Kothar and the Wizard Slayer

by Gardner F Fox

  The leather thongs were undone and her breasts pushed into the opening of the jerkin. He was faintly surprised to find them so full. Then she shoved down the garment and her leather kilt and her nakedness was a gleaming ivory loveliness in the darkness. Kothar sighed, not caring whether this woman taunted him or not; he had to have her flesh in his embrace.

  She laughed and stepped to him, throwing her arms about his neck and letting him feel the moist warmth of her lips. They swayed a moment, clinging tightly, before the barbarian dragged her down onto his bearskin cloak.

  The fire winked and glowed in the night. The tip of a sword at his throat awoke the barbarian. He opened his eyes, but lay still. His slightest movement might drive that steel into his throat. Flarion? Was it Flarion who stood over him with a sword in his hand? Had the possession of the gold and jewels driven the youth to madness?

  "Get up, you,” said a harsh voice.

  The sword-point went away. Beside him, a naked Lori would have clothed herself in the Mongrol garments, but a foot kicked them away and a man laughed. Kothar rose to his feet slowly, growling.

  Flarion was standing beside the fire, scowling darkly. Five men—Kothar recognized them as the bandits whom he and Flarion had driven off in the Tharian Pass—stood grinning at them. Behind him, Red Lori was tugging at a corner of the bearskin cloak to hide her body.

  “You’ve found treasure,” muttered the man with a sword in his hand, grinning. He bounced the leather belt purse in his hand. As the Cumberian watched, he opened the bag, poured out a stream of gold coins and jewels onto the ground. "Where's the rest of it?”

  Kothar shook his head. A scarred man snarled to one side and lifted out a dagger. "I know ways to make him talk.”

  "No, Fithrod, no violence—not yet, at least.” One of the bandits approached the leader, the tall man with the pointed steel-helmet and chain mail which he had taken from one of the Southland caravans. He offered him the sack in which Flarion had put his own coins and jewels.

  "A pretty haul,” nodded the leader, watching his fellow bandit pour that treasure close to the small pile which had come from Kothar's belt purse. "Enough here to keep a dozen men in wealth the rest of their lives.”

  "Then take it and let us go,” Flarion snarled. "Why should we do that when it appears you know the secret of old King Kandakore? Show us the treasure and I'll kill you swiftly, without pain.”

  Against his arm, the Cumberian could feel Red Lori shuddering. Before she had lost her witch-like powers, she would have made short work of these bandits. A few words, a gesture in the air, and a demon such as Asumu or Omorphon or even Belthamquar, who was the father of demons, might have come at her summons to swallow the thieves. He himself was unarmed Frostfire was thrust into the belt of the man in the pointed helmet. So was Flarion.

  "Stake them out,” the bandit chieftain snapped.

  Two men threw Flarion to the ground, extended his arms and legs, A third man ran for wooden pegs, hammered them in with a rock. Leather thongs were attached to his spreadeagled arms and legs.

  Kothar was quiet. Unarmed, he would be no match for the bandits. Yet he had no intention of lying down obediently while they tied him down for the sun to bake or to allow their knives to slice him into bloody gobbets. And so he waited, tensed, not betraying his mood. "The girl now," said their leader. And Kothar leaped. His left fist drove into the face of the bandit chieftain as his right hand closed about the jeweled hilt of Frostfire. With a savage yank he tore it free of the leather belt as blood spurted from the crushed nose his fist had struck. The blued steel came into the sunlight.

  Kothar was moving before his sword was completely free of the belt, he was grasping Red Lori, swinging her off the ground and onto his hip as his sword's edge slashed downward across a bandit's shoulder. Instantly Frostfire was turning, parrying a blow from a scimitar, then thrusting deep into the belly of a third outlaw.

  The clang of steel on steel was music in the ears of the giant barbarian. His martial spirit reveled in these sounds of combat, the harsh breathing of fighting men, the stamp of feet along the ground, the rasp of sword-blades where they met in mid-stroke. He parried effortlessly, seeming to handle two swords at once as his massive muscles rolled beneath his tanned hide. His keen eyes, trained to swift observation along the ice fields and forested hills of the northern lands from which he came, saw openings through which Frostfire darted like the tongue of an angry snake.

