Back Under The Stairs - Book 2 in The Bandworld Series

by John Stockmyer

  Of course! Put that way, it was plain even to an unbeliever like John that John was the Malachite Mage!

  With nothing else that John could do, he might as well go for it!

  "As it happens, I'm also the Mage of Stil-de-grain," John said, pulling up the fake yellow crystal, briefly showing it to one and all.

  Shock!

  Awe!

  Respect!

  And the turning away of heads until John put the filter back inside his tunic.

  "As for being Mage of Malachite, the former King of Stil-de-grain stole my green crystal. It's probably hidden in the palace at Xanthin." Golden nodded soberly, his face showing satisfaction that, at long last, John believed him about the crystal's whereabouts.

  Only the old American, Robin, looked incredulous. Which -- knowing nothing about the stupidities of the politics of this other world -- he would.

  Pulling himself together, Leet spoke. "I see my duty. My failure to capture you was an omen. A sign that you are fighting for the right. It is time for true Malachites to stand against the usurper, Lithoid. I offer myself in your service." A pretty speech followed by a salute and a deep, deep bow.

  What a strange twist of fate, John thought, doing his best to return the salute in a military manner. Just another indication that, with a crystal of any kind, anything was possible. "If I release you to return to Hero Castle, would your men follow you?" From what John had learned from Golden, Stil-de-grain needed every man she could scrape up.

  "Yes, though we are not numerous. I came with thirty. Two are dead."

  "And the priests who came with you?"

  Leet pantomimed his indifference.

  "Go ahead, then." John had another thought. "If your men will join us, what's the chance that other Malachites will? If we spread the word that Pfnaravin has returned to fight for Stil-de-grain?"

  "I fear ...."

  "You don't think that will happen?" John's vision of a quick end to the war (and a quicker passage for himself to his own world) faded with Leet's wrinkled frown. "You're joining us."

  "I have lived long. Seen much. Other, younger men will be less easy to persuade."

  "I suppose." Nothing to be done about that at the moment. "For now, return to the castle and round up your men. Send the priests out of the castle on some sort of errand. Then find some Stil-de-grain forces and turn yourselves in. In the Claws, maybe."

  "Yes, sir." Again the bow.

  The decision made to send Leet back to Hero Castle, and if Robin didn't like it, too bad, John made certain that Leet was provisioned for the return trip.

  When a bag had been packed, John saluted. "To honorable men."

  "To honorable men," said Leet soberly, returning the salute.

  At the last, John felt sad to see the short, one-armed military man doing his "about-face" to stride off down the trail; wondered if, in spite of Leet's good intentions, he would ever again see the old officer.

  John leading his party off again, nothing else of note happened -- if you didn't count the fear of his companions at having to camp out that night in an unprotected position -- it taking the rest of that day and part of the following morning to put the dank mire behind them.

  Climbing out the far side of the fen to a grassy plateau, they had to spend two additional days traversing more open country before reaching Grege, Grege turning out to be nothing but a ten building farming village.

  With no new intelligence about the war to be learned there, John still wanting to get an overview of the situation, he decided to press on to the rumored Stil-de-grain naval outpost at the Claws.

  The group stumbling out of the cramped, Grege inn in the fog of next morning's up-light, Golden -- the man who in his capacity as entertainer claimed to have been everywhere -- recommended a new path, one that paralleled the nearby Tartrazine River.

  Entering territory totally unfamiliar to him, John relinquished the lead to Golden, Golden assuring them they would soon cross the Realgar border, Realgar the last, outward band before Cinnabar.

  Traveling cross-band through mostly open territory again, John had time to relax and look at the scenery.

  Farming country.

  Houses built a considerable distance from the road. Backyard pens fencing pigs and poultry away from vegetable gardens.

  Were those black, brown, and white dots in faraway pastures sheep and cows?

  It was another morning of unrelieved boredom (except for when they encountered the occasional traveler -- pack bearer, hunter, or pony merchant) before John's party neared the new band, the gold of Stil-de-grain's sky smudging into Realgar orange.

  Approaching the band of Realgar, the border still some distance away, John saw a wall of vegetation rising before them as they approached, becoming a line of over-sized trees and enlarged, mutant bushes.

  The border!

  Almost there, the air began to cool, the bands of this world progressively colder toward the rim.

  Nor could they mistake that "floaty" feeling when they crossed into Realgar to stand beneath the larger-than-life vegetation.

  Band-sickness -- in reverse.

