Hawkmoon: The Jewel in the Skull (29 page)

Later that night, by the light of lamps suspended from the ceiling, they studied the sleeping face of the man they had captured. The lamps swung as the ship rocked at anchor, casting shifting shadows on the sides of the hold and over the great piles of booty heaped everywhere. A rat chittered, but the men ignored the sound. They had all slept a little and felt more relaxed.

Hawkmoon knelt down beside the bound man and touched his face. Instantly the eyes opened, staring around dully, no longer mad. They even seemed a little puzzled.

"What is your name?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Coryanthum of Kerch—who are you? Where am I?"

"You should know," Oladahn said. "On board your own ship. Do you not remember? You and your fellows attacked our vessel. There was a fight. We escaped from you, and you swam after us and tried to kill us."

"I remember setting sail," Coryanthum said, his voice bewildered, "but nothing else." Then he tried to struggle up. "Why am I bound?"

"Because you are dangerous," D'Averc said lightly. "You are mad."

Coryanthum laughed, a purely natural laugh. "I, mad? Nonsense!"

The three looked at one another, puzzled. It was true that the man seemed to have no hint of madness about him now. 

Understanding began to dawn on Hawkmoon's face. "What is the very last thing you remember?"

"The captain addressing us."

"What did he say?"

"That we were to take part in a ceremony—drinking a special drink. . . . Nothing much more." Coryanthum frowned. "We drank the drink...."

"Describe your sail," Hawkmoon said.

"Our sail? Why?"

"Is there anything special about it?"

"Not that I remember. It's canvas—a dark blue. That's all."

"You are a merchant seaman?" Hawkmoon asked.

"Aye."

"And this is your first voyage on this ship?"

"Aye."

"When did you sign on?"

Coryanthum looked impatient. "Last night, my friend—on the Day of the Horse by Kerch reckoning."

"And in universal reckoning?"

The sailor wrinkled his brow. "Oh—the eleventh of the third month."

"Three months ago," said D'Averc.

"Eh?" Coryanthum peered through the gloom at the Frenchman. "Three months? What d'you mean?"

"You were drugged," Hawkmoon explained.

"Drugged and then used to commit the foulest acts of piracy ever heard of. Do you know anything of the Cult of the Mad God?"

"A little. I heard that it is situated somewhere in Ukrania and that its adherents have been venturing out lately—even onto the high seas."

"Did you know that your sail now bears the sign of the Mad God? That a few hours ago, you raved and giggled in mad bloodlust? Look at your body. . . ." Hawkmoon bent down to cut the bonds. "Feel your neck."

Coryanthum of Kerch stood up slowly, wondering at his own nakedness, his fingers going slowly to his neck and touching the collar there. "I—I don't understand. Is this a trick?"

"An evil trick, and one we did not commit," Oladahn said. "You were drugged until you went insane, then ordered to kill and collect all the loot you could. Doubtless your 'merchant captain' was the only man who knew what would happen to you, and it's almost certain he's not aboard now. Do you remember any

thing? Any instructions about where you should go?"

"None."

"Without doubt the captain meant to rejoin the ship later and guide it to whatever port he uses,"

D'Averc said. "Maybe there is a ship in regular contact with the others, if they are all full of such fools as this one."

"There must be a large supply of the drug somewhere aboard," Oladahn said. "Doubtless they fed off it regularly. It was only because we bound this fellow that he did not get the chance to replenish himself."

"How do you feel?" Hawkmoon asked the sailor.

"Weak—drained of all life and feeling."

"Understandable," said Oladahn. "It's sure that drug kills you in the end. A monstrous plan! Take innocent men, feed them a drug that turns them mad and ultimately destroys them, use them to murder and loot, then collect the proceeds. I've heard of nothing like it before. I'd thought the Cult of the Mad God to be comprised of honest fanatics, but it seems a cooler intelligence controls it."

"On the seas, at any rate," Hawkmoon said. "However, I'd like to find the man responsible for all this. He alone may know where Yisselda is."

"First, I'd suggest we take up the sail," D'Averc said. "We'll drift into the harbor on the tide. Our reception would not be pleasant if they saw our sail. Also, we can make use of this treasure. Why, we are rich men!"

