Free The Continent Makers and Other Tales of the Viagens by L. Sprague de Camp

rowers’ heads. The Kerukchi continued to forge ahead.
    Whang! The javelin flew between the spokes of the Kerukchi ’s nigh paddle wheel and buried its head in the planking behind. The wheel stopped with a groan, wedged fast, the shaft of the missile sticking out at an angle. The Alashtir seemed to jump ahead as the Kerukchi slowed, since her sails could not do much against the drag of the stationary paddles.
    “Surrender!” came the voice of Zardeku through the megaphone.
    A voice from the Kerukchi told him what to do to himself.
    Zardeku persisted: “We’ll board ye! Come, we would not murder ye all!”
    More obscenities.
    “Lay aboard,” said Zardeku. “Grapnells out! Boarders muster!”
    “Come, Herculeu,” said Abreu, hefting a cutlass. “Take one. We must lead the charge, you know.”
    “Uk,” said little Castanhoso, looking anything but Herculean. Nevertheless he put on his helmet with shaky fingers and joined the gang in the bows. The inboard man of each pair of rowers had armed himself and gone forward, leaving his mate to manage the oar. The boarders crouched behind the protection of the wales as more arrows and quarrels whizzed overhead. Meter by meter the hulls of the ships approached each other.
    “Gangplanks out!” said Zardeku.
    The sailors threw out several gangplanks with spikes on the far ends to hold them fast in the foe’s woodwork.
    “Boarders away!” said Zardeku.
    Abreu, although he considered himself a little old for such lethal athletics, felt he must set an example for his subordinate. With astonishing agility, he jumped up and ran across the nearest gangplank. The thunder of feet on the planks behind him told him that the rest of the boarders were with him.
    At the far end of the gangplank a man was trying to pry the spikes out of the planking. Abreu cut at him, hit something, and kept on without waiting to see what damage he’d done. Yells and tramplings; clang of steel.
    Abreu found himself facing a slim elegant figure in a skimpy suit of light armor, oxidized black and inlaid with gold, who handled a straight sword like a professional duelist. Behind the nasal of the helmet Abreu recognized Prince Ferrian.
    “Give up?” he said.
    “Never!” The prince danced at him in one of those fancy fencing lunges.
    Abreu caught the prince’s point on his buckler and whacked at his opponent. No fencer he, and anyway there was no time for fancy stuff. Others pressed by on either side of him. The prince, blood on his face, thrust wickedly at each of them, his blade flickering out like lightning, but there were too many. Suddenly he was holding the stump of a broken rapier. As he dropped it and stepped back to the rail, feeling at his belt for another weapon, a pike took him in the chest, and shoved him over the side. Splash!
    “All over,” said Zardeku, sheathing his sword. The outnumbered Sotaspeva had already fallen to their knees before they had either inflicted or suffered much damage. Castanhoso was obviously torn between pride in the drop of blood on his blade and concern for the well-being of the surrendered sailor whose arm he’d nicked.
    “Who’s the head man?” demanded Abreu. “You?”
    “If it please Your P-pirate ship,” said Qarao. “What is all this?”
    “Where’s the mummy?”
    “In the cabin, sir. May I show you . . . ?”
    “Lead on.” Abreu followed the minister to the cabin below the poop. “Ah!”
    The mortal remains of King Manzariyé were no prettier than they had been on the previous occasion.
    “What do you?” cried Qarao in sudden anguish. “Sacrilege!”
    “Bunk!” snorted Abreu, slitting open the mummy with his dagger along the carefully sewn seam in the king’s flank. “Look here!”
    “Who be ye?” cried Qarao. “Men of Dur, or disguised Earthmen, or what?”
    Ignoring the question, the security officer pried open the mummy and fished out a fistful of small books. “Look, Herculeu,” he said. “Chemistry, structures, heat