  Continuing to parallel the Tartrazine, an occasional glimpse of the waterway showed it to be slowing more and more until it broke apart into a muddy, many-fingered delta.

  Another day found the puzzling Tartrazine gathering itself again, this time within a rocky channel, finally to disappear into a great, roaring, sinkhole.

  "River's End," said Golden matter-of-factly, as if the subterranean disappearance of a mighty stream was the most natural phenomena in the world!

  After that, the road took a sharp bend to the left, a pathway that put them on a direct line to the Claws, Golden said.

  Seeming to bounce along in Realgar's light gravity -- even Zwicia able to keep from dragging her feet -- they skirted low, round top, tall-treed hills, seeing orangish mountains to the far right that Golden identified as the Mage Mountains of Realgar.

  One other oddity John noticed was that even fewer people traveled the roads of Realgar than he'd seen in war weary Stil-de-grain. When asking Golden about this peopleless phenomena, all John got was a tall tale about how the King of Realgar had eliminated half his population in a project to mark trails through the country's Great Marsh: clearly, a legend passing for history. As for the few Realgarese?? they did came across, they seemed no different from anyone else. Except that they were dressed in sky-orange tunics, the natives a bit taller than the average Stil-de-grainer.

  It was early the next day that John and his people turned a tree-lined corner to see soldiers at the bottom of a shallow ravine thirty yards ahead of them. Stil-de-grain troopers, judging by the gold piping on their tan uniforms.

  "Stop," called a guard, holding up his hand as soon as John's party came into view. The man still leaning on a low, wood-framed barricade, his four comrades came instantly awake, nervous hands closed on sword pommels.

  Still twenty yards from the barrier, John signaled his party to stop as ordered, John continuing to approach the officer, the soldier coming around to John's side of the portable fence.

  "If you have goods for trade," the guard said, "we'll take a look at 'em. But our orders are that no strangers be allowed back 'a this checkpoint."

  "I've come to see the Naval Head, Coluth, if he's still in charge." The soldiers behind the checkpoint exchanged glances.

  "Who looks for the Navy Head?"

  "John Lyon of Stil-de-grain." John didn't think it would hurt to mention the guard's home band.

  "Is that supposed to mean something to me?" The sentry had a round head and stocky body. Was brusque but not unpleasant.

  "No. But it will to Coluth."

  "Anybody could say that," countered the guard. He grinned a crooked, waiting-to-be-convinced grin. The military mind. Not much flexibility there.

  "This is the Mage of Stil-de-grain," Golden said quietly but authoritatively, Golden deciding on his own -- Golden-like -- to disobey John's command to stay back.
r />   "Yeah? I heard that the old Mage was dead and that the new one disappeared."

  When in doubt, pull out all the stops. Which in this case meant flashing the fake Mage-crystal, a single, golden gleam from the ersatz gem having the guards shying back.

  "I suggest," Golden continued dryly, "that you escort the Mage and his party to his destination."

  "Yeah," the leader said thoughtfully, stroking his chin with one, hairy hand.

  After a long moment, he turned to the other guards. "Auers and Caven, come with me. You other two keep watch here." The guard turned to John again. "If you are the Mage, sir, we're glad to have ya. But if you're not ........" Even though mildly put, the threat was implicit. "As it is, I'm sure ya won't mind if I....?"

  Never quite finishing his thought, the fellow signaled the rest of John's people to come forward, the guard doing a routine check of everyone in John's party. (He didn't seem to discover Golden's throwing knife, however. Not much of a surprise.)

  At an order from their squad leader, the other guards moved the wooden barrier to one side, John waving his people forward and through the guard station.

  "I'm Whar," the guard announced as his men replaced the barrier across the trail, the soldier taking the lead, the other two men he'd chosen posted in the rear.

  Boxed in this way, John and company were escorted down the trail, past two other, considerably more elaborate bulwarks further on, other clots of Stil-de-grain soldiers manning them.

  Beyond the barricades, the road descended by easy stages to a narrow, coastal plain. Continuing through tall but sparse vegetation, they began to pass ramshackle huts and uniformed men, John's party eventually finding itself in the center of a noisy encampment, the seaside crowded with military personnel, some carrying out assigned tasks, others talking, gambling, resting. As advertised, this was the gathering place of what remained of Stil-de-grain power.

  Hugging the sea at that point, John got his first look at the Claws: massive scimitars of glittering water cut into the Malachite plain. One. Two. Three. Three, hooking inlets nestled together ... a sparkle of others in the distance.

  Trees lined the sides of each of the sweeping bays, tie-up docks thrust out into the water from their inland points, ships tied along the moles: a few naval ships, many more merchantmen.

