Lorelei of the Red Mist - 5

He swam toward it, breathing quietly. When at last the silvered
figurehead with the mocking green eyes and the flag of shoal-shallow
hair hung over him, he felt the cool white ship metal kiss his fingers.
The smell of torch-smoke lingered. A rise of faint shouts from the
land told of another rush upon the Gate. Behind him--a ripple. Then--a
thousand ripples.
The resurrected men of Crom Dhu rose in dents and stirrings of
sparkling wine. They stared at Crom Dhu and maybe they knew what it
was and maybe they didn't. For one moment, Starke felt apprehension.
Suppose Linnl was playing a game. Suppose, once these men had won the
battle, they went on into Crom Dhu, to rupture Romna's harp and make
Faolan the blinder? He shook the thought away. That would have to be
handled in time. On either side of him Clev and Mannt appeared. They
looked at Crom Dhu, their lips shut. Maybe they saw Faolan's eyrie and
heard a harp that was more than these harps that sang them to blade and
plunder--Romna's instrument telling bard-tales of the rovers and the
coastal wars and the old, living days. Their eyes looked and looked at
Crom Dhu, but saw nothing.
The sea shepherds appeared now; the followers of Linnl, each with his
harp and the harp music began, high. So high you couldn't hear it. It
wove a tension on the air.
Silently, with a grim certainty, the dead-but-not-dead gathered in a
bronze circle about Rann's ship. The very silence of their encirclement
made your skin crawl and sweat break cold on your cheeks.
A dozen ropes went raveling, looping over the ship side. They caught,
held, grapnelled, hooked.
Starke had thrown his, felt it bite and hold. Now he scrambled swiftly,
cursing, up its length, kicking and slipping at the silver hull.
He reached the top.
Beudag was there.
Half over the low rail he hesitated, just looking at her.
* * * * *
Torchlight limned her, shadowed her. She was still erect; her head was
tired and her eyes were closed, her face thinned and less brown, but
she was still alive. She was coming out of a deep stupor now, at the
whistle of ropes and the grate of metal hooks on the deck.
She saw Starke and her lips parted. She did not look away from him. His
breath came out of him, choking.
It almost cost him his life, his standing there, looking at her.
A guard, with flesh like new snow, shafted his bow from the turret and
let it loose. A chain lay on deck. Thankfully, Starke took it.
Clev came over the rail beside Starke. His chest took the arrow. The
shaft burst half through and stopped, held. Clev kept going after the
man who had shot it. He caught up with him.
Beudag cried out. "Behind you, Conan!"
Conan! In her excitement, she gave the old name.
Conan he _was_. Whirling, he confronted a wiry little fellow, chained
him brutally across the face, seized the man's falling sword, used it
on him. Then he walked in, got the man's jaw, unbalanced him over into
the sea.
The ship was awake now. Most of the men had been down below, resting
from the battles. Now they came pouring up, in a silver spate. Their
yelling was in strange contrast to the calm silence of Crom Dhu's men.
Starke found himself busy.
Conan had been a healthy animal, with great recuperative powers. Now
his muscles responded to every trick asked of them. Starke leaped
cleanly across the deck, watching for Rann, but she was no where to be
seen. He engaged two blades, dispatched one of them. More ropes raveled
high and snaked him. Every ship in the harbor was exploding with
violence. More men swarmed over the rail behind Starke, silently.
Above the shouting, Beudag's voice came, at sight of the fighting men.
"Clev! Mannt! Aesur!"
Starke was a god, anything he wanted he could have. A man's head? He
could have it. It meant acting the guillotine with knife and wrist
and lunged body. Like--_this_! His eyes were smoking amber and there
were deep lines of grim pleasure tugging at his lips. An enemy cannot
fight without hands. One man, facing Starke, suddenly displayed violent
stumps before his face, not believing them.
Are you watching, Faolan, cried Starke inside himself, delivering
blows. Look here, Faolan! God, no, you're blind. _Listen_ then! Hear
the ring of steel on steel. Does the smell of hot blood and hot bodies
reach you? Oh, if you could see this tonight, Faolan. Falga would
be forgotten. This is Conan, out of idiocy, with a guy named Starke
wearing him and telling him where to go!
