Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger (3 page)

Sinbad hesitated. He was not unused to strangers offering food and wine in exchange for stories of far lands and exciting deeds. Indeed, he was quite used to it as his reputation grew. He did not feel he was using these hosts, for he offered them something they could never get enough of—stories of wonderment and tales of the far places most of them would never see. He often left trinkets of brass and carved wood, made by the craftsmen of distant bazaars, in payment for their hospitality, and, if the truth were known, for the favors of hot-eyed daughters and sleek serving girls who crept into his tent in the small hours.

The sea captain decided to accept. He returned the bow of the young merchant and then started down the path, back toward the low, dark tents, where laughter and music were heard.

The young man was the last to leave the gate. He looked up toward the gate tower. High above, a cloaked figure watched from a crenellated rampart. The crescent moon grayed the black of the hooded cloak, obscuring both face and form. In the night shadows, on the lonely ramparts, the figure remained unseen to those below. The concealed eyes watched the figures below, silhouetted by the fires of the camp. For a fleeting moment the campfires glittered in reflection on the dark eyes beneath the hood, then the reflection dimmed as the figure moved deeper into the shadows. The eyes still watched, seeing the tallest one, the sailor with the confident air, garbed in a turban and bright sailor’s clothes.

The hidden eyes flicked over the others. Hassan, the squat first mate, seemed to sweat despite the cool of the evening, a brawny, muscular man used to danger and hard work. The eyes moved to the third man, caressing a chittering monkey, also dressed in rough sailor’s clothing, and humming an ancient tune as they approached the tents.

The figure on the ramparts moved again, and the crescent moon caught his eyes, two feline slits above a dark yashmak that covered the lower face. The blazing eyes turned to look back and down into the small deserted square on the inner side of the city gate.

Whether it was a trick of moonlight or a stray reflection of the fires below, the eyes of the hooded figure gleamed brightly. They seemed to be the eyes of a woman . . . then the eyes of a great savage tiger, feline and evil, a beast of fearsome power and singleness of purpose.

The figure, standing on the firing step for archers, looked down into the square. In the archway of the main gate the bodies of two sentries were hanging. They turned slowly, as their weight stretched the ropes. Their weapons were lying discarded upon the hard-beaten ground. The limp, dead bodies turned, their shadows cast upon the sturdy wooden timbers of the gate by the sliver of moon.

Below, the young merchant bowed and gestured for them to enter his tent. Again, Sinbad hesitated, glancing about. Sinbad had been approached scores of times by robbers and cutpurses, using darkness as a cloak, and his hand was still upon the hilt of his sword. At his side both Hassan and Aboo-seer were also wary. None of them was stranger to battle, nor to the myriad ways thieves and murderers assaulted their victims. The sly young man bowed again, his cunning smile concealed by his bow. He confronted each of them with a disarming gesture and his smile became one of curious innocence. “Please,” he said, holding open the flap of the tent. He swept back his long cloak in another gesture and the sailors could see he was unarmed. From within the tent came the first stirrings of music and the jingle of the coins that festooned a dancing girl’s scanty costume.

Aboo-seer grinned at Hassan. “Come, you old barnacle! I hear the sound of paradise!”

Sinbad nodded and they all entered, sweeping under the flaps of black felt from which all Bedouin tents are made. The tall sailor had to bend his head to avoid the slanting roof, but once he was seated upon the soft cushions the whole tent seemed in proper perspective.

The sly young merchant clapped his hands and the music increased in tempo. Sinbad, Aboo-seer, and Hassan sprawled on the furs and fine Oriental rugs which were the floor of the tent, and nestled into ornately decorated pillows before a small fire. In back of the tent drummers pounded with facile fingers on their dumbegs and dulcimers, and others pushed air through wooden flutes. The music was fast and erotic, stimulating the two near-naked girls into a more and more erotic dance.

Hassan was delighted. He beat his hands on a pillow to the fast rhythm of the drums and pipes, his eyes riveted to the gleaming torsos of the dancers that gleamed copper and bronze in the firelight.

Aboo-seer tore a chunk of meat with his bare hands, plopping the remnant back onto a platter proffered by a serving girl whose physical assets were all but revealed by her costume and bent-over position. Hassan plucked a plum from a nearby bowl and popped it into his mouth.

“Com, Whin-bawd, smoll!” he said with a full mouth toward his still-somber captain.

