Carse said impatiently, “How can a man know what he’s saying, at a time like that?”
The truth was that he didn’t know himself why he had spoken the Cursed One’s name, except that it had been thrust at him so often that he supposed it had become a sort of obsession. The Dhuvian’s little hypnosis gadget had thrown his whole mind off balance for a while. He remembered only a towering rage—the gods knew he had had enough to make any man angry.
It was probably not so strange that the Dhuvian’s hypnotic science hadn’t been able to put him completely under. After all he was an Earthman and a product of another age. Even so it had been a near thing—horribly near. He didn’t want to think about it any more.
“That’s over now. Forget it. We’ve got to think how to get ourselves out of this mess.”
Boghaz’ courage seemed to have drained away. He said glumly, “We’d better kill ourselves at once and have done with it.”
He meant it. Carse said, “If you feel that way why did you strike out to save my life?”
“I don’t know. Instinct, I suppose.”
“All right. My instinct is to go on living as long as possible.”
It didn’t look as though that would be very long. But he was not going to take Boghaz’s advice and fall upon the sword of Rhiannon. He weighted it in his hands, scowling, and then looked from it to his fetters.
He said suddenly, “If we could free the rowers they’d fight. They’re all condemned for life—nothing to lose. We might take the ship.”
Boghaz’ eyes widened, then narrowed shrewdly. He thought it over. Then he shrugged. “I suppose one can always die. It’s worth trying. Anything’s worth trying.”
He tested the point of Ywain’s dagger. It was thin and strong. With infinite skill, he began to pick the lock of the Earthman’s gyves.
“Have you a plan?” he asked.
Carse grunted. “I’m no magician. I can only try.” He glanced at Ywain. “You stay here, Boghaz. Barricade the door. Guard her. If things go wrong she’s our last and only hope.”
The cuffs hung loose now on his wrist and ankles. Reluctantly he laid down the sword. Boghaz would need the dagger to free himself but there was another one on Scyld’s body. Carse took it and hid it under his kilt. As he did so he gave Boghaz a few brief instructions.
A moment later Carse opened the cabin door just widely enough to step outside. From behind him came a good enough imitation of Scyld’s gruff voice, calling for a guard. A soldier came.
“Take this slave back to the oar bank,” ordered the voice that aped Scyld’s. “And see that the lady Ywain is not disturbed.”
The man saluted and began to herd the shuffling Carse away. The cabin door banged shut and Carse heard the sound of the bar dropping into place.
Across the deck, and down the ladder. “Count the soldiers, think how it must be done!”
No. Don’t think. Don’t, or you’ll never try it.
The drummer, who was a slave himself. The two Swimmers. The overseer, up at the forward end of the catwalk, lashing a rower. Rows of shoulders, bending over the oars, back and forth. Rows of faces above them. The faces of rats, of jackals, of wolves. The creak and groan of the looms, the reek of sweat and bilge water, the incessant beat, beat, beat of the drum.
The soldier turned Carse over to Callus and went away. Jaxart was back on the oar and with him a lean Sark convict with a brand on his face. They glanced up at Carse and then away again.
Callus thrust the Earthman roughly onto the bench, where he bent low over the oar. Callus stopped to fix the master chain to his leg irons, growling as he did so.
“I hope that Ywain lets me have you when she’s all through with you, carrion! I’ll have fun while you last—”
Callus stopped very suddenly and said no more, then or ever. Carse had stabbed his heart with such swift neatness that not even Callus was aware of the stroke until he ceased to breathe.
“Keep stroke!” snarled Carse to Jaxart under his breath. The big Khond obeyed. A smoldering light came into his eyes. The branded man laughed once, silently, with a terrible eagerness.
Carse cut the key to the master locks free from its thong on Callus’ girdle and let the corpse down gently into the bilges.
The man across the catwalk on the port oar had seen as had the drummer. “Keep stroke!” said Carse again and Jaxart glared and the stroke was kept. But the drum beat faltered and died.
Carse shook off his manacles. His eyes met the drummer’s and the rhythm started again but already the overseer was on his way aft, shouting.
“What’s the matter there, you pig?”
“My arms are weary,” the man quavered.
“Weary, are they? I’ll weary your back for you too if it happens again!”
The man on the port oar, a Khond, said deliberately. “Much is going to happen, you Sark scum.” He took his hands off the oar.
The overseer advanced upon him. “Is it now? Why, the filth is a very prophet!”
His lash rose and fell once and then Carse was on him. One hand clamped the man’s mouth shut and the other plunged the dagger in. Swiftly, silently, a second body rolled into the bilges.
A deep animal cry broke out along the oar bank and was choked down as Carse raised his arms in a warning gesture, looking upward at the deck. No one had noticed yet. There had been nothing to draw notice.
Inevitably, the rhythm of the oars had broken but that was not unusual and, in any case, it was the concern of the overseer. Unless it stopped altogether no one would wonder. If luck would only hold…
The drummer had the sense or the habit to keep on. Carse passed the word along—“Keep stroke, until we’re all free!” The beat picked up again, slowly. Crouching low, Carse opened the master locks. The men needed no warning to be easy with their chains as they freed themselves, one by one.
Even so, less than half of them were loose when an idle soldier chose to lean on the deck rail and look down.
Carse had just finished releasing the Swimmers. He saw the man’s expression change from boredom to incredulous awareness and he caught up the overseer’s whip and sent the long lash swinging upward. The soldier bellowed the alarm as the lash coiled around his neck and brought him crashing down into the pit.
Carse leaped to the ladder. “Come on, you scum, you rabble!” he shouted. “Here’s your chance!”
And they were after him like one man, roaring the beast roar of creatures hungry for vengeance and blood. Up the ladder they poured, swinging their chains, and those that were still held to the benches worked like madmen to be free.
They had the brief advantage of surprise, for the attack had come so quickly on the heels of the alarm that swords were still half drawn, bows still unstrung. But it wouldn’t last long. Carse knew well how short a time it would last.
“Strike! Strike hard while you can!”
With belaying pins, with their shackles, and with their fists, the galley slaves charged in and the soldiers met them. Carse with his whip and his knife, Jaxart howling the word Khondor like a battle-cry, naked bodies against mail, desperation against discipline. The Swimmers slipped like brown shadows through the fray and the slave with the broken wings had somehow possessed himself of a sword. Seamen reinforced the soldiers but still the wolves came up out of the pit.
From the forecastle and the steersman’s platform bowmen began to take their toll but the fight became so closely locked that they had to stop for fear of killing their own men. The salt-sweet smell of blood rose on the air. The decks were slippery with it. Carse saw that the slaves were being driven back and the number of the dead was growing.
In a furious surge he broke through to the cabin. The Sarks must have thought it strange that Ywain and Scyld had not appeared but they had had little time to do anything about it. Carse pounded on the cabin door, shouting Boghaz’ name.