Slave of Sarma

Chapter Fifteen

Otto the Black came to collect his annual tribute - one hundred tons of meta. This was a jagged, rock-like mineral dug out of the brown mountains by slaves and melted down into small knuckle shaped ingots. The ingots were hard, heavy and with the whiteness of nickel. Otto had them made into square coins with a hole in the middle for easy stringing, and very few of the coins ever returned to Sarma. The Black One held the right of coinage and counterfeiters were flayed alive and the skinless body boiled in oil.

Richard Blade did not at first pay much attention to the meta ingots. He was too busy plotting, and as adept at it as any in Sarma. Pelops had been delivered to him along with, of all people, the monstrosity Chephron whom Blade had kicked in the dungeon before the fight with Tarsu. When Blade objected to the man Pelops pleaded his cause.

"He was once a friend of mine," said Pelops. The little scholar was clean and well dressed and only one of his legs had been twisted by Kreed's torture. He limped a bit, but got around well enough.

"Chephron was not so fortunate as I was," said Pelops now. "When he was made a slave there was great need of men in the meta mines. That is a living death, sire. Men die quickly of the mine sickness - and before they die they suffer greatly of the sores that never heal. Chephron only volunteered as executioner that he might escape the mines. I, or even you, sire, might have done the like in his case."

They were on the poopdeck of a great trireme in the harbor of Sarmacid. The ship was new launched, named the Pphira, and had a crew of Blade's own choosing. In a few hours now the sea games would begin.

Blade scowled at the miserable wretch with Pelops. Chephron still wore his leather kirtle, was still bald and pocked and malformed. Still wore his iron collar. Still had the high bleating voice and the great sores on his legs. Blade did not want the man on his ship. And yet -

"I will vouch for him," said Pelops. He moved closer to Blade and whispered, "He is as desperate as any man you have aboard, sire. He wants freedom, as we all do, and he will fight well and die for it if necessary. Give him his chance."

Blade stroked his beard in thought. "Very well, then. Against my judgment, Pelops. Those sores on his legs - you are sure they are not infectious? When we escape, if we do, there will be perils enough without having sickness aboard."

Pelops nodded quickly. "He will spread no disease, sire. I swear it. Those are mine sores, as I said. All mine slaves have them. It is said to be something in the meta. No one knows the truth of it."

Blade, had he not been so harried and busy plotting, might have guessed at the truth of it then. But the moment passed and he none the wiser.

Blade gave in. He nodded curtly and said, "All right. Bathe the man and strike off that iron collar. Find him new clothes and some ointment for his sores. And keep him out of my sight, Pelops."

Chephron, for all his bowing and scraping, met Blade's hard stare with eyes that did not flinch away. "I thank you, Captain," said the former executioner. "I have a debt to you now and I will pay it when it comes due."

When they had gone Blade had a deep conference with Ixion, his second in command. Ixion had been a sailor before being enslaved for debt, and wore only wide legged pantaloons and a sailor's cap of pointed leather. He was Sarmaian to the tips of his dirty toes. Pelops, who had done most of the recruiting at Blade's bidding, also vouched for Ixion. Blade trusted the man because he must. There was so little time. The sea games began in an hour. If Blade had his way they would not last very long. He had things to do - when he had done them he would be on his way. Pphira had a clean bottom, being just off the skids, and there was nothing in the harbor to catch him. He had a crew of slaves and they would be rowing for freedom and life itself.

Ixion drew close and whispered. "I kept them working all night, my Captain. In pairs. This new thing you call a file works well - I think the chain will break."

Blade glanced at a huge chain stretched across the narrow gut of the harbor. The Sarmaians did not know the wheel, but they were great for chains. He could still feel the weight of the great slave chain on which he and Pelops had trekked from Barracid.

He looked at Ixion. "They were not seen?"

"No, Captain. Else we would have trouble now. The middle link is half cut through."

Blade crossed his arms on his chest and stared beyond the chain to the outer harbor and the Purple Sea stretching away to a fog obscured horizon. The yellow fogs came frequently.

Beyond the horizon, and the fog, what? Just opposite Sarma was Tyranna, the land of Otto the Black. A place to avoid, especially after today. And Blade was not interested. His desire was to find Zeena, if he could, and then to the Burning Land where pirates were reported to have set his double ashore. Blade had a full report on this from one of Pphira's officers who had been second in command of a galley that had captured the pirates and put them to death. Several of them, before they died on the T, had babbled of the man they had saved from drowning and eventually put ashore because there was no profit in murdering him.

