"What do you want?" he asked through lips gone suddenly dry. The man on the dock thrust out a hand and pointed at the smaller of Pesouris's two ferries, moored along the dock. Then he pointed out across the star-flecked Styx. The hand disappeared into a pocket of the caftan and came out clutching a fistful of coins. The man tossed them onto the dock at the ferryman's feet. There were several coins, and they clashed musically together as they hit the weathered wood of the dock. The weight of their impact and their vague yellow gleam were not lost on Pesouris. Gold.

"Your pardon, my lord, but I cannot ferry you across at this hour. The Stygians, in their wisdom, forbid it. If you come back at daybreak..."

An uncomfortable moment of silence lengthened until the ferryman felt his pulse quicken with new apprehension. The man on the dock moved, thrusting his hand once again into his pocket and drawing forth another handful of coins. The pile of gold on the dock grew twice as large.

Pesouris looked down upon the spilled coins in sorrow. "I'm truly sorry, master, but it is forbidden for me to take travelers across the river after sundown. Your offer is generous, but if the Stygians caught us they would slay us both." The ferryman spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He did not have to feign regret. That was a lot of gold.

The man on the dock stood still for a long moment, his flowing white garb giving him the appearance of a silently risen ghost. Then he lunged forward and seized Pesouris by the throat and belt.

The ferryman choked as he was drawn effortlessly up out of the chair.

The hand at his throat seemed sculpted from cold granite. The portly ferryman was tossed bodily into the smaller of his ferries. There was a sharp stab of pain as his right knee cracked against the gunwale. If he had not been so full of fear, the pain might well have incapacitated him. As it was, he had the strength to roll over, grasp the slender mast, and pull himself to his feet in the little craft.

"Please," he choked, "I'll take you. Don't..."

The silent man was lowering himself stiffly into the boat. He sat in the prow and regarded Pesouris impa.s.sively. Only the vaguest outline of his features was visible in the darkness. There came the dry whisper of steel on leather as the man drew a heavy-bladed sword and laid it across his knees.

The ferryman busied himself poling first off the dock and then along the muddy bottom of the Styx. The ferry was little more than an outsized rowboat fitted with a miniature sail. Pesouris had Ahptut use it to carry the smaller, less wealthy groups of travelers. Now he scrambled to set the little sail as the craft surged out onto the black breast of the Styx.

Once the ferry was well under way, there was nothing Pesouris could do except squint into the darkness for the lights of Bel-Phar and regard his unlikely pa.s.senger. The air was chill upon the nighted river and a cooling draught blew back along the length of the boat. It bore a strange scent to the ferryman's nostrils.

Once, when he was very young, Pesouris had traveled by caravan with his father to Khemi at the mouth of the Styx. One morning he had awakened early and set out into the dunes to relieve himself. In a sandy hollow he had found the corpse of a camel. The beast had been mummified by the relentless arid heat of the desert and resembled a sagging leather fascimile of itself. The warm morning breeze had carried the same scent that he smelled now on the cool evening breath of the Styx.

Of a sudden Pesouris longed to look at anything other than his pa.s.senger. Turning his head to one side, he noticed a brief flash of froth out on the dark water. Amazed, the ferryman realized that he had spotted a crocodile. There were more flashes, more signs of movement all around the little boat. Here a black, armored muzzle broke the surface, and there a ridged, lashing tail struck foam from a glossy swell. The hair stood up on the ferryman's arms. Crocodiles did not venture so far from sh.o.r.e. And they did not follow ferryboats. The breeze blew stronger, bearing that scent back to Pesouris once again, and suddenly he understood. Crocodiles are eaters of carrion. They smelled it, too.

By the time that the spa.r.s.e lights of Bel-Phar's waterfront came into view, Pesouris had completed a long and most sincere prayer to Mitra.

He had briefly considered praying to Set before deciding upon the more merciful G.o.d of the Hyborians. If he survived this evening, he promised both a vastly generous donation to a temple of Mitra and a serious change of lifestyle. Looking to either side of the ferry, he felt certain that his prayers were falling on deaf ears. The man sitting in the prow of his boat had not changed position and if he noticed the swarm of crocodiles following them, he gave no sign.

"Master," said Pesouris, hating the shrill sound of his voice, "we are almost across." No response. He mustered his flagging courage. "Master, the water is full of crocodiles."

The man in the prow remained silent.

Pesouris concentrated on bringing his ferry in to a darkened, deserted dock, pointedly ignoring both his somber companion and their reptilian escort. When the little boat grated against the stained stone blocks of the dock, the ferryman felt a surge of relief, immediately followed by a rush of stark terror.

The man in the prow stood up, naked sword in his hand. Pesouris fell to his knees in the bottom of the boat, clenching his eyes shut against the blow he knew would come.

"Please, master," he pleaded. "I'll tell no one of your pa.s.sage. Spare your poor servant."

