Conan the Buccaneer

Chapter Seventeen: THE WRECK OF THE WASTREL

The trip through the jungles from Gamburu to King Juma's capital of KulaJo, and thence to the mouth of the Zikamba, where they had left the Wastrel, consumed a number of days. Chabela was too exhausted to make the journey on foot, so Juma's blacks quickly built a rude litter of bamboo and rough cloth, in which the princess made the trip in relative comfort.

As for Conan, a few hours of rest, half a goatskin of strong wine, and a huge slab of roast meat rendered him fit again. Not for the first time, the magnificent animal vitality of Conan's barbarian heritage had shown him superior to the weaker, softer men of the countries through which he wandered and adventured. He took no special pride in this physical preeminence, reasoning that it was the doing of his forebears or of the gods and hence no cause for self-conceit.

It was sundown when they reached the palmy fringes of the Zikamba. The moon was rising like a copper shield by the time they came to the mouth of the river.

There the stream spread out in an estuary. The sluggish flood mingled its fresh water, dark with sediment, with the booming sea. And there, a shocking sight awaited them.

Sigurd gasped, recovered, and gave voice to a sulfurous sequence of oaths.

Conan said nothing, but the impassive bronze mask of his face darkened wit fury.

For the Wastrel lay half sunk in the shallows, her decks awash. Her masts were mere charred stumps, for fire had swept her deck. From these facts and the dozen burial mounds of heaped earth that stood along the edge of the jungle, the Cimmerian grimly surmised that there had been a battle and that the Wastrel had lost.

The sound of the approach of Juma's party roused alert sentries. There were cries of warning and the thud of footsteps. Torches flared and flashed on naked cutlasses in the hands of a band of burly seamen. Conan thrust his companions aside and strode forward.

They were in sorry condition. Most were wrapped in dirty bandages, and some limped on sticks and crutches. The mate, Zeltran, bustled up. His right arm was swathed in bandages; he carried his saber in his left.

"Captain!" he yelled. "Is it you? Sink me, but we never thought to see you again. The jungles seemed to have swallowed you up!"

"I live, Zeltran," said Conan. "But what's befallen here? There has been trouble, I see, but from whom?"

Zeltran shook his head sorrowfully. The rotund little mate had lost weight.

"That dog Zarono!'' he snarled. "Three days ago, his Petrel took us by surprise …"

"Surprise?" roared Conan. "How could that happen? Had you no lookouts?"

Zeltran cursed. "Lookouts a-plenty, my Captain, but all the lookouts in the world could not have seen the Petrel A dense fog crept in upon us … such a fog as these eyes have never seen. One could see no further than one can see through a granite cliff …"

"Aye, Captain, 'tis true!'' said a seaman. " 'Twas witchcraft, Captain Conan … black sorcery, fry my guts if it wasn't!"

"And under cover of this mysterious fog bank, the Petrel sailed in and swept your decks, is that it?" Conan growled.

Zeltran said: "Aye, sir; that be just how it happened. First thing we knew was the crunch of Zarono's side against ours, and then his men poured over the rail and had at us. We fought, the gods know … you can see our wounds … but they had the upper hand in numbers and surprise. In the end, they drove us over our shoreward rail and into the water. I tried to cover my lads' retreat …"

"Aye, Captain," said another seaman. "Ye should have seen him … 'twould have made you proud … whacking away with his cutlass like three men."

"…but then something hit me over the head. When I came to, I was tied to the mast, with Zarono's dogs standing around and grinning. Then comes Black Zarono himself, all very elegant in his lace ruffles, with that snaky priest Menkara behind him. 'Oho, my fine lad,' says Zarono, 'and where's your master, the barbarian lout Conan?' ''

''Gone ashore, sir, I says. Zarono hits me a clip across the mouth. 'I can see that, fool,' he says, 'but where ashore?' I know not, sir, I says, not seeing that it would do any good to enrage the man. He is friends with some gang of black warriors that live hereabouts, and he has gone off to visit them.''

'' 'And where's that Zingaran lass he had with him?' says Zarono. Gone with him, as far as I know I says. 'But which way, man? Which way, and how far?' says Zarono.''

"I pretended a great ignorance of King Juma's whereabouts, even when they tickled my right arm with hot coals. I will show you the blisters, my Captain, when they heal up a little more. Then Zarono and the Stygian priest went aside and consulted in low tones. The priest set up his magical apparatus on the quarterdeck, and mumbled and grumbled for a long time, while strange lights flickered about him. At last he says to Zarono: 'I see her being borne in a litter along a jungle trail in the midst of a powerful host of black warriors. More I cannot tell you.' ''

"That made Zarono fair furious, I can tell you. He hit me in the face a few times, just to take out his anger. 'How in the names of all the gods,' says he, 'am I supposed to comb all the vast jungles of Kush to find the wench, and then snatch her out from an army of hundreds of fierce barbarians? As well ask me to jump over the moon!' ''

"After more palaver, Zarono and Menkara decided to destroy the Wastrel and depart at once for Kordava. They planned to go by way of Stygia to gather up their confederate, who if I heard aright is called Thoth-Amon."

