Conan the Buccaneer

Chapter Four: THE NAMELESS ISLE

Sunset transformed the cloudy vault of heaven into a canopy of burning splendor.

Over the dark waves, flecked with crimson reflections, the blunt black bow of the Petrel threw up a snowy bow wave as she ran free to the southwest under a quartering west wind. Far behind her and unknown to any aboard her, Conan followed in the Wastrel, hovering just beyond easy detection under the burning sunset and later under the silently wheeling stars.

In the master's cabin, Zarono sprawled in his great chair, brooding over a silver goblet set with uncut smaragds. The bouquet of strong Shemitish wine filled the wood-paneled chamber. The swaying lamps, hung by chains from overhead, shed wavering light on crinkled parchments pinned to the walls between ribbed stanchions. The light winked on the jewels in the hilts of swords and daggers, which also adorned these walls.

Zarono's sallow features were gloomy and his cold black eyes withdrawn. He wore a loose, full-sleeved blouse of soiled white silk, with lacy ruffles at throat and wrist. His thick black hair was tousled, and he was deep in drink.

When knuckles rapped lightly on his door, he growled a curse, then called a grudging permission to enter. In came Menkara with the rolled chart in one hand.

The lean Stygian surveyed the sprawled figure of the privateer with prim disfavor.

"More sorceries?" sneered Zarono, and hiccuped. Can you never leave an ordinary mortal to the pleasures of the vine, without thrusting your ugly face into his thoughts? Well, say your say."

Without answering this flare of drunken temper, Menkara unrolled the chart on the table before Zarono and pointed a bony finger at the lines of cryptic glyphs wherewith the enigmatic scroll was inscribed.

"I have been puzzling over the Mitraist priest's chart ever since we took it from him," said the Stygian, with unusual tension in his normally dull and listless voice. "The coastline shown here is obviously that of southerly Stygia. Although the language is unknown to me, I found that some of the captions bore a tantalizing familiarity. I have bent my intellect to the task of deciphering the inscription, while you have sat here swilling like a fool …"

Zarono flushed and started to rise, one hand going to the hilt of his sword. But Menkara halted him with a raised palm.

"Control your personal feelings, man. This is a matter of greater importance. Listen: I have studied comparable tongues in my magical apprenticeship, and I know that the ancient Valusian tongue, like those of ancient Stygia and Acheron, was writ with an alphabetic script, each symbol denoting a sound. Since certain parts of this chart show the lands we know as Shem and Stygia, with cities like Asgalun and Khemi, I was able to deduce the meaning of certain letters in the inscription, where they appear in the captions denoting these places. Other inscriptions seem to mark the sites of such vanished elder cities as Kamula and Python."

The music of these devil-haunted names sent a chill of sobriety into Zarono's befuddled wits. Frowning, he bent forward to listen closely. Menkara continued:

"Thus, adding to my familiarity with this ancient tongue through the symbols representing known names, I was at length able to elucidate the inscription about this particular island, which I had never seen on a chart before."

Zarono frowned at the dot on the chart indicated by Menkara's gaunt forefinger.

"Unknown to me as well, sorcerer. Pray continue."

The Stygian went on: "I deciphered the inscription marking this isle as something like siojina-kisua. Now, this would seem to be from the old Stygian word siojina, or at least a cognate thereto. And siojina, in the oldest known form of Stygian, may be rendered into Zingaran as 'that which hath no name.' ''

Zarono's black, restless eyes, fully sober, were alight in his mask-like ivory features. "The Nameless Isle," he whispered.

"Yes," hissed Menkara with cold satisfaction in his reptilian gaze. "That kisua means 'island' we may be sure, for the same word occurs in connection with several other isles shown on this chart." He moved his forefinger from one dot to another, and another. "And I assume that one of your piratical trade may have heard, ere now, the legends of this demon-haunted Nameless Isle: how it is a remnant of elder Valusia, wherein a mouldering ruin survives to attest the powers of the pre-human serpent-men."

"I only know that sailors' lore tells of an isle without a name, where lies the greatest treasure ever assembled in one place," said Zarono.

"True," said Menkara, "but there is something else of which you may not know. There is loot enough of the usual land, forsooth. But aside from tawdry gold and gems, it is said that here also lies a vast magical treasure … an authentic copy of the Book of Skelos."

"I seek no accursed magic, but only honest gold!"

