Janchan bent over worriedly to examine the body of the million-year-old Kalood, who was the last of his kind. The gaunt, naked, sexless, golden body was slack and motionless. The great purple eyes were empty and dull; the huge bat-ribbed, membranous wings lay half-open. He fumbled to find a heartbeat, but the tawny integument which clothed the Winged Man in lieu of human skin was leathern tough. He could discern no pulse.
Suddenly the skysled quivered as in a gust of wind. But Janchan felt no wind.
“What was that?” he asked. The philosopher sighed.
“The tread of many jointed limbs upon the web,” said Nimbalim gloomily. “The spider is coming…”
Chapter 5.
MAN OVERBOARD!
When night fell over the World of the Green Star, the pirate-savages let down the anchor. Knowing little of the science of navigation, they feared to sail under cover of darkness lest they stray from their course. Being ignorant and superstitious Barbarians, they believed the hours of darkness were under the dominion of demons, monsters and evil spirits, whose malignant attention might be attracted to a moving vessel.
Hence, every night, we slumbered at our oars after being fed by our captors. The barzabang, or “stroke-master,” slept by his drum at the foot of the stairwell leading to the upper deck. Two armed guards slumbered there as well, to ward the exit. The Blue Barbarians had little fear that the galley-slaves would escape from their chains, so the two guards were permitted to doze.
That very night, once the guards had partaken of their nightly wine and fallen into a sodden slumber, we feigned sleep while the wily Klygon removed his ear-ring and pulled it out into a length of wire some eight or nine inches long. Then while we masked his actions from the glance of any guard who might stir to wakefulness, he inserted one end of the stiff wire into the keyhole of the lock and began deftly probing the mechanism to discover its configurations.
Each slave on a bench was fastened to the same chain, which was looped through a ring worn upon the right ankle. The end of the chain was locked securely to a heavy metal ring at the end of each bench. This meant that Klygon had only to pick one lock in order to set free an entire benchful of slaves. There were twelve benches in the hold, to each of which five slaves were tethered.
We waited, breathless with suspense, while his gnarled yet subtle fingers probed delicately at the inner mechanism of the lock. Using the wire he made a slight metallic sound from time to time; but this sound would not easily be detected. There are many sounds aboard a ship at sea—the creaking of worn timbers, the squeal of winches, the distant calls of the watch, the occasional rasp of sandal-leather on the deck above our heads. In truth, the snoring of our guards alone would be enough to drown out the slight rasp, clink and clattering sound made by Klygon’s pick.
The suspense was well-nigh unendurable. It was all the worse for me, who waited in blind darkness, unable even to watch the careful tinkering of those gnarled and knotted fingers. At length, one click sounded louder than all the rest, and my companions began to breathe again. By this I gathered, and correctly, that the lock was open.
Freeing himself from the chain, Klygon crept from his place on the bench to kneel between my knees while he opened the lock of my chain. Then, bench by bench, lock by lock, the agile little assassin made his way the length of the hold. Well before dawn lit the misty skies of the World of the Green Star, every slave chained to the oars of the Xothun was a free man.
Only the awe in which Prince Andar was held by his lords and nobles prevented them from arising to attack the pirate crew, once their chains were broken. Klygon regained his place at the bench behind me and rechained himself to the oar. To the untutored eye, I assume the locks must have looked secure enough, for as we rowed the Xothun that day no hue and cry was raised against us. The guards that paced the aisle between the rows of benches, industriously plying their whips upon the naked backs and shoulders of the oarsmen, had no slightest inkling that the men they lashed were not chained but free!
“Courage, and patience, my friends!” Andar said, as men groaned beneath the lash. We bit our lips and put our backs into the oars while the Xothun glided on through the choppy waves.
“Hark!” cried Eryon. “Listen! The wind is rising!”
The wind is rising…
The whisper ran among us like a fire among dry brush. We strained our ears, there in the echoing, noisome darkness of the hold. And it was true; above the booming of the stroke-master’s drum, the groan of timbers, the thin song of the whip, we could hear the eerie whistle of wind in the rigging. Well before mid-day, darkness fell suddenly—a darkness split by livid flares of lightning. Rain began pelting against the deck above our heads.
The storm was upon us now, howling like a banshee. The galleon wallowed sluggishly in the choppy sea. Waves battered against the hull; the ship came about heavily into the wind. From the deck above there came to our ears the shriek of rending timbers, followed by the crash of a fallen mast. A chorus of yells came from the frightened, bewildered blue savages, who had never before experienced the terrors of a sudden squall.
Hoggur’s loud voice rose above the rest, spluttering oaths, cursing viciously, summoning his men to clear away the wreckage and lend their backs to the wheel, to bring the ship’s prow about into the wind. The two Barbarians who guarded the stairwell snatched up their weapons and went clattering up the wooden stair; none but the stroke-master was left to guard us.
“Now!” cried Andar in a ringing voice. “For Komar, and freedom!”
“Komar! Komar! And—Andar!” roared Lord Eryon in stentorian tones. Suddenly the slaves were on their feet, stripping away their chains, swarming down from the benches to charge up the stair.
The burly stroke-master cried out once before he vanished under a hurtling mass of men. His cutlass went flying. Prince Andar snatched it up, brandishing it, and led the charge up the stair to the decks.
“Come, lad,” breathed Klygon at my side. “This way!” I followed him the length of the hold, staggering with every pitch of the Xothun as she shuddered under the hammering of the waves. Up the coiling stairs, I climbed, slipping and stumbling. And then fresh, wet air blew in my face. I forgot the vile stench of offal and the stinging degradation of the lash in the sudden heady exultation of freedom
Freedom! If there is a sweeter word in all the languages of the many worlds on the Universe, I have yet to hear it. And only the man who has been a slave, grovelling under the brutal lash, can know its full meaning.
All about me, men cursed hoarsely, or cried out in pain; they struggled like maddened beasts on the pitching deck, pitting bare hands against naked blades. But I saw none of it, in the perpetual darkness of my blindness. How my palms itched for the comforting feel of a sword-hilt! How my heart lusted for the sight of red blood spurting from the flesh of my enemies, as my blade thrust deep into their hearts! All about me, my fellow-slaves fought for their freedom and died for it, but I—I could do nothing! For a man who cannot even see his enemy, can hardly fight him…
The storm was rising now. Deafening peals of thunder drowned out the hoarse shouts, curses and shrill cries of battling men. I could not see the chaos of the deck, nor the wild waste of waters, nor the fury of the storm. But stinging gusts of wind lashed me as I clung to the rail; in no time I was drenched from head to foot by the icy waters of the great waves that rose above the rail to break against our hull, sluicing the deck.