"Thoth-Amon?" said Conan. ''I've crossed his trail before. A bad enemy to have, from all I hear. But go on. Those two dogs seem to have been pretty free with their talk in front of you."

"Ah, but my Captain, they did not expect me to live to tell tales! Zarono gave his orders. One crew went alongside in their longboat and chopped a hole in the hull at the waterline. Another party piled fuel around the masts and set it alight."

"And you were tied to one of these masts?"

"Exactly, sir. The mainmast, in fact. Naturally, I did not take kindly to the idea of being burnt alive; so, while Zarono's people scrambled back aboard the Petrel and shoved off … not wishing to burn their own ship as well … I prayed to Mitra and Ishtar and Asura and every other god I ever heard of to get me out of this fix. And whether or not my prayers were heard, no sooner had the Petrel vanished in the fog than it began to rain. Meanwhile, the Wastrel settled from the hole in her bottom until she rested on the ground as you see her now. And I wriggled and struggled and finally got my arms out of the ropes, for the Petrels had not done a very seamanlike job of tying me up. And when I was free, I kicked most of the combustibles overboard, and the rain put out the rest of the fire … although not before the masts and rigging had been consumed. And here we are."

Conan grunted. "He'd have been cleverer not to have tried both to sink and to burn the ship. One or the other, but both at once cancel each other out." He clapped Zeltran on the shoulder, bringing a yelp of pain from the mate as his sore arm was jostled. "I believe you and the boys did all you could. But now we must plan our next step, which is to make the Wastrel seaworthy again as quickly as may be."

Zeltran pulled a doleful face. "Alas, my Captain, I see not how to do that in less than several months' time. We have no shipyard, nor can we whistle up a swarm of skilled shipwrights out of this jungle."

Juma had stalked silently forward. "My men will aid you in repairing your ship," he said. "Many strong hands make a task easy."

"Perhaps, and I thank you," said Conan thoughtfully. "But what do your warriors know of repairing ships?"

''Naught; we are no seagoing folk. But we are many and strong, and we have among us good craftsmen in wood. If your men will lead them and show them what is to be done, they will work like giants until the task be finished."

"Good!" said Conan. He raised his voice to his dispirited crew. "Shipmates, we have lost a battle, but we have not yet lost the war! Black Zarono, who overcame you by treacherous sorcery, now sails the sea bound for Zingara, where he hopes to topple our friend and patron, old King Ferdrugo. King Juma's people will help us to put our ship to rights. Then ho for the main, to get revenge upon the scoundrel and save our king from his plots! What say you?"

"We lost a lot of good men," said the boatswain, nodding toward the row of graves.

"Aye, but we have Sigurd's Argosseans! If ye'll all pull together as one crew, with no more folly of Barachan against buccaneer, we can do it. So what say ye? Let me hear you, loud and clear!"

The sailors roared their approval, and their cutlasses flashed in the moonlight.

Never had Conan seen men work so hard. They belayed cables to the stumps of the burnt masts and dragged the ship upright. They dove into the water-filled hold to fetch out tools. They felled trees, cut them into boards, and patched the hole in the Wastrel's side. They pumped out the water until the ship once again floated free on her anchor cables.

They felled more trees and shaved them down to size to take the place of the burnt masts and spars. While the women of Juma's capital stitched new canvas, the men gathered resinous firewood, piled it in ricks, lighted it, and collected the tar that ran out from under the piles. The work went on day and night, while boys from Juma's people held torches aloft for illumination.

Then came the day of departure. The buccaneers were reeling with fatigue or drunk on banana wine or both; but the Wastrel would be ready to catch the dawn breeze.

Throughout the black night, Juma's people filed in a long line through the Kushite jungle to the shore, bearing provisions: casks of water, kegs of tough millet cakes, bales of fresh fruit, sides of smoked pork, barrels of yams and other vegetables; provisions enough to feed the buccaneers on a journey to the other side of the world.

As dawn paled the skies to the east, Conan bade farewell to Juma. Once they had fought side by side in the legions of King Yildiz of Turan; again, they had dared the snows of the trackless Talakmas, the yelling horde of slant-eyed little warriors in fantastic armor of lacquered leather, and the walking stone idol in the unknown valley of Meru. Now, for the last time, they had fought side by side in the sweltering Kushite jungles.

Silently, grinning but blinking back tears, they clenched each other's hands in a fierce grip. They said nothing, for both somehow guessed that they would not meet again in this incarnation.

The Wastrel hoisted sail. Canvas boomed as it filled and tautened in the offshore breeze. Black warriors with their women and naked children lined the shore to wave farewell. And the Wastrel rode out into deep water and set course for Zingara.