“Fair workmanship,” he appraised. “Not much in the way of booty, but it looks to be all the payment I’ll get for this ill-starred mission.” Nearby sat a chalice of similar design. He put the bowl in his pouch and picked up the cup. On impulse he pulled off its cover and watched in surprise as it filled with clear liquid. He took a sip, spat it out. “Water. Tepid water, at that.”
“Kest-i-Mond appears to have had simple tastes,” Erimenes said. “I prefer being with you. A brawling young buck who knows how to live. Yours is the kind of existence I want to observe.”
Fost prodded the corpse with his toe. It rolled onto its side. A scrap of parchment stuck out from under the body. He bent to retrieve it.
“What have we here? A map, a sorcerous one, by the look of it.” His brow wrinkled as he studied it, tracing outlines that glowed with a silvery light of their own. “Old High Imperial script—this must be a thousand years old! The steppes, Samadum, the Southern Waste and the… what’s this? Here, south of the Rampart Mountains in the polar lands. What does this circle mean?”
Erimenes did not reply.
Fost eyed the jug suspiciously. “Speak to me. You’ve filled the air with words whenever it was least convenient for me. This map is old and valuable. Any artifact with scriptsilver is worth a king’s ransom. What does it mean?”
“I know nothing that would be of use to you.”
“You’re lying. You started before to tell me of your home in the south. ‘Eaten by a glacier,’ you said. There’s a glacier marked within this circle. Is this why Kest-i-Mond wanted you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re reticent for once. What secret does this city hold? Why do armed men and a netherworld demon invade a mage’s castle? Why do minions of the City in the Clouds seek to wrest you from me at every turn?”
“How should I know this? I weary of your tirade. Let’s go to Kara-Est or perhaps back to Samadum. Eliska awaits you—and the white circle of her arms….”
“Enough! Speak to me of your long lost home. Tell me about Athalau.”
“You remember the name. I commend you.”
“And I’ll give you to the Josselit monks if you don’t tell me what you would have revealed to Kest-i-Mond.”
“The Josselit monks?” quavered the spirit.
“You know of them, surely. Their philosophy is one you would heartily have approved of—once. Abstinence from the pleasures of the flesh and the company of women. Bread soaked in salt water and a cup of vinegar each day.” Fost grinned hugely. “Of course, once a year, or so I’m told, they cease their prayers and indulge in a solemn play about the Five Holy Ones. You’ll love the Josselits, Erimenes.”
“Your jest is in extremely poor taste.”
“It’s no jest. Keep your secret to yourself and soon there will be none but monks to hear it.”
There was a lengthy pause which Fost enjoyed immoderately. He knew the spirit would answer. Nor did Erimenes disappoint him.
“Very well,” sniffed the shade. “I never realized the streak of cruelty ran so deep in you. In Athalau is the Amulet of Living Flame. Evidently, Kest-i-Mond desired it.”
“Go on. What is this amulet, that so many have died because of it?”
“A mere bagatelle. Clasp it to your breast as you die and you escape Hell Call.”
“You live again?”
“Exactly. The sorcerors of my city know many potent magics. Before the glacier consumed Athalau, the Amulet of Living Flame was considered a mere trinket compared to others, which imparted great wisdom, the power over fickle chance, overwhelming inner peace. Only the sorcerors of the Sky City have ever approached the skill of the Athalar.”
“To cheat death.” The words tasted good.
“Yes, that is what the amulet does, if it hasn’t crumbled to dust.”
“What!”
“The power tends to drain from a magical item as the centuries pass,” Erimenes explained. Then, as if in afterthought, he added, “I doubt this to be the case with the Amulet of Living Flame, though.”
“Why not?” Fost almost shouted.
“Its property of storing the life-energy to restore it to the deceased individual, of course. Some little accrues to the amulet with each usage. Such would tend to preserve it, or so I suspect. These sorcerous matters are outside my province, you understand.”
“To defy the demon of death,” Fost breathed. “That is a trinket worth fighting for.”
