He gave that last push, putting into it all the strength he could muster. Dropping the oars, Ray leaped to the wave-washed sand. He saw those shadows swing around, and one skidded a little, but a sword glinted in the other’s hand.
“I think you will make no sales to Ba-A1 this night!” Ray cried. Stooping, he scooped up sand and hurled it as a cloud into the swordsman’s face. Then he was on the other, striking with the side of his hand, kicking upward in the style of fighting for which this enemy was unprepared.
There was a cut-off gasp, and the other fell. Ray, half by instinct, ducked and pivoted, ready to tackle the other assailant. He bore him back with a rush until they both crashed, and then he heard a sickening crack of skull against rock and got to his feet again unharmed, but breathing hard. One of the seamen lay in a heap against a rock, very still, and the other was stretched upon the sand.
Ray went to him. There was no pulse under the American’s seeking fingers. He pulled at the inert body, dragging it to lie beside the other, and set about shoveling sand over them. Whether they had any confederates he did not know, but at least he had gained some time.
It was not until he left that strip of beach, having taken the further precaution of setting his boat to drift bottom up, that reaction struck. Long ago he had learned the tricks of such warfare, but he could not remember that ever before had he dealt death with his hands. He plowed on through the sand, seeking some trace of the rocks that marked his meeting place. Inside him the cold grew, yet there was no turning from this path, nor any return to the person he sensed he had once been before Sydyk of Uighur had been sent to invade his mind.
The cold grew, and he had left his cloak in the boat, tangled about one of the seats, a mute answer, he hoped, to any suspicion that Captain Sydyk had not met with disaster. The air had frost in it, and Ray swung his arms vigorously for warmth.
Then he rounded a point of land, and before him, so massive and unmistakable as to be easily sighted, even on this cloudy night, were two pointed rocks. Certainly this was the meeting place. But if so, he was early; there was no one waiting.
Ray set his back to the nearest rock and looked out to sea. Tonight he had killed with his hands. He discovered that he was flexing his fingers, then rubbing them up and down against him, as if to brush off more than sand. They would have killed him, perhaps not at this hour and here, but in a much less merciful way, by revealing him to the Atlanteans. Ray had a dim memory of a man lying on an altar in a red-walled temple waiting a death blow. That would have been his portion, if not worse. Still-He continued to rub his hands.
Then he started away from the rock. Sounds came from across the water, the faint grate of what might be oar in oarlock on some would-be silent boat. Ray moved to the water’s edge. A skiff came in through the surf, two muffled figures aboard her.
“The east rises.” The voice was guttural, deep in the throat. ‘
“The west falls.” Ray made answer in -a half-whisper.
“Let us be gone. The rats of Mu keep watch, and we are too near the fort for comfort.”
Ray waded out to the skiff.
“It is well you are prompt,” commented the Atlantean. “They patrol often nowadays, and we dare not linger long. You came alone?”
Did that seem suspicious? But the Naacal had not warned him-w
“I was betrayed-”
“By whom? And-were you followed?”
“By Ra-Pan, my mate. The Murians got to him,” Ray improvised. “But he is dead.”
“So? Well done.”
The oarsman sent them on with swift, sure strokes. They were now beyond the protection of the headlands, and the sea air was even colder. Ray could not control
his shivers, though he tried hard. Out of the dark arose a hull, a peaked cabin roof against the sky. They bumped the side of a vessel, and a rope ladder was guided into Ray’s hands. He climbed to the deck. No lights, not even a shielded deck lantern. They must indeed be afraid of being sighted. Then one of the men from the skiff caught him by the arm and steered him on.
“Below with you. We must get under way.”
They went down a steep ladder and pushed between the flaps of a leather curtain into the main cabin. Red-painted walls, hung with an amazing collection of weapons, boxed about them. The floor was a checkerboard of black and white, marred and stained with grime. There was the odor of spilled wine, unwashed humans, and even more unpleasant reminders that the commander of this ship was not dainty in his habits.
But also there was a jumble of what might have been loot, as could be seen in a ship that had been raiding. There were metal plates as well as crude earthenware ones on the table. Silken hangings, rent and fouled, lay on the benches. The table itself was a thing of beauty, dark wood inlaid with designs of silver and ivory, though much scarred and scratched.
Ray’s Atlantean guide dropped his cloak on a bench and poured wine from a begemmed flagon into a battered goblet.
“Down this. It is a chill night. A man needs a little fire to run in his veins.”
Had his shudders been so apparent, Ray wondered? He could only hope they were attributed to the cold wind. He drank and choked, but turned that into a cough. Over the goblet rim he studied his host. The Atlantean was shorter by an inch or two than himself, thick of upper arm and shoulder, the width of which was somewhat balanced by a sizable paunch. His long arms ended in huge hairy paws of hands.
Unlike the Murians, who were always smooth of face, a black beard grew in a thick mat to his cheekbones. A liberal application of grease had been used to
shape that growth into a point touching his upper chest. Out of this his lips showed startlingly thick and red, so brightly red that one could almost believe he had applied some coloring to them.
Though he sported so full a beard, he showed, as he now put aside a crestless bronze helmet, that his skull had been shaven except for a single thick lock at the crown. Also greased, this was wreathed about the dome of his brown skull.
He grinned, showing yellow teeth, and patted the midsection of a silken tunic stained with food droppings. His golden belt, Ray thought, had never been fashioned to contain that paunch. It was closed by a loop of chain that added several inches to its length.
“Welcome to the Black Hawk, brother. I am Captain Taut. Those of Mu have no reason to look upon me with favor, though the pickings are lean these days when all their merchantmen sulk protected in the Inner Sea.”
Ray put down his goblet and waved aside the gesture of refilling it. “I am Sydyk out of Uighur.”
“Ho-but you are a seaman. Broken officer from the fleet? They join us now and again. How does the motherland these days?”
Ray forced a laugh. “You seem to be a reader of pasts, Captain. Mu-they begin there to wake at last. I got free only in time.”
Captain Taut nodded. “Well, I have always said that the Murians are far too trusting, but they cannot be thought utterly blind. Now, you seem to have had something of a wetting, Sydyk-off with those wet rags.” He went to rummage in a chest, returning with new clothing.
“Good stuff. Got them off a ship we took in the North Sea before they signaled them in. Belonged to some officer. He met Ba-Al, or so I heard.”
Reluctantly but not daring to show his dislike, Ray put on the dead man’s clothing. Stealthily he transferred the jet armlet into new hiding.
“Turn in if you wish.” Captain Taut pointed to one of the alcoves. “We do not raise land until tomorrow.” He went out, leaving Ray alone. Choosing a bunk that seemed less odorous than the rest, he stretched ,out wearily. He had come so far-but what waited beyond the next hour, the next day?
11
RAY did not dream of trees that night, but he ran and walked through scenes that flowed curiously one into another, so that he was both an onlooker and a participant in action. He was Sydyk of Uighur, reliving past years. Yet he was also another, standing apart, watching Sydyk because there was a desperate need to learn and remember all that Sydyk had done and been.