Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger, page 3
The ghouls advanced, their skeletal hands wielding clubs and axes. One or two of them turned toward each of the embattled sailors. The one that came at Sinbad reached into the flames and pulled forth a blazing length of wood. Then the ghouls and Sinbad’s men were locked into a deadly battle—a battle in which one side could feel no pain!
The ghoul thrust his blazing timber at Sinbad, who dodged, hacking at it with his sword. The skeletal apparition swung the flaming wood hard, but Sinbad blocked it, throwing his weight behind his sword. Jumping back, Sinbad struck at the fiery lance with all his strength, knocking it from the ghoul’s grasp, sending it flying against the sloping wall of the tent, where it started another smoky fire.
The other ghouls were closing in upon Hassan and the weak, but game, Aboo-seer. Axe and club were met with skillfully wielded scimitars and in a sudden thrust Hassan severed an arm from a ghoul. His eyes widened as the skeletal figure paid no attention to the loss of the limb. It merely reached down with the remaining arm and tore the thick club from the clasp of the severed hand and swung it again toward Hassan.
In a corner, obscured by smoke, the hooded woman had moved to stand protectively over the huddled, wounded figure of the youth. Her eyes still blazed, wide with tension, watching the battle with feverish interest.
“To me!” shouted Sinbad, leaping over a mound of smoking pillows. He kicked aside the discarded drums of the musicians, and in a long vertical slash cut open the side of the tent. Hassan and the weakened Aboo-seer struggled through and joined their captain as he drove back the ghouls with a dazzling display of swordsmanship. The smoke was pouring out through the rent in the felt wall as Sinbad’s two companions hurried out.
Now all of the inhuman figures were advancing on the lone sailor. Sinbad shot a look over his shoulder. Behind him was a pyramid of sawn timber logs and his two friends were hurrying past it. Aboo-seer was beginning to sag, but kept on gamely.
Sinbad whirled as a club hissed by his shoulder. His scimitar streaked out, stabbing into the ribs of the ghoul with no effect. He raised a boot and kicked out, staggering the attacker with his blow. The ghouls advanced stiffly, their movements awkward and far from the lithe movements of the human they were attacking. But their apparent invulnerability seemed to spell the doom of the swiftly moving Sinbad. They gave forth a triumphant hissing noise as they moved in for the kill, their weapons raised menacingly.
Sinbad jumped out through the slit in the tent and the ghouls followed awkwardly, their clubs and axes and wide-bladed cleavers swinging in tireless blows.
The tall sailor risked another glance over his shoulder. The encampment ended near the projecting quay, a stone pier that jutted into the bay. He could see Hassan and the Mate scrambling into a boat. He dodged another near blow by a sharp-edged cleaver and jumped quickly over a log, running toward the pyramid of timbers.
The ghouls followed him in a silence broken only by the hissing of burning tents and the rattle of their bony passage. Sinbad quickly moved to the base of the log pile, glancing at the advancing figures, ghostly in the moonlight and still murderous.
His scimitar glinted in the light of the crescent moon as he slashed through the ropes that held the pile of logs together. The ropes fell away and the logs began to tumble down. The ghouls did not pause in their shambling rush at Sinbad and the turbaned sailor had only time to jump away before the avalanche of logs thundered past him.
The ghouls froze in their tracks as they realized the danger, but they were too slow in reacting. The logs rumbled over them, snapping brittle, fleshless bones like tinder, burying them under the pile of heavy wood. Here and there a severed leg or arm twitched and tried to move on, but could not.
With a glance back at the smoking tent Sinbad ran down the quay past piles of cargo and was about to plunge into the water when a figure moved out of the shadows. Covered in a sari and yashmak, it came from between bales of merchandise, but stopped as Sinbad’s sword swung toward it.
“Captain Sinbad! Wait!”
Sinbad recognized the voice at once. “Princess Farah!” He looked around warily. “How did you . . .?”
She came to his side and touched his arm. “Praise to Allah that I found you! I must talk to you—”
Sinbad looked back at the tumbled pyramid of logs. He thought he saw a stirring in the logs. “Not here . . . not now . . .” he said, pointing with his bloodied blade at the fallen timber.
