Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull (28 page)

"They definitely seem to have the intention of attacking," D'Averc said lightly. "With your permission, Duke Dorian, I'll go below and don my sword and armor."

"I'll get my weapons, too," Oladahn said. "I'll bring your sword for you."

"No point in fighting!" It was the mate, gesticulating with his bottle. "Best throw ourselves in the sea now."

"Aye," Captain Mouso nodded, looking after D'Averc and Oladahn as they went to fetch their weapons. "He's right. We'll be outnumbered, and they'll tear us to pieces. If we're captured, they'll torture us for days."

Hawkmoon started to say something to the captain, then turned as he heard a splash. The mate had gone—as good as his word. Hawkmoon rushed to the side but could see nothing.

"Don't bother to help him—follow him," the skipper said, "for he's the wisest of us all."

The ship was bearing down on them now, its black sail painted with a pair of great red wings, and in the center of them was a huge, bestial face, howling as if in the throes of maniacal laughter. Crowding the decks were scores of naked men wearing nothing but sword belts and metalstudded collars. Drifting across the water came a weird sound that Hawkmoon could not at first make out. Then he glanced at the sail again and knew what it was.

It was the sound of wild, insane laughter, a sound as if the damned of hell were moved to merriment.

"The Mad God's ship," said Captain Mouso, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. "Now we die."

HAWKMOON, OLADAHN, and D'Averc stood shoulder to shoulder by the port rail of the ship as the weird vessel sped closer and closer.

The members of the crew had all clustered around their captain, as far as possible away from the attackers.

Looking at the rolling eyes and foaming mouths of the madmen in the ship, Hawkmoon decided that their chances were all but hopeless. Grappling irons snaked out from the Mad God's ship and bit into the soft wood of Smiling Girl's rail. Instantly the three men began to hack at the ropes, severing most of them.

Hawkmoon yelled to the captain, "Get your men aloft—try to turn the ship." But the frightened men did not move. "You'll be safer in the rigging!" Hawkmoon shouted. They began to stir but still did nothing.

Hawkmoon was forced to return his attention to the attacking ship and was horrified to see it looming over them, its insane crew clustering against the rail, some already beginning to climb over, ready to leap onto Smiling Girl's deck, cutlasses drawn. Their laughter filled the air, and bloodlust shone on their twisted faces.

The first came flying down on Hawkmoon, naked body gleaming, sword raised. Hawkmoon's own blade came up to skewer the man as he fell; another twist of the sword and the corpse dropped down through the narrow gap between the ships, into the sea. Within moments the air was full of naked warriors swinging on ropes, jumping wildly, clambering hand over hand across the grappling lines. The three men stopped the first wave, hacking about them until everything seemed bloodred, but gradually they were forced away from the rail as the madmen swarmed onto the deck, fighting without skill but with a chilling disregard for their own lives.

Hawkmoon became separated from his comrades, did not know if they lived or had been killed. The prancing warriors flung themselves at him, but he clutched his battle blade in both hands and swung it about him in a great arc, this way and that, surrounding himself with a blur of bright steel. He was covered in blood from head to foot; only his eyes gleamed, blue and steady, from the visor of his helmet.

And all the while the Mad God's men laughed—laughed even as their heads were chopped from their necks, their limbs from their bodies.

Hawkmoon knew that eventually weariness would overcome him. Already the sword felt heavy in his hands and his knees shook. His back against a bulkhead, he hacked and stabbed at the seemingly ceaseless wave of giggling madmen whose swords sought to slash the life from him.

Here a man was decapitated, there another dismembered, but every blow drained more energy from Hawkmoon.

Then, as he blocked two swords that struck at him at once, his leg buckled and he went down to one knee. The laughter grew louder, triumphant, as the Mad God's men moved in for the kill.

He hacked upward desperately, gripping the wrist of one of his attackers and wrenching the sword away from him so that now he had two blades. Using the madman's sword to thrust and his own to swing, he managed to regain his footing, kicked out at another man, and scrambled away, to rush up the companionway to the bridge. At the top of the companionway he turned to fight again, this time with an increased advantage over the howling madmen who crowded up the steps toward him. He saw now that both D'Averc and Oladahn were in the rigging, man

aging to keep their attackers at bay. He glanced toward the Man God's ship. It was still held fast by grappling ropes, but it was deserted. Its entire crew was on board the Smiling Girl. Hawkmoon at once had an idea.