“Indeed,” said Erimenes carefully. “Many a glorious battle would have to be fought to obtain the amulet. All in vain, of course. Even with the map to guide you, you could never get into the city in the glacier. And if you could, you’d never locate the amulet.” He paused. “Not unless you took me along to guide you, as Kest-i-Mond intended to do.”
“Done!” cried Fost. He caught up the jar and ran down the stairs, his feet barely touching the cold stone. A treasure more precious than any hoard of gold or jewels beckoned him southward.
The promise of everlasting life.
CHAPTER THREE
A breeze shifted the limbs of the big tree. Fost snorted in his sleep and half-turned. His perch threatened constantly to dump him to the ground fifteen feet below, and the hard, rough limbs could never be mistaken for a sumptuous down mattress. Despite the draft and the discomfort, he slept soundly.
Once, in the forests above Port Zorn, a magician’s apprentice had hidden his scent under a sorcerous potion and crept past Fost’s dogs to within reach of the courier’s bedroll. Fost never knew what sense it was that saved him. Abruptly, his eyes had opened and the apprentice’s sickle was a yellow arc of moonlight curving for his throat. He had rolled to the side, the curving blade cutting deep into the soft ground. Fost had slain his attacker with an underhand dagger toss.
Since then he’d learned to sleep with a healthy distance between him and the ground. Raissa and Wigma were incomparable watchdogs, but even they could be fooled.
He moved his shoulders in an unconscious effort to ease the pressure of the wood against his body. He hadn’t lashed himself in place, since that tended to cut off circulation. His scimitar hung in easy reach, looped through his belt and dangling from a nearby branch.
As he slept, he smiled. His dreams were pleasant. Eternal life! The very thought that he alone in all the world had the secret of the Amulet of Living Flame’s location filled him with a warm, triumphant glow. He’d not been paid gold for his troubles in delivering Erimenes to Kest-i-Mond, but a vastly greater reward seemed just within his reach.
Old Gabric, his employer back in Tolviroth Acerte, would take a dim view of one of his couriers going absent without leave. And whenever delivery of an item was impossible there were explanations to be made and forms to be filled out in bushel-loads. The Dark Ones take Gabric and his forms in triplicate! With the amulet in his hand, Fost would be as far above such concerns as the Sky City was above the plains and mountains of the Quincunx.
Eternal life! He would outlive his enemies, gain new ones, outlive them as well. Sword cuts would heal instantly; disease could gain no hold in his body; he could quaff poison like clear spring water. He would be un-killable.
His ambition did not stop there. Since his days as a starving guttersnipe in High Medurim, he’d had a hunger for knowledge. He’d taught himself to read ancient scripts and spent what time he could poring over books of science, history, philosophy. But the hard life of a courier left little time for such luxury. With the amulet, though, all of time would be his. He could exhaust the Imperial Library at Medurim with its nine million volumes; he could become the most knowledgeable man in creation. With his strong sword arm and his mind filled with a hundred centuries of human wisdom, he might become invincible.
He sighed. A dream fluttered pleasantly across his mind: himself and a voluptuous black-haired woman whiling away eternity in an unending assortment of passionate embraces. He’d drunk the lukewarm water from Kest-i-Mond’s magic chalice, and filled his belly with the equally uninsp
ired gruel provided by the covered bowl. Now his sleeping mind turned its attention to other appetites not so recently sated..
Then he was sailing through the air.
For a second he thought his erotic dream had taken flight. The ground slammed him with the impact of a falling building, and his breath exploded from his lungs.
His still-healing body felt as if it had cracked all over like a pot dropped on pavement. He lay still while bright lights danced behind his eyes. He fought to regain his wind. Vivid in his mind was the impression of strong fingers grasping his ankle the instant before he fell.
“What’s this?” Fost heard Erimenes ask. The intruder’s clothes rasped bark as he slithered down the tree, carrying Fost’s pouch with the philosopher inside. “Most foully done! How can you have a rousing duel with one of the participants stunned?”
The intruder hissed at the spirit to be silent. Fost got his arms under him and pushed his leaden body off the ground, intending to snare the thief’s leg as he went by. A footfall thumped the springy earth nearby and lightning split Fost’s skull as the thief smashed his sword’s pommel down on top of Fost’s head.
