In the glare of lightning Belesa saw, through the curtain of the slashing rain, the tents of the buccaneers whipped to ribbons and whirled away; saw the men themselves staggering toward the fort, beaten almost to the sands by the fury of the blast. And limned against the blue glare she saw Zarono’s ship, ripped loose from her moorings, driven headlong against the jagged rocks that jutted up to receive her.
V. A Man from the Wilderness
The storm had spent its fury; dawn broke in a clear, blue, rain-washed sky. Bright-hued birds lifted a swelling chorus from the trees, on whose broad leaves beads of water sparkled like diamonds, quivering in the gentle morning breeze.
At a small stream that wound over the sands to join the sea, hidden beyond a fringe of trees and shrubs, a man bent to lave his hands and face. He performed his ablutions after the manner of his kind, grunting lustily and splashing like a buffalo. But in the midst of these splashings, he suddenly lifted his head, his tawny hair dripping and water running in rivulets over his brawny shoulders.
For a second he crouched in a listening attitude, then was on his feet facing inland, sword in hand, all in one motion. Then he froze, glaring wide-mouthed.
A man even bigger than himself was striding toward him over the sands, making no attempt at stealth. The pirate’s eyes widened as he stared at the close-fitting silk breeches, the high flaring-topped boots, the wide-skirted coat, and the headgear of a hundred years ago. There was a broad cutlass in the stranger’s hand and unmistakable purpose in his approach.
The pirate went pale as recognition blazed in his eyes.
“You!” he ejaculated unbelievingly. “By Mitra, you!”
Oaths streamed from his lips as he heaved up his cutlass. The birds rose in flaming showers from the trees as the clang of steel interrupted their song. Blue sparks flew from the hacking blades, and the sand grated and ground under the stamping boot heels. Then the clash of steel ended in a chopping crunch, and one man went to his knees with a choking gasp. The hilt escaped his nerveless hand; he slid full-length on the sand, which reddened with his blood. With a dying effort, he fumbled at his girdle and drew something from it, tried to lift it to his mouth, then stiffened convulsively and went limp.
The conqueror bent and ruthlessly tore the stiffening fingers from the object they crumpled in their desperate grasp.
Zarono and Valenso stood on the beach, staring at the driftwood that their men were gathering—spars, pieces of mast, broken timbers. So savagely had the storm hammered Zarono’s ship against the low cliffs that most of the salvage was matchwood. A short distance behind them stood Belesa, listening to their conversation with one arm around Tina. Belesa was pale and listless, apathetic to whatever Fate held in store for her. She heard what the men said, but with little interest She was crushed by the realization that she was but a pawn in the game, however it was to be played out—whether it was to be a wretched life, dragged out on that desolate coast, or a return effected somehow to some civilized land.
Zarono cursed venomously, but Valenso seemed dazed. “This is not the time of year for storms from the west,” muttered the count, staring with haggard eyes at the men dragging the wreckage up on the beach. “It was not chance that brought that storm out of the deep to splinter the ship in which I meant to escape.
Escape? I am caught like a rat in a trap, as it was meant. Nay, we are all trapped rats—”
“I know not whereof you speak,” snarled Zarono, giving a vicious yank at his moustache. “I’ve been unable to get any sense out of you since that flaxen-haired slut upset you so last night with her tale of black men coming out of the sea. But I do know that I’ll not spend my life on this cursed coast. Ten of my men went to Hell in the ship, but I have a hundred and sixty more. You have a hundred. There are tools in your fort and plenty of trees in yonder forest. We’ll build a ship. I’ll set men to cutting down trees as soon as they get this drift out of reach of the waves.”
“It will take months,” muttered Valenso.
“Well, how better to employ our time? We’re here, and unless we build a ship we shall never get away. We shall have to rig up some kind of sawmill, but I’ve never encountered anything yet that balked me for long. I hope the storm smashed that Argossean dog Strombanni to bits! While we’re building the ship, we’ll hunt for old Tranicos’s loot.”
“We shall never complete your ship,” said Valenso somberly.
Zarono turned on him angrily. “Will you talk sense? Who is this accursed black man?”
“Accursed indeed,” said Valenso, staring seaward. “A shadow of mine own red-stained past, risen up to hound me to Hell. Because of him, I fled Zingara, hoping to lose my trail in the great ocean. But I should have known he would smell me out at last.”
“If such a man came ashore, he must be hiding in the woods,” groaned Zarono.
“We’ll rake the forest and hunt him out.”
Valenso laughed harshly. “Seek rather for a shadow that drifts before a cloud that hides the moon; grope in the dark for an asp; follow a mist that steals out of the swamp at midnight.”
Zarono cast him an uncertain look, obviously doubting his sanity. “Who is this man? Have done with ambiguity.” ‘The shadow of my own mad cruelty and ambition; a honor come out of the lost ages—no man of common flesh and blood, but a—” “Sail ho!” bawled the lookout on the northern point.
Zarono wheeled, and his voice slashed the wind. “Do you know her?”
“Aye!” the reply came back faintly. ”Tis the Red Hand Zarono cursed like a wild man. “Strombanni! The devils take care of their own! How could he ride out that blow?” The buccaneer’s voice rose to a yell that carried up and down the strand. “Back to the fort, you dogs!”
Before the Red Hand, somewhat battered in appearance, nosed around the point, the beach was bare of human life, the palisade bristling with helmets and scarf-bound heads. The buccaneers accepted the alliance with the easy adaptability of adventurers, and the count’s henchmen with the apathy of serfs.
Zarono ground his teeth as a longboat swung leisurely in to the beach, and he sighted the tawny head of his rival in the bow. The boat grounded, and Strombanni started toward the fort alone. Some distance away, he halted and shouted in a bull’s bellow that carried clearly in the still morning: “Ahoy, the fort! I would parley!”
“Well, why in Hell don’t you?” snarled Zarono.
“The last time I approached under a flag of truce, an arrow broke on my brisket!” roared the pirate.
“You asked for it,” said Valenso. “I gave you a fair warning to get away from us.”
“Well, I want a promise that it shan’t happen again!”
“You have my promise!” called Zarono with a sardonic smile.
“Damn your promise, you Zingaran dog! I want Valenso’s word.”
A measure of dignity remained to the count There was an edge of authority to his voice as he answered: “Advance, but keep your men back. You shall not be shot at.”
“That’s enough for me,” said Strombanni instantly. “Whatever a Korzetta’s sins, you can trust his word.”
He strode forward and halted under the gate, laughing at the hate-darkened visage Zarono thrust over at him.