The Sword of Rhiannon

IX. Galley of Death

Carse straightened slowly and turned in the doorway, his back to the thing he had slain but had not seen. He had no wish to see it. He was utterly shaken and in a strange mood, full of a vaulting strength that verged on madness.

The hysteria, he thought, that comes when you’ve taken too much, when the walls close in and there’s nothing to do but fight before you die.

The cabin was full of a stunned silence. Scyld had the staring look of an idiot, his mouth fallen open. Ywain had put one hand to the edge of the table and it was strange to see in her that one small sign of weakness. She had not taken her eyes from Carse.

She said huskily, “Are you man or demon that you can stand against Caer Dhu?”

Carse did not answer. He was beyond speech. Her face floated before him like a silver mask. He remembered the pain, the shameful labor at the sweep, the scars of the lash that he carried. He remembered the voice that had said to Callus, “Teach him!”

He had slain the serpent. After that it seemed an easy thing to kill a queen.

He began to move, covering the few short steps that lay between them, and there was something terrible about the slow purposefulness of it, the galled and shackled slave carrying the great sword, its blade dark with alien blood.

Ywain gave back one step. Her hand faltered to her own hilt. She was not afraid of death. She was afraid of the thing that she saw in Carse, the light that blazed in his eyes. A fear of the soul and not the body.

Scyld gave a hoarse cry. He drew his sword and lunged.

They had all forgotten Boghaz, crouching quiet in his corner. Now the Valkisian rose to his feet, handling his great bulk with unbelievable speed. As Scyld passed him he raised both hands and brought the full weight of his gyves down with tremendous strength on the Sark’s head.

Scyld dropped like a stone.

And now Ywain had found her pride again. The sword of Rhiannon rose high for the death stroke and quick, quick as lightning, she drew her own short blade and parried it as it fell.

The force of the blow drove her weapon out of her hands. Carse had only to strike again. But it seemed that with that effort something had gone out of him. He saw her mouth open to voice an angry shout for aid and he struck her across the face with his hilt reversed, so that she slid stunned to the deck, her cheek laid open.

And then Boghaz was thrusting him back, saying, “Don’t kill her! We may buy our lives with hers!”

Carse watched as Boghaz bound and gagged her and took the dagger from her belt sheath.

It occurred to him that they were two slaves who had overpowered Ywain of Sark and struck down her captain and that the lives of Matt Carse and Boghaz of Valkis were worth less than a puff of wind as soon as it was discovered.

So far, they were safe. There had been little noise and there were no sounds of alarm outside.

Boghaz shut the inner door as though to block off even the memory of what lay within. Then he took a closer look at Scyld, who was quite dead. He picked up the man’s sword and stood still for a minute, catching his breath.

He was staring at Carse with a new respect that had in it both awe and fear. Glancing at the closed door, he muttered, “I would not have believed it possible. And yet I saw it.” He turned back to Carse. “You cried out upon Rhiannon before you struck. Why?”

Carse said impatiently, “How can a man know what he’s saying, at a time like that?”

The truth was that he didn’t know himself why he had spoken the Cursed One’s name, except that it had been thrust at him so often that he supposed it had become a sort of obsession. The Dhuvian’s little hypnosis gadget had thrown his whole mind off balance for a while. He remembered only a towering rage—the gods knew he had had enough to make any man angry.

It was probably not so strange that the Dhuvian’s hypnotic science hadn’t been able to put him completely under. After all he was an Earthman and a product of another age. Even so it had been a near thing—horribly near. He didn’t want to think about it any more.

“That’s over now. Forget it. We’ve got to think how to get ourselves out of this mess.”

Boghaz’ courage seemed to have drained away. He said glumly, “We’d better kill ourselves at once and have done with it.”

He meant it. Carse said, “If you feel that way why did you strike out to save my life?”

“I don’t know. Instinct, I suppose.”

“All right. My instinct is to go on living as long as possible.”

It didn’t look as though that would be very long. But he was not going to take Boghaz’s advice and fall upon the sword of Rhiannon. He weighted it in his hands, scowling, and then looked from it to his fetters.

He said suddenly, “If we could free the rowers they’d fight. They’re all condemned for life—nothing to lose. We might take the ship.”

Boghaz’ eyes widened, then narrowed shrewdly. He thought it over. Then he shrugged. “I suppose one can always die. It’s worth trying. Anything’s worth trying.”

He tested the point of Ywain’s dagger. It was thin and strong. With infinite skill, he began to pick the lock of the Earthman’s gyves.

“Have you a plan?” he asked.

Carse grunted. “I’m no magician. I can only try.” He glanced at Ywain. “You stay here, Boghaz. Barricade the door. Guard her. If things go wrong she’s our last and only hope.”

The cuffs hung loose now on his wrist and ankles. Reluctantly he laid down the sword. Boghaz would need the dagger to free himself but there was another one on Scyld’s body. Carse took it and hid it under his kilt. As he did so he gave Boghaz a few brief instructions.

