Her dark eyes opened wide, her red lips parted in an O of surprise. The intruder was a stranger to her. Water ran in rivulets from his great shoulders and down his heavy arms. His single garment-a pair of bright crimson silk breeks- was soaking wet, as was his broad gold-buckled girdle and the sheathed sword it supported. As he stood at the rail, the rising sun etched him like a great bronze statue. He ran his fingers through his streaming black mane, and his blue eyes lit as they rested on the girl.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "Whence did you come?"
He made a gesture toward the sea that took in a whole quarter of the compa.s.s, while his eyes did not leave her supple figure.
"Are you a merman, that you rise up out of the sea?" she asked, confused by the candor of his gaze, though she was accustomed to admiration.
Before he could reply, a quick step sounded on the boards, and the master of the carack was glaring at the stranger, fingers twitching at a sword-hilt.
"Who the devil are you, sirrah?" this one demanded in no friendly tone.
"I am Conan," the other answered imperturbably. Sancha p.r.i.c.ked up her ears anew; she had never heard Zingaran spoken with such an accent as the stranger spoke it.
"And how did you get aboard my ship?" The voice grated with suspicion.
"I swam."
"Swam!" exclaimed the master angrily. "Dog, would you jest with me? We are far beyond sight of land. Whence do you come?"
Conan pointed with a muscular brown arm toward the east, banded in dazzling gold by a lifting sun.
"I came from the Islands."
"Oh!" The other regarded him with increased interest. Black brows drew down over scowling eyes, and the thin lip lifted unpleasantly.
"So you are one of those dogs of the Barachans."
A faint smile touched Conan"s lips.
"And do you know who I am?" his questioner demanded.
"This ship is the Wastrel; so you must be Zaporavo."
"Aye!" It touched the captain"s grim vanity that the man should know him. He was a tall man, tall as Conan, though of leaner build. Framed in his steel morion, his face was dark, saturnine, and hawk-like, wherefore men called him the Hawk. His armor and garments were rich and ornate, after the fashion of a Zingaran grandee. His hand was never far from his sword-hilt.
There was little favor in the gaze he bent on Conan. Little love was lost between the Zingaran renegades and the outlaws who infested the Baracha Islands off the southern coast of Zingara. These men were mostly sailors from Argos, with a sprinkling of other nationalities.
They raided the shipping, and harried the Zingaran coast towns, just as the Zingaran buccaneers did, but these dignified their profession by calling themselves Freebooters, while they dubbed the Barachans pirates. They were neither the first nor the last to gild the name of thief.
Some of these thoughts pa.s.sed through Zaporavo"s mind as he toyed with his sword-hilt and scowled at his uninvited guest. Conan gave no hint of what his own thoughts might be. He stood with folded arms as placidly as if upon his own deck; his lips smiled and his eyes were untroubled.
"What are you doing here?" the Freebooter demanded abruptly.
"I found it necessary to leave the rendezvous at Tortage before moonrise last night," answered Conan. "I departed in a leaky boat, and rowed and bailed all night. Just at dawn I saw your topsails, and left the miserable tub to sink, while I made better speed in the water."
"There are sharks in these waters," growled Zaporavo, and was vaguely irritated by the answering shrug of the mighty shoulders. A glance toward the waist showed a screen of eager faces staring upward. A word would send them leaping up on the p.o.o.p in a storm of swords that would overwhelm even such a fighting-man as the stranger looked to be.
"Why should I burden myself with every nameless vagabond the sea casts up?" snarled Zaporavo, his look and manner more insulting than his words.
"A ship can always use another good sailor," answered the other without resentment. Zaporavo scowled, knowing the truth of that a.s.sertion. He hesitated, and doing so, lost his ship, his command, his girl, and his life. But of course he could not see into the future, and to him Conan was only another wastrel, cast up, as he put it, by the sea. He did not like the man; yet the fellow had given him no provocation. His manner was not insolent, though rather more confident than Zaporavo liked to see.
"You"ll work for your keep," snarled the Hawk. "Get off the p.o.o.p. And remember, the only law here is my will."
The smile seemed to broaden on Conan"s thin lips. Without hesitation but without haste he turned and descended into the waist He did not look again at Sancha, who, during the brief conversation, had watched eagerly, all eyes and ears.
