Conan of the Red Brotherhood Read online

  “A palace, ha!” Olivia’s voice lashed out humourless, sharp with resentment. “Splendid dreams indeed for a savage freebooter, who would rather be untrammelled by women—or for a wayward snipe like yourself, with nowhere to go but up! I, too, have heard such maunderings... enough that I want no more of them!” Her dark hair tossing with anger, she looked up to meet her cabin-mate’s gaze at last, her eyes burning like oven coals. “If you think Conan will build you a castle on the surf-washed sands of the Vilayet, then you deserve to live with pirates!”

  “But I... we... could help him accomplish those dreams. He needs our aid!” Philiope came forward around the table to beseech Olivia. “What if he is in danger now, adrift or wounded along the north coast, dying for lack of our help? We should be there at his side, not sailing back to Djafur without him.”

  The Ophirean laughed harshly. “If you know Conan, you know that no one cares less for his safety than he himself does. He is blind to danger. Yet likely no great harm will come to him. He can take care of himself, better than he does his luckless women. He has more lives in him than a deep-sea turtle.”

  “Olivia, you are wrong to think he does not care for you... for us.” Rounding the table, Philiope confronted the Ophirean where she sat gazing up. “He has provided amply for you, I can see, and will continue to do so while he lives. Though he is wayward and fierce, there is much love in him, and kindness too—enough for both of us, I am sure.”

  “If only I am willing to share him with you, you mean.” Olivia’s black-eyed gaze rested on her, unwavering in the swaying light of the overhead oil lantern.

  “Yes, and why not? Multiple wives, even harems, are the rule here in the eastern kingdoms. Perhaps such is not a custom where you were raised, in Ophir... but truly, such a household can be full of love. It is not really so bad.” Reaching forward, she laid a hand on the seated woman’s shoulder.

  “Permit him his hankering for a younger, fairer maiden, you mean.” Letting go the stock of her crossbow, Olivia reached up to pat Philiope’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. “Accept it graciously, then, and share Conan with you? No, never!”

  With a spring-steel grip, she clutched the other woman’s wrist and lunged to her feet, twisting savagely. Philiope, crying out in pain, was borne aside and down, to stagger hard against the bulkhead. Slighter than her attacker and less accustomed to the surging roll of the close-hauled ship, the noble maid was soon overpowered; Olivia, working swiftly and expertly with a thong from the tabletop, bound her slender wrists together before her and cross-tied them firmly. Then, dragging the helpless woman across the cabin by the excess length of thong, paying no heed to her sobbing shrieks, she drew the cord over a stanchion high in the stem comer and made her fast there, wrists raised above her head.

  A gruff voice was heard. “Ahoy the cabin... Mistress Olivia, is all well with you?” Thumps and rattlings sounded from the door to the main deck. “I thought I heard a cry in there,” came Ivanos’s voice. “Is aught amiss?”

  Striding back to the table, Olivia snatched up her crossbow and turned to the doorway. “Nay, Captain, all is well.” Jerking aside three separate latches, she swung the door half-open so that its bulk obscured the wall of the room where Philiope hung gasping. With her weapon plainly visible at her side, Olivia confronted Ivanos and a second pirate through the hatchway. ‘ ‘I have matters under control here. Like any prisoner, this cheeky wench feels rebellious at times, and threatens escape. But it is in my power to discipline her.”

  “Oh, Ivanos, help me, please!” Philiope’s cries were broken by reedy sobs. “Cut me loose... protect me, and Amra will reward you!”

  “Ha! Listen to her, will you?” Olivia sneered. “What wiles these noble girls can command! She’ll soon be singing another tune.”

  “Mmm, so that is the way of it.” Ivanos, flushed and uneasy-looking, craned his neck as if to peer around the door; but he had simultaneously to watch the prongs of Olivia’s gang-bow idling down near his loins. “Conan does not want the girl killed or... hurt.”

  Olivia laughed again. “No, I would not slay the miserable wretch unnecessarily, though I do hope to be rid of her soon, for a fat ransom! Captain Ivanos, where do we now lie?”

  “In the East Strait, Olivia.” The burly pirate looked somewhat reassured. “We are nearing Djafur.”

