through the cabin door and out upon the deck. Swiftly he followed him.
“Sharane!” he howled. “Sharane!”
Kenton raised his head, dizzily; saw her standing beside the cabin door, arms around the slim waists of two of her damsels.
“Nergal and Ishtar are busy elsewhere,” mocked the black priest. “Life on the ship grows dull. There is a slave under my feet. A lying slave. Do you know him, Sharane?”
He bent and lifted Kenton high, as a man a child. Her face, cold, contemptuous, did not change.
“He is nothing to me — Worm,” she answered.
“Nothing to you, eh?” roared Klaneth. “Yet it was by your will that he came to me. Well — he has a lying tongue, Sharane. By the old law of the slaves shall he be punished for it. I will pit four of my men against him. If he master them I shall keep him for awhile — to amuse us further. But if they master him — then shall his lying tongue be torn from him. And I will give it to you as a token of my love — O, Sacred Vessel of Ishtar!”
“Ho! Ho!” laughed the black priest as Sharane shrank, paling. “A test for your sorceries, Sharane. To make that tongue speak! Make it —” the thick voice purred —“make it whisper of love to you. Tell you how beautiful you are, Sharane. How wonderful — ah, sweet Sharane! Reproach you a little, too, perhaps for sending it to me to be torn out!”
“Ho! Ho!” laughed Klaneth; then as though he spat the words, “You temple slut!”
He thrust a light whip in Kenton’s hands. “Now fight, slave!” he snarled, “fight for your lying tongue!”
Four of the priests leaped forward, drawing from beneath their robes thongs tipped with metal. They circled, and before Kenton could gather his strength they were upon him. They darted about him like four lank wolves; slashing at him with their whips. Blows flailed upon his head, his naked shoulders. Awkwardly he tried to parry to return them. The metal tips bit deep. From shoulders, chest, back, a slow rain of blood began to drip.
A thong caught him across the face, half blinding him.
Far away, he heard the golden voice of Sharane, shrill with scorn.
“Slave — can you not even fight?”
Cursing, he dropped his useless whip. Close before him was the grinning face of the priest who had struck him. Ere his lash could be raised again the fist of Kenton had smashed squarely on the leering mouth. He felt beneath his knuckles the bones of the nose crumble, the teeth shatter. The priest crashed back; went rolling to the rail.
Instantly the other three were upon him; tearing at his throat, clawing him, striving to drag him down. He broke loose. The three held back for an instant; then rushed. One there was a little in front of the others. Kenton. caught him by an arm, twisted that arm over his shoulder, set hip to prisoned flank, heaved and hurled the priest through air against the pair poised to strike. Out flung the body; fell short. The head crashed against the deck. There was a sharp snap, like a breaking faggot. For a moment the body stood, shoulders touching deck, legs writhing as though in grotesque mid-somersault. Then crumpled and lay still.
“Well thrown!” he heard the Persian shout.
Long fingers clutched his ankles; his feet flew from beneath him. As he fell he caught glimpse of a face staring up at him, a face that was but one red smear; the face of the first priest he had battered down. Falling, Kenton swept out his arms. Claws clutched his throat. There flashed into Kenton’s mind a dreadful thing he had seen done in another unequal combat upon a battlefield in France. Up swept his right hand, the first two fingers extended. They found place in the eye sockets of the throttler; pressed there cruelly; pressed there relentlessly. He heard a howl of agony; tears of blood spurted over his hands; the choking fingers dropped from his throat. Where eyes had been were now two raw red sockets with dreadful pendants.
Kenton leaped to his feet. He stamped upon the crimson smeared face looking up at him stamped once, twice, thrice — and the grip about his ankles was gone.
He caught a glimpse of Sharane, white-faced, wide-eyed; realized that the laughter of the black priest was stilled.
At him rushed the fourth acolyte, a broad-leafed knife gleaming in his grip. Kenton bent his head, rushed to meet him. He caught the hand that held the blade; bent the arm back; heard the bone snap. The fourth priest shrieked and fell.
He saw Klaneth, mouth loose, staring at him.
Straight for the black priest’s throat he leaped, right fist swinging upward to the jaw as he sprang. But the black priest thrust out his arms, caught him in mid-leap; lifted him high, over his head; balanced him to dash him down upon the deck.
Kenton closed his eyes — this, then, was the end.
He heard the voice of the Persian, urgent:
“Hai, Klaneth! Hai! Kill him not! By Ishak of the Hollow Hell — kill him not. Klaneth! Save him to fight again!”
Then the drummer —
“Nay, Klaneth! Nay!” He felt the talons of Gigi catch him; hold him tight in double grasp. “Nay, Klaneth! He fought fairly and well. He would be a rare one to have with us. Mayhap he will change his mind — with discipline. Remember, Klaneth — he can pass the barrier.”
The great bulk of the black priest trembled. Slowly his hands began to lower Kenton.
“Discipline? Ha!” it was the snarling voice of the overseer. “Give him to me, master, in the place of the slave who died at the oar. I will teach him — discipline.”
The black priest dropped Kenton on the deck; stood over him for a moment. Then he nodded, turned and stalked into his cabin. Kenton, reaction seizing him, huddled; hands clasping knees.
“Unchain the dead slave and cast him over, Zachel,” he heard Gigi say. “I will watch this man till you return.”
Kenton heard the overseer patter away. The drummer bent over him.
“Well fought, wolf cub,” he whispered. “Well fought! Now to your chains. Obey. Your chance shall come. Do as I say, wolf cub — and I will do what I may.”
He walked away. Kenton, wondering, raised his head. He saw the drummer stoop, lift the body of the priest with the broken neck and with one sweep of his long arm send it whirling over the ship’s rail. Bending again he sent after it the body of him upon whose face Kenton had stamped.
He paused speculatively before the wailing, empty-socketed horror stumbling and falling about the deck. Then. grinning cheerfully, he lifted it by the knees and tossed it overboard.
“Three less to worry about hereafter,” muttered Gigi,
A tremor shook Kenton; his teeth chattered; he sobbed. The drummer looked down on him with amused wonder.
“You fought well, wolf cub,” he said. “Then why do you quiver like a whipped hound whose half-chewed bone has been cast away?”
He laid both hands on Kenton’s bleeding shoulders. Under their touch he steadied. It was as though through Gigi’s hands flowed some current of strength of which his soul drank. As though he had tapped some ancient spring, some still pool of archaic indifference both to life and death, the current ran through him.
“Good!” said Gigi, and stood up. “Now Zachel comes for you.”
The overseer was beside Kenton; he touched his shoulder; pointed down a short flight of steps that led from the black deck to the