As he came into the waist the crew thronged about him -Zingarans, all of them, half naked, their gaudy silk garments splashed with tar, jewels glinting in earrings and dagger-hilts. They were eager for the time-honored sport of baiting the stranger. Here he would be tested, and his future status in the crew decided. Up on the p.o.o.p Zaporavo had apparently already forgotten the stranger"s existence, but Sancha watched, tense with interest. She had become familiar with such scenes, and knew the baiting would be brutal and probably b.l.o.o.d.y.
But her familiarity with such matters was scanty compared to that of Conan. He smiled faintly as he came into the waist and saw the menacing figures pressing truculently about him. He paused and eyed the ring inscrutably, his composure unshaken. There was a certain code about these things. If he had attacked the captain, the whole crew would have been at this throat, but they would give him a fair chance against the one selected to posh the brawl.
The man chosen for this duty thrust himself forward- a wiry brute, with a crimson sash knotted about his head like a turban. His lean chin jutted out, his scarred face was evil beyond belief. Every glance, each swaggering movement was an affront. His way of beginning the baiting was as primitive, raw, and crude as himself.
"Baracha, eh?" he sneered. "That"s where they raise dogs for men. We of the Fellowship spit on "em-like this!"
He spat in Conan"s face and s.n.a.t.c.hed at his own sword.
The Barachan"s movement was too quick for the eye to follow. His sledge-like fist crunched with a terrible impact against his tormentor"s jaw, and the Zingaran catapulted through the air and fell in a crumpled heap by the rail.
Conan turned toward the others. But for a slumbering glitter in his eyes, his bearing was unchanged. But the baiting was over as suddenly as it had begun. The seamen lifted their companion; his broken jaw hung slack, his head lolled unnaturally.
"By Mitra, his neck"s broken!" swore a black-bearded sea-rogue.
"You Freebooters are a weak-boned race," laughed the pirate. "On the Barachas we take no account of such taps as that. Will you play at sword-strokes, now, any of you? No? Then all"s well, and we"re friends, eh?"
There were plenty of tongues to a.s.sure him that he spoke truth. Brawny arms swung the dead man over the rail, and a dozen fins cut the water as he sank. Conan laughed and spread his mighty arms as a great cat might stretch itself, and his gaze sought the deck above. Sancha leaned over the rail, red lips parted, dark eyes aglow with interest. The sun behind her outlined her lithe figure through the light kirtle which its glow made transparent Then across her fell Zaporavo"s scowling shadow and a heavy hand fell possessively on her slim shoulder. There were menace and meaning in the glare he bent on the man in the waist; Conan grinned back, as if at a jest none knew but himself.
Zaporavo made the mistake so many autocrats make; alone in somber grandeur on the p.o.o.p, he underestimated the man below him. He had his opportunity to fall Conan, and he let it pa.s.s, engrossed in his own gloomy ruminations. He did not find it easy to think any of the dogs beneath his feet const.i.tuted a menace to him. He had stood in the high places so long, and had ground so many foes underfoot, that he unconsciously a.s.sumed himself to be above the machinations of inferior rivals.
Conan, indeed, gave him no provocation. He mixed with the crew, lived and made merry as they did. He proved himself a skilled sailor, and by far the strongest man any of them had seen. He did the work of three men, and was always first to spring to any heavy or dangerous task. His mates began to rely upon him. He did not quarrel with them, and they were careful not to quarrel with them. He gambled with them, putting up his girdle and sheath for a stake, won their money and weapons, and gave them back with a laugh. The crew instinctively looked toward him as the leader of the forecastle. He vouchsafed no information as to what had caused him to flee the Barachas, but the knowledge that he was capable of a deed b.l.o.o.d.y enough to have exiled him from that wild band increased the respect felt toward him by the fierce Freebooters. Toward Zaporavo and the mates he was imperturbably courteous, never insolent or servile.
The dullest was struck by the contrast between the harsh, taciturn, gloomy commander, and the pirate whose laugh was gusty and ready, who roared ribald songs in a dozen languages, guzzled ale like a toper, and-apparently -had no thought for the morrow.