  “Good, then! For the time—” she shot a meaningful glance sideways “—you may ignore any sounds you hear from this cabin. Pay them no heed. Try to listen at the door jamb and you will get a knife blade through your ear! When we weather the cape, sail safe into harbour and drop anchor, but come to me before sending anyone ashore. Understood?”

  “Aye.” The pirate was still wagging his head in uncertainty as Olivia shut the door in his face. After latching it securely, she turned to Philiope.

  “Now then, little hussy, what was I saying to you? Oh, yes!” Going to the worktable and laying down her crossbow, Olivia rummaged among the tools and scraps to find two items. One was a knife—a long, gleaming poniard, its blade a handspan in length and wickedly pointed. The other was a coarse, tapering braid work of thongs, secured at the end with a thick knot—an arm-long horsewhip, frayed and shortened with rough use, but far from unserviceable. Clutching one implement in either hand, she turned from the table and stalked toward her bounds captive.

  “So, a shameless slut like you intends to share equally in my husband’s regard!” Raising the knife point to Philiope’s nape, she slit through the neck of her gown, then dragged the blade-tip downward with a shredding noise, stripping the fabric away from her prisoner’s back. The noble maid’s gasps and shrieks went unheeded, and her plunging efforts to dodge free, tethered as she was in the low comer with barely enough room to stand upright, availed her nothing. Again the blade tore at her garments, and again, till the captive’s bright clothing lay in ribbons about her bare ankles and mere forlorn shreds remained to drape the girl’s lithe, unmarked nakedness.

  “Now, wench... you would worm your way into my husband’s affections!” Raising her arm, Olivia brought the whip slashing down across the pale, creamy flesh. “Hang upon him with sighs and murmurs, would you, and ply his weak male brain with your melting looks!” Again the lash rose and fell, and again, branding its brilliant stripes across straining, dodging back, thighs, and buttocks. “You want his favour—let this show you the happiness he will bring, and this how well he protects his fair toys! Would that he were bound here under my lash right now instead of you, an ignorant trollop! I would fight you for his love, if it was worthwhile—but no, the day may come when I give him to you freely! For now, though, I give you this And this, as was given me in my youth—Shah Amurath taught me this, and worse, much worse—but this will suffice for a low, coarse baggage like you!”

  Hoarse and breathless from crying out, Philiope sagged on her knees, half-conscious against the wall. Her pale body, spasming with dry sobs and swaying with the fitful roll of the ship, was a welter of pink stripes criss-crossed from the flogging. Olivia, too, was winded; she steadied herself with her knife-hand against the bulkhead as the deck went through an uneven series of evolutions.

  Drawing in breath, she listened; on the deck overhead were thumps and footfalls, and what sounded like a cry of the helmsman, abruptly cut off. She pushed herself upright and turned from Philiope—in time to see a booted foot kick open the hinged window in the stem wall of the cabin. Soon after it came the whole man: a tall, lean fighter clad in dark robes and a black silk turban, with a curving sabre gripped in one fist.

  “Who are you? Begone, or my crew will have your heart on a spit!” Clutching whip and knife in either hand, Olivia measured the distance to the table where her crossbow lay.

  “Your crew, indeed?” The swarthy Turanian laughed harshly, cocking an ear upward toward the cries and thuds that continued on deck. “’Tis their heads that will be spitted, and not many days hence, on the pickets of Emperor Yildiz’s palace gate!”

  “Liar! You are
no Imperial officer!” Nervous, Olivia played for time, moving nearer the table. “Your manner is too suave and high-nosed. Have I not seen you before?” “Aye... on the deck of this very ship, the free-trader Hyacinth!" Executing a sudden lunge, the intruder leaped forward and brought his blade down on the tabletop, and the crossbow, whose tough cable loosed rather than parted, sending its three darts thudding in a sloping line across the bulkhead timbers. “I am Khalid Abdal,” he announced, turning on Olivia, “the high sharif whom you robbed and humiliated, come to slay the vile brigand Amra and recover what belongs to me! I am most interested,” he added, casting his eye toward the naked captive, “to see the way you treat hostages held for ransom.”

  “Khalid, Milady Philiope is dead!” The breathy words, gasped from the throat of the beaten, exhausted girl, brought a new flood of tears to her eyes and choked her with fresh sobs.

