Абрахам Меррит - The Ship of Ishtar

"But how will you get away? How find us?" groaned Kenton. "You say yourself that without Gigi's help you cannot swing from the window!"

"No," answered Zubran. "But I can make me a rope out of these bed coverings and the hangings. I can slip down that rope to the steps I glimpsed beneath me. And one may escape where five could not. I remember the road through the city and that road we took when we came out of the trees. Wait you there for me."

"They are very close, Kenton!" called Sharane softly. Kenton ran to the doorway. A dozen steps below crept the soldiers, a score of them, treading noiselessly two by two, small shields ready, swords in hands; behind them a little knot of priests, yellow–robed and black–robed and among the black robes—Klaneth.

Crouched against the wall at Sharane's right was Sigurd, hidden but set for swift guarding of her. The Persian dropped at Kenton's left, pressed close to the wall where those who came forward might not see him.

"Cover the brazier," whispered Kenton. "Put it out. Best have no light behind us."

The Persian took it, but he did not touch the cover that would have killed the fires within. Instead, he shook it, covered the flame with embers, set it in a corner where the faint glow of the coals could not be seen.

The feet of the first pair of soldiers were almost on the top step, their hands reached out to draw aside the coverings of the narrow door.

"Now!" breathed Kenton to Sharane. He tore the curtains down. They stood, she in her white robes of priestess, he in the golden panoply of the god, confronting the soldiers. And they, paralyzed by that unexpected apparition, gaped at the twain.

Before they could recover from surprise Sharane's blade flashed, Kenton's sword struck like bolt of thin blue lightning. Down went the two leaders. Ere the man he had slain could fall, Kenton had snatched the shield from his arm, passed it to Sharane; slashed down again at the warriors behind.

"For Ishtar!" he heard Sharane cry—and saw her sword bite deep.

"The woman! The priest! Take them!" came the roar of Klaneth.

Down bent Kenton, raised a fallen soldier in his arms and hurled him straight into the pack. The body flailed them—as though alive! Down they went before it—rolling, cursing; down the flight they fell, soldiers and priests, Some there were who crashed into the slender railing, tore gaps in it, dropped and plunged like plummets through the mists to be broken on the floor of Bel's House so far below.

Back Kenton leaped; caught Sharane in his arms, tossed her to Sigurd.

"To the window!" he bade. "Give her to Gigi!"

He darted before them; opened the pane. Far away now the lightnings glimmered; blackness had given way to darkest twilight; the rain still hissed in sheets driven by the howling wind. In that dark twilight he saw the dripping arms of Gigi stretched out round the Bower's corner. He dropped back. The Viking slid past him, Sharane in his grip. For an instant she hung in air; she was caught by Gigi. She was drawn from sight.

There was a shouting from the inner stairway. The soldiers had rallied; were rushing up. Kenton saw Sigurd and the Persian lifting the heavy couch, throwing off its coverings, tilting it. They rocked it to the doorway, shoved it through, sent it crashing down the steps. There was another shouting, cries of agony, groanings. The bed had swept the men before it as a well hurled ball does the wooden pins. It had swept and crushed them—had swung across the stairway at turn of the highest lesser–angled ledge and had jammed there against the golden–roped rail —a barricade.

"Go Sigurd," cried Kenton. "Wait for us by the woods. I fight here with Zubran."

The Persian looked at him, a light of affection such as Kenton had never before seen there softening the agate eyes. He nodded to Sigurd.

As though it had been a signal prearranged, the Viking's arms were instantly around Kenton. Strong as he had grown, Kenton could not break their grip. And Zubran whisked the golden helm of Bel from his head and set it on his own; tore loose the golden buckler, dropped his own coat of mail and fastened it in its place; took the scarlet–threaded mantle of the god and wrapped it half around his mouth, hiding his beard.

Then Kenton was carried like a struggling child to the window; was thrust out of it; was caught by Gigi and dropped beside the weeping Sharane.

The Viking turned and folded the Persian in his arms.

"No waiting, Northman! No sentiment now!" Zubran snapped, breaking away. "There can be no escape for me—you know that, Sigurd. The rope? Words—to satisfy the Wolf! I love him. The rope? Why, they would slide down it behind me like snakes. Am I a trembling hare to lead the hounds to the hiding places of my kind? Not I! Now go, Sigurd—and when you have gotten clear of the city tell them. And make for the ship as quickly as you can."

Said the Viking, solemn: "Shield maidens are close! Odin takes the hero, no matter what his race! You sup with Odin All–Father in Valhalla soon, Persian!"

"May he have dishes that I have never tasted," jested the Persian. "Out of the window, Norseman!"

And Zubran holding his knees, the Viking crawled out, and was caught by Gigi.

Then down the terraces, Sigurd leading, Sharane covered by Gigi's great cloak, Kenton cursing still, flew the four of them.

THE PERSIAN did not close the window after them. He let the wind stream through. He swaggered back through Bel's Bower.

"By all the Daevas!" swore Zubran, "never have I known such feeling of freedom as now! Lo—I am all alone–the last man in the world! None can help me, none can counsel me, none can weary me! Life is simple at last—all there is to it is for me to slay until I am slain. By Ormuzd —how my spirit stands on tiptoe—"

He peered around the doorway.

"Never has that couch given man such trouble to mount!" he chuckled as he watched the soldiers below working to clear away the barrier.

Turning, he piled in the middle of Bel's Bower the silken coverings of the bed. He ripped down the wall hangings and threw them on the heap. One by one he took the lamps and emptied them on the pyre; the oil in the ewers beneath them he poured upon it.

"That old world of mine," mused the Persian as he worked, "how it wearied me! And this world has wearied me—by the Flame of Sacrifice, but it has! And I am sure that new world of the Wolf's would weary me most of all. I am done with the three of them."

He picked up the body of the Priest of Bel, carried it to the window.

"It will puzzle Klaneth more to find you outside than within," he laughed, and slid the body over the sill.

He stood over the dancer.

"So beautiful!" whispered Zubran, and touched her lips, her breasts. "I wonder how you died—and why. It must have been amusing—that! I had no time to ask the Wolf. Well—you shall sleep with me, dancer. And perhaps when we awaken—if we do—you shall tell me."

He stretched Narada out upon the oil–soaked pile. He took the smoking brazier and placed it close beside her…

There was a roaring from below; a trampling of feet on the stairway. Up streamed the soldiers, stronger now by scores. An instant Zubran showed himself at the doorway, Bel's golden mantle twisted round his neck, half hiding his face.

"The priest! The priest!" they cried—and Klaneth's voice bellowed over all—

"The priest! Slay him!"

The Persian stepped back to the cover of the wall, smiling. He picked up the shield Sharane had dropped.

Through the narrow doorway a soldier leaped, a second on his heels.

The scimitar hissed twice, swift as swiftest snake. The two fell under the feet of those pressing from behind, tripping them, confusing them.