Motioning the others to follow, the big Cimmerian left Muktar muttering into his beard and peering at the ship behind.
In the waist of the ship Conan took a place by the rail where he, too, could watch the galley. It seemed larger, now. Tamur joined them.
“It follows us,” Conan said quietly.
“Baalsham,” the Hyrkanian snarled at the same instant that Akeba, nodding, said, “Jhandar.”
Sharak shook his staff at the galley with surprising fierceness. “Let him send his demons. I am ready for them.”
Tamur’s dark eyes shone. “This time we will carve him as a haunch of beef if he has a thousand demons.”
Conan met Akeba’s gaze. It seemed more likely that those on Foam Dancer would be meat on a spit.
“How many men does such a vessel carry?” the Turanian asked. “I know little of naval matters.”
Conan’s own knowledge of the sea was limited to his short time with the smugglers in Sultanapur, but he had been pursued by such vessels before. “There are two banks of oars to a side, but the oar-slaves will not be used to fight. A vessel of that size might carry five score besides the crew.”
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the rigging lines humming in the rising wind. Then Sharak said hollowly, “So many? This adventuring begins to seem ill-suited for a man of my years.”
“By the One-Father, I shall die happy,” Tamur said, “an I know Baalsham goes with me into the long night.”
Akeba shook his head bleakly. “He will not be on this ship. Such men send others to do their killing. But at least we shall find blood enough to pay our ferryman’s fee, eh, Cimmerian?”
“It will be a glorious fight in which to die,” Tamur agreed.
“I do not intend to die yet,” the Cimmerian said grimly.
“The storm,” Sharak said, his words holding a new excitement. “The storm will hide us.” The clouds were thicker now, and darker, obscuring the lowering sun.
“Mayhap,” Conan replied. “But we will not depend on that.
The god of the icy peaks and wind-ravaged crags of Conan’s Cimmerian homeland was Crom, Dark Lord of the Mound, who gave a man life and will, and nothing more. It was given to each man to carry his own fate in his hands and his heart and his head.
Conan strode aft to Muktar, who still stood gazing at the galley. The bronze glint of its ram could be seen plainly now, knifing through gray swells. “Will they reach us before night falls?” Conan asked the captain. “Or before the storm breaks?”
“The storm may never break,” Muktar muttered. “On the Vilayet lightning may come from a sky where the sun was bright an instant before, or clouds may darken for days, then lift without a drop of rain. Do you lose me my ship, Cimmerian, I?
?ll see your corpse.”
“It was in my mind you were a sea captain,” Conan taunted, “not an old woman wanting only to play with her grandchildren.” He waited for Muktar’s neck to swell with anger and his face empurple, then went on. “Listen. We may all be saved. For as long as we are able, we must run before them. Then … .”
As Conan spoke the dark color slowly left Muktar’s face. Once he blanched, and tried to stop the Cimmerian’s flow of words, but Conan would not pause for the other’s objections. He pressed on, and after a time Muktar began to listen intently, then to nod.
“It may work,” he said finally. “By Dagon’s Golden Tail, it may just work. See to your nomads, Cimmerian.” Whirling with more agility that would have seemed possible, the bulky captain roared, “To me, you whoreson dogs! To me, and listen to how I’ll save your worthless hides still another time!”
“What in Mitra’s name is that all about?” Akeba asked when Conan was back at the rail.
As Muktar’s voice rose and fell in waves, haranguing the crew in the stern, Conan told his companions what he planned.
A grin appeared on Sharak’s thin face, and he broke into a little dance. “We have them. We have them. What a grand adventure!”
Tamur’s smile was wolfish. “Whether we escape or die, this will be a thing to be told around the campfires. Come, Turanian, and show us if any remnant of Hyrkanian blood remains in you.” With a wry shake of his head Akeba followed Tamur to join the other nomads.
It was done then, Conan thought. Nothing remained but … Yasbet. Even as her name came into his head, she was there before him. Her soft round eyes caressed his face.
“I heard,” she said. “Where is my place in this?”
“I will make you a place in the midst of the bales,” he told her, “where you will be safe. From archers or slingers, at least.”