Fost’s face slammed into the- dirt, but he didn’t lose consciousness. He lay a moment while his stomach performed remarkable acrobatics, then he raised his head, spat out a mouthful of dead leaves and shouted, “Up, Wigma, Raissa! Rend him!”
Silence greeted his shout, broken only by the muffled steps receding into the forest. It occurred to him that his sled team had given no warning of the intruder’s presence. He climbed to his feet, an effort akin to scaling a sheer cliff with large rocks strapped on his shoulders. For a few ragged breaths he stood propped against the tree, fighting nausea and the blinding ache in his head.
Then he dragged himself laboriously up the trunk to retrieve his sword.
The climb almost exhausted him, but he had no intention of going after an armed opponent with no weapon of his own, particularly in this condition. Nor did he intend to allow the sneak-thief to escape with Erimenes. He wouldn’t be robbed this easily of eternal life!
He set out in the direction his attacker had taken. He passed his dogs, who lay still, dead or unconscious. That explained why no warning had been given.
It was far too dark and the tumult in his skull too great to allow him to track the thief by sight. But the crack on the head seemed to have sharpened his hearing. Pausing, he heard a faint, familiar voice say, “Wait, How can you run so cravenly? You’re as bad as Fost!”
Despite the agony in his head, he smiled grimly. For once the spirit’s garrulity was disrupting someone else’s plans. It was high time.
He followed the sound. True to form, Erimenes was berating the thief at the top of his voice, demanding that he turn back immediately and fight like a man. Fost hoped the thief would be distracted by the spirit’s chatter. In his condition, he only had one strong sword thrust in him, and he had to make it good.
He all but stumbled across the thief. The cloaked form had stopped in a small clearing and stood shaking the pouch with both hands, cursing at Erimenes to be silent. Though his sword felt as if it weighed ten pounds, he swung it with a strength fed by fury.
The scimitar’s tip brushed a low-hanging branch. The thief spun away like a cat. A straight, slim length of steel quickly glittered in the starlight between the dark-cloaked form and Fost.
“Pah!” jeered Erimenes. The thief had dropped him to the ground. “Such a clumsy stroke. My new friend will show you skill!”
Perhaps he would. It was taking most of Post’s strength simply to stay upright. The confident, easy stance of his foe spoke eloquently of skill. Fost couldn’t afford to fence with the thief.
The intruder twitched his sword tip in tight patterns in the air, hoping to snare Fost’s gaze. The instant that happened the blade would straighten and stab unerringly through the courier’s heart. Fost took a deep breath. Roaring, he beat aside the thief’s sword and charged like a rogue bull. His body collided with the other as the straight sword cartwheeled away. A shrill, angry squeal burst from his foe’s lips and shocked him like a blow.
His opponent was a woman!
They went down in a tangle. “Ground-born lover of goats,” the women snarled. “I’ll cut out your liver and make you eat it!”
She eeled out of Fost’s arms and tried to get up. His own sword had fallen from his grip. He seized her by a trim calf and brought her crashing down. Erimenes was cheering wildly, but for which of the combatants Fost couldn’t tell.
He pulled himself atop the woman, striving to pin her with his greater weight. Her fingers clawed his face and sought his eyes. She brought her knee up hard. He stopped it with his thigh but in turning slipped off the writhing body.
They rolled over and over, grappling, struggling for advantage. Fost was weakened by wounds and his fall, and the woman’s muscles seemed wound from steel wire. But Fost had grown up on the hard tenement streets of High Medurim and he knew all there was to know about vicious rough-and-tumble fighting before he reached his teens. After a few panting, cursing minutes, he lay on top of her limp body, trapping her arms at her sides.
For a time he could do no more than lie there. His head reeled and his body cried from a hundred aches. His face was thrust into the juncture of shoulder and slim neck, his cheekbone pressed to hers to keep her from turning to bite him.