Pphira's officer, on looking at Blade for the first time, had been awe-stricken. "I did not see this man you seek, Captain, but before they died the pirates told me of him. Men do not usually lie just before death - and the stranger they described to me was you!"

So be it. The Russian agent was out there somewhere, beyond the Purple Sea, in the desert, alive or dead. If the latter, Blade thought now, he would like to see the bones before he returned to Home Dimension.

He was wool gathering, dreaming, staring at the horizon and freedom. Ixion plucked at his sleeve. "Captain - Captain! They signal from the flagship."

Blade came back to Sarma and dismissed Ixion after giving orders to sink the "files" to the bottom of the harbor. He had fashioned files from ordinary swords by pounding out the serrature with a sledge. Crude things, but with enough willing hands they had worked.

He raised his telescope and studied the signal from the flagship lying near in to the main wharf. The telescope was a narrow long waterproof box with glass set into each end. The glass was flawed but it worked. Water sealed in between the two bits of glass did the magnifying. Blade shook his head in disbelief as he read the flag. These Sarmaians. They could make a telescope and not a wheel!

The flag was red with white markings. Games to begin in half an hour. Pphira and Otto were an the way to the harbor now as part of a long procession after having witnessed the sacrifices to Bek-Tor on the plain. As Blade put down the spy glass a whiff of roasted flesh came to him on a breeze. Bek-Tor, that He-She divinity, had feasted well this day. All morning the smoke and flame had been thick over the plain, and unceasing the regular chunk-whanggg as catapults flung trussed and screaming slaves into the fiery maw with deadly accuracy. Blade, accompanying the Queen, had soon pleaded business and begged off, but he had noted the accuracy of the catapults. Now, as he paced his deck, he studied the catapults on the ships of Captain Equebus. His adversary for that day. For Otto the Black had decreed everything, and Otto did not intend to lose the games given in his honor. It was, Blade conceded now as he studied the enemy, a well rigged game. Otto, Equebus and Kreed, had taken every precaution. Blade could not possibly win. His smile was grim. They thought.

As he studied the enemy galleys with his glass he felt a cold anger rising in him. An unusual thing in a man so professional as Blade - death and suffering in MI6 had always been rather impersonal, in the way of business, and one did not allow one's emotions to interfere. But then Blade in X Dimension was not the same Blade. More changed than his brain molecules.

The night before, at Queen Pphira's side, Blade had gone to the stadium to see the opening of the games for Otto. Though he bore it well enough - folly to do, or show, otherwise - he had been sickened to his guts. It had been a bloodbath such as he had never seen. In the flaring light of thousands of torches he watched the battlemen stalk and kill each other in a forest transplanted and set into the sand of the arena. Two only had survived and had been spared by Otto, who had an eye for their fine bottoms. So Pphira had whispered in an aside.

Blade only nodded. There was no news in the fact that Otto was a fanatical pederast and that he liked unwilling victims above all. Rumor had it that Otto employed twelve strong men, all ex-favorites, to hold his screaming love objects securely while he attacked.

Blade turned the glass on the piles of cannonball-sized stones piled beside the catapults on Otto's ships. They were really the Queen's ships, as Otto would not risk his own, but Equebus would command them in Otto's name. It would be victory - a symbol of his hold on Sarma.

Blade's four small galleys had no catapults. Nor any of the smaller catapultas that fired arrows. Neither had his command ship, the tireme on which he now stood. All of Otto's ships were equipped with both weapons. The rigging of his ships was crowded with archers. Blade watched closely as officers barked orders and the huge catapults and lesser catapultas were levered back. They were powered by twisted rope and hair. Otto had nine ships, Blade five, including his own trireme.

A great cheer went up as the procession debouched along the quayside and headed for the out-thrust pier where thrones had been set up for Otto and Pphira. Blade studied the yelling crowd and smiled - battlemen, not used in last night's carnage, were whipping all that did not cheer. One way of getting an audience.

It was nearly time.

Pelops came to stand on the deck near Blade. Ixion took his place atop a short companion leading down to the first rowing deck. Blade had fashioned a speaking trumpet of leather and instructed Ixion in its use. Now the mate put the trumpet to his lips, glanced at Blade, and waited.

Blade watched Pelops narrowly. The little man was trembling and biting his fingers convulsively. Blade patted the small shoulder and grinned hugely. "Why are you afraid, Pelops? I have explained how we are going to win."

Pelops wiped sweat from his brow. "I cannot help it, sire. You know I am a coward. I am sick with fear. And even if we win I may still die."

