Shadow of the barbarian, p.8
Shadow of the Barbarian, page 8
None of this passed through Kuda’s mind, though. He only saw the gaps. Hefting his shield, he roared a battle cry before launching himself forward. Without pausing, he swept aside two spears with the shield and hurled his body at a weak spot in the wall. The shields parted under the impetus of his charge and he plunged deeper into the packed ranks, his sword chopping right and left, crunching through armor with terrible force. A wedge of newly armed slaves pushed in behind him, spitting their hate. The wedge split the shield wall apart. Kuda thrust beneath a shield and felt his blade slide into a man’s thigh, he twisted and ripped the blade free. Turning, he dodged a sword that flickered toward his throat. Seeing that his attacker had lost his helmet, Kuda smiled and butted the man on the bridge of his nose. He staggered back to fall under the grunting shoving mass of men. Kuda looked around him. The marines had failed to hold the line. Assaulted from two sides, they were being forced back against the ships rails. Yet even though they were losing the disciplined troops fought on. It was a bitter struggle. The freed slaves were in no mood to take prisoners, and the battle spread to form knots of fighting men who shouted and screamed at one another.
Crossbows cracked and hissed, bolts thumped into flesh as the sailors on the afterdeck picked their targets. The battle wasn’t won yet, Kuda realized.Lifting his battered shield, he bellowed at the men around him. “To me! To me! Let’s finish this.” He leveled his short sword, red from hilt to tip, at the men on the afterdeck. Teeth gritted, shield held high, he dashed toward them. Deadly shafts whistled and buzzed around him. One of the bolts struck his shield, numbing his arm. All around him slaves were being plucked backward in sprays of blood. The charge faltered as men sought cover from the lethal missiles. Kuda pounded on alone, a red mist before his eyes.
The fusillade of bolts faltered and then stopped. Kuda slithered to a halt before the barricaded steps that led up to the afterdeck. Looking up, he saw howling pirates swarming over the stern rail to fall upon the hapless sailors. Maltho had apparently persuaded the longboat full of cut-throats to lend a hand. Cutlasses rose and fell amongst the sailors, who flung down their weapons and pleaded for mercy. The sea-wolves, knowing the value of experienced sailors, granted it. Maltho pushed forward to the rail. He stared down at Kuda and, with the hint of a smile hovering on his blood-spattered face, shouted out, “The ship is yours, Captain.”
†
The white sand beach shone like a snowfield under the blazing sun, reminding Kuda fleetingly of his Northern homeland. Though the illusion was quickly dispelled by the steaming heat and the tropical vegetation fringing the beach, it nevertheless triggered a longing for the honest freshness of an icy wind.
He squatted on his heels upon the sands, sweating under the shade of a stretched canvas awning that did nothing to prevent the sticky atmosphere pressing in upon him. It was much worse for the armed and armored men who were gathered behind him under the full glare of the sun. But, he reasoned, the hardened ex-slaves were inured to such a mild discomfort. Shading his eyes with one hand, he looked out to sea at the two vessels rocking lazily at their anchors. The sleek Revenge and the newly arrived Shrike.Squinting, he surveyed the longboats sliding up onto the shelving beach, inspecting the men who leapt ashore from them.
Even weary, sweat stained and dirty from their recent misfortunes, the pirates presented a wild and crudely romantic image. Determined to make an impression before the former slaves, they came ashore with the swagger of an invading army, strutting in their sea boots as though they owned the island. Hard, watchful eyes peered from beneath the drooping brims of their wide hats. Heavy cutlasses and curved knives hung from their wide, decorated leather belts. The weapons were in easy reach, an unarguable back-up to each man’s buccaneer bravado. Like most sea rovers, a pirate’s wealth was ostentatiously displayed on his person. Jewelry glittered. Gold seemed to be a particular favorite. It hung from their ears in heavy loops, around necks in chains or medallions, it decorated the hilts of knives, flashed in their grins and weighted down hands and arms in the form of rings and bracelets.
The sea-wolves came from no particular tribe or nation. Their weather-beaten, often scarred faces ranged from deep mahogany to blue black. There were equine faces with high foreheads and prominent noses, there were broad, flat-featured faces with slanting, almond eyes. Pirate crews came from all over the world. What held them together was greed and the hardship of their chosen life, coupled with a fierce pride in their freedom and individualism.