"You are still my prisoner, D'Averc," Hawkmoon reminded him. "But it is true we could dispose of some of the treasure, since the poor souls who owned it are all dead now, and give the rest into the safekeeping of some honest man, to compensate those who have lost relatives and fortunes at the hands of the mad sailors."

"Then what?" asked Oladahn.

"Then we set sail again—and wait for this ship's master to seek her out."

"Can we be sure he will? What if he hears of our visit to Simferopol?" Oladahn asked.

Hawkmoon smiled grimly. "Then doubtless he will still wish to seek us out."

AND SO THE loot was sold in Simferopol, some of it used to provision the craft and buy new equipment and horses, and the rest given into the safekeeping of a merchant whom all recommended as the most honest in the whole of Crimia. Not much behind the captured ship, Smiling Girl limped in, and Hawkmoon hastily bought the captain's silence regarding the nature of the blacksailed ship. He recovered his possessions, including the saddlebag containing Rinal's gift, and, with Oladahn and D'Averc, reboarded the ship, sailing on the evening tide. They left Coryanthum with the merchant to recover.

For more than a week the black ship drifted, usually becalmed, for the wind had dropped to almost nothing. By Hawkmoon's reckoning they were drifting close to the channel that separated the Black Sea from the Azov Sea, near to Kerch, where Coryanthum had been recruited.

D'Averc lounged in a hammock he had hung for himself amidships, occasionally coughing theatrically and remarking on his boredom. Oladahn sat often in the crownest, scanning the sea, while Hawkmoon paced the decks, beginning to wonder if his plan had had any substance to it other than his need to know what had become of Yisselda. He was even beginning to doubt that the ring had been hers, deciding that perhaps several such rings had been made in the Kamarg over the years.

Then, one morning, a sail appeared on the horizon, coming from the northwest. Oladahn saw it first and called to Hawkmoon to come on deck. Hawkmoon rushed up and peered ahead. It might be the ship they awaited.

"Get below," he called. "Everybody get below."

Oladahn scrambled down the rigging, while D'Averc, suddenly active, swung out of his hammock and strolled to the ladder that led belowdecks. They met in the darkness of the central hold and waited. . . .

An hour seemed to pass before they heard timber bump against timber and knew that the other ship had drawn alongside. It might still be an innocent vessel curious about a ship drifting apparently unmanned.

Not much later Hawkmoon heard the sound of booted feet on the deck above; a slow, measured tread that went the length of the whole deck and back again.

Then there was silence as the man above either entered a cabin or climbed to the bridge.

Tension grew as the sound of the footsteps came again, this time walking directly toward the central hold.

Hawkmoon saw a silhouette above, peering down into the darkness where they crouched. The figure paused, then began to descend the ladder. As he did so, Hawkmoon crept forward.

When the newcomer had reached the bottom, Hawkmoon sprang, his arm encircling the man's throat. He was a giant, more than six and a half feet tall, with a huge black bushy beard and plaited hair, wearing a brass breastplate over his shirt of black silk.

He growled in surprise and swung around, carrying Hawkmoon with him. The giant was incredibly strong. His huge fingers went up to Hawkmoon's arm and began to prise it loose.

"Quick—help me hold him," Hawkmoon cried, and his friends rushed forward to fling themselves on the giant and bear him down.

D'Averc drew his sword. Wearing his boar mask and the metal finery of Granbretan, he looked danger

ous and terrible as he delicately placed the tip of his sword against the giant's throat.

"Your name?" D'Averc demanded, his voice booming in his helmet.

"Captain Shagarov. Where is my crew?"

The blackbearded giant glared up at them, unabashed by his capture. "Where is my crew?"

"You mean the madmen you sent akilling?" Oladahn said. "They are drowned, all but one, and he told us of your evil treachery."

"Fools!" Shagarov cursed. "You are three men. Did you think to trap me—when I have a shipful of fighters aboard my other ship?"

"We have disposed of one shipload, as you'll note,"

D'Averc told him with a chuckle. "Now that we are used to the work, doubtless we can dispose of another."

For a moment fear crept into Shagarov's eyes; then his expression hardened. "I do not believe you. Those who sailed this ship lived only to kill. How could you ... ?"

"Well, we did," D'Averc said. He turned his great, helmeted head toward Hawkmoon. "Shall we go on deck and put the rest of our plan into operation?"