  Back and forth between the ruins he surged with the redhead hanging onto him, gasping at times when the steel came close to her fair skin, eyes wide under long red lashes as her naked body felt the powerful play of his own. Her arms were clasped about his throat, yet not too tightly, as she sought to make herself less of a burden for him.

  As he fought, the Cumberian drove the bandits away from the youth stretched on the ground between the pegs, fearing they might slay him in an attempt to make Kothar surrender. His blade wove back and forth like the bobbin of a loom, stabbing, slashing, thrusting. Where he had been, lay the bodies of dead men, mute testimonials to the fury of his sword.

  Against a marble pillar he cornered the bandit leader and the last of his men, and there he slew them with two savage swipes of his steel. A headless body leaned its shoulders against that column as a head went bounding off across the ground, gouting blood; Kothar drove Frostfire through the chest of the chieftain until its point grated against the marble behind it.

  His left arm loosed its grip, Lori sank down onto her bare feet. "You fight with the fury of a desert storm, Kothar,” she whispered, awed.

  He grunted, "Go put some clothes on, girl before the sunburns your backside for you.” His palm clouted a soft buttock, making her stumble.

  Her laughter rang out as she whirled to face him, lifting her long red hair in her hands. “You and I—we could rule the world, if we wanted! You with your fighting ability, I with my necromantic wisdoms.”

  He eyed her dubiously, “If you still possess those powers, why didn't you use them?"

  She shook her head. "I save them—for a greater need.”

  “What need?”

  "I may not tell you—just yet.” She scampered toward the sleeping fur and her leather jerkin and skirt. As she drew them on, she watched the barbarian kneel and slash the bindings that held Flarion.

  They found food in the leather bags the bandits carried, and water in the skins attached to their belts. Kothar crammed one of the sacks full and tied it to Greyling's saddle. Into the kak he hoisted Red Lori when they were done eating, and turned his face eastward toward the Sea.

  Flarion trudged beside him. “Where do we go?”

  “To Zoane in Sybaros.”

  Zoane was the largest and richest of all the wealthy cities of rich Sybaros. It was a port city on the Outer Sea, its galleys and sailing ships plied those salt waters as far south as the Oasian jungles, as far north as Thuum, and to distant Isphahan in the east. Its taverns were floored with semiprecious stone tiles, its streets with slabs of marble. Its palace and its smaller castles were breathtaking in their loveliness. No man who ever saw Zoane walked away without a touch of awe deep inside him.

  Flarion shrugged. “Zoane or another, what does it matter? I'm a rich man, and I can spend my gold there as well as elsewhere. Still, prices are always high in Zoane.”

  From her perch in the saddle, Lori laughed. "Come with us, young Flarion—and be richer than you dream!”

  He turned and grinned up at her. “What schemes are you plotting in that pretty redhead of yours?”

  “I ride to find death—and slay it!”

  Flarion gaped at her, thinking she jested.

  Kothar merely scowled.

  Chapter Four

  The tavern was alive with sound in the smoking light of a thousand candles as the men at the wooden tables pounded on their tops with wood and leather ale-mugs. The slap of bare feet on wet wood, the tinkle of zither strings, the hoarse, shouts and the shrill laughter of drunken women wafted out
into the marble streets of the city by the Outer Sea. Three travelers, each wrapped in long woolen cloaks against the mists of the water, paused at the door of the tavern, listening to the sounds, sniffing at the odors of roasting beef and cooking lamb.

  Overhead swung a wooden sign carved to resemble a dolphin, painted black. The smallest of the three travelers waved a pale hand. "It is here, the Tavern of the Black Dolphin, that we are to meet him.”

  Kothar rumbled, "All this secrecy for a ship? I could steal you one with less trouble.”

  “It isn't any ordinary ship I need, Kothar."

  The barbarian hunched his massive shoulders impatiently, went to stand at the partly opened door, looking into the seaside alehouse. His eyes saw the naked woman who danced on the tabletop, but he paid her no heed; his eyes were turned inward as if to search his own mind.

  For more than a week they had been on the road to Zoane, joined together in good fellowship, with something more than fellowship between himself and the red-haired witch-woman. Yet now that they were in Zoane, Red Lori had fallen secretive, mysterious. She made plans without consulting him, without so much as a by-your-leave. He felt anger growing and was surprised to find that a faint jealousy lay inside him, as well. Oddly, he wanted the girl all to himself, he did not want to share her even with the plan she had in mind.