It was Belsar, dressed in all his finery, who led them up the beach to where Kuda waited. They came to a halt just before the awning. For a long moment, the two groups stood, glaring sullenly at each other. Belsar broke the heavy silence. “Kuda, Kuda.” He shook his head ruefully. “You never cease to amaze me. The last time we met, you were in the company of a beautiful Princess. This time, you are captain of a beautiful trireme.”
“May I never cease to amaze you, my friend,” said Kuda, stepping forward. The men gripped wrists in the warrior’s greeting.
“Wine?” he indicated the table and two chairs that had been set up beneath the canopy. The furniture had been brought ashore from the Revenge, along with a flagon of her former Captain’s wine.
Belsar nodded. Sweeping his wide brimmed hat from his head, he took the offered seat in the shade. Kuda poured two goblets of wine before settling into the opposite seat. After taking a long slurp, Belsar lowered the goblet and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. He nodded appreciatively. “A fine wine. The Revenge’s previous Captain lived well it seems.”
“Not anymore,” Kuda grunted.
“Ah, yes. I take it that is him dangling by his neck from your yard arm.”
“It is. My men could not be restrained. They slaughtered everybody they could lay hands on.”
“Really!” Belsar eyed the desperate-looking band gathered behind Kuda. “I take it they have calmed down somewhat since then?”
“They’ve never been happier.”
Belsar leaned closer to begin speaking with the low-voiced urgency of a practiced conspirator. “Whereas my crew have never been unhappier. By all the God’s, Kuda, if you have a scheme to make us all rich, then it had better be a good one.”
Grinning suddenly, his teeth a brilliant white against his sun-darkened skin, Kuda rose to his feet. “Men! This is the luckiest day of your lives,” he boomed. “Gather round and let me tell you of the heaps of gold and jewels that will soon be yours. Riches beyond measure!”
Belsar buried his head in his hands and groaned.
SEVEN
The Heronium Stadium was immense. The multitude that had gathered there for the opening day of the summer games was easily accommodated within its soaring circular walls. Traditionally, this was a time of celebration; but not this year. This year, a definite sense of unease rippled around the tiers of seating overlooking the broad circular amphitheater of sand. A hundred thousand citizens stared in mute dread at the stadium’s newly constructed centerpiece. It was an extraordinary structure. Rising like a small mountain from the flatness of the amphitheater floor, layers of huge, well-cut, masonry blocks were piled high, heaped almost haphazardly, one upon the other. With no doors or windows, the construction squatted in the middle of the broad, circular space like a giant tombstone. It was featureless except for a pathway that wound around its great stone bulk from base to summit, just wide enough for three men to walk abreast. The winding path debouched onto the structure’s flat top, which was level with the surrounding tiers of seats.The summit was bare but for a flat slab of stone carved all over with runes. It occupied the center of the open space like an altar.
Massive bronze doors broke the circle of the amphitheater’s otherwise featureless wall. Above the doors was a lavishly decorated balcony, where the Emperor sat on his imperial throne, unmoving, his body hunched over, his eyes staring into space. The young man’s sallow features bore the stamp of the hidden parasite that clung to his back. He had spider veins on his cheeks and dark circles beneath his eyes that not even the thickest of cosmetics could hide.
The heavy doors below the balcony swung open. The crowd seemed to hold its breath. A drum could be heard, slow and steady as a heartbeat. Figures began shuffling slowly out through the bronze portals, a double file of black-robed and hooded figures. They were followed by rank after rank of soldiers in eye-hurting polished armor, spears in hand and shields on their arms.Then came Princess Semoon, hemmed in by burly guardsmen. Dressed in a simple white robe, her hair a glossy dark cascade that hung to her waist, she held her head high, her expression one of total despair. There was a rope tied around her neck, and when she stumbled, a guard yanked on it to jerk her back to her feet. A groan of disapproval went up around the stadium at this display, though it was ignored by the guards, who marched stolidly on. Following behind the armored men came more black-robed acolytes, their shaven heads bared, their mouths moving, repeating the same phrases over and over again. A ritual chant that rose and fell. There was a dirge of death to the sound; the wailing of the dead.