He wheeled about, running from the warriors, leaped to the rail, and grabbed a rope that trailed from the crosstrees. Then he flung himself into space.

He prayed that the rope would be long enough as he hurtled through the air, then let go, diving, it appeared, over the side of the ship. His grasping hands just managed to catch the rail of the enemy ship as he fell. He hauled himself onto the deck and began slashing at the grappling ropes, yelling, "Oladahn—D'Averc! Quickly—follow me!"

From the rigging of the other ship the two men saw him and began climbing higher, to walk precariously along the mainmast's yardarm while the men of the Mad God swarmed behind them.

The Mad God's ship was already beginning to slide away, the gap between it and Smiling Girl widening rapidly.

D'Averc jumped first, diving for the blacksailed ship's rigging arid clutching a rope onehanded, to swing for an instant, threatening to drop to his death.

Oladahn followed him, cutting loose a rope and swinging across the gap, to slide down the rope and land on the deck, where he fell spreadeagled on his face.

Several of the insane warriors tried to follow, and a number actually managed to reach the deck of their own ship. Still laughing, they came at Hawkmoon in a bunch, doubtless judging Oladahn dead.

Hawkmoon was hard put to defend himself. A blade slashed his arm, another caught his face below the visor. Then suddenly, from above, a body dropped into the center of the naked warriors and began hewing around him, almost as much a maniac as they.

It was D'Averc in his boarheaded armor, streaming with the blood of those he had slain. And now, at the back of their attackers came Oladahn, evidently only winded by his fall, yelling a wild mountain battle cry.

Soon every one of the madmen who had managed to reach the ship was dead. The others were leaping from the deck of Smiling Girl into the water, still laughing weirdly, trying to swim after the ship.

Looking back at Smiling Girl, Hawkmoon saw that miraculously most of her crew had apparently survived—at the last minute they had climbed to the safety of the mizzen mast.

D'Averc raced forward and took the wheel of the Mad God's ship, cutting the lashings and steering from the vainly swimming men.

"Well," breathed Oladahn, sheathing his sword and inspecting his cuts, "we seem to have escaped lightly—and with a better ship."

"With luck we'll beat Smiling Girl into port,"

Hawkmoon grinned. "I hope she's still bound for Crimia, for she has all our possessions on board."

Skillfully, D'Averc was turning the ship about, toward the north. The single sail bulged as it caught the wind and the boat left the swimming madmen behind. Even as they drowned, they continued to laugh.

After they had helped D'Averc relash the wheel so that the ship continued roughly on course, they began to explore the ship. It was crammed with treasure evidently pillaged from a score of ships, but also there were all kinds of useless things—broken weapons and ships' instruments, bundles of clothing—and here and there a rotting corpse or a dismembered body, all piled together in the holds.

The three men decided to get rid of the corpses first, wrapping them in cloaks or bundling up the various limbs in rags and tossing them overboard. It was disgusting work and took a long time, for some of the remains were hidden under mounds of other things.

Suddenly Oladahn paused as he worked, his eyes fixed on a severed human hand that had become mummified in some way. Reluctantly, he picked it up, inspecting a ring on the little finger. He glanced at Hawkmoon.

"Duke Dorian...."

"What is it? Do not bother to save the ring. Just get rid of the thing."

"No—it is the ring itself. Look—it has a peculiar design...."

Impatiently Hawkmoon crossed the dimly lit hold and peered at the thing, gasping as he recognized it.

"No! It cannot be!"

The ring was Yisselda's. It was the ring Count Brass had placed on her finger to mark her betrothal to Dorian Hawkmoon.

Numbed with horror, Hawkmoon took the mummified hand, a look of incomprehension on his face.

"What is it?" Oladahn whispered. "What is it that so disturbs you?"

"It is hers. It is Yisselda's."

"But how could she have come to be sailing this ocean so many hundreds of miles from the Kamarg?

It is not possible, Duke Dorian."