  A soft hand touched his. He looked down, seeing her green eyes staring oddly at him. "I have my reasons, barbarian," she whispered. "Bear with me for a little while.”

  He shrugged and stood aside so that she might walk ahead of him into the tavern. Flarion came after them, treading lightly, staring with bright eyes at the belly-dancer who flaunted her flesh in the candlelight, stamping and pivoting on the tabletop.

  Red Lori chose a table close to the wall, where her gaze could scan the faces of the roisterers. Kothar sat to her right, Flarion slipped onto the bench to her left. A serving maid ran to greet them, tray and wiping cloth in her hands.

  "Ale,” rasped the Cumberian, “and wine for the woman. And don't forget the food platters.”

  Flarion said, "Fetch the ale in large tankards. We've thirst enough to empty an ocean, girl. And who's that dancing so excitingly?”

  "Cybala,” Smiled the girl and turned to go. Red Lori chuckled as she saw the eager interest of the youth. “Go talk to her, Flarion. Offer her gold, you will—but bring her to the table.”

  In surprise, the mercenary glanced at the redhead. “Bring her here? But why?”

  "We have a need for her.” Flarion scowled. "I can understand why I might have need for her, having been traveling companion to you two lovers all the way from Phyrmyra, but why you have a wish for her company is beyond me.”

  "It will be clear, in time. Just fetch her.” The girl on the tabletop paused, arms up flung and head thrown back, her ripely curved body quivering. She was olive skinned and with long black hair, and though she was younger even than Flarion, there was an eternal wisdom in her black eyes and in the languishing smile on her red mouth. She posed, letting the shouts and the applause roll around her. Then she bent, lifted the thin wrap that she had tossed aside when mounting the table and threw it about her nudity.

  Hands reached for her, voices called. She ignored them to step down onto a chair and to the rush-strewn floor. She moved through the voices and the hands, and marched toward a narrow, curtain-hung doorway on the far side of the big common room.

  Suddenly, a slim mercenary in worn leather and mail shirt was before her, eyes worshipful. She paused, frowned, went to turn aside.

  "She would speak to you,” said Flarion, pointing.

  "She?” In surprise Cybala halted, eyebrows lifting. With female curiosity, she turned, stared where the youth gestured.

  Across the room, black eyes touched green and-were held. As the snake holds the hen, she went rigid, feeling her senses slip away from her. "Come to me,” the eyes said. "You have no will, Cybala the tavern dancer. So—come to me.” And with a sigh that was half a sob, Cybala let the mercenary clasp her hand and draw her along with him through the throng.

  "We would make you rich, Cybala,” said Lori softly when the girl was beside her on the bench.

  "And in return for such wealth?"

  "We have a need for you.” The green eyes still held her in thrall, the dancer found. There was a strange languor in her flesh born not of the physical world but of the mind. Almost against her will, she asked, "But what may I do for—such as you?”

  “You will learn—in time. What will it cost to buy your bondage from the tavern owner?”

  "He took me in when I was starving, and fed me. I could always dance, I was taught by slave owners from Oasia when I was a little girl. Always, I have earned my bread by dancing—ever since my first master was slain in a street brawl and I was turned loose to earn my keep.”

  Red Lori held her palm out to Kothar. The barbarian took two small gold bars from his belt purse, dropped them into her hand.

  “Will these buy your freedom and pay your debts?”

  Cybala nodded, eyes wide. "That will be more than enough. One such bar will do it.”

  "Then keep the other, Cybala. Flarion, go with her in case of trouble.” Red Lori turned to the Cumberian. “She will please him whom I shall summon up.”

  “You intend to sacrifice her?" Kothar asked, dismayed.

  As if she had not heard him, the witch-woman murmured, “She is a pretty little thing, still young and probably—innocent. Yes, yes, he will like her.”

  “You can't do it," Kothar rasped, hitting the table.

  "Then let us say, we bring her along for young Flarion.” Her red lips quirked to a smile in her lovely face as she studied the grim face of the barbarian. “You are a thief, Kothar, a man who has raped his share of women and slain, more than his share of men. Why then, this sudden delicacy?”