A moment later Carse opened the cabin door just widely enough to step outside. From behind him came a good enough imitation of Scyld’s gruff voice, calling for a guard. A soldier came.

“Take this slave back to the oar bank,” ordered the voice that aped Scyld’s. “And see that the lady Ywain is not disturbed.”

The man saluted and began to herd the shuffling Carse away. The cabin door banged shut and Carse heard the sound of the bar dropping into place.

Across the deck, and down the ladder. “Count the soldiers, think how it must be done!”

No. Don’t think. Don’t, or you’ll never try it.

The drummer, who was a slave himself. The two Swimmers. The overseer, up at the forward end of the catwalk, lashing a rower. Rows of shoulders, bending over the oars, back and forth. Rows of faces above them. The faces of rats, of jackals, of wolves. The creak and groan of the looms, the reek of sweat and bilge water, the incessant beat, beat, beat of the drum.

The soldier turned Carse over to Callus and went away. Jaxart was back on the oar and with him a lean Sark convict with a brand on his face. They glanced up at Carse and then away again.

Callus thrust the Earthman roughly onto the bench, where he bent low over the oar. Callus stopped to fix the master chain to his leg irons, growling as he did so.

“I hope that Ywain lets me have you when she’s all through with you, carrion! I’ll have fun while you last—”

Callus stopped very suddenly and said no more, then or ever. Carse had stabbed his heart with such swift neatness that not even Callus was aware of the stroke until he ceased to breathe.

“Keep stroke!” snarled Carse to Jaxart under his breath. The big Khond obeyed. A smoldering light came into his eyes. The branded man laughed once, silently, with a terrible eagerness.

Carse cut the key to the master locks free from its thong on Callus’ girdle and let the corpse down gently into the bilges.

The man across the catwalk on the port oar had seen as had the drummer. “Keep stroke!” said Carse again and Jaxart glared and the stroke was kept. But the drum beat faltered and died.

Carse shook off his manacles. His eyes met the drummer’s and the rhythm started again but already the overseer was on his way aft, shouting.

“What’s the matter there, you pig?”

“My arms are weary,” the man quavered.

“Weary, are they? I’ll weary your back for you too if it happens again!”

The man on the port oar, a Khond, said deliberately. “Much is going to happen, you Sark scum.” He took his hands off the oar.

The overseer advanced upon him. “Is it now? Why, the filth is a very prophet!”

His lash rose and fell once and then Carse was on him. One hand clamped the man’s mouth shut and the other plunged the dagger in. Swiftly, silently, a second body rolled into the bilges.

A deep animal cry broke out along the oar bank and was choked down as Carse raised his arms in a warning gesture, looking upward at the deck. No one had noticed yet. There had been nothing to draw notice.

Inevitably, the rhythm of the oars had broken but that was not unusual and, in any case, it was the concern of the overseer. Unless it stopped altogether no one would wonder. If luck would only hold…

The drummer had the sense or the habit to keep on. Carse passed the word along—“Keep stroke, until we’re all free!” The beat picked up again, slowly. Crouching low, Carse opened the master locks. The men needed no warning to be easy with their chains as they freed themselves, one by one.

Even so, less than half of them were loose when an idle soldier chose to lean on the deck rail and look down.

Carse had just finished releasing the Swimmers. He saw the man’s expression change from boredom to incredulous awareness and he caught up the overseer’s whip and sent the long lash swinging upward. The soldier bellowed the alarm as the lash coiled around his neck and brought him crashing down into the pit.

Carse leaped to the ladder. “Come on, you scum, you rabble!” he shouted. “Here’s your chance!”

And they were after him like one man, roaring the beast roar of creatures hungry for vengeance and blood. Up the ladder they poured, swinging their chains, and those that were still held to the benches worked like madmen to be free.

They had the brief advantage of surprise, for the attack had come so quickly on the heels of the alarm that swords were still half drawn, bows still unstrung. But it wouldn’t last long. Carse knew well how short a time it would last.

“Strike! Strike hard while you can!”

With belaying pins, with their shackles, and with their fists, the galley slaves charged in and the soldiers met them. Carse with his whip and his knife, Jaxart howling the word Khondor like a battle-cry, naked bodies against mail, desperation against discipline. The Swimmers slipped like brown shadows through the fray and the slave with the broken wings had somehow possessed himself of a sword. Seamen reinforced the soldiers but still the wolves came up out of the pit.

From the forecastle and the steersman’s platform bowmen began to take their toll but the fight became so closely locked that they had to stop for fear of killing their own men. The salt-sweet smell of blood rose on the air. The decks were slippery with it. Carse saw that the slaves were being driven back and the number of the dead was growing.

In a furious surge he broke through to the cabin. The Sarks must have thought it strange that Ywain and Scyld had not appeared but they had had little time to do anything about it. Carse pounded on the cabin door, shouting Boghaz’ name.