Had Zaporavo known he was being compared, even though unconsciously, with a man before the mast, he would have been speechless with amazed anger. But he was engrossed with his broodings, which had become blacker and grimmer as the years crawled by, and with his vague grandiose dreams; and with the girl whose possession was a bitter pleasure, just as all his pleasures were.
And she looked more and more at the black-maned giant who towered among his mates at work or play. He never spoke to her, but there was no mistaking the candor of his gaze. She did not mistake it, and she wondered if she dared the perilous game of leading him on.
No great length of time lay between her and the palaces of Kordava, but it was as if a world of change separated her from the life she had lived before Zaporavo tore her screaming from the flaming caravel his wolves had plundered. She, who had been the spoiled and petted daughter of the Duke of Kordava, learned what it was to be a buccaneer"s plaything, and because she was supple enough to bend without breaking, she lived where other women had died, and because she was young and vibrant with life, she came to find pleasure in the existence.
The life was uncertain, dream-like, with sharp contrasts of battle, pillage, murder, and flight, Zaporavo"s red visions made it even more uncertain than that of the average Freebooter. No one knew what he planned next. Now they had left all charted coasts behind and were plunging further and further into that unknown, billowy waste ordinarily shunned by seafarers, and into which, since the beginnings of time, ships had ventured, only to vanish from the sight of man for ever. All known lands lay behind them, and day upon day the blue, surging immensity lay empty to their sight. Here there was no loot-no towns to sack nor ships to burn. The men murmured, though they did not let their murmurings reach the ears of their implacable master, who tramped the p.o.o.p day and night in gloomy majesty, or pored over ancient charts and time-yellowed maps, reading in tomes that were crumbling ma.s.ses of worm-eaten parchment. At times he talked to Sancha, wildly it seemed to her, of lost continents, and fabulous isles dreaming unguessed amidst the blue foam of nameless gulfs, where horned dragons guarded treasures gathered by pre-human kings, long, long ago.
Sancha listened, uncomprehending, hugging her slim knees, her thoughts constantly roving away from the words of her grim companion back to a clean-limbed bronze giant whose laughter was gusty and elemental as the sea-wind.
So, after many weary weeks, they raised land to westward, and at dawn dropped anchor in a shallow bay, and saw a beach which was like a white ban4 bordering an expanse of gentle gra.s.sy slopes, masked by green trees. The wind brought scents of fresh vegetation and spices, and Sancha clapped her hands with glee at the prospect of adventuring ash.o.r.e. But her eagerness turned to sulkiness when Zaporavo ordered her to remain aboard until he sent for her. He never gave any explanation for his commands; so she never knew his reason, unless it was the lurking devil in him that frequently made him hurt her without cause.
So she lounged sulkily on the p.o.o.p and watched the men row ash.o.r.e through the calm water that sparkled like liquid jade in the morning sunlight She saw them bunch together on the sands, suspicious, weapons ready, while several scattered out through the trees that fringed the beach. Among these, she noted, was Conan. There was no mistaking that tall brown figure with its springy step. Men said he was no civilized man at all, but a Cimmerian, one of those barbaric tribesmen who dwelt in the gray mils of the far North, and whose raids struck terror in the southern neighbors. At least, she knew that there was something about him, some super-vitality or barbarism that set him apart from his wild mates.
Voices echoed along the sh.o.r.e, as the silence rea.s.sured the buccaneers.
The cl.u.s.ters broke up, as men scattered along the beach in search of fruit She saw them climbing and plucking among the trees, and her pretty mouth watered. She stamped a little foot and swore with a proficiency acquired by a.s.sociation with her blasphemous companions.
The men on sh.o.r.e had indeed found fruit, and were gorging on it finding one unknown golden-skinned variety especially luscious. But Zaporavo did not seek or eat fruit His scouts having found nothing indicating men or beasts in the neighborhood, he stood staring inland, at the long reaches of gra.s.sy slopes melting into one another. Then, with a brief word, he shifted his sword-belt and strode in under the trees. His mate expostulated with him against going alone, and was rewarded by a savage blow in the mouth. Zaporavo had his reasons for wishing to go alone. He desired to learn if this island were indeed that mentioned in the mysterious Book of Skelos, whereon, nameless sages aver, strange monsters guard crypts filled with hieroglyph-carven gold. Nor, for murky reasons of his own, did he wish to share his knowledge, if it were true, with any one, much less his own crew.