A weight lifted from the prow of the ferry. Pesouris opened his eyes to see his pa.s.senger standing on the steps carved into the stone of the dock. The waterfront seemed unnaturally silent. On the neighboring pier a lone torch flickered yellowly from a sconce set in stone. The man sheathed his sword with a swift movement and tugged back the hood of his caftan, paying no heed to Pesouris whatsoever. He turned and started up the steps.

"Master," called the ferryman. The tall man stopped, turned, and looked down at Pesouris, who cringed but spoke.

"Master, who are you? What do you seek here?"

The flesh of the man's face seemed impossibly drawn and sunken in the faint torchlight. The mouth opened and closed stiffly, as though its owner had forgotten how to speak. A scar shone pale through the l.u.s.terless growth of beard.

"Death," said Gulbanda, and moved away up the stairs into the night.

Chapter Twenty-One.

T'Cura of Darfar scrambled down from the jagged rock spur that he had been using as a lookout for most of the morning. Below him, twelve men lolled quietly beside their hobbled horses, cl.u.s.tered in what shade they could find atop the boulder-strewn ridge. Neb-Khot, the small band's leader, squinted in the merciless noonday glare, watching T'Cura descend and wondering what he had seen. He took a swig of warm, brackish Water from a goatskin and motioned for T'Cura to hurry.

Neb-Khot was a thin, wiry man. His dusky Stygian complexion was darkened even further by ceaseless exposure to the desert sun. His burnoose was gray with dust, secured at the waist with a leather girdle that held a scimitar and three cruelly hooked daggers. His sharp brown eyes peered questioningly at T'Cura, who scuffed over the rocky soil toward him. The Darfari approached his chieftain, touched his scarred forehead in a salute, and spoke.

"Hai, Neb-Khot, riders were approaching, but now they have turned off the Caravan Road and ride into the waste."

Neb-Khot stared at his man incredulously.

"Telmesh, awaken and tell me if what T'Cura says is truth."

The one addressed as Telmesh arose from the shadow of a mottled boulder and jogged toward the rock spur at the ridge's edge.

"I speak the truth." T'Cura's lips drew back from filed teeth.

"Are they mad?" The Stygian met T'Cura's bloodshot gaze. The Darfari was a fine tracker and an excellent man in a fight, but he had to be kept in line. Their eyes locked for a moment; then T'Cura looked away, bringing his dark hand up to scratch at his crudely shaven head.

"They ride into the open desert," persisted the Darfari, "and there are but four of them. Two are women."

"Even so?" Neb-Khot clapped a hand onto the man's shoulder to show him that he was still respected. "This grows more interesting by the moment."

The other brigands were stirring, some rising to wander over to hear of what T'Cura had seen. Telmesh dropped from the rock spur and came breathlessly up to Neb-Khot. He was a Shemite outlaw with few friends in the band. Neb-Khot often used him for simple tasks so that he felt appreciated. Now he held up his hand to shield his black eyes from the sun, revealing the faded tattoo of a golden peac.o.c.k upon his forearm.

"It is as T'Cura says," declared Telmesh. "I say that we leave them be.

Only sorcerers would willingly leave the Caravan Road and ride into the desert."

"Two are women," said T'Cura again, and a murmur of approval swept the lawless band of men gathered atop the rocky ridge.

"I did not notice," said Telmesh, but his words were lost in the growing tumult of eager voices. Neb-Khot lifted his hands for silence.

"My brothers, what manner of travelers leave the Caravan Road to wander in the wastelands? Are they necromancers seeking wisdom amongst the sand and scrub? Or are they witless fools who know nothing of the desert and have made the last mistake of their useless lives?"

Bloodthirsty cries rose from the men, some of whom drew their swords and shook them at the hot, blue sky. Telmesh the Shemite looked dismayed, but held his tongue.

"And eagle-eyed T'Cura says that two of the four are women!" continued Neb-Khot, his voice rising. "So I say, if the women are ugly, perhaps they are ladies worth ransoming. And if they are comely, then we have been lonely men for far too long!"

A savage cheer rang in the bright air and the group turned as one to their horses. Neb-Khot hoisted himself into his saddle and nudged his mount to Telmesh's side. An extended hand helped the Shemite mount his roan.

"Courage," smiled the Stygian. "If they are beauties, I shall see that you get first pick." Telmesh nodded, loyalty burgeoning in his breast.

Neb-Khot reined his horse around, watching his men move into action and reflecting upon how his luck had never deserted him. It had made him the undisputed leader of this strong band of bandits, always kept him a step ahead of the Stygian militia, and seen to it that it was never too long between hapless travelers on the Caravan Road. He spurred forward.

Hooves thundered in the dust as twelve men swept down from the high ridge to rob and rape and slay.

Chapter Twenty-Two.