"The ring is hers." Hawkmoon gazed at the hand, inspecting it eagerly as realization struck him. "But—the hand is not. See, the ring barely fits the little finger. Count Brass placed it on the middle finger, and even then it was a loose fit. This is the hand of some thief." He wrenched the precious ring from the finger and threw the hand down. "Someone who was in the Kamarg, perhaps, and stole the ring...." He shook his head. "It's unlikely. But what is the explanation?"

"Perhaps she journeyed this way—seeking you, maybe," Oladahn suggested.

"She'd be foolish if she did. But it is just possible.

However, if that's the case, where is Yisselda now?"

Oladahn was about to speak, when there came a low, terrifying chuckling sound from above. They looked up at the entrance to the hold.

A mad, grinning face looked down at them. Somehow one of the insane warriors had managed to catch the ship. Now he prepared to leap down on them.

Hawkmoon just managed to draw his sword as the madman attacked, sword slashing. Metal hit metal.

Oladahn drew his own blade, and D'Averc came rushing up, but Hawkmoon shouted, "Take him alive! We must take him alive!"

As Hawkmoon engaged the madman, D'Averc and Oladahn resheathed their swords and fell on the warrior's back, grasping his arms. Twice he shook them off, but then he went down kicking as they wound length after length of rope around him. And then he lay still, chuckling up at them, his eyes unseeing, his mouth foamflecked.

"What use is he alive?" D'Averc asked with polite curiosity. "Why not cut his throat and have done with him?"

"This," Hawkmoon said, "is a ring I found just now." He held it up. "It belongs to Yisselda, Count Brass's daughter. I want to know how these men got it."

"Strange," D'Averc said frowning. "I believe the girl still in the Kamarg, nursing her father."

"So Count Brass is wounded?"

D'Averc smiled. "Aye. But the Kamarg still holds against us. I'd sought to disturb you, Duke Dorian. I do not know how badly Count Brass is hurt, but he still lives. And that wise man of his, Bowgentle, helps him command his troops. The last I heard, it was stalemate between the Dark Empire and the Kamarg."

"And you heard nothing of Yisselda? Nothing of her leaving the Kamarg?"

"No," said D'Averc, frowning. "But I seem to remember. . . As, yes—a man serving in Count Brass's army. I believe he was approached and persuaded to try to kidnap the girl, but the attempt was unsuccessful."

"How do you know?"

"Juan Zhinaga—the man—disappeared. Presumably Count Brass discovered his perfidy and slew him."

"I find it hard to believe that Zhinaga should be a traitor. I knew the man slightly—a captain of cavalry, he was."

"Captured by us in the second battle against the Kamarg." D'Averc smiled. "I believe he was a German, and we had some of his family in our safekeeping. ..."

"You blackmailed him!"

"He was blackmailed, though do not give me the credit. I merely heard of the plan during a conference in Londra between the various commanders who had been summoned by King Huon to inform him of developments in the campaigns we are waging in Europe."

Hawkmoon's brow furrowed. "But suppose Zhinaga was successful—somehow not managing to reach your people with Yisselda, being stopped on the way by the Mad God's men...."

D'Averc shook his head. "They would never range as far as southern France. We should have heard of them if they had."

"Then what is the explanation?"

"Let us ask this gentleman," D'Averc suggested, prodding at the madman, whose chuckles had died down now so that they were almost inaudible.

"Let us hope we can get sense from him," Oladahn said dubiously.

"Would pain do the trick, do you thing?" D'Averc asked.

"I doubt it," Hawkmoon said. "They know no fear. We must try another method." He looked in disgust at the madman. "We'll leave him for a while and hope he calms a little."

They went up on deck, closing the hatch cover.

The sun was beginning to set, and the coastline of Crimia was now in sight—black crags sharp against the purple sky. The water was calm and dappled with the fading sunlight, and the wind blew steadily northward.

"I'd best correct our course," D'Averc suggested.

"We seem to be sailing a little too far to the north."

He moved along the deck to unbind the wheel and spin it several points south.

Hawkmoon nodded absently, watching D'Averc, his great mask flung back from his head, expertly controlling the course of the ship.

"We'll have to anchor offshore tonight," Oladahn said, "and sail in in the morning."

Hawkmoon did not reply. His head was full of unanswered questions. The exertions of the past twenty four hours had brought him close to exhaustion, and the fear in his mind threatened to drive him to a madness fully as dreadful as that of the man in the hold.