For an instant the black priest stood towering over Kenton. Then he struck downward, a lightning blow designed to cleave Kenton from shoulder to hip.
But Kenton was not there when the blow fell. Swifter than the sword of Klaneth he had leaped aside, thrust out his own blade—
Felt it bite deep into the black priest's side! The black priest howled and fell back. Instantly his acolytes streamed in between him and the besieged pair. They circled them.
"Back to back," shouted the Viking. Kenton heard the great club hum, saw three of the black robes mowed down by it as by giant flail. With sweep and thrust he cleared away the priests ravening at him.
Now the fighting had carried them close to the drum. He saw the Persian, scimitar unsheathed and held by rigid arm. And he was cursing, sobbing, quivering like a hound held in leash and held back from his quarry. Gigi, froth upon the corners of wide open mouth, face contorted, stood with long arms outstretched, hands trembling, shaking with that same eagerness.
Desire, Kenton knew, to join with him and Sigurd in that battle; both held back by vows not to be broken.
Gigi pointed downward. Kenton followed the gesture, saw a priest crawling, sword in hand, and almost within reach of the Viking's feet. One sweep of the sword against Sigurd's legs and he was done for; hamstrung. Forgetting his own defense, Kenton leaned forward, cut downward. The head of the creeping priest jumped from his shoulders, rolled away.
But as he straightened he saw Klaneth again above him, poised to strike!
"The end!" thought Kenton. He dropped flat, rolled away from the falling edge.
He had not counted on the Viking. Sigurd had seen that swift by-play. He swept his oar, held horizontally, in a gigantic punch. It crashed into Klaneth's chest.
The sword stroke fell short, the black priest was hurled backward, half falling for all his strength and massive bulk.
"Gigi! Zubran! To me!" he howled. Before Kenton could rise, two priests were on him, clawing him, stabbing at him. He released his grip on his sword; drew the poniard of Zachel. He thrust upward; felt a body upon him stiffen, then collapse like a pricked balloon, felt too, the edge of a sword slice into his shoulder. He struck again, blindly; was drenched with sudden flood of blood. He heard a bubbling whispering and the second weight was gone.
He gripped his sword, staggered upright. Of all Klaneth's pack not more than half a dozen were on their feet. They had drawn back, out of reach of the Viking's club. Sigurd stood, drawing in great breaths. And the black priest was gasping too, holding his broad chest where the oar of Sigurd had struck. At his feet was a little pool of blood, dripping from where the sword of Nabu had pierced him. "Gigi! Zubran!" he panted. "Take these dogs!"
The drummer leered at him. "Nay, Klaneth," he answered. "There was no vow to aid you."
He bent over the tall drum, with heave of broad shoulders he hurled it over the side.
From the priests arose a groan. Klaneth stood, silent, struck dumb.
There came from the waves touching the ship a sound—sonorous and sinister.
A thunderous drumming, menacing, malignant—summoning! Br-oom-rr- oom-oom!
The serpent drum swinging against the side of the ship! Lifted by the waves and by their arms beaten against the ship!
The Summoner of Nergal!
The ship trembled. A shadow fell upon the sea. Around Klaneth a darkness began to gather.
More angrily thundered the wave-beaten drum. The mists about the black priest thickened, writhed; beginning that hellish transmutation of Nergal's priest into the dread self of the Lord of the Dead.
"Strike!" howled Gigi. "Quick! Bite deep!"
He ran to the rail; dropped over it.
Kenton rushed straight upon that cloudy horror within which the black priest moved. His sword swept into it; struck. He heard a shriek, agonized, unbelieving. The voice of Klaneth. He struck again.
And striking realized that the drumming had ceased, that the voice of the drum was stilled. He heard Gigi's shout:
"Bite again. Wolf! Bite deep!"
The dark mist around Klaneth cleared. He stood there, dead eyes closed, hand holding an arm from which dark blood welled through clasping fingers.
And as Kenton raised his sword to strike again the black priest dashed into his eyes the blood from the hand that had held the wounded arm. Blinded, Kenton held his sword at mid-stroke. The black priest rushed upon him. Mechanically, through dimmed sight, he thrust out his blade to meet that rush; saw Sigurd driving down upon the remaining priests; heard the crack of bone as red stained oar met their bodies.
His sword struck against Klaneth's, and was beaten down.
Kenton's foot slipped on a gout of blood. He fell. The black priest crashed on him; his arms encircled him. Over and over they rolled. He saw Sigurd, whimpering with eagerness, striving to strike...
Suddenly Klaneth rolled over, Kenton on top of him; his grip relaxed; he grew limp; lay inert.
Kenton knelt upon him; looked up at the Norseman.
"Not yours," he gasped. "Mine!"
He sought for the dagger at his belt. The body of the black priest stiffened. Then, like a released spring, he leaped upon his feet, throwing Kenton away.
Before the Viking could raise his club Klaneth was at the rail.
He hurled himself over it into the sea!
A hundred feet away, the serpent drum floated, its top slit across by Gigi's knife. The head of Klaneth arose beside it, his hands gripped it. Under the touch the huge cylinder dipped to him with grotesque genuflection. From it came a dismal sound, like a lament.
Out 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