Short Fiction, Poul Anderson [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

“Aye.” Corun stiffened, with sudden alarm trembling in his nerves. “Aye, by great good luck I came back. But they are not a race for humans to traffic with.”

“I think the powers I can summon will match theirs,” said Shorzon. “We want you to guide us to their dwellings and teach us the language on the way, as well as whatever else you know about them. When we return, you may go where you choose. And if we get their help, we will be able to set Conahur free soon afterward.”

Corun shook his head. “It’s nothing good that you plan,” he said slowly. “No one would approach the Xanthi for any good purpose.”

“You did, didn’t you?” chuckled the wizard dryly. “If you want the truth, we are after their help in seizing the government of Achaera, as well as certain knowledge they have.”

“If you succeeded,” argued Corun stubbornly, “why should you then let Conahur go?”

“Because power over Achaera is only a step to something too far beyond the petty goals of empire for you to imagine,” said Shorzon bleakly. “You must decide now, man. If you refuse, you die.”

Chryseis moved one slim hand and the erinye padded forward on razor-clawed feet. The leathery wings were folded back against the long black body, the barbed tail lashed hungrily and a snarl vibrated in the lean throat. “If you say no,” came the woman’s sweet voice, “Perias will rip your guts out. That will at least afford us an amusing spectacle for our trouble.” Then she smiled, the dazzling smile which had driven men to their doom ere this. “But if you say yes,” she whispered, “a destiny waits for you that kings would envy. You are a strong man, Corun. I like strong men⁠—”

The corsair looked into the warm dark light of her eyes, and back to the icy glare of the devil-beast. No unarmed man had ever survived the onslaught of an erinye⁠—and he was chained.

At thought of returning to the dark home of the Xanthi, he shuddered. But life was still wondrous sweet, and⁠—once free to move about, he might still have some chance of escape or even of overpowering them.

Or⁠—who knew? He wondered, with a brief giddiness, if the dark witch before him could be as evil as her enemies said. Strong and ruthless, yes⁠—but so was he. When he learned the full truth about her soaring plans, he might even decide they were right.

In any case⁠—to live! To die, if he must, under the sky!

“I’ll go,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll go with you.”

The low exultant laughter of Chryseis sang in the flare-lit gloom.

Shorzon came up and took a key from his belt. For a bare moment, the thought of snapping that skinny neck raged through Corun’s mind.

The magician smiled grimly. “Don’t try it,” he said. “As a small proof of what we can do⁠—”

Suddenly he was not there. It was a monster from the jungles of Umlotu standing in the cell with Corun, a scaled beast that hissed at him with grinning jaws and spewed poison on the floor.

Sorcery! Corun shrank back, a chill of fear striking even his steely heart. Shorzon resumed human shape and wordlessly unlocked the chains. They fell away and Corun stumbled out into the corridor.

The erinye snarled and slipped closer. Chryseis laid a hand on the beast’s head, checking that gliding rush as if with a leash. Her smile and the faint sweet scent of her hair were dizzying.

“Come,” she said. One hand slipped between his own fingers and the cool touch seemed to burn him.

Shorzon led the way, down a long sloping tunnel where only the streaming torch-flames had life. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the wet black length of it.

“We go at once,” he said. “When Khroman learns of your escape, all Tauros will be after us. But it will be too late then. We sail swiftly tonight.”

Sail⁠—whither?

“What of my men?” asked Corun.

“They’re lost, I’m afraid, unless Khroman spares them until we get back,” said Chryseis. “But we saved you. I’m glad of that.”

A faint smell of fresh salty air blew up the tunnel. It must open on the sea, thought Corun. He wondered how many passages riddled the depth under Tauros.

They came out, finally, on a narrow beach under the looming western cliffs. The precipices climbed into the utter dark of night, reaching into the unseen sky. Before them lay open sea, swirling with phosphorescence. Corun drew deep lungfulls of air. Salt and seaweed and wet wild wind⁠—sand under his feet, sky overhead, a woman beside him⁠—by the gods, it was good to be alive!

A galley was moored against a tiny pier. By the light of bobbing torches, Corun’s mariner’s eye surveyed her. She was built along the same lines as his own ship, a lean black vessel with one square sail; open-decked save at stem and stern, rower’s benches lining the sides with a catwalk running between. There would be quarters for the men under the poop and forecastle decks, supplies in the hold beneath. A cabin was erected near the waist, apparently for officers, and there was a ballista mounted in the bows⁠—otherwise no superstructure. A carved sea monster reared up for figurehead, and the sternpost curved back to make its tail. He read the name on the bows: Briseia. Strange that that dark vessel should bear a girl’s name.

About a fifty-man capacity, he judged. And she would be fast.

The crew were getting aboard⁠—they must have come down the cliffs along some narrow trail. They were all Umlotuan blues, he noticed, a cutthroat gang if ever he saw one but silent and well disciplined. It was shrewd to take only the mercenary warriors along; they had no patriotic interest in what happened to Achaera, and their reckless courage was legendary.

A burly one-eyed officer came up and saluted. “All set, sir,” he reported.

“Good,” nodded Shorzon. “Captain Imazu, this is our guide, Captain Corun.”

“The raider, eh?” Imazu chuckled and shook