He gasped as he saw a hooded figure at the land end of the quay, emerging from the darkness. There was a feeling of incredible malevolence about the hooded shape. No stranger to fear, yet a man who preferred to fight what he knew, Sinbad muttered to Farah, “And no going back that way!” He swept her into his arms and she cried out in surprise. “Come with me!” he said and leaped from the quay.
Farah cried out but her voice was stifled by the water as they hit with a great splash. Sinbad started swimming at once, tugging the girl after him, but she started to swim herself and they splashed through the moonlit waters toward the small boat, which had stopped moving away and was waiting for them.
On the quay the figure of the hooded witch stopped moving, and from under the hood there flashed the flickering of twin fires.
Aboo-seer, Hassan, and Maroof helped Sinbad and Princess Farah aboard. The other sailors began rowing at once, their mood caught from the fiery atmosphere of Hassan and Aboo-seer. Farah was breathless and frightened, her thin silken clothes hanging in drenched rags and her long dark hair plastered against her head and shoulders. Her yashmak was gone, but she made no effort to veil her face again.
“What—by all the devils in Hell—were those creatures?” Hassan grumbled.
Aboo-seer blew out his cheeks in an explosive gesture. “Spirits of Evil!” he spat. “Hope you never find out!”
Maroof peered back at the shore, his dark face unreadable in the night. “Ghouls conjured by a witch!”
Sinbad peered back through the deepening midnight gloom at the quay. The moon had gone behind a cloud and the shore was dark, with only flickerings of fire from the burning tent. The tent city, so recently filled with music and laughter, was dark and quiet.
“We will make for the open sea as soon as we are aboard,” he said grimly.
“But the shoals?” Hassan said, always aware of the dangers of low tides.
“We shall risk them,” Sinbad said with a hard voice. He looked up. The clouds were moving across the face of the moon and would soon be past. “The moon will show us the channel.”
Aboo-seer grunted. “Better shoals than ghouls that pick up fire in their bare hands!” A shiver of superstitious fear trembled his brawny shoulders and he glared from under his heavy brows at the receding shoreline. Another shiver twitched his muscles. There was movement at the end of the quay. A stray beam of moonlight revealed a hooded figure, standing quietly, looking out at them.
On the mossy stones of the jetty the hooded figure of the mysterious woman stood with a kind of tense stillness. Again, it might have been a curious reflection of the growing moonlight, or something else unknown, but her eyes blazed with hate and anger, fiery almonds of light within the shadows of the hood.
CHAPTER 3
Sinbad’s crew helped them aboard, eager to know what had happened, but Sinbad gave them only the most cursory of explanations. Then his voice thundered across the deck. “Hoist the mainsail! Raise the anchor!” The men set swiftly to work as Aboo-seer repeated the order.
“Hoist the mainsail! Look alive!”
Sinbad took the Princess Farah’s arm. “I’ll see to the Princess,” he said and led her below. He paused as she descended the steps to the cabins. He looked back, and the dark figure was still at the end of the quay.
On the moonlit waters of the bay Sinbad’s ship turned into the wind and moved gracefully and almost silently toward the entrance to the harbor.
The ship swayed and bobbed, causing some of the cargo in the hold to shift. Timbers creaked and the rush of water past the wooden hull was like the hiss of a hundred tongues. The shouting of the sailors died down as the ship steadied into the wind and moved out toward the open sea. There was the bite of salt in the brisk evening wind. Lanterns had been lit and hung about the deck and from the sailors’ cabin came the murmuring voices of men telling the tale of the night’s curious adventures.
In Sinbad’s cabin Farah looked around, shivering against the chill of the night in her wet clothes. There was only moonlight illuminating the cabin and Farah could see the dark, unlit bulk of Charak behind them, merging into the night sky, barely discernible against the stars. Glints of moonlight came from the tower tops and bulbous minaret domes. She gave a start as Sinbad spoke from behind her.
“Wrap yourself in this,” he said, pulling a rough blanket from the bed. “And give me your clothes.”