Gradually his sickness subsided. He became aware of the scent of her crisp, clean hair. He’d been sleeping with his tunic unlaced, and the garment had been partially torn from him in the fight. Disturbingly, his bare chest touched equally bare feminine skin.
Without moving he swiveled his eyes down. The clasp holding her cloak had opened and ripped a long rent in her jerkin. Her breasts were naked, crushed by his powerful chest, and he realized in amazement that the nipples were poking solidly into his flesh.
He raised himself slowly, ready for the explosion of movement as the thief tried to escape. It didn’t come. She lay on her back, eyes closed, lips slightly parted and her full, pale breasts rising and falling with the cadence of her breathing. The nipples were dark as wine, and jutted from coppery aureoles shaped like dainty mushroom caps.
He closed his eyes. Unbidden came the memory of his dream of Eliska. This wench was as lovely as Eliska, and the fullness of her body covered an athletic musculature the pampered countess could never hope to match. It had been long days since Eliska, too long.
His eyes opened. She was looking up at him. The night turned her eyes dark, but they showed green highlights in the shimmer of the stars. Her tongue peeked out to make a slow circuit of her lips.
She squirmed an arm free. He let her. She lifted a long, fine hand and stroked her forefinger down his chest.
“You are strong,” she said. Her voice was husky, but not from exertion or fear.
Erimenes spoke. Fost never heard him. The thunder of blood in his ears drowned out all sound as his arms circled the woman and his face came down to hers. She raised her head and boldly met his kiss. Her tongue slipped into his mouth. His twined around it slowly. He felt the sweet tension build in the luscious body trapped beneath his own. Pain and tiredness ebbed magically from him.
He laid a scarred hand on her breast. Her hands slid down on his hips to tug at his breeches. He tilted his body off hers, squeezing the nipple between his fingers as he did so, and tangled his other hand in her golden hair. He sighed as her cool fingers wrapped around his manhood and tugged it free.
She undulated beneath him as she shed her own breeches. Their mouths were still joined, lip to lip, tongue to tongue, salivas mingling to form a heady wine. Her legs spread in wanton invitation; the sweet perfume of her body enveloped him like an aphrodisiac. He lowered his body slowly, gliding into her.
Her arms twined around his neck. She drew him down into a long, fervent kiss as he thrust into her with a steady pressure. She drew in a breath, tightening herself around him like a noose. His fingers kneaded her back. Fire flared within his l
oins. He withdrew, meaning to make his lovemaking slow, but her hips began a slow circle and he lost all control.
Her fingers ran up and own his back like tiny animals as he plunged in and out. The thief dug her heels into the carpet of the mulch and gave him back stroke for stroke. Her femininity devoured him as Fost ground his chest against her breast.
Air hissed from the woman’s flaring nostrils; his breath came in short gasps. Her fingers clawed in frenzy at his back. Pain shot through him as they raked the half-healed sword cut, but then his body yielded to the sweet insistency. The pain went far away as ecstasy washed over his senses.
Passion subsided into gentle languor. Their mutual death grip eased. Fost let himself slip to one side. Her eyes were half-lidded, her breath warm on his lips. She kissed him once, unspeaking, and closed her eyes.
Weariness settled over him like a blanket. He had pushed himself too far, too fast. Though instinct told him he should be shaking the woman roughly awake to demand who she was and why she wanted to steal the spirit in the jug, nature demanded rest. Instead he slept, his arms locking the slender woman tightly to him.
His arms still circled the naked woman when he awoke. The forest was dark, but overhead birds sang to greet the first pink touches of dawn in the eastern sky. The cool air washed his body, which seemed one enormous ache. The lovemaking of the night before had been hot delight, but it hadn’t done his physical condition any good.
His stomach grumbled. His mouth felt as if it were stuffed full of cotton. Food and drink seemed in order. He disentangled his arms from the sleeping woman, and winced at the twinge from the slash the Sky City officer had given him across the back a few days ago. She opened her eyes. They were brilliant green in the growing light.
“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was low and lilting, and despite her sleepy muzziness it was as lovely a voice as he’d ever heard. He smiled and brushed black hair from his eyes.
WoP - 01 - War of Powers Page 4