  “I have heard so. ’Tis no great surprise to me, alas, given her frail nature and the low brutality of her captors... hers and yours.” Khalid Abdal turned his inscrutable, appraising glance from Olivia to the beaten girl. “While you... poor lowly Sulula, the maidservant... wisely or not, you mimicked high station to shield my cousin from her captor’s lust. You wore her clothes, assumed noble manners, and engaged the attention of her pirate abductor... all most energetically and believably, I am told.”

  “Amra is not here,” Olivia interrupted, standing defiant with her useless weapons. “There is no need to seek him, so you may as well be gone. He has other ships and other men, and will doubtless swoop down to take vengeance on you. So I warn you, it would be most unwise to harm me. Just leave here, while you can... and take this serving-maid with you!”

  “Nay, Olivia.” Khalid Abdal smiled to see her face pale slightly at his use of her name. “’Tis not her I am interested in, but you.” Turning to face her, Khalid Abdal lowered his sword-point to the level of his waist. “I have been intrigued since first I saw you treading these decks.” Slowly and deliberately, he sheathed his blade in the scabbard that hung at his side. “You are a beautiful woman, Olivia, and strong-spirited. I do not suppose that your association with pirates was a willing one, or an easy one.” Moving closer, he cast a glance aside at the limp, wet-eyed captive. “Plainly, you know how to treat an unruly servant, which is a virtue among women of noble rank. ’ ’ “Keep back from me,” Olivia warned him tautly, holding her ground, “or I will pierce you through with this dagger!”

  “Now, now, my lively one.” The Turanian continued forward, spreading out his hands empty at his sides. “Your pirate lord stole a woman from me. Is it not fitting that I should take one away from him? You would like my company better, I think. I have no other wives, not yet, and never would I place any before you.”

  He closed on her across the gently rolling deck, and she did not lash out at him. When he took her in an embrace, drawing her mouth up to his, she did not resist. Moments later, knife and whip fell from her careless grip; her hands twined instead around Khalid Abdal, kneading and caressing him passionately. He bore her backward against the cabin table and occupied himself for some moments with a cursory exploration of her charms. When at length they pulled apart, Olivia was flushed and open-mouthed, gazing up at him while absently straightening her garments.

  “You will come away with me, then, at once? Good.” He assisted her in standing upright on the unsteady deck.

  ‘ ‘What of the false Philiope? ’ ’

  “Her? I want to see the last of her!” Making her way to a cupboard against the bulwark, Olivia flung it open. Rummaging inside, she raked clothing and belongings into a sack. Then, coming back and stooping at the Turanian’s feet, she picked up her knife and turned toward the bound, wide-eyed girl.

  “You are right, I suppose,” Khalid Abdal affirmed, watching her in amusement. “After such experiences, she is forever ruined as a servant. No matter, I know someone hereabouts who may want her, if she lives.”

  Olivia advanced on her prisoner, who watched fearfully as the knife raised up over her head. She shuddered and closed her eyes, racked with relief as her tormentor used the blade to saw at her bonds. In a moment the thongs were cut, and the girl sank to the floor.

  “You may stay, wench,” Olivia said. “I wish you a happy life among the pirates, since you crave it so much. Here, cover your nakedness with this,” she added, throwing down a flimsy dress taken from the cupboard. Bending low, she brushed a hand across the girl’s wide-striped shoulder. “Rest easy, there will be no scars... if you do not let the pirates doctor you with their brine and tar-oil, that is.”

  Meanwhile, a brisk knocking sounded at the cabin door. “Khalid Abdal! Are you well, Sharif? The ship has been cleared.”

  “Aye, I am well—but, curse the luck, my enemy was not here!” Striding to the door, he unbolted it and confronted his henchman. Olivia followed with but a single backward glance; then they were gone.

  X

  Traitor’s Harbour

  “These be strange gems... ne’er in my years of sea-thievin’ ’ave I seen the like o’ ’em.” However much old Yorkin’s toothless gums may have aided his fluting, they did not, to Conan’s ear, improve his speech. The pirate-priest held one of the amber gems up to his rheumy eye, trying to catch the strange effect of something moving in its translucent depths; the Cimmerian watched him narrowly, well aware that a pirate’s skill at sleight-of-hand did not necessarily decline with age.