  He shook his blond head. “I don't hold with human sacrifice.”

  “Then we'll buy a lamb when the time comes.”

  He glowered at her, feeling a stab of the old distrust moving in his veins. He had let himself be distracted by her lovely face and ripely curved body. He should have realized that Red Lori was still a witch-woman, a sorceress, no matter how sweetly she acted toward him. Come to think of it, how had she come to be within that tomb, alive and well, as if—waiting for him?

  "A demon laid a curse on me,” she reminded him, patting his hand with hers when he questioned her. "I told you so before, and now I see you didn't believe me.” The fingers tightened, claw-like. “Our sea captain comes, barbarian!”

  A brawny man with a scar down his right cheek, his black hair close-cropped about a bullet skull, came swaggering across the floor, striped jersey tight, on a massive chest, his ragged leather sea-breeks tucked into high boots. Around his middle he wore a brass-studded belt from which hung a long dagger and a cutlass. He paused at sight of Red Lori and her beckoning hand, then nodded and moved toward her on catlike feet. He lifted off the mist-wet cloak he wore, dropped it as he crowded his bulk in beside the Cumberian.

  “I got your message, I’m Grovdon Dokk of the ship Wave-skimmer The cost will be ten gold pieces”

  “Abrupt, and to the point,” smiled Lori. “It's a bargain.”

  “It's robbery," growled Kothar.

  The captain looked at him, eyebrows-arched. “Is it yourself or the lady who's hiring me?”

  "Pay him, Kothar,” smiled the woman.

  The barbarian growled under his breath but he did what the witch-woman ordered. “I still say it's robbery, man. Ten gold pieces could buy me such a scow as you probably command. Do you know the seas hereabouts?”

  "Better than I know my face,” Grovdon Dokk nodded, clinking the golden pieces between his hands and smiling at them. "And I'll have you know I run a tight ship, with accommodations for four guests."

  "Diving gear?" asked Red Lori.

  "And men to dive, if you need them, at no extra cost. I'm a fair man, you'll see. When do we sail?”

  “We
'll come aboard about midnight.” The captain knuckled his brow to the witch-woman and stood up. "I'll go along then, to make things ready. If you could tell me where it is we sail, I could plot a course.”

  "I'll tell you when we're under way.” Kothar watched the sea captain move off with his rolling gait. He growled, "You're cursed mysterious. Why must we keep it such a secret? Is the treasure greater than that of Kandakore?”

  "Infinitely greater, barbarian, as you'll learn when you see it.” Her smile dimpled her cheeks as her green eyes glowed. "Perhaps it is the greatest treasure in the world.”

  Flarion was moving toward them, drawing the belly-dancer in his wake with a hand on her wrist. He carried a leather bag, thrown over a shoulder, that bulged with the things Cybala had so hastily thrust into it, which was all she owned in the world. He pushed her onto the bench beside Red Lori just as the serving maid came up with their tankards and a goblet of red Thosian wine.

  With them she brought a wooden platter of steaming meat, with wedges of bread and cheese placed around them. Kothar pushed a gold coin at her as he reached for the food.

  Cybala whispered, “What am I to do?”

  "Amuse Flarion,” snapped the redhead.

  The girl glanced sideways at the youth, eyebrows arching. Her shoulder lifted and she sniffed, dismissing him. Flarion flushed and stared down at his food.

  When the clepsydra showed the hour to be close to midnight, Lori pushed an empty platter away and reached behind her for her heavy woolen paenula. “It is time to go, to board the ship.”

  Kothar tossed his fur cloak about his massive shoulders, moving ahead of the others so that his giant frame could clear passageway for them between the diners and the revelers. Here and there a hand reached out protestingly when the patrons of the tavern recognized Cybala in a traveling cloak with her dusky face half hidden in its hood.

  But Kothar was there to push away a hand, and Flarion was close beside the belly-dancer to discourage an overly resentful man with a fist in the ribs or an easily drawn dagger. Cybala walked with heavy steps, half dreading that which she went toward so easily. This going was not of her own will but by force of the green eyes that had looked deep inside her and caught hold of her soul. Only Red Lori went with an easy stride. This was her doing, this night and its events, and those which would follow. Only on her lips was there a smile, and only her feet trod lightly, with satisfaction in the way of their going.