Blade stared at him, his grin vanished. "So you will die. A free man. Think on that, little school teacher. And get yourself a weapon. I will have no unarmed man on my deck."

Pelops extended his hands in a helpless gesture. "I know nothing of weapons. You know that also, sire."

Blade gave a command and Ixion tossed him a short sword. Blade gave it to Pelops who stared at it as a child at a new toy.

"Learn," commanded Blade. "You will never have a better chance." Then: "You got my word to the Queen, Pelops? Of the black flag?"

"I did, sire. I sent a servant who brought me back word that the Queen Pphira understood."

Blade said, "Good. I have done all I could. If we win I will be quits with Pphira. If we lose there will be no harm done and she no worse off."

Pelops quavered, "If we lose, sir? But you said - "

Blade clapped him hard on the shoulder, so hard that the little man reeled and nearly fell. "So I did, my tiny friend, and so I mean it Now look to yourself, for I will be busy. It is beginning."

Otto and Pphira were on their respective thrones. Otto the Black, a giant of a man - Blade estimated 400 pounds of richly clad flab - raised a beringed hand to straighten one of the small tapers that flamed in his luxuriant black beard. Blade studied him through the glass. If his plans worked out this would be the last time that Otto would even halfway resemble a man.

The Queen had one hand on Otto's fat knee. She leaned and whispered and Blade could almost see the hate and revulsion on her timeless face. He saw it because he knew it was there. Otto did not see it.

Otto was not much interested in the lady. He toyed with the candles in his beard - Blade confessed wonderment that the fat man did not go up like a Christmas tree - and eyed the behind of one of Pphira's house slaves. He smiled and licked his liver lips and nodded to something that the Queen said. The spying Blade remembered that Otto had given special orders - Blade to be taken alive and unhurt, to be brought to his quarters in the Palace immediately. Where the twelve, undoubtedly, would be waiting to subdue him and ready him for the grand entrance of Otto.

Otto raised a fat hand and dropped a gayly colored scarf.

Immediately the catapults on Otto's ships, Captain Equebus in command, began to thunk and twang. The range was too great. Towers of water built as the huge projectiles fell short. The enemy's nine ships, formed in a bow shaped line, began to move toward Blade's little fleet.

His preparations had been long and thorough. He had had no sleep and until now had been drooping with weariness. The moment the first catapult spoke he came alive. He spoke softly to Ixion.

"What of the wind?"

That expert pointed out to sea, reading something in the purple haze that escaped Blade. "Not yet," said Ixion. "In an hour or less we will have wind. None before."

Blade nodded in satisfaction. "Fair enough. They have more canvas and would soon have the gauge of us. Look - the fools are going under sail anyway."

True. Each of Otto's, ships carried a huge square sail rigged to a single slanting spar. The sails hung limp and lifeless, impeding, doubling the work of the sweating slaves. By that stupidity alone Blade gained the edge in speed.

Blade raised his sword and made a chopping motion. Ixion began bellowing orders through his leather trumpet. The orders were picked up by a slave in the bow, with another trumpet, and passed on to each galley in turn.

He had pulled his hooks at precisely the right moment and now he watched as the four ships, looking miniscule by the side of the large craft attacking, began to fall into a single file behind the trireme. Blade smiled grimly. There was already shouting and gesticulating on the command decks of the enemy. Equebus had expected Blade to assume a broad frontal defense, to spread his ships into a smaller bow to ward off the larger attacking one. Equebus wanted a series of ship to ship battles with his the larger craft and almost double in number.

Blade raised a finger, Ixion his trumpet, and three rows of oars began to rise and dip, flinging droplets of water like a million diamonds. The big trireme leaped forward. These were galley slaves promised freedom and they would row their hearts out for it.

The drumming came up in a regular monotonous thrum from the second tier: Dum-dum-dum-Dum-dum-dum-Dum-dum-dum.

"I put Chephron on the drum," said Pelops. "He seemed best fitted for it and he is no better with the sword than I."

Blade ignored him. He spoke to Ixion. "Increase the beat - up twenty a minute."

Ixion bellowed the order and the trireme began to throw a bow wave as the long oars flashed in unison. The slaves were putting their scarred backs into it. They began to sing. The drum increased the cadence - dum-dum-dum-dum-dum...

Blade took the helm himself. It was a side rudder, a big oar that reminded Blade of those on Viking ships. It was alive in his hand. He could feel pressure tingling in the wood. Pphira had enough way on her to answer immediately. Blade studied the battle line of Otto's ships. About three hundred yards now.