†
Oars moving in unison, the Revenge sped across the bay, heading toward the wide mouth of a river, her course bypassing the city of Bansaray and its harbor with its tangled mass of shipping. The former galley slaves pulled with a will, singing over the oars, their high spirits abounding, their arms and backs indefatigable.Kuda moved along the crowded deck, striding amongst pirates and former slaves, not with the aloofness of a Captain, but as a man. He stopped along the way to share a joke or to give a greeting. He laughed and the buccaneers laughed with him. Kuda was a man they could follow. Not a man who would command them from the afterdeck, but a corsair like themselves. A man who would fight, bleed and even die with them.
He joined Belsar at the steering oar just as they were entering the broad river mouth. The pirate looked enquiringly at the Northman.
“Are you ready to share any more of the details of your plan with me?”
Kuda nodded, his expression grim. “The Heronium Stadium abuts the river, does it not?”
“It does,” Belsar answered with a frown. “But its walls rise sheer out of the water. They’re high, very high. An assault from the river is unthinkable. We don’t have enough men and the Princess does not have enough time. The sacrificial ceremony will have already begun.”
“Get us upriver to a point opposite the stadium, from there, all will become clear,” Kuda said. Squaring his jaw, he added. “Trust me.”
Belsar grinned without humor. “I hope you know what we’re doing.”
†
With solemn dignity, the procession reached the base of the great mound of limestone blocks and began a slow ascent. Behind them, the bronze doors boomed shut as the files of somber figures climbed unhurriedly around the winding path to emerge onto the flat stone-flagged summit. On the far side of the crude altar stone, a solitary black-robed figure stood waiting for them. Eyes glinting with triumph, Shikrol smiled his ghastly smile. At a barked order, the guardsmen hurried to take up position around the edge of the flagged area. Facing the crowd, they held their weapons ready, forming a hedge of spears that ringed the flattened summit.
Semoon was dragged forward, toward the slab of rune-encrusted black stone. She fought down a sudden rush of despair when rough hands tore the white robe from her body. In her nakedness, she still stood proud, though she averted her eyes from Shikrol’s malevolent gaze. It was at that moment that she finally realized that Kuda had failed her. The last shred of hope shriveled within her breast when robed acolytes grabbed at her. Pushing and pulling, they drew her out on the altar, clamping her legs and arms into the manacles that waited there. A roar rose from one hundred thousand throats, compounded of anger and dismay. Shikrol could feel the rise of the mob’s emotions and, at its peak, he raised his arms and began intoning words not uttered in a millennia.The words of the summoning.
†
As the mob’s wail of despair erupted from the stadium opposite them Kuda’s head jerked around, his eyes blazing.
“We’re too late,” Belsar shook his head sorrowfully.
Kuda leapt to the steering sweep and, pushing the helmsman aside, heaved upon the long tiller. The ship heeled over hard, cutting across the broad river’s current. He strained and heaved and, with a muscle cracking effort, turned the vessel so that her sharp prow pointed toward the far bank and the rearing cliff-like walls of the colosseum.
Eyes flashing in anger, Belsar roared. “What are you doing? You’ll have us aground!”
“There, there. We go there,” Kuda snarled through gritted teeth, jutting his chin toward the far bank. “Tell the rowers to double up and pull until their backs break. Do it, now!”
Still not fully comprehending, Belsar blinked up at the smooth walls of honey-colored stone that rose from the river’s far bank. That’s when he saw it. A moan of disbelief escaped his lips.
The re-enactment of sea battles had always been popular with the mob, and Heronium Stadium had been designed to facilitate such displays. River water could be let into the stadium through sluices, turning the amphitheater into a lake. Once the lake’s water level equalized with that of the river outside, a larger wooden gate would be opened to allow half-sized galleys and triremes to enter through a short canal and do battle. When the battle was over and the gates sealed, the water could be quickly drained away via underground channels.