Menkara smiled thinly. "Aye, but think. We fain would persuade the earth's mightiest magician to help our lord Villagro to the throne of Zingara. He would be pleased, of course, to see the cult of Set exalted and that of Mitra cast down. We could, however, truly win his favor and enlist his support by presenting him with so mighty a magical treasure as the Book of Skelos. It is a crime against the sacred science of magic that so potent a volume of ancient lore should languish neglected. It is thought that there are but three copies of the book in existence: one in a crypt beneath the royal library of Aquilonia, in Tarantia; one in a secret temple in Vendhya; and the third here." The Stygian tapped the chart with his fingernail.

Zarono asked: "Why, if this damned book is so precious, has none taken it yet from the Nameless Isle?"

"Because, until I saw this chart, neither I nor any other seeker after the higher truths knew precisely where the Nameless Isle lay. As you see, it lies afar from the coast of the black countries and from the isles we know. There is no land within a hundred leagues of it in any direction, nor lies it near the lanes of ships that ply between the ports of civilized lands. A mariner who sought it at random in that waste of waters could plow the sea forever without finding it … or at least until he was becalmed without food and water and miserably perished.''

"Furthermore, you know that sailors are a superstitious lot, whose fancies have peopled the southern sea with deadly reefs and man-eating monsters. It is no accident that the Nameless Isle has long been lost to knowledge."

"Even with fair winds, 'twould take us several days to reach it from here," mused Zarono, his long chin in his fist.

"What imports it? We have the girl safe, and a few days more or less will matter not. With the Book of Skelos as our bribe, the added certainty of enlisting Thoth-Amon will be well worth the delay. Nor, I think, are you insensible to the charms of gold." The fires of fanaticism flickered in Menkara's normally expressionless eyes.

Zarono rubbed his jaw. While he cared nothing for magic, it seemed good to do everything possible to win the powerful prince of magicians to Duke Villagro's cause. And, could Zarono win the treasure of the Nameless Isle for his own, why, not only wealth but also rank, privilege, and respectability would again be his.

Decision flashed in his dark eyes. He sprang to his feet and pushed out the cabin door, bellowing: "Vancho!"

"Aye, Captain?" said the mate.

"Set course due south, until the pole star be but one point above the horizon!"

"Into the open sea, sir?" said Vancho incredulously.

"You heard me, damn your hide! Due south!"

Blocks rattled and ropes slapped as the Petrel's yards rotated to take the wind right abeam on the starboard tack, and the carack's blunt bow swung into the new course across the star-spangled sea.

Menkara retired to his cabin to study the chart. He was afire with the lust for old and sinister knowledge. With the Book of Skelos, Thoth-Amon could become all-powerful. To help Villagro to a throne would be a mere trifle; the great Stygian wizard might even hold the empire of the world within his grasp. And, when the sons of Set held dominion over all lands, what might not be the fortune of the priest Menkara, who had made it all possible?

Conan thoughtfully followed the running light of the Petrel as the larger carack changed course from east-by-south to due south. He knew nothing of Chabela's presence aboard the Petrel, or Villagro's plot, or Menkara's ambitions. He only knew —or thought he knew— that Zarono had taken the chart from Ninus and was on his way to the Nameless Isle and its treasure. The reason for the sudden change of course he could not even guess.

The giant Cimmerian scrambled down the shrouds from the main top with the agility of a monkey. "Zeltran!"

"Aye, Captain?"

"Six points to starboard! Full and by on the starboard tackle. Follow the Petrel's light!"

"Aye aye, sir. Start the starboard braces; helms down; trim the port braces… Helms up; straighten her out… Steady as you go…"

Conan stood silently at the quarterdeck rail as the Wastrel took her new course into strange waters. Once they left the coast of the continent, they would have no means of knowing where they were beyond the pole star, which, on clear nights, would tell them how far they had come in a north-south direction. Zarono had better know whither he was bound. If he got lost on the featureless plain of water, he would lose the Wastrel as well.

As far as Conan knew, the darkly glittering immensity of water before him ran clear to the world's edge. What might lie beyond it he could not even guess.

Old legends whispered of fabulous islands, strange continents, unknown peoples, and weird monsters.

The legends might even be true. Less than a year had elapsed since, in this selfsame Wastrel, he had sailed with its former captain, the saturnine Zaporavo, to an unknown island in the West, where Zaporavo and several of the Zingaran crew had met their doom. Few things in Conan's adventurous life had been stranger or more sinister than the Pool of the Black One and its inhuman attendants. Now, for all he knew, he might be on his way to even deadlier perils.

He drew a deep breath and laughed gustily.

Crom! A man can die but once, so what boots it to maunder over imaginary perils? Enough to combat the terror when you meet it, with steel in your hand and battle madness in your heart.

He would take his chances with fate on the Nameless Isle, ahead of him on the rim of the world.