Blake called out, "Fire buckets ready."

Ixion relayed the order.

"Shields up."

Crewmen scurried to secure wooden shielding along the railings. They would give some protection from arrow fire, none from the catapults.

"Archers aloft," cried Blade and Ixion sent the order on its way.

Blade's attacking force was now in a single line, led by the trireme Pphira. The flagship of Equebus was a hundred yards ahead and coming up fast. Blade touched the tiller and took the trireme a point to starboard. The huge flagship, a quadreme, a clumsy floating palace, nevertheless had a nasty underwater ram. Blade's little fleet had not been allowed rams.

Blade put his glass squarely on Equebus for a moment. The Captain paced the command deck of his flagship, brave in scarlet cloak and silver helmet, heavily armored, waving a sword as he screamed commands. He had realized the mistake of hoisting sail in a dead calm and was trying to repair the damage. Meantime his slaves, lacking the inspiration of Blade's, fell out of rhythm and caught air instead of water and cursed and cringed at the lash. There was no whipping on Blade's ships.

Equebus had no speaking trumpets and had to transmit his orders by flag. This added to confusion - wrong flags were flown and even these misread. Blade grinned satanically as he watched Equebus lose his temper and strike out at his junior officers.

To add to the Captain's woes there came an errant gust of wind, precursor of the breeze promised by Ixion. It did not last long, but while it did it blew steadily against Equebus' ships, most of which had not yet furled their sails. The wind negated the labor of the oar slaves. The nine ships of Otto slowed, halted, and began to drift aimlessly without rudder or way.

Blade cupped his hands and screamed at Ixion. This order must not be delayed or misunderstood,

"Diverge!"

Ixion trumpeted the word through leather. The four little galleys behind Blade fell off to right and left, two in each direction, and rowed at top speed to pierce the line of enemy ships.

Blade took the Pphira another point to starboard, avoiding the ram of the flagship, then brought his ship back in close. From the corner of his eye he saw a great jagged stone, flung by a catapult, smash one of his galleys amidships. The galley, one that had diverged to the left, its back broken, fell off and began to sink. The harbor was dotted with slaves sinking or swimming as best they could. Blade could do nothing. He counted on losing his four galleys in any case - his hopes lay only in the trireme - and at least the oar slaves had not been chained to their benches.

Arrow fire was heavy now. Blade took Pphira in close to run alongside the flagship at top speed. He was within lance and javelin range. One of his archers fell screaming from the top lines and landed bloodily on the poop deck. Pelops screeched and cowered against the rail. Blade gave the little man a shove. "Get rid of it!"

Blade brought the tiller hard over and the big trireme ran past the flagship. Ixion had ordered the port oars retracted just in time. Not so aboard the flagship. Equebus did not guess at Blade's maneuver until too late.

Pphira, propelled by her starboard oars, flashed down the side of the flagship. Scraping, sliding, bumping. The big quadreme carried fifty oars to a side. As Blade's heavy ship smashed the oars like matchsticks the carnage on the rowing benches was all the worse for being unseen. One great cry of anguish and terror and pain lifted to the Sarmaian skies. Broken oars smashed heads and limbs, flying splinters disemboweled deck officers. The flagship lost what little way she had and began to drift aimlessly, already half destroyed.

"Fire pots," yelled Blade.

Pelops had trained the men well. Blade gave him credit now as dozens of flaming pots were whirled at the end of long lines and tossed. Smoke and flame mounted. More screaming from the holds as the white hot coals scattered amid wracked flesh. One of the pots caught in a fold of the half furled sail and a bright sheet of flame leaped and devoured. Smoke billowed back over the command deck where Equebus still fought to bring some order out of this chaos he had never foreseen. Blade was not fighting by the rules.

They were past the flagship and into a tight turn, Blade meaning to run back on the other side and smash the remaining oars left to Equebus. The Captain guessed at that and ordered the oars in. Blade smiled. The wind dropped away as suddenly as it had come and now the flagship had no propulsion, was little better than a drifting burning hulk. Ixion had the port oars out again and, with the starboard side backing water, was turning the Pphira in her own length. Blade took a moment from the fray to focus his crude glass on the pier.

Otto the Black, with the aid of his slaves, had been hoisted to his feet. He peered out over the harbor at the disaster, with a look of petulant disbelief. Blade thought he looked like a giant baby about to have a temper tantrum. The Queen sat quietly, her face masked by a hand as she peered at the carnage. She would be, Blade thought, watching for the black flag. His lips quirked in a little grimace that had some cruelty in it. The Queen did not know what to expect, would not know Blade's plan until it was too late to alter it. Blade waved his sword at her. He would do what he could, what he must, and after that Pphira must handle it alone. He turned back to the task at hand, taking in the entire picture as the trireme began to run back toward the burning flagship.

