The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Promenthas, come to our aid! Save us from this archfiend!” prayed the Abbot, and his prayer was fervently repeated by the twelve members of his Order.

  “Don’t let that bunch of old women stop you!” howled the captain, raging at his men. “Twenty gold pieces to the first man that sends a priest to the sharks!”

  The Archmagus cried out arcane words and lifted in his hand a black obsidian wand that burst into black flame. The other wizards did the same, raising wands of clear quartz or red ruby or green emerald, each flaring with different color of fire. The sailors, who had surged forward again, hesitated.

  Laughter thundered over the ocean. Kaug lifted both his arms high over his head. Blue fire leaped from his hands, green fire shot from his eyes. His hair was red flame, whipped about wildly by the storm winds that swirled around him.

  Grimly the Archmagus held his ground, although his puny magic appeared like a tiny candle clutched in the hands of a child compared to the blazing flames in the fingers of Kaug. The priests’ prayers grew more fervent, several of the monks falling to their knees to beseech Promenthas’s protection. The other magi flanked their leader, waiting for his signal to hurl their spells, the red-haired young wizard keeping a bit nearer the monks than his fellows, particularly one monk who had not fallen to his knees but remained standing, tense and alert, near his friend.

  For an instant it seemed time itself stopped. No one moved. The sailors, caught between the fire of the magi before them and the fire of the ‘efreet behind them, stared at each other uncertainly. The priests continued their prayers, the magi stolidly guarding them.

  Then, tiring of the game, Kaug shrugged his massive shoulders and began to wade toward the ship. The waves stirred up by the approach of his gigantic body sent the galleon rolling, hurling sailors and landsmen alike off their feet. Reaching out with his huge hands, Kaug caught hold of the vessel at the prow and the stem and lifted it from the water.

  Howling in panic, the captain fell prostrate on his face, promising the God everything from his firstborn child to a share in next year’s profits if Quar would only spare his ship. The priests slid about the deck; they had no breath left for prayers. The Archmagus, eyes closed as he clung to the rigging, appeared to be conjuring some powerful spell to deal with this dread apparition that had sprung from the seas.

  Carrying the boat effortlessly, Kaug waded through the ocean. Storm winds blew before him, flattening the waves at his approach. Rain lashed the decks, lightning twined about the masts, thunder boomed incessantly. The men aboard the ship held on to anything they could find, clinging to the deck, the ropes, the wheel, for dear life as the ship rocked and heaved in the ‘efreet’s hands.

  “So, Priests, you have come to teach Quar’s people of other Gods!” shouted Kaug as he neared the land. “Quar gives you your chance.”

  So saying, the ‘efreet set the ship back into the water. Sucking in a breath so deep that he inhaled clouds and rainwater, Kaug leaned down behind the vessel and blew upon it.

  The gusting blast of the ‘efreet’s breath carried the ship skimming over the waves at an incredible rate of speed. Salt spray lashed the decks, the wheel spun out of control, the wind whistled in the rigging. Then came a shattering crash and a sudden jarring jolt. The ship’s forward motion halted abruptly, sending everyone slithering along the wet decks.

  “We’ve run aground!” screamed the captain.

  Laughter, boomed behind them. A giant wave lifted the ship, slamming it into the rocks.

  “She’s breaking up!” the sailors wailed in terror.

  “We’ll have to abandon ship,” gasped the Archmagus, helping the Abbot struggle to his feet.

  Wood splintered, masts fell, men cried out in agony as they were buried in the debris.

  “Keep together, brethren,” ordered the Abbot. “Promenthas, we commend our souls into your care! Jump, my brothers!”

  With that, the priests and wizards of Promenthas leaped over the side of the sinking ship and disappeared into the frothing, swirling waters of the Hurn.

  Chapter 3

  The young monk staggered ashore, his arm around his friend, half-carrying, half-dragging the young wizard out of the waves. The wizard sank down weakly upon the beach, the monk collapsing beside him. Coughing and gagging, gasping for breath, they lay on the beach, shivering with the cold and fear.

