A strange sort of cry went up—half welcome for the Carse they remembered, half fear because of what they had heard about him in Khondor.
He didn’t give them time to think. Swinging the sword high, he roared at them, “Pull, there, you apes! Pull, or they’ll sink us!”
Man or devil, they knew he spoke the truth. They pulled.
Carse leaped up to the steersman’s platform. Boghaz was already there. He cowered convincingly against the rail as Carse approached but the man at the tiller regarded him with wolfish eyes in which there was an ugly spark. It was the man with the branded cheek, who had been at the oar with Jaxart on the day of the mutiny.
“I’m captain now,” he said to Carse. “I’ll not have you on my ship to curse it!”
Carse said with terrible slowness, “I see you do not know me. Tell him, man of Valkis!”
But there was no need for Boghaz to speak. There came a whistling of pinions down the wind and a winged man stooped low in the moonlight over the ship.
“Turn back! Turn back!” he cried. “You bear—Rhiannon!”
“Aye!” Carse shouted back. “Rhiannon’s wrath, Rhiannon’s power!”
He lifted the sword hilt high so that the dark jewel blazed evilly in Phobos’ light.
“Will you stand against me? Will you dare?”
The Skyman swerved away and rose wailing in the wind. Carse turned upon the steersman.
“And you,” he said. “How say you now?”
He saw the wolf-eyes flicker from the blazing jewel to his own face and back again. The look of terror he was beginning to know too well came into them and they dropped.
“I dare not stand against Rhiannon,” the man said hoarsely.
“Give me the helm,” said Carse, and the other stood aside, the brand showing livid on his whitened cheek.
“Make speed,” Carse ordered, “if you would live.”
And speed they made, so that the galley went with a frightening rush between the cliffs, a black and ghostly ship between the white fire of the fiord and the cold green moonlight. Carse saw the open sea ahead and steeled himself, praying.
A whining snarl echoed from the rock as the first of the great ballistas crashed. A spout of water rose by the galley’s bow and she shuddered and raced on.
Crouched over the tiller bar, his cloak streaming, his face intense and strange in the eery glow, Carse ran the gauntlet in the throat of the fiord.
Ballistas twanged and thundered. Great stones rained into the water, so that they sailed through a burning cloud of mist and spray. But it was as Carse had hoped. The defenses, invincible to frontal attack, were weak when taken in reverse. The bracketing of the channel was imperfect, the aim poor against a fleeting target. Those things and the headlong speed of the galley saved them.
They came out into open water. The last stone fell far astern and they were free. There would be quick pursuit—that he knew. But for the moment they were safe.
Carse realized then the difficulties of being a god. He wanted to sit down on the deck and take a long pull at the wine cask to get over his shakes. But instead he had to force a ringing laugh, as though it amused him to see these childish humans try to prevail against the invincible.
“Here, you who call yourself captain! Take the helm—and set a course for Sark.”
“Sark!” The unlucky man had much to contend with that night. “My Lord Rhiannon, have pity! We are proscribed convicts in Sark!”
“Rhiannon will protect you,” Boghaz said.
“Silence!” roared Carse. “Who are you to speak for Rhiannon?” Boghaz cringed abjectedly and Carse said, “Fetch the Lady Ywain to me—but first strike off her chains.”
He descended the ladder to stand upon the deck, waiting. Behind him he heard the branded man groan and mutter, “Ywain! Gods above, the Khonds would have been a better death!”
Carse stood unmoving and the men watched him, not daring to speak, wanting to rise and kill him, but afraid. Afraid of the unknown, shivering at the power of the Cursed One that could blast them all.
Ywain came to him, free of her chains now, and bowed. He turned and called out to the crew.
“You rose, against her once, following the barbarian. Now the barbarian is no more as you knew him. And you will serve Ywain again. Serve her well and she will forget your crime.”
He saw her eyes blaze at that. She started to protest and he gave her a look that stopped the words in her throat.
“Pledge them,” he commanded. “On the honor of Sark.”
She obeyed. But it seemed to Carse again that she was still not quite convinced that he was actually Rhiannon.
She followed him to the cabin and asked if she might enter. He gave her leave and sent Boghaz after wine and then for a time there was silence. Carse sat brooding in Ywain’s chair, trying to still the nervous pounding of his heart and she watched him from under lowered eyes.
The wine was brought. Boghaz hesitated and then perforce left them alone.
“Sit down,” said Carse, “and drink.”
Ywain pulled up a low stool and sat with her long legs thrust out before her, slender as a boy in her black mail. She drank and said nothing.
Carse said abruptly, “You doubt me still.”
She started. “No, Lord!”
Carse laughed. “Don’t think to lie to me. A stiff-necked, haughty wench you are, Ywain, and clever. An excellent prince for Sark despite your sex.”
Her mouth twisted rather bitterly. “My father Garach fashioned me as I am. A weakling with no son—someone had to carry the sword while he toyed with the sceptre.”
“I think,” said Carse, “that you have not altogether hated it.”
She smiled. “No. I was never bred for silken cushions.” She continued suddenly, “But let us have no more talk of my doubting, Lord Rhiannon. I have known you before—once in this cabin when you faced S’San and again in the place of the Wise Ones. I know you now.”
“It does not greatly matter whether you doubt or not, Ywain. The barbarian alone overcame you and I think Rhiannon would have no trouble.”
She flushed an angry red. Her lingering suspicion of him was plain now—her anger with him betrayed it.
“The barbarian did not overcome me! He kissed me and I let him enjoy that kiss so that I could leave the mark of it on his face forever!”
Carse nodded, goading her. “And for a moment you enjoyed it also. You’re a woman, Ywain, for all your short tunic and your mail. And a woman always knows the one man who can master her.”
“You think so?” she whispered.
She had come close to him now, her red lips parted as they had been before—tempting, deliberately provocative.
“I know it,” he said.
“If you were merely the barbarian and nothing else,” she murmured, “I might know it also.”
The trap was almost undisguised. Carse waited until the tense silence had gone flat. Then he said coldly, “Very likely you would. However I am not the barbarian now, but Rhiannon. And it is time you slept.”
He watched her with grim amusement as she drew away, disconcerted and perhaps for the first time in her life completely at a loss. He knew that he had dispelled her lingering doubt about him for the time being at least.
He said, “You may have the inner cabin.”
“Yes, Lord,” she answered and now there was no mockery in her tone.
She turned and crossed the cabin slowly. She pushed open the inner door and then halted, her hand on the doorpost, and he saw an expression of loathing come into her face.
“Why do you hesitate?” he asked.
“The place still reeks of the serpent taint,” she said. “I had rather sleep on deck.”
“Those are strange words, Ywain. S’San was your counselor, your friend. I was forced to slay him to save the barbarian’s life—but surely Ywain of Sark has no dislike of her allies!”