“Yes, Captain,” their host urged. “Allow me to give you some, um, better entertainment.” He clapped his palms twice, sharply, over the beat of the drums. Immediately the drummers changed their beat, shifting to an even faster and more erotic beat. Sinbad sank back into the pillows, grateful for the comfort after weeks aboard his ship. His eyes were on the ripe bodies of the dancing girls, their flesh clothed only in a few wisps of thin Oriental silk and artfully hung strands of coins and ornaments of silver and gold. The jewelry gleamed and glittered as they danced sinuously around the fire, closer and closer to Sinbad and his men. Their torsos gleamed golden and moist, making Hassan’s spine straighter, his smile wide and full of anticipation.

“Ho, Sinbad!” he shouted in delight, his eyes riveted to the swaying bodies of the young dancers. His hands came together in a beat, but the wine cup defeated his clapping. He sloshed more wine as he set down the cup. Sitting cross-legged, almost at the feet of the writhing dancers, he beat out a clapping rhythm in time to the musicians.

Sinbad sipped at his wine and glanced at Aboo-seer, who was finishing his flagon with a greedy gulp. His bushy-browed eyes looked at Rafi, who smiled his oily smile and clapped his hands again.

From the side tent came a Bedouin bearing a copper tray of brass cups and another metal flask of wine. Aboo-seer’s hand tossed aside the old bronze cup and he grasped the new flask eagerly. He poured himself a new glass of wine, licking his lips, and set the flask back upon the tray. Aboo-seer barely noticed the Bedouin servant pouring him a cupful. He took it, his eyes still upon the lithe bodies swaying seductively before him, swallowing some of the liquid in a series of quick gulps.

The servant then bowed to Sinbad and handed him a cup of wine, which the adventurer took. Sipping it, he found it too sweet for his taste, but he drank a small bit of it anyway, so as not to offend his smiling host. The drums beat faster and faster, rising toward a pounding crescendo. The dancers whirled like wild dervishes, every portion of their well-trained bodies swaying and quivering and shaking erotically.

Across the tent from the sailors the sly-eyed young man caught Sinbad’s look. He raised his cup, saluting the three sailors, and Sinbad, who had only been meagerly sipping the sweet wine, returned the salute. The still thirsty Aboo-seer drained his cup in a swallow, laughed heartily, then choked as a surprised expression struck his face.

The big sailor’s cup spilled from his hand, falling soundlessly to the thick rug as Aboo-seer gasped, clutching at his throat with a harsh cry. He fell sideways, his face contorted in pain and his knees rising as he rolled into a choking ball.

Sinbad’s foot struck out, knocking the cup from the lips of a startled Hassan. He came lithely to his feet, tossing his own cup into the fire, where it flared and sent steam into the close, smoky air. Sinbad’s sword hissed from its scabbard and the dancers screamed, running from the tent with their hands protectively around their heads. Sinbad, eyes blazing, whirled on the shrinking host of these ill-begotten revels. There was hate in the young man’s eyes, but he was wary of Sinbad’s sword.

The adventurer shouted over the scramble of musicians and dancing girls to get out under the edges of the black felt tent. “Hassan! Help Aboo-seer back to the ship! Then cast off!”

Hassan, tugging the still-writhing Aboo-seer to his feet, looked with a stricken face at his captain. “But you, Captain . . . !”

“To the ship, I said!” Sinbad cried out, his sword swinging before him. “And cast off at
once!
Go!”

The sly young man was circling, stepping over mashed pillows, his own sword coming into his hand from a secret cache like a snake emerging from its hole. His eyes locked with Sinbad’s as he unfastened his cloak and let it drop among the spilled wine and discarded goblets. Hassan gave the youth a hard look, then swept a flask of wine into his hand and splashed it into Aboo-seer’s face.

“Sober up!” he whispered fiercely.

“Can’t . . .” gasped the stricken man. “Not drunk . . .
poisoned!”

Hassan swore and started pulling Aboo-seer to his feet. The drummers made a rush, daggers and swords swinging, and Sinbad drove them back in a flurry of thrusts, giving Hassan time to get Aboo-seer to his feet. The sly host kicked a pillow at Sinbad, letting the cushion cover his movement as he rushed at Hassan and Aboo-seer.