She took the blanket and Sinbad turned away, stirring the faint coals of a brazier into flame. With the light Farah could make out that the cabin’s furnishings were few; expensive and beautiful, but simple. There was a plain table, a low bunk, a rack of swords and knives—each a masterpiece of the swordmaker’s art and for use, not show—and a single lantern, hung from a bight and swaying with the wind, which Sinbad was now lighting with a coal from the charcoal brazier.
Farah began disrobing, first taking off her necklace and rings, which flashed in the flickering light from the brazier. She added several bracelets to the pile, then pulled off the clinging wetness of her clothes. With a glance at Sinbad’s back she wrapped her nude, damp body in the coarse blanket. She rubbed the blanket against her, clearing her throat significantly.
Sinbad grinned at her and bent to pick up her pile of sodden clothing, which he draped across a line above the glowing coals of the brazier. She sat down on the edge of the bed, gave a shiver, then watched him with trusting eyes. Sinbad poured a goblet of wine from a leather skin, then set it aside. Plucking a dagger from the rack, he stuck its blackened blade into the coals.
“Lie back,” he said to Farah and she obeyed, sinking into cushions and mattress gratefully. Sinbad pulled the knife blade from the fire and plunged it into the goblet of wine. The wine steamed and hissed and when it had stopped Sinbad pulled the blade from it and handed the cup to the girl.
“Drink this.”
As she took it Sinbad expertly flicked the dagger across the cabin, where it stuck quivering in the wood stanchion next to the sword rack. Then he turned back to look at Farah with searching eyes.
“You were searching for me—why?”
“I was told of your return,” she said, taking a sip of the wine. She had raised up on one elbow to drink and the blanket had slipped down to expose her flawless shoulders and the upper slopes of her perfect breasts. “I need help desperately,” she said between gulps. “My brother is in great danger . . . !”
Sinbad frowned. “Prince Kassim? I owe him my life.” He gestured around him. “And my ship and crew!”
Farah nodded. “A spell has been cast upon him.” A shadow of fear and loathing crossed her face. “My uncle Balsora will tell you.”
“Why not you?” Sinbad asked. He reached up and tucked the blanket higher around her shoulders to eliminate the distractions of her tempting flesh.
Farah grabbed at his wrist. “Please, I beg you . . . ! Do not leave Charak.” Her dark eyes were pleading. “Trust me . . . for my brother’s sake.”
Sinbad straightened. “For him I would risk my life.” His impudent grin dissolved his sternness. “For you I would give it.”
Farah seized his hand and kissed it, and Sinbad blinked, somewhat disconcerted. Beautiful women were no novelty to the bearded adventurer, but princesses who kissed his hand certainly were.
He covered his momentary confusion with a hard-voiced question. “I was told there was a plague.”
Farah’s face came up, darkened by anger. “Not true! Balsora rules the city by day, but by night . . .” Her eyes darted toward the ports. “By night, fear rules Charak! People whisper of witchcraft.”
Sinbad’s mouth was in a grim line. “How can I help?”
She looked at him trustingly. “You will find a way! Oh, Sinbad—I prayed every day for your return.”
The captain looked uncomfortable. “It has been almost a year,” he said, but the princess made a gesture as though that did not matter. “Then . . . then I was not willing to give up the sea . . .”
Farah smiled. “Nor I my life at court . . .”
He matched her smile. “Now I have decided to live on land—”
“And I to live at sea!” she exclaimed with a laugh. They threw themselves into each other’s arms and Farah’s wine goblet fell unheeded to the deck.
“I have returned to Charak to ask Kassim for your hand. Will you consent?”
“Willingly!” she exclaimed. “But only . . .” she pulled back, her manner sobering. “But only when my brother is able to stand before you and give his consent. When he is himself again . . .”
Sinbad frowned in puzzlement. “Himself?”
Farah sighed. She tugged the blanket around her and began to speak. “After my father’s death . . . Allah protect his soul . . . the astrologers had decided that the first full moon would be auspicious for the coronation of my brother, Kassim.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh. “On the day of the ceremony the procession began . . . but . . . even as the crown was placed on his head . . .” She broke off with a sob, unable to continue.
Sinbad patted her back and whispered into her ear “Hush . . . hush . . . Lie back . . . Do not speak of it now.”