  “How, then, do we know that these Tears of Thorus are worth anything?” came the carping, predictable question from Diccolo. Since the penteconter was cruising in a sharp breeze under its broad purple sail, most of the crew were free to idle fore and aft as they chose.

  Before answering, Conan respectfully took the gem from the old man’s hand. He replaced it in the open wooden chest, where it added its yellow radiance to the cluster of a half-dozen similar though oddly angled stones. “If the Turanians saw fit to send a pair of warships across the Vilayet to seize them, they are of value to someone.” “Aye enough,” old Yorkin said. “Be-like as charms o’ sorcery... I can yet feel th’ enchantment in ’em.” He rubbed his thumb and fingertips together. “But would ye sell such to th’ empire, an’ swell up their noxious power all th’ more?”

  “Piracy is business,” Conan declared, “and business is even-handed. It cannot hurt us to offer them to Turan, even to the same dire wizard we snatched them away from. But when word gets out over the sea-lanes, we shall likely be offered higher bids by others who want to keep them from the Imperials—such as their former owners, the Hyrkanians.” So saying, he closed the treasure chest, placed his foot on it, and leaned on the lashed steering-oar.

  “Aye, then,” Diccolo still groused, “this will turn into another waiting game, like the split of the ransom from our captain’s fair hostage. If ever we see a guilder of that, I will use mine to stand you all drinks at the Red Hand!” The penteconter under its lug sail made good speed through the North Strait, rendering oars all but useless. In due time, the lookout, straddling the yard atop the sail, sang down that the port of Djafur could be seen around the headland. Conan gazed forward over the flying spray, satisfying himself that no hostile ships loitered about the harbour mouth. The Imperial dromon, which he still superstitiously dreaded meeting, had not been seen since their close escape in the fog. Their progress since then had been swift; likely the vessel with its uncanny pilot was far behind, and no better able to navigate the Aetolian passages than any ordinary ship.

  “Yonder lies the Hyacinth at anchor,” came the call from the masthead. Good, then; Ivanos had the sense to turn back to port once they were separated. Shading his eyes with keen interest, Conan watched the bare masts of the cog evolve slowly from behind the brushy point. She lay far out in the harbour, none too convenient to the dock of the Red Hand; doubtless Olivia had had a say in that, fearing to lie in too close to the rowdy pirates’ lair lest the ship be harried or overrun. Again, maybe it was Ivanos showing unexpected initiative and good sense. He
looked forward with a tinge of dread to finding out how his mistress and Philiope had fared.

  “To oars, men. That headland will cut our breeze. We want to look sharp in port in our new ship, and not stagger in close-hauled. Yorkin, pipe us a brisk stroke around the cape.”

  Conan could see tiny figures scurrying on the beach and crowding the wharf, drawn by the approach of the penteconter, which they might well think hostile. Before turning inshore, he steered for the Hyacinth, intending to collect his women and a pirate jack to fly from the mast. But the cog lay hove-to and quiet, possibly untenanted. In moments the oarship nudged the bobbing hull and Conan sprang aboard, stepping from the high stemcastle to the midships rail with his treasure tucked under one arm.

  As he vaulted the rail and crossed toward the stem cabin, the door suddenly flew open, disgorging men. Snarling pirates boiled up from the cargo hatch, and others swarmed down the rigging from hiding places in the brailed-up mainsail. In two blinks of an eye, Conan was surrounded. Wrenching out his scimitar, he faced a painful choice between letting go his chest of jewels and fighting one-handed. He determined upon the latter, but before he could strike a single blow, a cargo net was hurled over him. Plunging and staggering amid a flailing fury of blades, cudgels, and marlinspikes, he was driven to his knees.

  His oarsmen, meanwhile, tried to push off from the cog and get under way. But grapple-lines were cast down from the tall ship to hug the penteconter close, and pirates leaned overside with pikes and crossbows, menacing any who moved to unhook them. After Conan was drubbed down and disarmed on the cog’s deck, the two shipfuls of cutthroats ended in an uneasy stand-off, waiting at bay while a dinghy sailed out to them from the dock of the Red Hand.