It was not safe on deck. Starke hadn't particularly noticed before, but
the warriors of Crom Dhu didn't care whom they attacked now. They were
beginning to do surgery to one another. They excised one another's
shoulders, severed limbs in blind instantaneous obedience. This was no
place for Beudag and himself.
He cut her free of the masthead, drew her quickly to the rail.
Beudag was laughing. She could do nothing but laugh. Her eyes were
shocked. She saw dead men alive again, lashing out with weapons; she
had been starved and made to stand night and day, and now she could
only laugh.
Starke shook her.
She did not stop laughing.
"Beudag! You're all right. You're free."
She stared at nothing. "I'll--I'll be all right in a minute."
He had to ward off a blow from one of his own men. He parried the
thrust, then got in and pushed the man off the deck, over into the sea.
That was the only thing to do. You couldn't kill them.
Beudag stared down at the tumbling body.
"Where's Rann?" Starke's yellow eyes narrowed, searching.
"She _was_ here." Beudag trembled.
Rann looked out of her eyes. Out of the tired numbness of Beudag, an
echo of Rann. Rann was nearby, and this was her doing.
Instinctively, Starke raised his eyes.
Rann appeared at the masthead, like a flurry of snow. Her green-tipped
breasts were rising and falling with emotion. Pure hatred lay in her
eyes. Starke licked his lips and readied his sword.
Rann snapped a glance at Beudag. Stooping, as in a dream, Beudag picked
up a dagger and held it to her own breast.
Starke froze.
Rann nodded, with satisfaction. "Well, Starke? How will it be? Will you
come at me and have Beudag die? Or will you let me go free?"
Starke's palms felt sweaty and greasy. "There's no place for you to go.
Falga's taken. I can't guarantee your freedom. If you want to go over
the side, into the sea, that's your chance. You might make shore and
your own men."
"Swimming? With the sea-_beasts_ waiting?" She accented the _beasts_
heavily. She was one of the sea-_people_. They, Linnl and his men, were
sea-_beasts_. "No, Hugh Starke. I'll take a skiff. Put Beudag at the
rail where I can watch her all the way. Guarantee my passage to shore
and my own men there, and Beudag lives."
Starke waved his sword. "Get going."
He didn't want to let her go. He had other plans, good plans for
her. He shouted the deal down at Linnl. Linnl nodded back, with much
reluctance.
Rann, in a small silver skiff, headed toward land. She handled the
boat and looked back at Beudag all the while. She passed through the
sea-beasts and touched the shore. She lifted her hand and brought it
smashing down.
Whirling, Starke swung his fist against Beudag's jaw. Her hand was
already striking the blade into her breast. Her head flopped back.
His fist carried through. She fell. The blade clattered. He kicked it
overboard. Then he lifted Beudag. She was warm and good to hold. The
blade had only pricked her breast. A small rivulet of blood ran.
On the shore, Rann vanished upward on the rocks, hurrying to find her
men.
In the harbor the harp music paused. The ships were taken. Their crews
lay filling the decks. Crom Dhu's men stopped fighting as quickly as
they'd started. Some of the bright shining had dulled from the bronze
of their arms and bare torsos. The ships began to sink.
Linnl swam below, looking up at Starke. Starke looked back at him and
nodded at the beach. "Swell. Now, let's go get that she-devil," he said.
* * * * *
Faolan waited on his great stone balcony, overlooking Crom Dhu. Behind
him the fires blazed high and their eating sound of flame on wood
filled the pillared gloom with sound and furious light.
Faolan leaned against the rim, his chest swathed in bandage and healing
ointment, his blind eyes flickering, looking down again and again with
a fixed intensity, his head tilted to listen.
Romna stood beside him, filled and refilled the cup that Faolan
emptied into his thirsty mouth, and told him what happened. Told of
the men pouring out of the sea, and Rann appearing on the rocky shore.
Sometimes Faolan leaned to one side, weakly, toward Romna's words.