He had lost another galley but five of Otto's ships were burning and drifting. Blade's remaining two galleys were attacking one of Otto's ships, tossing fire pots and sending in heavy arrow fire, while the remaining three lay by and did nothing. Blade put his glass on these ships; it was as he suspected, and had hoped. The slaves aboard them were revolting. For Blade had commanded Pelops to plant spies, provocateurs, men to spread the word that all slaves who survived and could make it to the Pphira would be welcomed. He could not hope to save many of them, in fact had already discounted the four galleys and their crews, but now the strategy was paying off. Hand to hand fighting was raging on all three ships.

One of the burning vessels got its catapults back in working order and began flinging huge rocks at Blade's trireme. A slab of rock buzzed across the poop deck, just between Blade and Pelops, and took off the head of the helmsman now back at the tiller. The body stood upright for a moment, the hands still clenched around the blood spattered tiller, then toppled overboard. Blade watched Pelops.

That little man, having somehow gotten the body of the archer over the side, stood clutching his sword with determination. He glanced at the headless helmsman, swallowed, then looked back at Blade and tried to smile. Blade nodded encouragement and yelled above all the commotion, "We'll make a warrior of you yet, Pelops!"

Pelops did not seem convinced, but he nodded, clutched his sword still tighter, and turned to peer at the flagship now coming up on the larboard. Equebus, in the respite granted him, had managed to get some of the fires under control and to man his decks with every available archer and spearman. He had his sail, still burning, over the side. He crowded his lines and fore top with archers and prudently drew in his remaining oars. Four of his catapults, and two of the smaller catapults, were still working and could range the oncoming Pphira. Equebus was fighting back.

Blade nodded in satisfaction. He did not want the flagship to sink until he was finished with her. He glanced again at the pier. Otto the Black was seated again, staring disconsolately with fat chin in hand. Blade made a brief prayer that Otto would not move. It would spoil everything.

He yelled at Ixion from his place at the helm. "Step up the beat again. Another twenty."

Ixion nodded and bellowed the order. The oars began to flash faster as the drum went into a high frenetic dum-dum-dum-dumming. Slaves from the sunken ships, or those who had broken their chains and gone overboard, cried out piteously as they tried to clutch at the chopping oars and were slashed to bits or slammed beneath the water. There was no help for it.

Blade manned the tiller with one hand and kept his glass on the flagship. Equebus had worked a miracle by restoring even some semblance of order. He stood near a tall catapult on the afterdeck, speaking to an officer, and pointing to Blade on the Pphira. The offer nodded and yelled commands. The catapult was loaded and levered back - Thwanggggg.

The boulder smashed six feet of railing just abaft of Blade. He did not move. Arrows flailed the air as the catapultas went into action. They threw six foot arrows that passed with a nasty hissing sound. Pelops and Ixion were both crouching on all fours. Blade remained upright. He was conscious that every man aboard Pphira was watching him. He must set an example now that would last into the future - if there was to be a future. So he ignored the urge to duck, the leaden feeling in his legs and belly, the ice along his spine. It would soon be over one way or the other.

They were within bowshot now. The hissing flights of arrows came in serried clouds that darkened the skies. Blade began to lose men. Pelops reverted to form for a moment and whimpered. Blade scowled him into silence. An arrow slashed off his helmet, another went through the loose sleeve of his jerkin. Blade smiled at Ixion.

"In port oars. Lower the beat on the starboard side. Prepare to drop the boarding gangway. Post men at bow and stern with grapnels. When we strike all rowing slaves are to find weapons and join the attack."

The boarding gangway Blade had remembered from his study of ancient sea battles. It was a hasty improvised job, a long wooden bridge four feet in width now tied up against the main mast. When the lines were slashed it would fall across the rail of the flagship. The Sarmaians knew of, and used, grapnels. Of the boarding gangway they had never heard.

Blade brought down the oar beat again. They were drifting close to the flagship. The air around Blade was filled with snakes, a constant sshhh-sshhh-shss-shss -

The voice of Equebus came roaring over the din. "Kill Blade! He there at the tiller. Every man fire at Blade!"

Three arrows plucked at Blade, one after the other, nipping his flesh and tearing at his armor. Ixion took an arrow in the throat and went down writhing and screaming and trying to tear it out with his bare hands. Pelops gave a cry that had little human in it.