The Valkisian drew the bar, and Carse burst in.

“Carry the wench up to the steersman’s platform,” he panted. “I’ll cut your way.”

He snatched up the sword of Rhiannon and went out again with Boghaz behind him, bearing Ywain in his arms.

The ladder was only a short two paces from the door. The bowmen had come down to fight and there was no one up on the platform but the frightened Sark sailor who clung to the tiller bar. Carse, swinging the great sword, cleared the way and held the ladder foot while Boghaz climbed up and set Ywain on her feet where all could see her.

“Look you!” he bellowed. “We have Ywain!”

He did not need to tell them. The sight of her, bound and gagged in the hands of a slave, was like a blow to the soldiers and like a magic potion to the rebels. Two mingled sounds went up, a groan and a cheer.

Someone found Scyld’s body and dragged it out on deck. Doubly leaderless now, the Sarks lost heart. The tide of battle turned then and the slaves took their advantage in both hands.

The sword of Rhiannon led them. It slashed the halliards that brought the dragon flag of Sark plunging down from the masthead. And under its blade the last Sark soldier died.

There was an abrupt cessation of sound and movement. The black galley drifted with the freshening wind. The sun was low on the horizon. Carse climbed wearily to the steersman’s platform.

Ywain, still fast in Boghaz’s grip, followed him, eyes full of hell-fire.

Carse went to the forward edge of the platform and stood leaning on the sword. The slaves, exhausted with fighting and drunk with victory, gathered on the deck below like a ring of panting wolves.

Jaxart came out from searching the cabins. He shook his dripping blade up at Ywain and shouted, “A fine lover she kept in her cabin! The spawn of Caer Dhu, the stinking Serpent!”

There was an instant reaction from the slaves. They were tense and bristling again at that name, afraid even in their numbers. Carse made his voice heard with difficulty.

“The thing is dead. Jaxart—will you cleanse the ship?”

Jaxart paused before he turned to obey. “How did you know it was dead?”

Carse said, “I killed it.”

The men stared up at him as though he were something more than human. The awed muttering went around—“He slew the Serpent!”

With another man Jaxart returned to the cabin and brought the body out. No word was spoken. A wide lane was cleared to the lee rail and the black, shrouded thing was carried along it, faceless, formless, hidden in its robe and cowl, symbol even in death of infinite evil.

Again Carse fought down that cold repellent fear and the touch of strange anger. He forced himself to watch.

The splash it made as it fell was shockingly loud in the stillness. Ripples spread in little lines of fire and died away.

Then men began to talk again. They began to shout up to Ywain, taunting her. Someone yelled for her blood and there would have been a stampede up the ladder but that Carse threatened them with his long blade.

“No! She’s our hostage and worth her weight in gold.” He did not specify how but he knew the argument would satisfy them for a while. And much as he hated Ywain he somehow did not want to see her torn to pieces by this pack of wild beasts.

He steered their thoughts to another subject.

“We have to have a leader now. Whom will you choose?”

There was only one answer to that. They roared his name until it deafened him, and Carse felt a savage pleasure at the sound of it. After days of torment it was good to know he was a man again, even in an alien world.

When he could make himself heard he said, “All right. Now listen well. The Sarks will kill us by slow death for what we’ve done—if they catch us. So here’s my plan. We’ll join the free rovers, the Sea-Kings who lair at Khondor!”

To the last man they agreed and the name Khondor rang up into the sunset sky.

The Khonds among the slaves were like wild men. One of them stripped a length of yellow cloth from the tunic of a dead soldier, fashioned a banner out of it and ran it up in place of the dragon flag of Sark.

At Carse’s request, Jaxart took over the handling of the galley and Boghaz carried Ywain down again and locked her in the cabin.

The men dispersed, eager to be rid of their shackles, eager to loot the bodies of clothes and weapons and to dip into the wine casks. Only Naram and Shallah remained, looking up at Carse in the afterglow.

“Do you disagree?” he asked them.

Shallah’s eyes glowed with the same eery light that he had seen in them before.

“You are a stranger,” she said softly. “Stranger to us, stranger to our world. And I say again that I can sense a black shadow in you that makes me afraid, for you will cast it wherever you go.”

She turned from him then and Naram said, “We go homeward now.”

The two Swimmers poised for a moment on the rail. They were free now, free of their chains, and their bodies ached with the joy of it, stretching upward, supple, sure. Then they vanished overside.

After a moment Carse saw them again, rolling and plunging like dolphins, racing each other, calling to each other in their soft clear voices as they made the waves foam flame.

Deimos was already high. The afterglow was gone and Phobos came up swiftly out of the east. The sea turned glowing silver. The Swimmers went away toward the west, trailing their wakes of fire, a tracery of sparkling light that grew fainter and vanished altogether.

The black galley stood on for Khondor, her taut sails dark against the sky. And Carse remained as he was, standing on the platform, holding the sword of Rhiannon between his hands.