Sometimes he twisted to hear the thing itself, the thing that happened
down beyond the Gate of besieged Falga.
Romna's harp lay untouched. He didn't play it. He didn't need to. From
below, a great echoing of harps, more liquid than his, like a waterfall
drenched the city, making the fog sob down red tears.
"Are those harps?" cried Faolan.
"Yes, harps!"
"What was that?" Faolan listened, breathing harshly, clutching for
support.
"A skirmish," said Romna.
"Who won?"
"_We_ won."
"And _that_?" Faolan's blind eyes tried to see until they watered.
"The enemy falling back from the Gate!"
"And that sound, and that sound!" Faolan went on and on, feverishly,
turning this way and that, the lines of his face agonized and attentive
to each eddy and current and change of tide. The rhythm of swords
through fog and body was a complicated music whose themes he must
recognize. "Another fell! I heard him cry. And another of Rann's men!"
"Yes," said Romna.
"But why do our warriors fight so quietly? I've heard nothing from
their lips. So quiet."
Romna scowled. "Quiet. Yes--quiet."
"And where did they come from? All our men are in the city?"
"Aye." Romna shifted. He hesitated, squinting. He rubbed his bulldog
jaw. "Except those that died at--Falga."
Faolan stood there a moment. Then he rapped his empty cup.
"More wine, bard. More wine."
He turned to the battle again.
"Oh, gods, if I could see it, if I could only see it!"
Below, a ringing crash. A silence. A shouting, a pouring of noise.
"The Gate!" Faolan was stricken with fear. "We've lost! My sword!"
"Stay, Faolan!" Romna laughed. Then he sighed. It was a sigh that did
not believe. "In the name of ten thousand mighty gods. Would that I
were blind now, or could see better."
Faolan's hand caught, held him. "What _is_ it? Tell!"
"Clev! And Tlan! And Conan! And Blucc! And Mannt! Standing in the gate,
like wine visions! Swords in their hands!"
Faolan's hand relaxed, then tightened. "Speak their names again, and
speak them slowly. And tell the truth." His skin shivered like that of
a nervous animal. "You said--Clev? Mannt? Blucc?"
"And Tlan! And Conan! Back from Falga. They've opened the Gate and the
battle's won. It's over, Faolan. Crom Dhu will sleep tonight."
Faolan let him go. A sob broke from his lips. "I will get drunk.
Drunker than ever in my life. Gloriously drunk. Gods, but if I could
have seen it. Been in it. Tell me again of it, Romna...."
* * * * *
Faolan sat in the great hall, on his carved high-seat, waiting.
The pad of sandals on stone, outside, the jangle of chains.
A door flung wide, red fog sluiced in, and in the sluice, people
walking. Faolan started up. "Clev? Mannt? Aesur!"
Starke came forward into the firelight. He pressed his right hand to
the open mouth of the wound on his thigh. "No, Faolan. Myself and two
others."
"Beudag?"
"Yes." And Beudag came wearily to him.
Faolan stared. "Who's the other? It walks light. It's a woman."
Starke nodded. "Rann."
Faolan rose carefully from his seat. He thought the name over. He took
a short sword from a place beside the high seat. He stepped down. He
walked toward Starke. "You brought Rann alive to me?"
Starke pulled the chain that bound Rann. She ran forward in little
steps, her white face down, her eyes slitted with animal fury.
"Faolan's blind," said Starke. "I let you live for one damned good
reason, Rann. Okay, go ahead."
Faolan stopped walking, curious. He waited.
Rann did nothing.
Starke took her hand and wrenched it behind her back. "I said 'go
ahead.' Maybe you didn't hear me."
"I will," she gasped, in pain.
Starke released her. "Tell me what happens, Faolan."
Rann gazed steadily at Faolan's tall figure there in the light.
Faolan suddenly threw his hands to his eyes and choked.
Beudag cried out, seized his arm.
"I can see!" Faolan staggered, as if jolted. "I can see!" First he
shouted it, then he whispered it. "_I can see._"
Starke's eyes blurred. He whispered to Rann, tightly. "Make him see it,
Rann or you die now. Make him see it!" to Faolan. "What do you see?"