"A moment." Hawkmoon bent close to Shagarov.

"I want to question him. Shagarov—did your men capture a girl at any time?"

"They had orders not to kill any girl but to bring them to me."

"Why?"

"I know not—I was ordered to send girls to him—and girls I sent him." Shagarov laughed. "You'll not keep me for long, you know. You'll all three be dead within an hour. The men will get suspicious."

"Why didn't you bring any of them aboard with you? Perhaps because they are not madmen—because even they might be disgusted by what they found?"

Shagarov shrugged. "They'll come when I yell."

"Possibly," said D'Averc. "Rise, please."

"These girls," Hawkmoon continued. "Where did you send them—and to whom?"

"Inland, of course, to my master—the Mad God."

"So you do serve the Mad God—you are not deceiving people into believing these acts of piracy are committed by his followers."

"Aye—I serve him, though I'm no cult member. His agents pay me well to raid the seas and send the booty to him."

"Why this way?"

Shagarov sneered. "The cult has no sailing men. Some one of them hit this plan to raise money—though I know not the purpose for the loot—and approached me." He rose to his feet, towering over them. "Come—let's go up. It will amuse me to see what you do."

D'Averc nodded to the other two, who went back into the shadows and produced long, unlit brands, one for each of them. D'Averc prodded at Shagarov to follow Oladahn up the companionway.

Slowly they climbed to the deck, to emerge at last in the sunlight and see a big, handsome threemaster anchored beside them.

The men on board the other ship understood at once what had happened and made to move forward, but Hawkmoon dug his sword into Shagarov's ribs and called, "Do not move, or we will kill your captain."

"Kill me—and they kill you," Shagarov rumbled. Who gains?"

"Silence," said Hawkmoon. "Oladahn, light the brands."

Oladahn applied flint and tinder to the first brand.

It flared into life. He lit the others off it and handed one each to his companions.

"Now," Hawkmoon said. "This ship is covered in oil. Once we touch our brands to it, the whole vessel goes up in flames—and most likely your ship too. So we advise you to make no move toward rescuing your captain."

"So we all burn," Shagarov said. "You're as mad as the ones you slew."

Hawkmoon shook his head. "Oladahn, ready the skiff."

Oladahn went aft to the furthermost hatch, swinging a derrick over it, hauling back the hatch cover, and then disappearing below, taking the cable with him.

Hawkmoon saw the men on the other ship begin to stir and he moved the brand menacingly. The heat from it turned his face dark red, and the flames reflected fiercely in his eyes.

Now Oladahn reemerged and began to work the specially geared winch with one hand while holding his brand with the other. Slowly something began to appear in the hatch, something that barely cleared the wide opening.

Shagarov grunted in surprise as he saw that it was a large skiff in which three horses were harnessed, looking frightened and bewildered as the were hauled to the deck and then swung out over the sea.

Oladahn stopped his work and leaned back on the winch, panting and sweating, but made sure to keep the brand well away from the timber of the deck.

Shagarov scowled. "An elaborate plan—but you are still only three men. What do you intend to do now?"

"Hang you," said Hawkmoon. "Before the eyes of your crew. Two things motivated me in laying this trap for you. One—I needed information. Two—I determined to give you justice."

"Whose justice?" Shagarov bellowed, his eyes full of fear. "Why involve yourselves in the affairs of others? We did no harm to you. Whose justice?"

"Hawkmoon's justice," said the palefaced Duke of Koln. Caught by the rays of the sun, the sinister black jewel in his forehead seemed to glow with life.

"Men!" Shagarov screamed across the water. "Men—rescue me. Attack them."

D'Averc called back, "If you move toward him, we kill him and set the ship ablaze. You gain nothing. If you'd save your own lives and your ship, you'll shove off and leave us. Our quarrel is with Shagarov."

As they had expected, the crew commanded by the pirate did not feel any great loyalty to him and, when their own skins were threatened, felt no great compulsion to come to his help. Yet they did not cast off the grappling irons but waited to see what the three men would do next.

Now Hawkmoon swung up into the crosstrees. He carried a rope with a noose already knotted. When he reached the top, he flung the rope over the arm so that it hung over the water, tied it firmly, and came down again to the deck.