“Jhandar’s henchmen are not Hyrkanian,” he shouted against the wind. “They will travel. The storm will hold the galley. We must reach it before the wind does and they put to sea. They, and Yasbet, will surely be aboard by then. If you will not go with me, then I go alone.”

For a long moment there was no sound except the storm, then Akeba said, “Without that ship I may never get Jhandar.”

Tamur’s shoulders heaved in a sigh, silent in the storm. “Baalsham. Almost, with being declared outlaw, did I forget Baalsham. Kaavan understands revenge.”

Sharak turned southward, stumping along leaning heavily on his staff. Conan and Akeba each grabbed one of the old man’s arms to help him over the rough ground, and though he grumbled he did not attempt to pull free. Slowly they moved on.

Raging, the storm battered the coast. Stunted, wind-sculpted trees and great thornbushes swayed and leaned. Rain lashed them, and grit scoured through the air as if in a desert sandstorm. The wind that drove all before it drowned all sound in a demonic cacophony, till no man could hear the blood pounding in his own ears, or even his own thoughts.

It was because of that unceasing noise that Conan looked back often, watching for pursuit. Tamur might claim that no Hyrkanian would venture abroad in the Wrath of Kaavan, but it was the Cimmerian’s experience that men did what they had to and let gods sort out the rights and wrongs later. So it was that he saw his party had grown by one in number, then by two more, and by a fourth. Rain-soaked and wind-ravaged, the grease washing from their lank hair and the filth from their sheepskin coats, the rest of Tamur’s followers staggered out of the storm to join them, faces wreathed in joyous relief at the sight of the others. What had driven them to struggle through the storm—desire for revenge on Jhandar, fear of their pursuers, or terror of facing the Wrath of Kaavan alone? Conan did not care. Their numbers meant a better chance of rescuing Yasbet and taking the galley. With a stony face that boded ill for those he sought, the huge Cimmerian struggled on into the storm.

It was while they were scaling the slope of a thrusting headland, a straggling file of men clinging with their fingernails against being hurled into the sea, that the wind and rain abruptly died. Above the dark clouds roiled, and waves still crashed against cliff and beach, but comparative silence filled the unnaturally still air.

“’Tis done,” Conan called to those below, “and we’ve survived. Not even the wrath of a god can stop us.”

But for all his exuberant air, he began to climb faster. With the storm done the galley could sail. Tamur cried out something, but Conan climbed even faster. Scrambling atop the headland, he darted across, and almost let out a shout of joy. Below a steep drop was a length of beach, and drawn up on it was the galley.

Immediately he dropped to his belly, to avoid watching eyes from below, and wriggled to the edge of the drop. The vessel’s twin masts were dismounted and firmly lashed on frames running fore and aft. No doubt they had had time to do little more before the storm broke on them. Two lines inland to anchors in the dunes, to hold the ship against the action of the waves, and the galley had been winched well up the beach, yet those waves had climbed the

sand as well, and still clawed at the vessel’s sides. Charred planks at the stern, and the blackened stumps of railing, spoke of their first meeting.

As each of the others reached the top of the headland they threw themselves to the ground beside Conan, until a line of men stretched along the rim, peering at the ship below.

“May I roast in Zandru’s Hells, Cimmerian,” Akeba breathed, “but I did not think we’d do it. The end of the storm and the ship, just as you said.”

“The Wrath of Kaavan is not spent,” Tamur said. “That is what I was trying to tell you.”

Conan rolled onto one elbow, wondering if the nomad’s wits had been pounded loose by the storm. “There is no rain, no wind. Where then is the storm?”

Tamur shook his head wearily. “You do not understand, outlander. This is called Kaavan’s Mercy, a time to pray for the dead, and for your life. Soon the rain will come again, as suddenly as it left, and the wind will blow, but this time it will come from the other direction. The shamans say—”

“Erlik take your shamans,” Akeba muttered. The nomads stirred, but were too tired to do more than curse. “If he speaks the truth, Cimmerian, we’re finished. Without rest, a troupe of dancing girls could defeat us, but how can we rest? If we don’t take that ship before this accursed Wrath of Kaavan returns … .” He slumped, chin on his arms, peering at the galley.

“We rest,” Conan said. Drawing back from the edge, Conan crawled to Sharak. The aged astrologer lay like a sack of sodden rags, but he levered himself onto his back when Conan stopped beside him. “Lie easy,” the Cimmerian told him. “We’ll stay here a time.”

“Not on my account,” Sharak rasped. He would have gotten to his feet had Conan not pressed him back. “This adventuring is a wet business, but my courage has not washed away. The girl, Conan. We must see to her. And to Jhandar.”

“We will, Sharak.”

The old man subsided, and Conan turned to face Akeba and Tamur, who had followed him from the rim. The other nomads watched from where they lay.

“What is this talk of waiting?” the Turanian demanded. “Seizing that galley is our only hope.”

“So it is,” Conan agreed, “but not until the storm comes again.”

Tamur gasped. “Attack in the face of the Wrath of Kaavan! Madness!”

“The storm will cover our approach,” Conan explained patiently. “We must take the crew by surprise if we are to capture them.”

“Capture them?” Tamur said incredulously. “They have served Baalsham. We will cut their throats.”

“Can you sail a ship?” Conan asked.

“Ships! I am a Hyrkanian. What care I for …” A poleaxed expression spread over the nomad’s face, and he sank into barely audible curses.

In quick words Conan outlined his plan. “Tell the others,” he finished, and left them squatting there.

Crawling back to the rim, he lowered himself full-length on the hard, wet ground, where he could watch the ship. The vessel could not sail until the storm had passed. With the patience of a great cat watching a herd of antelope draw closer, he waited.

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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