Faolan was bewildered, he swayed. He put out his hands to shape the
vision. "I--I see Crom Dhu. It's a good sight. I see the ships of Rann.
Sinking!" He laughed a broken laugh. "I--see the fight beyond the gate!"
Silence swam in the room, over their heads.
Faolan's voice went alone, and hypnotized, into that silence.
He put out his big fists, shook them, opened them. "I see Mannt, and
Aesur and Clev! Fighting as they always fought. I see Conan as he
was. I see Beudag wielding steel again, on the shore! I see the enemy
killed! I see men pouring out of the sea with brown skins and dark
hair. Men I knew a long darkness ago. Men that roved the sea with me.
_I see Rann captured!_" He began to sob with it, his lungs filling and
releasing it, sucking in on it, blowing it out. Tears ran down from his
vacant, blazing eyes. "I see Crom Dhu as it was and is and shall be! _I
see, I see, I see!_"
Starke felt the chill on the back of his neck.
"I see Rann captured and held, and her men dead around her on the land
before the Gate. I see the Gate thrown open--" Faolan halted. He looked
at Starke. "Where are Clev and Mannt? Where is Blucc and Aesur?"
Starke let the fires burn on the hearths a long moment. Then he replied.
"They went back into the sea, Faolan."
Faolan's fingers fell emptily. "Yes," he said, heavily. "They had to
go back, didn't they? They couldn't stay, could they? Not even for one
night of food on the table, and wine in the mouth, and women in the
deep warm furs before the hearth. Not even for one toast." He turned.
"A drink, Romna. A drink for everyone."
Romna gave him a full cup. He dropped it, fell down to his knees,
clawed at his breasts. "My heart!"
"Rann, you sea-devil!"
Starke held her instantly by the throat. He put pressure on the small
raging pulses on either side of her snow-white neck. "Let him go,
Rann!" More pressure. "_Let him go!_" Faolan grunted. Starke held her
until her white face was dirty and strange with death.
It seemed like an hour later when he released her. She fell softly and
did not move. She wouldn't move again.
Starke turned slowly to look at Faolan.
"You saw, didn't you, Faolan?" he said.
Faolan nodded blindly, weakly. He roused himself from the floor,
groping. "I saw. For a moment, I saw everything. And Gods! but it made
good seeing! Here, Hugh-Starke-Called-Conan, give this other side of me
something to lean on."
* * * * *
Beudag and Starke climbed the mountain above Falga the next day. Starke
went ahead a little way, and with his coming the flame birds scattered,
glittering away.
He dug the shallow grave and did what had to be done with the body he
found there, and then when the grave was covered with thick grey stones
he went back for Beudag. They stood together over it. He had never
expected to stand over a part of himself, but here he was, and Beudag's
hand gripped his.
He looked suddenly a million years old standing there. He thought of
Earth and the Belt and Jupiter, of the joy streets in the Jekkara Low
Canals of Mars. He thought of space and the ships going through it, and
himself inside them. He thought of the million credits he had taken in
that last job. He laughed ironically.
"Tomorrow, I'll have the sea creatures hunt for a little metal box full
of credits." He nodded solemnly at the grave. "He wanted that. Or at
least he thought. He killed himself getting it. So if the sea people
find it, I'll send it up here to the mountain and bury it down under
the rocks in his fingers. I guess that's the best place."
Beudag drew him away. They walked down the mountain toward Falga's
harbor where a ship waited them. Walking, Starke lifted his face.
Beudag was with him, and the sails of the ship were rising to take the
wind, and the Red Sea waited for them to travel it. What lay on its far
side was something for Beudag and Faolan-of-the-Ships and Romna and
Hugh-Starke-Called-Conan to discover. He felt damned good about it. He
walked on steadily, holding Beudag near.
And on the mountain, as the ship sailed, the flame birds soared down
fitfully and frustratedly to beat at the stone mound; ceased, and
mourning shrilly, flew away.