Sinbad leapt the fire and dodged the pillow, striking down the lean young man’s sword. Another rush from the drummers diverted Sinbad and he sent them back with bleeding wounds. The traitorous host thrust his sword once again at Sinbad, but the sea captain swept it aside with a cry. The traitor jumped back a step, looked quickly around him, then his slippered foot kicked at the fire. The burning brands flew toward Sinbad, who managed to dodge most of them and brushed the others from his clothes with the flat of his sword. The pillows started to smolder and burn and in moments the tent was filled with smoke from several small fires.

Sinbad leaped suddenly across the intervening space, crowding his former host, who had only time to get his blade up, stopping but not repelling Sinbad. The tall sailor thrust and parried until his swinging blade cut into the arm of the sly young man, who cried out in pain as his sword fell with a clatter. He moaned in anguish and clutched at his arm, the blood oozing from between his stiffened fingers. He looked at Sinbad with great round eyes full of sudden fear. He twisted and started to run, but fell over a thick pillow and thudded to the blood-stained carpet with a cry.

Sinbad glared at the drummers, now uncertain, who looked at their fallen leader with apprehension. Hassan and Aboo-seer were on their feet and Sinbad turned his attention to the wounded man on the floor of the smoky tent. He was holding his bleeding arm, his spread fingers begging mercy as his soundless mouth moved. The wretch obviously expected a killing blow from the tall sailor, the sort of death he himself would have dealt out unmercifully to the weak and defeated.

Sinbad stood over him, the point of his sword at the sly traitor’s throat, pricking at the vulnerable softness of the fallen man’s neck. “Who are you?” Sinbad demanded. “Why have you tried to poison us?”

The wounded man’s mouth moved again, but only strangled croaks came from him. Then his eyes moved past and beyond Sinbad. The sea captain heard a gasp of surprise from the cowed drummers and he stepped quickly away from the downed host, his blood-spattered sword coming up, his senses all on alert.

There was a sharp wind and all the lamps flickered out. The scattered coals of the fire made small glows in the smoke-filled tent as Sinbad stared at the hooded figure that had appeared in the entrance to the tent. Its cloak billowed in the wind and there was a moment of silence punctuated only by the hiss of smoldering pillows and distant cries of men.

The hood kept the features of the figure in shadow and Sinbad’s eyes searched in vain. He saw a hand emerge from a long black sleeve and recognized it as a woman’s. Warily, he saw her hand reach for a necklace around her throat, pulling forth into the light a golden chain from which hung clawlike glass containers. The hairs on the back of Sinbad’s neck rose in a nameless fear and his grasp on the sword tightened.

There was a twin blaze of light within the shadowed hood and Sinbad caught the impression of slitted pupils and slanted eyes widening with feline fury, but passed it off as a trick of the flickering fire between them.

The lean fingers of the woman yanked at the chain. It parted and the necklace of claws swayed and jangled, swinging wildly into the firelight. The female hand stretched out, clasping a tangle of chain and claws. The fingers opened, flinging the necklace into the embers of the partially scattered fire.

“Arise!” the figure said ominously. “From the depths of the earth I command you! Arise!” Her voice was deep and commanding. “Destroy them!” she cried in a sudden change. “Kill Sinbad! Kill! Kill!”

She raised her arms as a priestess might and the flames rose, hissing and flickering. Thick dark smoke billowed, flecked with flames, filling the tent. Sinbad backed away, seeing Hassan drag the Mate, Aboo-seer, to his feet, a sword in his hand.

Then out of the thickening smoke came four nightmarish figures. Sinbad cried out involuntarily. They were of human size but with the horrific appearance of anatomical specimens. They had neither hair nor flesh, only sinew and gaunt muscle stretched thinly over naked skeletal bone. They were obscure parodies of human forms, and Sinbad knew instinctively they were soulless, the ghouls of the hooded figure’s incantation.

They advanced toward Sinbad, right through stuttering flames, and Sinbad realized with a shock that they had no feelings and were able to withstand extremes of pain. And they were well armed with axes and clubs.

“Hassan! Aboo-seer!”

“Aye, sir!” Aboo-seer shouted back. “I’m better now. Where’s my sword?”

But all three of the adventurers were staring with unbelieving eyes at the four apparitions.

“They’re . . . they’re not human!” gasped Hassan.

At his words the ghouls reached down and scooped up hot coals and burning brands from the scattered fire. With sudden, abrupt gestures they showered the burning material upon all three of the sailors. Sinbad and his men jumped back, sweeping up cushions to protect them from the rain of burning fire. More small fires were started among the pillows and spilled wine, adding to the smoke and danger of the tent.