  Gradually, however, the sand—baked by the bright sunwarmed their water-soaked robes. Mathew closed his eyes in thankful rest. The horror of the leap into the swirling water, the panic of being sucked under the waves, began to fade, replaced by the remembrance of a strong arm’s catching hold of him and dragging him to the surface, the relief of drawing that first deep breath and knowing that he wasn’t going to drown.

  The sand’s warmth seeped into his body. He was alive, saved from death. Reaching out, he touched the hand of his friend. Mathew smiled. He could lie upon this beach with this feeling in his soul forever.

  “Why did you lie to me, Mathew?” asked the monk, coughing. His throat was raw from vomiting salt water. “You can’t swim a stroke!”

  Mathew shook his head. “I had to tell you something. You wouldn’t have left me behind.”

  “Jumping in the water like that! You could have drowned! Should have! Would have served you right!”

  Mathew, opening his eyes, glanced over to see John grinning—somewhat shakily—at him.

  “Promenthas was with us!” Mathew said softly.

  “Amen!” John said, looking back out at the raging seas with a shudder.

  Above them the sky was clear. Angry waves still crashed upon the shoreline, though the storm was far out to sea. What had happened to the ship neither could tell, for both had immediately been swept under the swirling water and had lost sight of the vessel. Bits and pieces of splintered wood, floating up onto the beach, appeared to tell the grim story.

  “What will we do now?” John asked after a pause. “No food. No water. At least you can speak the language.”

  “Yes, but I’ve lost all my scrolls and my crystal wand,” Mathew said, looking down ruefully at the place on his belt where his scroll case used to hang. “You know, I had the strangest feeling that they were taken from me deliberately! Look!” He exhibited the metal chain to which they had been attached. “It’s broken, as though it had been ripped apart!”

  “Bah! Are there pickpockets in the ocean? You just lost them,” John replied, shrugging. “As violent as those waves were, it’s a miracle we’ve still got our clothes!”

  They both stared out to sea, each wondering—now that they were safe—what would become of them, lost and alone in a strange land, when movement farther down shore caught John’s attention. “Mathew, look!” he cried excitedly, sitting up in the sand and pointing along the barren shoreline. Several gray- and black-robed figures could be seen staggering out of the water. “Our brethren! Do you have the strength to reach them?”

  Speechless with relief, Mathew nodded and held his hand out to his friend. John helped him stand, and limping wearily, the two made their way along the windswept beach until they reached the main body of the priests and wizards who had managed to make it ashore.

  The Abbot, his wet bald head shining in the fading sunlight, was clucking over them like a distracted hen. “Who is missing? Please stay together so that I can count—Brother Mark, Brother Peter. . . Where’s Brother John? Ah, there you are, my boy! And Mathew here, too! Archmagus! Mathew is safe! We have all been spared! Let us thank Promenthas.”

  The Abbot lifted his eyes to heaven.

  “Time for that later,” the Archmagus said crisply. More interested in what was transpiring below than above, the wizard had been exploring the beach, investigating their surroundings. “Look there.”

  “Where?”

  “Up there, on the crest of that hill.”

  “People! A caravan! They must have seen the wreck and have come to help us! Truly Promenthas is great! Blessed be His Holy name!”

 
; “I don’t think you need make spectacles of yourselves,” the Archmagus counseled his followers, several of whom were shouting and waving their arms to attract attention. “They have seen us. Let us behave with some dignity.”

  The Archmagus wrung water from his beard. The Abbot twitched his sodden robes into place, and each leader glanced about at the others of their Orders, motioning them to do what they could to make a more presentable appearance.

  Still, they did not look at all prepossessing, Mathew thought. Huddled together, half-drowned and exhausted, they were nothing more than flotsam cast up on a foreign shore.

  The beach upon which the shipwrecked survivors stood gradually rose to form a sandy hill. Covered with long grass that waved sinuously in the wind, it was dotted here and there with scrub bushes. Large rocks, wet with salt spray, jutted out of the sand. Mathew saw, lined up on the top of the hill on what was apparently a road of some sort, a group of men mounted on horseback staring down at them.

