Абрахам Меррит - The Ship of Ishtar

"Good!" Kenton, and dropped down to the deck; stood beside Sharane and Gigi.

And Gigi grunted approval and walked away to test once more the crossbows. But Sharane locked mailed arms around Kenton's neck and drew his face close to hers and drank him with wistful eyes that seemed as though they could not drink enough of him. "Is it the end, beloved?" she whispered. "There shall be no end—for us, O heart of mine," he answered.

They stood so, silent, while the second star point wheeled by. And now the third leveled its tip at them and Sigurd cried out to raise oars; and when the ship had swam a hundred yards or so, brought her sharply around. He called to him the overseer.

"We strike at the bireme's left bank of oars," he said. "No wish have I to run risk of splitting the ship on that edge of rock. When I shout, draw in your left sweeps. When we have sheared and passed, whip the slaves again into full speed. When we have rammed, reverse oars and pull free. Is it clear?"

The black's eyes glistened; he bared white teeth; ran back to the pit.

Now from beyond the great stone wedge came faint rasp of sweeps, splashings of oars. Two of the warrior women sped back to Sigurd, crouched beside him, arrows ready at slits of the high shields. A tenseness gripped the ship.

"One kiss," whispered Sharane, eyes now misty. Their lips clung.

Nearer came the oar sounds, closer, closer—faster–speeding―

A low whistle from the Viking, and the rowers bent back under sting of whip. A dozen strong strokes and the ship leaped like a dolphin straight for the star tip.

Past tip it shot; heeled as the Viking threw the rudder sharp to port.

Ten ship lengths ahead of them was the bireme, racing on its four fold multiple feet of oars like an enormous water spider. And as the ship flashed out and at it a roar arose from its crowded decks, a shouting confused and clamorous, medley of wild commands—and filling all that clamor, bewilderment.

The oars of the bireme faltered; stopped at midstroke; held rigid, just touching sea.

"Faster!" howled Sigurd and as the pit's whip cracked, he drove with a twist of the rudder the ship down parallel to the course of the galley.

"In oars!" he howled again—

The prow of the Ship of Ishtar struck the bireme's port oars. It swept through them like a blade through brittle stubble. Broken, splintered, the long shafts fell, holding back the rush of the Ship of Ishtar as little as though they had been straws. But in the bireme those who gripped the great handles fell back with ribs crushed, backs snapped, as the heavy stocks were flung against them.

Up from the ship's side as it passed, up into the ranks staring down on it, ranks turned wooden with surprise of that unexpected attack, hissed the fireballs from the crossbows. Hissing like serpents of fire, expanding as the air fanned them, the fire–balls struck—hurling back the soldiers, searing them, flaming up as they fell on deck and into open hold and touching with fingers of inextinguishable flame all that would burn.

Again the galley roared—and now with terror in its voice.

The Ship of Ishtar was clear; down thrust the withdrawn oars of it; straight ahead she flew into the wider space beyond the star tip of stone and circling wall. Swift once more the Viking turned her. Back. raced the ship upon the bireme.

And the bireme swung helplessly, sidled grotesquely like a huge spider from one of whose sides all legs have been cut, slithered like that same spider toward the knife–edged tip of the stone star ray. From hold and deck little columns of smoke swirled.

Now Sigurd realized all that galley's peril; saw that it was close to piercing stone ray; saw that he might drive it upon that ray; send stone blade biting into it; destroy it.

"Guard bow!" shouted Sigurd.

He threw back the rudder, made wider turn, hurtled upon the galley not at stern as he had planned but far toward midship. The ram of Ishtar's ship struck and bit deep; prow too. Under the shock Kenton and the others toppled over and before they could set foot on bow fell prone on faces, clutching at deck.

Beneath the blow the bireme reeled, heeled until the seas sucked over its farther side. Down dipped its starboard oars seeking to thrust back from the menacing stone. The sweeps churned, but under the weight of the ship clinging to its flank, its bow turned sharply in.

It struck the knife edge of the rock.

There was a crackling as rock bit through hull.

"Ho!" roared the Viking. "Drown, you rats!"

Down upon the ship whistled an arrow cloud. The shafts shrilled over Kenton, staggering to his feet. They pierced deck and pit. Before the rowers could back sweeps, pull free, they dropped, hung limp over oars, bristling with quivering bolts.

On the ship's bow fell a dozen grapples, holding it fast to the wrecked galley. Ropes whirled and sliding down them came the swordsmen.

"Back! Back to me!" shouted Sigurd.

The bireme shuddered, its gashed bow slid down the rock edge for a dozen feet or more, the water pouring over its fore deck. Up from the sea bobbed heads of soldiers, washed away and swimming for the ship. On the deck of the bireme a milling began as those on it fought to drop upon the ship.

"Back!" cried Kenton.

He caught Sharane's arm; they ran with heads bent low as from the steerman's place the arrows of Sigurd and his flanking maids winged into the mass of men swarming over the rosy cabin.

The bireme slipped again along the cleaving edge of stone; checked fall with bow half under water, yet held by the ship's ram. But that last slipping had wrenched sharply down the ship's own prisoned bow. As the deck tilted Kenton fell, dragging Sharane with him. He caught swift glimpse of men dropping from the bireme's side; throwing themselves into the sea, striking for the ship.

He scrambled to his feet as the soldiers at the bow rushed. And now Gigi sprang past him, twirling his great mace. Kenton leaped to his side, Sharane at his heels.

"Back! Back to Sigurd!" grunted the Ninevite, club sweeping the soldiers before it like a flail among wheat.

"Too late!" cried Sharane.

Too late!

Men were swarming up the stern chains, clambering up from the sea, tearing away the shields.

From the bireme came a howling, frenzied and beastlike. At its sound even the soldiers halted, Gigi's mace hung in air.

Then upon the Ship of Ishtar leaped—the black priest!

Pale eyes pools of hell fire, mouth an open square from which black hate flew screaming, he hurled himself through the swordsmen, dived under Gigi's falling mace and flung himself on Kenton.

But Kenton was ready.

Out flashed the blue blade and met the thrust of the black priest's sword. Quicker than he, that sword swept back, bit into that old wound in his side!

Kenton staggered, hilt half dropping from his hand.

Howling triumph Klaneth swept down the death blow.

Before it could fall Sharane had thrown herself between Kenton and priest, had parried the stroke with her own sword.

The left hand of the black priest shot out, dagger in its grip. He buried that dagger in Sharane's breast!

Now all the world was but one red flame before Kenton—one red flame in which was nothing but Klaneth's face. Ere the black priest could move, swifter than the lightning stroke, Kenton had struck.

His sword bit down, shearing away half the black priest's face, leaving in place of cheek and jowl, only a red smear—swept on half through his shoulder.

The black priest's sword clanged upon the deck.

The sword of Kenton bit again—straight through his neck.

The head of Klaneth leaped from his shoulders, struck the rail and whirled into the sea. For another instant the gross bulk of the body stood, the neck spouting. The body crashed.