Farah eased herself out of Sinbad’s arms and lay back on the wide bunk. In a small voice she continued. “It . . . it was the last time I saw him as the Kassim I’ve known all my life . . . young . . . handsome . . . a true prince.”
Sinbad’s frown was of concern. “Has he fallen victim to the plague? Or an accident . . . ?”
Farah’s voice was weak. “Worse than a thousand plagues . . .”
Sinbad leaned over her. “But what happened to him?”
She burst into tears, sobbing in anguish, and Sinbad awkwardly tried to comfort her. He looked around in anger and frustration. “How can I help?” he muttered to himself. “I’m only a sea captain . . .”
Farah’s sobs lessened for a moment and her hand clutched at his wrist. “You’re . . . you’re more than that. You’re a brave man . . . and a man to trust.” The smile she gave him over her hunched shoulder was tremulous and melted Sinbad’s heart.
He sighed and shook his head. “From what we saw . . . and fought . . . tonight . . . well, it takes more than a swordsman’s courage to fight witchcraft.”
“You will find a way,” she said, her sobs lessening. Sinbad held her until she ceased to cry and fell asleep. All the while the bearded captain-adventurer wondered how he could keep her trust in his ability to “find a way.”
CHAPTER 4
The morning sea mist clung closely to the water. Overhead the sky was clear blue, but before him all Sinbad saw from his position next to the helmsman was gray mist. He glanced aloft at Ali, clinging to the highest shrouds. “Well?” he said loudly and the lookout shrugged expressively.
“Fog, Sinbad, nothing but—hold! Wait a moment!” He pointed into the mist, which was thinning. They could hear the waves of the bay breaking on the beach before the city and in moments the high-walled town rose out of the mist in an almost ghostly manner. Sinbad saw a flaming arrow climb high in a blazing arc against the sky.
“Signal arrow,” Ali shouted down. “They’ve seen us.”
Sinbad nodded. The quay was to be seen now and the helmsman steered a true course. The mate shouted orders and the sails fell, to be gathered by the hard-working, well-muscled sailors. But none of them stopped glancing at the mist-shrouded city walls. The story of the ghostly hooded figure and the close escape of Sinbad, Hassan, and the Mate had gone the rounds of the crew.
The ship coasted, moving silently through the oily morning waters toward the stone quay. Princess Farah came out of Sinbad’s cabin, one of his cloaks around her shoulders to ward off the morning chill, but her scanty clothing dry and redonned. She crossed the deck and stood at the rail with a troubled face. The ship drew next to the quay and two sailors, fore and aft, leaped lithely to the surface of the jetty and snugged strong ropes around stone bights, bringing the slow-moving ship to a graceful halt. It bobbed on its own wake, then settled down to the slow rise and fall of the tide.
Sinbad fingered the hilt of his sword, his eyes straying from city gate to the low profiles of the Bedouin tents, dark and spreading to the left and right of the road from quay to gate. The burned, sagging mess that had been Rafi’s tent was still there, smoldering fitfully, its smoke mixing with the thinning mist. Beyond was the tumbled pile of timbers, but Sinbad could see no evidence of any ghouls.
There was a creaking noise at the gate, carrying far over the still waters, and the massive gate of Charak swung open. Sinbad narrowed his eyes as he saw a troop of colorful horsemen ride out, each cavalryman armed with shield, sword, dagger, and lance. Then he smiled as he recognized the dignified old man at the head of the troop. Sinbad glanced down at Princess Farah and saw her hand raise in a wave to her father’s—and now her brother’s—trusted Vizier, Balsora.
Sinbad’s eyes quickly went along the line of horsemen. Next to Balsora was Zabid, a tough old soldier with a scarred face. A black eye-patch covered an empty socket. Farther along the cavalcade Sinbad saw a litter carried by six large Nubian slaves. On the litter he could see a rather exotic collection of baggage—chests of inlaid wood, brass-bound boxes of cedar, woven baskets with hidden contents, and a strange, cage-shaped object completely covered in scarlet cloth.
Sinbad walked to the head of the ladder to the deck and jumped down, using the ladder’s framing to slow his controlled fall. He walked lithely to stand by Princess Farah. She glanced up at him and gave him a shy smile, then her eyes returned to the Vizier.
