Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 5. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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to his feet. His foot struck the lintel of the rosy cabin's door. Down he plunged, dragging his wildcat burden with him. Falling they drove against the door. Open it flew, and out through it they rolled, battling down the ivoried deck.
There was a shouting close behind him, a shrill cry of warning from Sharane—some urgent command, for grip of arms and legs relaxed; clutching hands were withdrawn.
Sobbing with rage, Kenton swung to his feet. He saw that he was almost astride the line between ivoried deck and black. It came to him that this was why Sharane had whistled her furies from him; that he had dragged them too close to its mysterious menace.
Again her laughter lashed him. She stood upon the gallery of little blossoming trees, her doves winging about her. The sword of Nabu was in her hand; derisively she lifted it.
"Ho, lying messenger!" mocked Sharane. "Ho, dog beaten by women! Come, get your sword!"
"I'll come, damn you!" he shouted, and leaped forward.
The ship pitched. Thrown off his balance, Kenton staggered back, reeled to the line where black and ivory decks met.
Reeled over it—unhurt!
Something deeper than his consciousness registered that fact; registered it as of paramount importance. Whatever the power of the barrier, to it Kenton was immune. He poised himself to leap back to the ivory deck.
"Stop him!" came the voice of Klaneth.
In mid-spring long, sinewy fingers gripped his shoulder, swung him round. He looked into the face of the beater of the serpent drum. The drummer's talons lifted him and cast Kenton like a puppy behind him.
And panting like some outraged puppy, Kenton swayed up on his feet. A ring of black-robed men was closing in upon him, black-robed men whose faces were dead white, impassive; black-robed men closing in upon him with clutching hands. Beyond the ring stood the mailed warrior with the red beard and the pale agate eyes; and beside him the Black Priest.
Naught cared Kenton for any or all of them. He rushed. The black robes curled over him, overwhelming him, pinned him down.
Again the ship lurched, this time more violently. Kenton, swept off his feet, slid sidewise. A wave swished over him. The hands that clutched him were washed away. Another wave lifted him, flung him up and out. Deep he sank; fought his way upward; dashed the water from his eyes and looked for the ship.
A roaring wind had risen. Under it the ship was scudding—a hundred yards away. He shouted; swam toward her. Down went the sail, down dipped the oars, straining to keep her before the wind. Faster, faster flew the ship before the blast.
She was lost in the silvery mists.
Kenton ceased his efforts; floated, abandoned in an unknown world.
A wave smote him; he came up behind it, choking. The spindrift whipped him. He heard the booming surf, the hiss of combers thrown back by ramparts of rock. Another wave caught him. Struggling on its crest he saw just ahead of him a pinnacle of yellow stone rising from a nest of immense boulders upon which the billows broke in fountains of spume.
He was lifted by a gigantic comber; dashed straight against the yellow pillar.
The shock of his impact was no greater than that of breaking through thick cobweb. For infinite distances it seemed to him he rushed on and on through a soft thick darkness. With him went the shrieking clamor of vast tempests. Abruptly his motion ended, the noise of the tempests ceased.
He lay prone; his fingers clenched some coarse fabric that crumpled stubbornly in his grip. He rolled over, hands thrust out; one of them gripped cool, polished wood. He sat up—
He was back in his own room!
Kenton dragged himself to his feet, stood swaying, dazed.
What was that darkening the rug at his feet? It was water—water that was dripping from him, strangely colored water—crimsoned water.
He realized that he was wet to the skin, drenched. He licked his lips —there was salt upon them. His clothing was ripped and torn, the salt water dripped from it.
And from a score of wounds his blood mingled with the water!
He stumbled over to the jeweled ship. On the black deck was a little group of manikins, leaning and looking over the rail.
Upon the gallery of the rosy cabin one tiny figure stood—
Sharane!
He touched her—jewel-hard, jewel-cold, a toy!
And yet—Sharane!
Like returning wave his berserk rage swept him. Echoes of her laughter in his ears, Kenton, cursing, sought for something to shatter the shining ship. Never again should Sharane mock him!
He caught a heavy chair by the legs, swung it high overhead, poised for an instant to send it crashing down—
And suddenly beneath the salt upon his lips Kenton tasted the honey musk of her kisses—the kisses of Sharane!
The chair fell from his hands.
"Ishtar! Nabu!" he whispered, and dropped upon his knees. "Set me again upon the ship! Ishtar! Do with me as you will—only set me again upon your ship!"
VII
SLAVE OF THE SHIP
Swift was his answer. He heard far away a bellowing roar as of countless combers battering against a rock ribbed coast. Louder it grew.
With a thunder of vast waters the outward wall of his room disappeared. Where wall had been was the crest of an enormous leaping wave. The wave curled down over Kenton, lifted him up, rolled him far under it; shot him at last, gasping for breath up and up through it.
He was afloat again upon the turquoise sea!
The ship was close. Close! Its scimitared bow was striking down by his head; was flying past him. A golden chain hung from it, skittering over the crests. Kenton clutched at it—missed it.
Back he fell. Swift raced the shining side of the ship past him. Again he threw himself high. There was another chain; a black one spattering over the wave tips and hanging from the stem.
He gripped it. The sea tore at his thighs, his legs, his feet. Grimly he held fast. Hand over hand, cautiously, he drew himself up. Now he was just below the rail. Slowly he raised his head to peer over.
Long arms swept down upon him; long hands gripped his shoulders, lifted him, hurled him down upon the deck, pinned him there. A thong was drawn round his ankles, his arms were pinioned to his sides.
He looked into the face of the frog-mouthed beater of the serpent drum. And over one of the drummer's enormous shoulders stared the white face of Klaneth. He heard his voice:
"Carry him in, Gigi."
He felt himself lifted by the drummer as easily as though he had been a babe; and cradled in the huge hands he was carried through the black cabin's door.
The drummer set Kenton on his feet, regarding him with curious, half- amused eyes. Agate eyes of the red bearded warrior and pale eyes of Klaneth dwelt upon him as curiously.
Kenton took stock of the three. First the black priest—massive, elephant-thewed; flesh pallid and dead as though the blood flowed through veins too deeply embedded to reveal the creep of its slow tide; the face of Nero remodeled from cold clay by numbed hands.
Then Gigi—the drummer. His froglike face with the pointed ears; his stunted and bowed legs; his giant's body above the hips; the gigantic shoulders whence swung the long and sinewy and apish arms whose strength Kenton had felt; the slit of a mouth in whose corners a malicious humor dwelt. Something of old earth gods about him; a touch of Pan.
Red beard—a Persian out of that time when Persia's hordes were to the world what later the Roman legions were