  Following along after the horsemen was a palanquin—a large, covered sedan chair. Hung with white curtains, the chair rested on two large poles that were being carried by six turbaned mameluks. An impossing sight, these slaves were dressed in matching black silk pantalons, their muscular chests and arms bare and glistening with oil rubbed into their skin. Behind the palanquin, the curtains of which were tightly drawn, strode several tall animals—the likes of which the men of Tirish Aranth had seen only in their books. Brown and ungainly, with long, curved necks, a ridiculously small head for such a large body, and thin, scrawny legs with huge, splayed feet, the animals carried striped, hoopshaped tents upon their humped backs.

  “Promenthas be praised!” the Abbot breathed. “Such wondrous beasts do exist! What is it they are called?”

  “Camels,” replied the Archmagus matter-of-factly, endeavoring to look unimpressed.

  But what caught Mathew’s attention was the group that came up behind the camels—a long line of men straggling over the road, marching with heads bowed. Each man had an iron . ring around his neck. A long length of chain running through the rings, binding the men together. Mathew sucked in his breath in horror. A slave caravan! The Abbot, seeing them, scowled darkly, and the Archmagus, shaking his head, frowned in anger and sorrow.

  Riding behind the chained men—obviously their guardscame another group of mounted men. The uniformed horsemen were a bizarre sight to the men of Tirish Aranth, who were accustomed to seeing the hose and doublets, feathered hats, and flowing capes of His Majesty’s Royal Guard.

  Each of these soldiers wore a short, dark-blue coat that came to his waist. Decorated with golden embroidery that flashed in the sunlight, the coat covered a white shirt that was open at the neck. Bright red trousers, as full as a lady’s skirts, billowed about their legs and were tucked into tall black riding boots. Small coneshaped red hats, adorned with jaunty black tassels, perched atop their heads. The hats looked extremely comical. Mathew, grinning, giggled and nudged John, only to receive a swift, rebuking glance from the Archmagus.

  Acting on some unheard order, the entire caravan came to a halt. The chained slaves, glad for any excuse to rest, slumped to the ground. Mathew saw a white hand emerge from the folds of the curtains of the palanquin and make a single, graceful gesture toward the beach. At this, the leader of the horsemen turned his horse’s head and skillfully guided his animal down the sandy hill, his troop following in orderly fashion behind him.

  “Slave trader,” muttered the Abbot, watching, scowling. “I want nothing to do with this evil person.”

  “I am afraid we cannot afford the luxury of picking and choosing our companions,” the Archmagus said softly. “We have lost all our magical paraphernalia and without it, as you know, we are unable to cast spells. We have lost our maps, we have no idea where we are. Besides,” he added smoothly, knowing how to handle the Abbot, “this may be your opportunity to bring a soul walking in darkness to the light.”

  “You are right. Promenthas, forgive me,” the Abbot said instantly, his face clearing.

  “Whoever that person is, he must be wealthy to keep his own goums.” The Archmagus used the word of this land with the aplomb of the seasoned traveler.

  “Wealth obtained from trading in human flesh,” the Abbot began bitterly, but he hushed upon receiving a glance from the Archmagus, warning him that the soldiers were within earshot.

  The goums in their colorful uniforms were truly an awesome sight. Reaching the shoreline, they rode their magnificent steeds with skill and precision along the wet, packed sand, their horses’ manes and tails streaming behind them like banners in the remnants of the storm wind. The setting sun, breaking occasionally through the ragged clouds, glinted on the hilts of the sabers they wore at their sides. Instinctively the small group on the shore huddled closer together as the Abbot and the Archmagus stepped forward wearily to greet their saviors.

  The leader rode his horse at a gallop straight for the Abbot, turning the beast aside with a flourish at the last possible moment, the horse’s hooves flashing within inches of the priest. Reining in his mount, the goum raised his hand, bringing the riders behind him to a halt. Another gesture sent them cantering out in a straight line on either side of him, the horses dancing sideways in remarkable precision. The priest and the wizard watched, apparently unmoved by this spectacle, although their followers could not forbear to whisper among themselves in amazement and wonder.

  The goum slid down from the saddle, approaching them on foot, his shining black boots crunching across the wet sand.

