Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 5. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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Take the black-haired dog and yellow-hair alive! Slay the others—if you must—with swords!"
Now the fighting men from the bireme were all around them. Back to back in hollow square the four fought, Upon the deck the mail clad men fell. Steadily growing mounds of dead around them, they fought on. There was a sword gash across Gigi's hairy chest from which blood ran in little trickling streams. Sigurd was bleeding from a dozen cuts. But Zubran, save for the arrow wound, was untouched. He fought silently, but Sigurd chanted and howled as he struck and Gigi laughed as his giant mace crushed bone and sinew.
Yet still the barrier of the black priest's men held fast between them and Sharane!
What of Sharane! Kenton's heart sank. He cast a swift glance up at the balcony. She stood there with three of her warrior maids, swords in hands, battling against soldiers who crept two by two down a narrow bridge of planks that had been dropped from the bireme's deck.
But that glance had been no wise one. A sword bit into his unguarded side, paralyzing him. He would have fallen but for the Viking's hand.
"Steady, blood-brother!" he heard him say. "My shield is before you. Take breath!"
There came a triumphant shouting from the ship of Klaneth. Out from its deck two long poles had been thrust. There had been a tugging of ropes and from their ends a net had fallen—squarely over Sharane and her three women!
They were struggling to cut the meshes. They bound them, fettered them. The women beat against those meshes as helplessly as butterflies.
And suddenly the net tightened, was drawn together by cords. Slowly the poles began to lift carrying the net's burden upward to the deck of the attacking ship!
"Ho! Sharane!" mocked Klaneth, "Ho! Vessel of Ishtar! Welcome to my ship!"
"Christ!" groaned Kenton. Strength renewed by his fury and despair, he charged. Before his onslaught the warriors gave way. Again he rushed. Something whirled through, struck him upon the temple. He fell. The men of Klaneth swarmed upon him, clutching at his hands, his feet, smothering him.
They were hurled from him. The dwarf legs of Gigi were astride of him, his mace whistling, men dropping under its stroke. Dizzily he raised his head; saw Sigurd guarding him at right, Zubran at left and rear.
He looked upward. The net that held the struggling Women was being dropped upon the bireme's deck.
Again he heard the bellow of Klaneth:
"Welcome, sweet Sharane! Welcome!"
He staggered up, broke from the Viking's grip, staggered forward— toward her.
"Seize him!" came the howl of the black priest. "His weight in gold to the men who bring him to me—alive!"
And now there was a ring of Klaneth's men around him, sweeping him away. Between him and the three who had fought beside him eddied another stream of warriors, falling smitten by mace and sword and scimitar—but their places taken by others; others wedging in, widening steadily the distance between Kenton and his comrades.
He ceased to struggle. After all—this was what he wanted! This was best. They could take him—he would be with Sharane!
"Hold him up!" roared Klaneth. "Let the slut of Ishtar see him!"
He was lifted high in the hands of his captors. He heard a wail from Sharane...
A dizziness seized him! It was as though he had been caught in some vortex and was being sucked away—away!
He had a vision of Sigurd, the Persian and Gigi staring at him, their faces incredulous bloody masks. And they had stopped fighting. There were other faces, scores of them, staring at him with that same incredulity —though now, it seemed, shaded with terror.
Now they were all staring at him as though over the edge of a prodigious funnel through which he had begun to drop!
And now clutching hands had melted away from him! The faces were gone.
"Gigi!" he called. "Sigurd! Zubran! Help me!"
He heard the howling of winds!
They changed into a trumpet note. The trumpeting changed. It became some familiar sound—some sound known in another life of his, ages and ages gone! What was it? Louder it grew, rasping, peremptory—
The shriek of an auto horn!
Shuddering, he opened his eyes.
He looked upon his own room!
There lay the shining jeweled ship—the ship of toys!
And there was a knocking at the door, agitated, frantic; the murmuring of frightened voices.
Then the voice of Jevins, faltering, panic stricken: "Mr. John! Mr. John!"
XV
DOWN THE ROPE OF SOUND
Kenton fought back his faintness; reached out a trembling hand, and snapped on the electrics. "Mr. John! Mr. John!"
The old servant's voice was sharp with terror; he rattled the door knob; beat against the panels.
Kenton steadied himself against the table; forced himself to speak.
"Why—Jevins—" he strove to lighten the dragging words, inject some naturalness into them—"What's the matter?"
He heard a little gasp of relief, another murmuring from the servants and then Jevins spoke again.
"I was passing and heard you cry out, sir. A dreadful cry! Are you ill?"
Desperately Kenton strove against the racking weakness; managed a laugh.
"Why, no—I fell asleep. Had a nightmare. Don't worry! Go to bed."
"Oh—it was that?"
The relief in Jevins' voice was greater, but the doubt was not altogether gone. He did not withdraw; stood there hesitating.
There was a mist before Kenton's eyes, a thin veil of crimson. His knees bent suddenly; barely he saved himself from falling. He stumbled to the couch and sank upon it. A panic impulse urged him to cry out to Jevins to bring help—to break down the door. Fast upon it came warning that he must not do this; that he must fight his battle out alone—if he were to tread the ship's deck again!
"Go, Jevins!" he cried harshly. "Hell, man—didn't I tell you I wasn't to be disturbed tonight? Get away!"
Too late he realized that never before had he spoken so to this old servant who loved him, he knew, like a son. Had he betrayed himself— crystallized Jevins' suspicions into certainty that within that room something was wrong indeed? Fear spurred his tongue.
"I'm all right!" He forced laughter into the words. "Of course, I'm all right!"
Damn that mist in front of his eyes! What was it? He passed a hand over them, brought it away wet with blood. He stared at it, stupidly.
"Oh, very well, Mr. John." There was no more doubt, nothing but affection in the voice. "But hearing you cry—"
God! Would the man never go! His eyes traveled from his hand up his arm. Crimson it was, red with blood to the shoulder. The fingers dripped.
"Only a nightmare," he interrupted quietly. "I won't sleep again until I'm done and go to bed—so run along."
"Then—good night, Mr. John."
"Good night," he answered.
Swaying he sat until the footsteps of Jevins and the others had died away. Then he tried to rise. His weakness was too great. He slid from the couch to his knees, crawled across the floor to a low cabinet, fumbled at its doors and drew down a bottle of brandy. He raised it to his lips and drank deep. The fiery stuff raced through him, gave him strength. He arose.
A sickening pang stabbed his side. He raised his