Blade left the tiller, Pphira having nearly lost way and drifting, and sprang to gather up the leather trumpet. He lifted it and roared at the top of his voice.

"Prepare to board. Drop the gangway when we touch. Watch me. Keep your eyes on me!"

They drifted closer. They were in under the catapults now and safe from all but the arrows and lances, but that fire was steady and deadly. Blade strode to the head of the companionway and stood looking down at his men. Slaves, every one of them, but slaves with weapons in their hands and a determination that warmed him. He raised his sword and they let out a great cry even as the arrows and lances bled them. They were so closely packed on the fighting deck that men who died could not fall.

The cry went up. "Blade - Blade - Blade!"

"B-Blade!" It was Pelops, behind Blade, holding his sword aloft with a shaking hand.

"Brave little man," said Blade, hoping he was right. "Follow me and watch out for yourself."

The ships crunched together.

Blade yelled: "Grapnels over. Drop the gangway. Over the rails and kill the bowmen first. Keep the gangway clear. Keep it clear!"

He leaped down to the deck. Sword in his right hand, stabbing dagger in his left. An arrow plunked off his chest armor. Men made a way for him as he ran toward the gangway now fallen and resting on the rail of the flagship. After the first impact the Pphira had rebounded, drifted a bit, and now two feet of water separated the two ships.

"Tug your grapnels," Blade screamed as he pelted toward the gangway. "Bring her in close and bind her."

He leaped up on the gangway. He must be first over. Someone tossed him a shield.

The shield saved his life as a hail of arrows swept the gangway. Blade raised his sword and ran forward, yelling at the top of his voice.

"To me. Follow me! Board - board! Mercy to slaves - none to masters!"

Grapnels brought the two ships together again. They kissed. Blade's slaves swarmed over the rails in a screaming, hacking, howling mass of retribution.

An officer leaped to the gangway and met Blade as he charged. The swords chimed, sparking, and Blade feinted his opponent's shield high and ran him through the belly. The dying man fell forward, clutching Blade's weapon, and as he tried to wrest it free another officer aimed a terrible blow at him with a battle-axe. Blade ducked. The blow killed a man just behind him. Blade backed off, kicked the dead man off his sword, ducked another blow of the axe, taking it on his shield, and hamstrung the officer with a backhand blow. A slave daggered his opponent in the throat.

Blade was barely off the gangway and needed fighting room. It was too cluttered, too jam-packed, for effective sword play. Blade shouted and brought his sword in at half length and laid about him with a fury that soon widened the circle. He was already covered with grime and sweat and blood. His breath rasped in his throat, though he was not yet tiring, and he tried as best he could to concentrate on killing officers and such freemen as owed a mistaken loyalty to Otto and Equebus.

He ripped out a throat, daggered another man in the belly, smashed a skull with his shield and began to fight his way back toward the high poop where Equebus stood watching his ship and crew die. Through sweat and blood that stung his eyes like nettles Blade saw the Captain standing, waiting, hands on hips, for what he surely knew was coming. In the same instant that he parried a blow, ran in hilt to hilt with his enemy, stared into shocked Sarmaian eyes, then blinded the man with a dagger slash, Blade regretted slightly what he must do. The Queen had no other son - and she had lavished much on this one. Still it must be done. In the end Pphira would be better off.

A man just behind Blade died with a high scream. Blade turned to see Pelops withdrawing a bloody sword from a chest. The little man stared at Blade as though he did not know him, his teeth showing in a feral rictus. He slashed again and again at the dying man.

"Save it for the live ones," Blade grunted, and plunged forward.

The slaves aboard the flagship now began to throw down their weapons and beg for mercy. To all slaves it was granted. Officers and freemen who cried for quarter were butchered. Blade dispatched a last man and stood on the battle deck just below the poop. From the top of the ladder Equebus stared down with an enigmatic smile.

It was over. Nearly over. Blade gave a few brisk orders - he did not want the catapult officer slain yet - and his officers set about bringing some order out of the bloody charnel house that was now the flagship. The fires, though somewhat under control, still blazed and Blade did not want them spreading to Pphira. He gave orders to get the dead overboard, all the while keeping an eye on the shore. There came a great tumult and outcry from that direction, and some rioting was evident, but Otto the Black and the Queen were still on their thrones.

There was no present danger. The Queen had no ship left for Otto to commandeer and his own fleet, save for the small escort that had brought him to Sarma, was far out on the Purple Sea. Such had been his contempt for Sarma.

