Not till then did he reach up and take down his sword. He stood before Sharane.
There was no fear in the burning eyes that stared up at him. Rage enough and to spare was there—but no fear.
And Kenton laughed low, bent over her, and pressed his lips to her own gagged and bound ones. He kissed each wrathful eye.
"And now, Sharane," he laughed. "I go to take the ship—without your help! And when I have taken it, I'll come back and take— you!"
He walked to the door, opened it softly, swept gaze over the ship.
Upon the black deck squatted Gigi, forehead resting on the edge of the serpent drum, long arms trailing disconsolately down its sides. There was a forlornness about the drummer that made Kenton want to cry out to him. It was an impulse to which the sight of Zachel's head put speedy check. He could see just the top of it over the low rail between Sharane's deck and the rowers' pit.
He crouched low, until the head was out of sight—knowing that in that position Zachel could not see him. He knotted the sword in his girdle. On hands and knees he crept out of the cabin door. He saw that there was a window in the place where Sharane's women slept. But there was no outward door. They must pass through her cabin to gain the deck. If they suspected something amiss with their mistress, found the door barred, undoubtedly they would come through that window. Well—he would have to take his chances on that; only hope that he could get most of the work ahead of him done before they were aroused.
And if he could surprise Klaneth in his den, strike swiftly and silently —then he and the Viking could make short work of the rest, and the women could do what they pleased. They could neither help nor hinder. It would be too late.
He flattened himself to the deck; wriggled beneath the window; listened. There was no sound of voices now. Slowly raising himself he saw that from this point the overseer was hidden from him by the mast. Keeping a cautious eye on the disconsolate Gigi. he stood up and peered within the second cabin. There were eight girls there asleep; some pillowed on each other's breasts, some curled up on the silken cushions. He reached in, closed the window noiselessly.
Again he lay flat and squirmed along the side of the cabin to the starboard rail. He slipped over it. He hung for a moment, fingers gripping the top, feet feeling for the chain that stretched below. He swung along it. When he came to its end, he raised himself, caught the rail again and swung along that, swiftly hand over hand.
Now the mast was directly in front of him; he had reached the spot from which he planned to strike his first blow. He chinned himself, and streamed over the rail like a snake; lay flat against the bulwarks until breath came once more easily.
He was in plain sight of Gigi—and as he lay there Gigi's head came up with a jerk from his drum, his eyes stared straight into Kenton's own. The ugly face broke into a thousand wrinkles of amazement; then instantly became indifferent, immobile. He yawned, got upon his feet; then, hand over eyes, peered intently over the port side as though he had sighted something far away upon the sea.
"By Nergal, but Klaneth must know of this!" he said.
He waddled over to the black cabin.
Kenton wriggled to the edge of the pit. He had glimpse of Zachel standing upon his platform stool, peering, searching for whatever it was that seemingly had so aroused the drummer's interest.
Kenton dropped into the pit. One leap he took and was beside the mast. The overseer turned sharply. He opened mouth to yell and swept hand down to belt where his poniard was sheltered.
The sword of Kenton hissed through air and through his neck.
The sheared head of Zachel leaped from his shoulders, mouth stretched open, eyes glaring. For three heartbeats the body of Zachel stood upright, blood spouting from the severed arteries, hand still gripping at the dagger.
The body of Zachel squattered.
The sleep horn fell from his girdle. Kenton snatched at it. The knees of Zachel's body crumpled down on it; crushed it.
From the benches of the oarsmen came no sound, no outcry; they sat, mouths agape, blades idle.
He groped in Zachel's belt for the overseer's keys, the keys that would free Sigurd. He found them, snatched them loose, tore the dagger from Zachel's stiffening fingers and raced down the narrow passage way to the Viking.
"Brother! I thought you gone! Sigurd forgotten... " the Norseman babbled. "By Odin what a blow! The dog's head leaped from his shoulders as though Thor had smitten him with his hammer..."
"Quiet, Sigurd! Quiet!" Kenton was working with desperate haste among the keys, trying to find that which would fit the Viking's fetters. "We must fight for the ship... stand together, you and I... Hell, damn these keys... which is the right one! If we can reach Klaneth's den before alarm is raised stand you between me and his priests. Leave Klaneth to me. Touch not Gigi nor Zubran the red beard. They cannot help us but they have given vow not to fight against us... remember, Sigurd... ah..."
The manacles at Sigurd's wrists clicked and opened; the lock on the metal belt flew open. Sigurd shook his hands free of the chains, reached down and wrenched the cincture from his waist. He stood upright, flaxen mane streaming in the wind.
"Free!" he howled. "Free!"
"Close your jaws!" Kenton thrust his hands against the shouting mouth. "Do you want the pack down on us before we have chance to move!"
He pressed Zachel's dagger into the Viking's hand.
"Use that," he said, "until you have won a better weapon."
"That! Ho-ho!" laughed Sigurd. "A woman's toy! Nay, Kenton—Sigurd can do better than that!"
He dropped the dagger. He gripped the great oar; lifted it out of the thole pins. He bent forward sharply, bringing its shaft against the side of the port there was a sharp crackling, a rending of wood. He drew back, bringing the oar against the opposite side of the port. There was another crackling, and Sigurd drew the oar in, broken squarely in the middle, a gigantic club all of ten feet long. He gripped it by the splintered end, whirled it round his head, the chains and the dangling manacles spinning like battle mace.
"Come!" barked Kenton, and stooped to pick up the dagger.
Now from all the pit came clamor; the slaves straining at their bonds and crying to be freed.
And from Sharane's deck came the shrilling of women. Out of the window poured her warrior maids.
No chance now to surprise the black priest. No chance but in battle —fang and claw. His sword and the club of Sigurd against Klaneth and his pack.
"Quick, Sigurd!" he shouted. "To the deck!"
"I first," grunted Sigurd. "Shield to you!"
He pushed Kenton aside, rushed past him. Before he could reach the foot of the stairway its top was filled with priests, white-faced, snarling, swords in their hands, and short stabbing spears.
Kenton's foot fell on something that rolled away from beneath it, sending him to his knees. He looked down into the grinning face of Zachel. His severed head it was that had tripped him. He lifted it by the hair, swung it round and hurled