Belsar pointed a quivering finger at the wooden gate, the only break in the palisade of towering walls. “You don’t mean …”
Kuda cut him off with a burst of anger. “If I had told you earlier, would any of you have joined me? We’re here now, and there is no other way.” Bulges of iron muscle writhed beneath Kuda’s skin as the long sweep bent almost to breaking point under his hands. “The rowers, you fat bastard!” he gasped. “Go tell the rowers. Ramming speed!”
†
Out of the clear blue sky, roiling and bunching over the stadium, thick dark clouds appeared. The temperature began to drop. With it, the mutterings of the mob dwindled down to be replaced by a definite air of foreboding. Shikrol’s hatchet face became more wild-eyed and animated as he continued to spit his obscene ritual at the sky. Tears sparkling on her cheeks, Semoon twisted and writhed upon the cold stone. Excited acolytes pressed in on all sides. Suddenly, the heavy gate holding back the river trembled under a heavy impact.
†
“Backwater! Backwater!” Kuda yelled fiercely. Handing the steering oar back to the helmsman he leapt down from the raised stern to sprint along the deck, roaring orders as he went. “Arm yourselves! Prepare for battle!”
Belsar raised his eyes in a silent prayer before stooping to bark orders down the hatchway. The pace man in charge of the rowers beat a swift cadence upon the sounding table and the long sweeps reversed their blades.
Kuda slid to a halt at the prow, his sharp eyes scanning the iron bound gate. He grunted in satisfaction when he saw fresh scarring where the baulks of heavy timber had split. Calculating the growing distance between the armored ram at the bow and the splintered gate, he came to a decision. Whirling around to look back down the length of the deck, which resembled a disturbed ants’ nest with the men milling about and calling to each other enthusiastically, he caught Belsar’s eye and swept his arm forward.
Belsar nodded and bellowed an instruction down to the man at the sounding board. Blades reversing again, the oars dipped. Responding to the sounding board, the rowers reached forward full length, and, deepening the dip of their oars, pulled suddenly with all their united force, bending all their strength to the long sweeps. The galley, quivering in every timber, answered with a leap as the oars dug in along her flanks.
Kuda looked down at the bow wave that spread back from the armored beak in a sharp arrowhead of ripples. The trireme was moving as swiftly as a horse at full gallop, its banks of oars sending up a white spray as it sheared through the water. The stroke boomed out below decks, the pulse of it coming throbbing up through the planking beneath his feet. He raised his eyes to the sturdy gate that rushed toward him.
†
With terrible slowness, Shikrol slid a wickedly curved knife from the voluminous sleeve of his robe and raised it high above the prostrate woman upon the altar. The crowd seemed to hold its breath as, with infinite care, he lowered the obsidian blade and ran its razored edge along the struggling princess’s flank. A long cut opened up in the woman’s creamy white flesh. Ruby red blood oozed from the gash to run in rivulets across the black stone. At that moment, lightning split the sky and the runes carved into the stone slab began to glow with an internal hellfire. Fierce winds sprang from nowhere to whistle around the walls, shrieking sibilantly. It grew darker, a strange, unnatural darkness, as though some sinister, invisible force was soaking up all the light in the city. Shikrol threw back his head and howled like a madman. Around him, the air groaned like a living thing and the river gate exploded inward.
†
There was a massive impact followed by a grinding, crackling uproar of bursting timber. Kuda was almost catapulted from the prow, but he hung on with legs and arms braced. The river burst through the disintegrating wood, taking the Revenge with it. The slim galley entered the narrow canal in a gut-swooping rush, carried upon the wildly plunging crest of a huge wave. Oar-tips brushed the stone walls and the oars were dashed from the hands of the rowers and the rowers from their benches. People were screaming in panic. Jaw clenched, Kuda clung to the bow like a grim figurehead, his eyes slitted his black hair streaming behind him from the speed of the trireme’s passage. The Revenge dropped twenty feet into the boil and surge of water that was sweeping around the amphitheater. She began swinging on her axis, rocking from side to side in the turbulent water. Clinging on, the men blinked and gaped at the scene they had come upon so suddenly. They found themselves within a circular lagoon rimmed by a stone wall, beyond which rose serried rows of packed seating. In the center of the lagoon, almost filling it, was an island of piled stone. The stone made the lagoon seem like a moat of water surrounding it.