A quiet fell over the ship now. They were all waiting. All watching Blade and the Captain Equebus. Equebus who stood on his command deck and had not even drawn his sword.

Blade plunged his stained sword into the deck planking. It quivered and stood upright. Arms akimbo, he stared up at Equebus. The Captain stared back, a leer of contempt on his bearded lips.

"Well," said Blade, "do you come down to fight, or must I come up?"

He was prepared for anything but what came.

Equebus smiled. "I will not fight you, Blade. I am not a fool. I surrender and demand that you seek ransom for me - if you are fool enough."

Taken aback, Blade still did not believe it. He was genuinely puzzled.

"I know you are called the Cruel," he said at last. "I know also you have earned that name. But I had not thought you worthy of still another name - Equebus the Coward!"

Outcry began to burgeon in the packed ranks about Blade. Pelops, that now fierce warrior, spoke for all when he said: "Give him to me, Captain Blade. We will make him fight - or wish he had."

A shout went up. Blade stilled it with an upraised hand and grinned at Pelops. "You have grown very bloodthirsty, little man. But I command here and I decide what is done with Equebus. Anyone who doubts that had better speak up now."

There was only a little muttering.

Blade turned back to the Captain, still strutting and preening on his deck as though he had not lost a battle. Yet now Blade thought he saw terror in the man. Terror well masked, but terror just the same. If so, Blade was the only man who saw it.

Blade asked once again, "Will you fight?"

Equebus smiled his smile and flung down his sword. It clattered at Blade's feet. Along with the smile of contempt there was honest puzzlement in the Captain's eyes.

"You will not kill me, Blade. What could it gain you? You are already, my strange friend, in a great deal of trouble. You have spoiled the games and slain a great many of the Queen's officers and freemen. You missed the point, Blade. You were to lose and so be spared your own life, for I know how the Queen feels about you. Or did feel about you. Now I am not so sure. Are you mad, Blade? Really mad?"

Equebus shot a glance at the pier, where Otto and Queen Pphira still watched from their thrones. He frowned.

"You are mad. Or it was a plot - you and Pphira! But would she dare so much against Otto?"

"You should know of plots," said Blade. "You were deep enough in one against your own Queen."

Blade saw a flicker of movement in the cabin beneath the poop deck. He gave an order. "In there and fetch me that priest. It is Kreed, I think, hoping to be overlooked."

The young officer, a slave promoted by Blade only the day before on the word of Pelops, hesitated. Blade's smile was grim.

"Make up your mind, young man. Who do you fear more - Bek-Tor and his priests, or me?"

The officer led five men into the cabin and came out a moment later dragging Kreed, the High Priest, cringing and sniveling and begging for his life.

Blade gave the slaves time enough to take in the sight. "There is your Bek-Tor," he said. "A false God and falser priests. As much a coward as the Captain there."

A slave muttered, "Too bad we are not on the plain - Kreed would burn well in the maw of his God."

Kreed fell to his knees and began to gibber. . "No fire for him," said Blade. "Water."

He picked Kreed up by the scruff of the neck and carried him to the side and dropped him overboard. The ship roared with laughter.

Blade made a signal by prearrangement. A black flag was run to the masthead. He hoped the Queen would see it and understand.

The catapult officer who had been spared was taken to his huge sling and given instructions. A rock half as large as Blade himself was selected and placed in the basket.

Blade touched his sword. It quivered in the decking. "For the last time, Equebus, will you have an honorable death? I will not ask again."

The Captain was on the verge of breaking. He glanced at the chain across the harbor mouth, then back at Blade, and his mouth worked under the beard. His eyes were haunted. Yet he tried.

"I do not understand, Blade. You cannot escape. The chain bars that. In time you and all these slaves will be hunted down and slain. The quicker if you harm me. Why not take your victory, try to survive it if you can, and put your trust in Pphira? I doubt she can save you now, but she might try. Or if you let Otto have his way with you - " And Equebus grinned lewdly through his terror.

Disgust filled Blade. Get it over with. He made a great lap up the ladder and seized Equebus and flung him down. The Captain did not so much as struggle. He was dazed, still not quite believing that Blade would dare what he feared Blade would dare.

Blade made a sign. A screen was raised before the catapult and Equebus hustled behind it. Blade looked shoreward. Queen Pphira had read the black flag and was not in view. She had made some excuse and left. Otto the Black, enormous blob of fat on his throne, was peering out at the harbor and fuming. A small boat was already halfway to the two locked ships. Otto's couriers coming to find out the truth of matters.

