Undoing the strings that held the mouth of his sack, Conan drew out its dry contents: a quiver of arrows, each with rags tied behind the head, and a short, recurved bow. Near him a Hyrkanian, already holding his bow, knocked the top from a clay crock. Within coals glowed dully, hissing from the spray that fell inside the container. A few quick puffs fanned them to crackling flame, and into that fire Conan thrust an arrow. The cloth tied to it burst into flame.
In one swift motion the big Cimmerian turned, nocked, drew and released. The fire arrow flew straight up to the galley, lodging in a mast. His was the signal. A shower of fire arrows followed, peppering the galley.
Conan fired again and again as the two ships drew closer. Though now the galley tried to veer away, Foam Dancer gave chase. On the galley men rushed with buckets of sand to extinguish points of flame, but two blossomed for each that died. Tendrils of fire snaked up tarred ropes, and a great square sail was suddenly aflame, the conflagration whipped by shrieking wind.
“Closer!” Conan called to Muktar. “Close under the stern!”
The bull-necked man muttered, but Foam Dancer curved away from her pursuit, crossing the galley’s wake a short spear-throw from its stern.
Hastily Conan capped the pot of coals, edging it into the oilskin bag with ginger respect for its blistering heat. Once the sack whirled about his head, twice, and then it arcked toward the galley, dropping to its deck unnoticed by men frantically cutting away the flaming sail.
“The oil!” Conan shouted even as the sack fell. He seized another jar, this with its lid sealed in place with pitch, and threw it to smash aboard the galley. “Quickly, before the distance widens!”
More sealed pots flew toward the other vessel. Half fell into tossing water, but the rest landed on the galley’s stern. The two ships diverged, but now the galley’s burning sail was over the side, and her men were turning to Foam Dancer.
Conan pounded his fist on the rail. “Where is it?” he muttered. “Why has nothing—”
Flame exploded in the stern of the galley as spreading oil at last reached the coals that had burned out of the sack. Screams rose from the galley, and wild cheers from the men of Foam Dancer.
In that instant the rains came at last, a solid sh
eet of water that cut off all vision of the other ship. Wind that had howled now raged like a mad beast, and Muktar’s vessel reeled to the hammer blows of waves that towered above her mast.
“Keep us sailing north!” Conan shouted. He had to put his mouth close to Muktar’s ear to be heard, even so.
Straining at the steering oar, the bearded man shook his head. “You do not sail a storm of the Vilayet!” he bellowed. “You survive it!”
And then the wind rose, ripping away even shouted words as they left the mouth, and talk was impossible.
The wind did not abate, nor did the furious waves. Gray mountains of water, their peaks whipped to violent white spray, hurled themselves at Foam Dancer as if the gods themselves, angered by her name, would prove that she could not dance with their displeasure. Those who had dared to pit this cockleshell against the unleashed might of the Vilayet could do naught but cling and wait.
After an endless age, the rains began to slacken and, at last, were gone. The wind that flogged choppy waves to whitecaps became no more than stiff, and whipped away the clouds to reveal a bright gibbous moon hung in a black velvet sky, its pale light half changing day for night. There was neither sight nor hint of the galley.
“The fire consumed it,” Sharak gloated. “Or the storm.”
“Perhaps,” Conan answered doubtfully. An the fire had not been well caught, the storm would have extinguished it. And if Foam Dancer could ride that tempest, then the galley, if well handled, could have too. To Muktar, who had returned the steering oar to the steersman, he said, “Find the coast. We must find how far we’ve gone astray.”
“By dawn,” the bearded man announced confidently. He seemed to feel that the battle with the sea had been his alone; the victory had put even more swagger into his walk.
Yasbet, approaching, laid a hand on Conan’s arm. “I must speak with you,” she said softly.
“And I with you,” he replied grimly. “What in Mitra’s name did you mean by—”
But she was walking away, motioning for him to follow, stepping carefully among the night-shrouded shapes of men who had collapsed where they stood from exhaustion. Growling fearsome oaths under his breath, Conan stalked after her. She disappeared into the pale shadow of her sagging tent, its heavy fabric hanging low from the pounding of the storm. Furiously jerking aside the flap, he ducked inside, and had to kneel for lack of headroom.
“Why did you leave where I put you?” he demanded. “And how? I made that knot too firm for your fingers to pick. You could have been killed, you fool wench! And you told me you’d stay there. Promised it!”
She faced his anger, if not calmly at least unflinchingly. “Indeed your fingers wove a strong knot, but the sharp blade you gave me cut it nicely. As to why, you have taught me to defend myself. How could I do that lashed like a bundle for the laundress? And I did not promise. I said I would be waiting for you when the battle was done. Did I not better that? I came to find you.”
“I remember a promise!” he thundered. “And you broke it!”
Disconcertingly, she smiled and said quietly, “Your cloak is wet through.” Delicate fingers unfastened the bronze pin that held the garment, and soft arms snaked about his neck as she pushed the cloak from his shoulders. Sensuous lips brushed the line of his jaw, his ear.
“Stop that,” he growled, pushing her away. “You’ll not distract me from my purpose. Had I a switch to hand, you would think yourself better off in your amah’s grasp.”
With an exasperated sigh she leaned on one arm, frowning at him. “But you have no switch,” she said. As he stared in amazement, she undid the laces of her jerkin and drew it over her head. Full, rounded breasts swung free, shimmering satin flesh that dried his throat. “Still,” she went on, “your hand is hard, and your arm strong. I have no doubt it will suffice for your—purpose, did you call it?” Boots and trousers joined the jerkin. Twisting on her knees to face away from him, she pressed her face to the deck.
Conan swallowed hard. Those lush buttocks of honeyed ivory would have brought sweat to the face of a statue, and he was all too painfully aware at that moment that he was flesh and blood. “Cover yourself, girl,” he said hoarsely, “and stop this game. ’Tis dangerous, for I am no girl’s toy.”