of the silver haze a shadow moved. It darkened over black priest and drum. It shrouded them and withdrew. Where it had been was neither black priest nor Summoner! Man and drum—both had gone!
XIII
MASTER OF—SHARANE!
Battle fury still in his veins, Kenton looked about him. The black deck was strewn with Klaneth's men; men crushed and broken under Sigurd's mace; men from whom his own sword had let out the life; men in twisted heaps; men —but not many—who still writhed and groaned. He turned to Sharane's deck. Her women, white-faced, clustered at the cabin door.
And on the very verge of the barrier between the two decks stood Sharane. Proudly she faced him, but with misty eyes on whose long lashes tears still trembled. Diadem of shining crescent was gone; gone too that aura of the goddess which even when Ishtar was afar lingered like a splendor around this, her living shrine.
She was but a woman. Nay—only a girl! A girl all human, exquisite—
He was lifted high on the shoulders of Gigi and the Persian.
"Hail!" cried Gigi. "Hail! Master of the ship!"
"Master of the ship!" shouted the Persian.
Master of the ship! "Put me down," he ordered. And when they had set him on his feet he strode from Klaneth's deck to Sharane's.
He stood over her.
"Master of the ship!" he laughed. "And master of—you! Sharane!" He gripped her slender wrists, drew her to him.
There was a cry from Gigi, a groan echoed by the Persian. Sharane's face paled...
Out of the black cabin strode Sigurd, and in his arms was that dark statue of cloudy evil that had stood in Klaneth's shrine.
"Stop!" cried Gigi, and sprang. Before the Ninevite could reach him Sigurd had lifted the idol and cast it over into the waves.
"The last devil gone!" he shouted. The ship trembled—trembled as though far beneath its keel a hand had risen and was shaking it. It stopped. Around it the waters darkened. Deep, deep down in those darkened waters began to glow a scarlet cloud. Deep, deep beneath them the cloud moved and widened as widens the thunderhead. It vortexed into a crimson storm cloud blotted with blacknesses. It floated up; ever growing, its scarlets deepening ever more angrily, its blacks shading ever more menacingly'
The lifting cloud swirled; from it shot out strangely ordered rays, horizontal, fan-shaped. From those slant planed luminescences now whirling like a tremendous wheel in the abyss, immense bubbles, black and crimson, began to break. They arose, growing swiftly in girth as they neared the surface.
Within them Kenton glimpsed figures, misty figures; bodies of crouching men clad in armor that glimmered jet and scarlet.
Men within the bubbles!
Armored men! Men who crouched with heads on knees, clothed all in glittering scales. Warriors in whose hands were misty swords, misty bows, misty javelins.
Up rushed the bubble hosts, myriad after myriad. Now they were close to sea surface. Now they broke through.
The bubbles burst!
Out of their shattered sides the warriors sprang. All in their checkered mail, pallid-faced, pupilless eyes half closed and dead, they leaped out upon the darkened blue of the sea. From crest to crest of waves they vaulted. They ran over the waters as though over a field of withered violets. Silently they poured down upon the ship!
"Men of Nergal!" wailed Sharane. "Warriors of the Black One! Ishtar! Ishtar—help us!"
"Phantoms!" cried Kenton, and held high his blood stained sword. "Phantoms!"
And he knew in his soul that whatever they were—phantoms they were not!
The front rank poised themselves upon the tip of a curling wave as though upon a long land barrow. They thrust down bows no longer misty. To their cheeks they drew the tips of long arrows. Came a twang of strings, a pattering as of hail against the sides of the ship. A dozen shafts quivered along the side of the mast; one fell at his feet—serpent-scaled, black and crimson, its head buried deep within the deck.
"Ishtar! Mother Ishtar! Deliver us from Nergal!" wailed Sharane.
As though in answer the ship leaped as if another hand had thrown it forward.
From the hosts still breaking through the bubbles arose a shouting. They raced after the flying ship. Another rain of arrows fell upon it.
"Ishtar! Mother Ishtar!" sobbed Sharane. The hovering darkness split. For an instant out of it Peered an immense orb circled with garlands of little moons. From it poured silver fire; living, throbbing, jubilant. The pulsing flood struck the sea and melted through it. The shadows closed; the orb was gone.
The moon-flames it had poured dropped down and down. Up to meet them sparkled other great bubbles all rosy, pearl and silver, shimmering with glints and glimmerings of tenderest nacre, gleamings of mother-of-pearl, cream-of-roses.
In each of them Kenton sensed a form, a body—wondrous, delicate and delicious; a woman's body from whose beauty the shining sides of the bubbles drew their glory!
Women within the bubbles! Up rushed the spheres of glamour; they touched the surface of the wan sea. They opened.
Out of them flowed hosts of women. Naked, save for tresses black as midnight, silvery as the moon, golden as the wheat and poppy red, they stepped from the shimmering pyxes that had borne them upward.
They lifted white arms and brown arms, arms shell pink and arms pale amber, beckoning to the rushing, sea-born men-at-arms. Their eyes gleamed like little lakes of jewels—sapphires blue, black and pale sapphires, velvet jet, sun stone yellow, witched amber; eyes gray as sword blades beneath winter moons.
Round hipped and slender hipped, high breasted and virginal, they swayed upon their wave crests, beckoning, calling to Nergal's warriors.
At their calling—dove-sweet, gull-plaintive, hawk-eager, sweet and poignant—the scaled hosts wavered; halted. The bows that had been drawn dropped; swords splashed; javelins twirled through the deeps. Within their dead eyes a flame sprang.
The warriors shouted. They leaped forward... to the women...
Wave crests on which mailed men raced met crests on which the wondrous women poised. Into the mailed arms the women were swept. For a breath, tresses brown and black, silver as the moon and golden as the wheat, swirled round mail ebon and scarlet.
Then warriors and women melted into the form behind the racing ship; became one with the jeweled and sparkling wake of it; a wake that rolled and sighed as though it were the soul of amorous seas.
"Ishtar! Mother Beloved!" prayed the Lady Sharane. "To Ishtar— homage!"
"To Ishtar—homage!" echoed Kenton, and bent his knee. Rising, he caught her to him.
"Sharane!" he breathed. Her soft arms wreathed his neck. "My lord— I pray you forgiveness," she sighed. "I pray you forgiveness! Yet how could I have known—when