Equebus, gagged now, watched in growing fear and disbelieving wonder as he was bound to the great rock. His eyes widened and he made pitiful sounds behind the gag. He and the rock were readied for flight.

Blade put his sword to the throat of the catapult officer and explained: "I have seen the accuracy of these weapons. I want it now. You will adjust and lever it so that the rock, and Equebus, falls directly on Otto the Black. Fail and you die. It is as simple as that."

The officer blanched. His knees were knocking together. "But I - that is, sire, one cannot always hit a target. Sometimes there is bad luck and the wind, er, yes, the wind. That is very chancy. The wind is - "

The wind was indeed rising, just as Ixion had promised. It was setting steadily from the land. Blade probed the man's throat with his sword point. "Adjust for the wind. You are a expert - now save your own life. Get ready."

He had no intention of killing the man. He knew how chancy the catapults could be at times, though they were marvelously accurate. Yet he wanted the officer's best efforts and fear would ensure that.

The long springy arm was twisted back, this being masked by the screen of matting. The levers were all in place and the trigger only awaited a slight tug of the cord. Equebus, staring over his gag in horror and supplication, trussed to his rock like any fowl, kept shaking his head and drooling horrible sounds.

"A low trajectory," Blade ordered. "I do not want his Fatness warned in time to run away - if he can run." Slaves tittered.

Blade raised his arm. Equebus moaned behind his gag. The screen fell away. Blade dropped his arm.

PTHWANGGGGG.

The arc was low. Blade saw the crowd around Otto begin to scatter, tardily, as they realized what was happening. The huge boulder with its human cargo hissed through the air.

Blade, who had not really expected too much - the gesture would have satisfied him - watched with gleeful amazement as the great stone zoomed at its target. It was zeroing in like a guided missile back in Home Dimension.

Otto the Black, who had never known a threat to his person in all his royal life, was equally astounded. When at last he screamed there was no one to help him. They were all running away.

Otto could not stand easily without assistance. He was too fat. Now he tried and fell to his knees. He rolled. He scrabbled. At the very last he cowered and screamed a command at the descending rock. In his very last moment of life Otto saw, or thought he saw, a very strange thing. Something, a man, was bound to the boulder that was about to crush Otto. No! Such things could not be. But this could not be, either. Not to Otto the Black. Death.

The boulder made a squishy sullen thud on impact. Blade was happy that he did not have to see the result. He leaped to the poop and raised his sword and barked out a string of orders. There was much to be done, to be done quickly, before the Queen could come out of shock and realize that Blade did not intend to return to her. And he had killed her only son.

An hour later, during which there was no interference - three small boats sent out to investigate were turned back by the catapults - Blade had the trireme, the Pphira, under way again. The flagship was burning and slowly sinking. Blade had lost all his galleys, though saving some of the men, and only one of Otto's ships, a bireme, remained afloat. It fled to an inlet and refused to fight.

The wind was strengthening all the while. Blade, with a new helmsman, put the Pphira straight at the massive chain. Pelops, who had not wiped the blood from his sword, stood beside him on the deck.

"What of Ixion?" Blade asked.

"He lives, sire. The arrow missed a vital point, though he bled a great deal. I cut oft the arrowhead and withdrew the shaft very skillfully. I am somewhat skilled in medicine, you know, and thought to be the ship's doctor. But now that I am a warrior - "

Blade patted his shoulder. "Now that you are a warrior you had better pray a little. The chain is coming up. If we cannot break it all our trouble has been for nothing. If we cannot make the open sea we are all as good as dead."

He turned to the man at the tiller. "Bear steady. I want the full weight of the wind. Pelops, tell them to step up the oar beat by thirty. We must snap the chain at our first try - if not I doubt that we can do it at all."

Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-

They rowed for their lives. The big square sail bellied out, full of a following wind. The oars Hashed down and in and up and down again.

Blade took the tiller, Pelops hovering beside him. "We must hit it dead center," Blade muttered. "We must strike the weakened link. Otherwise we are as much prisoners as before."

"I wish now," said Pelops, "that I had believed in Bek-Tor. At least He-She might answer my prayers."

The Pphira struck the chain at full speed. There was a grinding sound, a crunching, as the boat ran up a bit on the chain. The big vessel shuddered and lost way abruptly. The chain held.

Blade cupped his hands and bellowed. "Row, damn you, row! Row for your lives!"

Long oars threshed water into creamy frenzy. A moaning song came up from the rowing benches.

"Row!"

The chain parted. The big trireme was free.