  “Salaam aleikum!” said the Abbot, bowing, his greetings being echoed by the Archmagus. “Bilshifa! Bilhana! May you have health and joy.”

  Mathew cringed, wishing the Archmagus would let him do the talking. The Abbot may have been able to speak the language, but his clumsy pronunciation was that of a child saying his first words.

  “Aleikum salaam,” returned the leader, eyeing the wet, bedraggled band of men with cool curiosity. He was a short man with brown skin, dark eyes, and a small black mustache over his lip. “You speak our language well, but your tongue gives the words strange emphasis. Where are you from?”

  “We come from across the sea, sidi,” said the Abbot, waving his hand westward. “A land called Tirish Aranth.”

  “Across the sea?” The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he gazed out into the crashing waves. “Are you birdmen?

  Have you wings beneath those robes?”

  “No, sidi.” The Abbot smiled over such naivete. “We came by dh-dj-” He struggled for the word in the foreign tongue.

  Mathew, forgetting himself, impatiently supplied it. “Dhows.”

  “Thank you,” said the Abbot, glancing at the young wizard gratefully. “Dhows. A galleon. It was attacked by an archfi—”

  “‘Efreet,” the Archmagus hastily interposed.

  “Er, yes.” The Abbot flushed. “What you call an ‘efreet. I fear you will not believe us, sidi, but I swear by my God, Promenthas, that this creature rose up out of the water and—”

  “Promenthas?” The leader repeated the name, mouthing it as if it tasted bad. “I do not know this God.” Glaring at the Abbot, he frowned. “You come from a land I have never heard of, speaking our language with strange accents, talking of a God that is not ours. What is more, you have, by your own admission, brought down the wrath of an ‘efreet upon us, whose anger has wreaked havoc among several small towns along the coast. Their destruction has delayed my lord’s journey and caused him great inconvenience.”

  The Abbot blanched, glancing at the Archmagus, who looked grave.

  “We—we assure you, sidi, that the coming of this horrible creature was not our fault,” stammered the Abbot. “It attacked us, too! It sank our ship!”

  The goum appeared unconvinced, and the Archmagus thought it best to intervene, steering the subject into safer waters. “We are cold and exhausted by our ordeal. We do not want to add to the inconvenience of your master by further delaying his jour
ney. If you could but direct us to the town of Bastine, we have important friends there who can help us. . . .”

  This last was an outright lie, but the Archmagus did not like the look of this goum and did not want him or his master to think them completely friendless in this alien land.

  “Wait here.”

  Remounting, the goum wheeled his horse, dashing up the shoreline at a gallop. Coming to a halt before the palanquin, he leaned down to speak to the person inside.

  The priests and wizards remained standing on the shore, casting sidelong glances at the riders, who, for their part, gazed out across the ocean at the slowly sinking sun with magnificent unconcern. After a brief conversation with the unseen person in the palanquin, the leader returned, cantering along the sand.

  “My master has decreed that you find food and rest this night.”

  The Abbot sighed, clasping his hands together. “Promenthas be praised,” he murmured. Aloud he said, “Please express our grateful thanks to your master—”

  The Archmagus cried out a warning. The priest stopped talking, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth. The leader of the riders had drawn his saber. The sunlight, breaking through the clouds, glinted on the wickedly curved blade. Behind their leader, each goum did the same.

  “What . . . what is the meaning of this?” the Archmagus’ demanded, staring at the swords with narrowed eyes. “You said we were to have food and rest. . .”

  “Indeed you will, kafir. This night, you will dine in Hell!”

  Digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, the leader rode straight for the priest and before the astonished man could even cry out, drove his saber through the Abbot’s stomach. Jerking the blade free, he watched the priest’s body sag to the ground, then swung the bloodstained saber around, cleaving open the head of the Archmagus.

  Shouting wildly, the goums attacked. The wizards met their deaths without a fight. Bereft of magical wands and scrolls and all else needed to cast their spells, they were helpless. The goums cut them down within seconds, stabbing them with their sabers, trampling their bodies beneath the flashing hooves of their steeds. The monks, true to their calling, fell to their knees, crying out to Promenthas. Sharp steel brought their prayers to an agonized end.