LITMIR.BIZ

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storms threaded with lightnings weird and beautiful. Lightnings that were like the shatterings of immense prisms, the breakings of rainbows of jewels. Storms that trod on feet of thunder. Thunder that was metallic, tintinnabulary; hurricanes of clashing cymbals following showers of multicolored, flaming gems.

      Steadily strength of the sea poured into Kenton up his oar blade, even as Sigurd had promised; remaking him, hardening him, turning all his body into a machine as finely tempered as a rapier and as flexible.

      Between sleeps Sigurd chanted to him Viking tales, Sagas unsung, lost epics of the Norse.

      Twice the black priest sent for him; questioned him, threatened him, cajoled him—vainly. And each time with blacker face sent him back to his chains.

      Strife of god and goddess there was none. And Sharane during the sleep time of the slaves kept to her cabin. Awake, he could not turn his head to seek her without inviting the bite of Zachel's lash. So often he let the horn of sleep have its way—what use to keep awake while Sharane hid?

      There came a time when, lying awake, he heard steps coming down the pit's stair. He turned, face against the back of his bench, as though in troubled slumber. The steps paused beside him.

      "Zubran," it was the voice of Gigi, "this man has become a young lion."

      "Strong enough," grunted the Persian. "It is a pity that his strength is wasted here—driving this ship from one place of weariness to another as bad."

      "I think as you," said Gigi. "Strength he now has. Also he has courage. You remember how he slew the priests."

      "Remember!" There was no boredom in Zubran's voice now. "Can I forget! By the heart of Rustam—could I forget! It was the first draft of life given me, it seemed, for centuries. I owe him something for that."

      "Also," went on Gigi, "he has loyalty where his heart turns. I told you how he shielded with his own back the man who sleeps beside him. I liked him well for that, Zubran."

      "As a gesture," said the Persian, "it was excellent. A trifle florid, perhaps, for perfect taste. But still—excellent."

      "Courage, loyalty, strength," mused the drummer; then slowly, a hint of mirth in his voice, "And cunning. Unusual cunning, Zubran, since he has found a way to shut his ears to the sleep horn—and lies here now wide awake."

      Kenton's heart stopped; began to beat furiously. How did the drummer know? Did he know? Was it only a guess? Desperately he strove against quivering nerves; forced his body to remain inert.

      "What!" exclaimed the Persian, incredulously. "Awake! Gigi—you dream!"

      "Nay," said Gigi quietly. "I have watched him when he saw me not. He is awake, Zubran."

      Suddenly Kenton felt his paw upon his breast, pressing upon his pounding heart. The drummer chuckled; withdrew the hand.

      "Also," he said, approvingly, "he has caution. A little he trusts me —but not too much. Nor does he know you well enough as yet, Zubran, to give you any trust at all. Therefore he lies quiet, saying to himself: 'Gigi cannot really know. He cannot be sure as long as I do not open my eyes.' Yes, he has caution. But see, Zubran, he cannot keep the blood from stealing up into his face, nor slow his heart to the calm rhythm of sleep." Again he chuckled, half-maliciously. "And there is other proof of his caution, in that he has not told his comrade that the horn has no power over him. Hear the long haired one snore? No mistaking that for wakefulness. I like that too —he knows that a secret shared by two runs risk of being none."

      "He seems sound asleep to me." Kenton felt the Persian bend down over him doubtfully.

      His eyelids fought to rise; by sheer will he kept them down, breathing regularly, motionless. How long would they stand there looking at him? At last Gigi broke the silence.

      "Zubran," he said, quietly, "like you, I tire of the black priest and this fruitless strife between Ishtar and Nergal. Yet bound by our vows neither you nor I may come to grips with Klaneth, nor may we harm his men. It matters not that by trickery those vows were gotten from us. We made them—and they bind. As long as Nergal's priest rules Nergal's deck we may not give him battle. But suppose Klaneth no longer ruled—that another hand thrust him to his dark master?"

      "A mighty hand that! Where on these seas could we find such a hand? And if found, how persuade it to close on Klaneth?" jeered the Persian.

      "I think—it is here." Kenton felt again the drummer's touch. "Courage and loyalty and strength, quick wit and caution. He has all these. Beside—he can pass the barrier!"

      "By Ahriman! That is so!" whispered the Persian. "Now I would make another vow," said Gigi. "A vow in which you would join. If this man's chains were —broken, easily then could he pass to Sharane's cabin; easily now, I think, regain his sword."

      "Well, what then?" asked Zubran. "He would still have Klaneth to meet and all his pack. And we could not help him."

      "No," answered the drummer. "But neither would we hinder him. Our vows do not bind us to fight for the black priest, Zubran. Were I this man— with my chains broken—and sword regained—I would find way to release this comrade sleeping beside him. He, I think, could keep off the pack while this wolf cub, who is now no longer cub but grown, could match himself against Klaneth."

      "Well—" the Persian began doubtfully; then changed to cheerfulness —"I would see him loosed, Gigi. At the least, it would give break to this cursed monotony. But you spoke of a vow."

      "A vow for a vow," answered Gigi. "If broken were his chains, if he regained sword, if he met Klaneth and we fought not against him at Klaneth's side, and if he slew Klaneth, would he vow comradeship with you and me, Zubran? I wonder?"

      "Why should he make that vow to us," asked Zubran, "unless—we loosed his chains?"

      "Exactly," whispered Gigi. "For if he made that vow—I would loose them!"

      Hope sprang flaming up in Kenton. Cold doubt followed. Was this all a trap? A trick to torment him? He would take no chance—and yet— freedom!

      Gigi again bent over him.

      "Trust me, Wolf," he said, low. "Vow for vow. If you accept—look at me."

      The dice were offered him. Were they straight or weighted, he would cast them. Kenton opened his eyes, stared straight for an instant into the twinkling beads of jet so close. Then he closed them tight; resumed his slow breathing; his semblance of deepest slumber.

      And Gigi rose from him, laughing. He heard the two move away, up the pit's steps.

      Freedom again! Could it be true? And when would Gigi—were it true and no trap—when would Gigi loose his chains? Long he lay between fiery hope and chilling doubt. Could it be true?

      Freedom! And—

      Sharane!

      XI

      GIGI SNAPS THE CHAINS

      Not long did Kenton have to wait. Hardly had the next faint hum of the sleep horn died than he felt a touch on his shoulder. Longer fingers twitched his ears, raised his eyelids. He looked into the face of Gigi. Kenton pulled out the little silken cylinders that shut off the compelling slumber of the horn.

      "So that is how you do it." Gigi examined them with interest. He squatted down beside him.

      "Wolf," he said, "I have come to have a talk with you, so that you may know me a little better. I would continue to sit here beside you, but some of those cursed priests may come prowling around. Therefore, in a moment I shall seat myself on Zachel's stool. When I have done so, turn you around facing me, taking that highly deceptive attitude I have so often watched you assume."

      He stepped up on the bench. "Zubran is with Klaneth, arguing about the gods. Zubran, although sworn to Nergal, thinks him a rather inferior copy of Ahriman, the Persian god of darkness. He is also convinced that this whole matter of warfare between Nergal and Ishtar for the ship

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