  Even crowded with boats, the arcing bays looked like talons. Or to be more accurate, like scratches a giant, three-toed water bird might have "clawed" into the land, the sea rushing in to make sickle-shaped estuaries.

  The guard continuing to lead, they threaded their way through the noisy press, passing the first of the three sea arms, the landward end of the waterway crowded with a full compliment of docked ships, other boats floating farther out, fastened to the wharfs with ropes.

  Pushing their way past the second inlet, they left the crowded waterfront, John's party marched up a slant of ground toward a hilltop inn, the building a three story structure with a thatch-topped roof and walls of mud-daubed logs.

  Coming to the inn's split-trunk porch, the officer halted the party. Leaving his fellow soldiers to watch John's group, the military man clopped up on the porch to push through a line of orange-clad loiterers leaning on the porch rails, the soldier opening the door to women's voices and the expectant mumble of pre-dinner talk.

  Back of him, John heard the tired thud of packs slung to the ground.

  Minutes later, the trooper clattered out again. "Come with me," Whar said, as he hopped down from the porch, his hobnailed boots digging solidly into the turf. "He's at tie-up. Will be 'til near down-light, most likely. Likes to look at the ships."

  "I think, if its all right, I'll let the others get settled," John said.

  Eyeing the tired old man and the women, the soldier nodded, signaling his comrades to stay with the group.

  "Pretty crowded inside but I've spread the word to make room for you."

  "Thank you." As always in this less than democratic place, even phony Mages got undeserved respect.

  "Oh," the soldier said to John as John's people bent down painfully to drag up their carryalls, "as you can see, everyone around here is armed."

  John got the message. As John approached the Admiral, NO SUDDEN MOVES, John nodding, at the same time hoping Coluth didn't have memory lapses about old friends.

  The remaining soldiers helping, Platinia and the others hoisted themselves on the board porch to stumble through the heavy, vertical log, doorway -- Zwicia grumbling for them all.

  The soldier leading, they went down a gradual slope leading to the bay, having to weave around tents, military personnel, and jerry-built wood structures hastily constructed as quarters.

  Approaching the harbor, they threaded their way through gangs of sailors packing supplies on their backs or hauling barrels in three-wheeled carts. Whatever the military situation, the ships were prudently being resupplied for their next mission. No doubt, Coluth's doing.

  Others were engaged in fitting oars or in crafting ship parts, sawhorses set up for that purpose, workers shaping wood with simple tools: hammers, saws, bow-driven drills. Navy men, John thought, though merchant seamen looked about the same as enlisted personnel.

  At the ship-crowded quay, John was led past sweaty stevedores who, as the workday came to an end, were stripping off their leather jerkins and jumping off the dock into the bay's tangerine-colored water, the men sputtering, calling to one another, making crude jokes, and splashing like children. High above like giraffes in the veldt, wooden dock cranes looked down on the chaotic scene with remote disdain.

  And there was Coluth, the large, raw-boned man standing by himself at wharfs-end, looking out to sea, dressed in an unpretentious naval tunic.

  "See anything out there as seaworthy as the Roamer?" John called by way of announcing himself.

  Coluth turned; shaded his eyes with a big, blunt-fingered hand as John came up.

  "John-Lyon-Pfnaravin!" the Captain cried, recognizing John at last, Coluth clasping John on the shoulder.

  Remembering that John was the Mage, Coluth quickly removed his hand. But not his grin!

  Seeing the Head receive John as a friend, the soldier's duty done, Whar saluted both John and the Navy Head in turn, pivoted, and marched back down the dock. One soldier, at least, on whom Stil-de-grain could still rely.

  "Good to see you old friend," John said, saluting in the Stil-de-grain style, getting a broader, battered grin and a salute in return, Coluth's rough, square hand clinched at an angle before his chest. And John was glad to see the naval Head. Of all the people John had met in this other reality, Coluth was the most likable and reliable. Looking closer, there was also no denying that Coluth had aged. Even in the dying, orange light, John could see gray streaks in the navy man's short, brown hair.

  "John-Lyon-Pfnaravin," the Head said again, as if he had to speak the name to believe it. "Now that you have come, all is well." Just blast 'em with crystal power like you did the white civilian army, was what Coluth meant. Everybody's solution to any problem. Mage power.

  "There are reasons I can't use my power ... just yet," John cautioned.

  Now that the greeting was over, both John and Coluth automatically turned to look out over the gently lapping, sky-orange waters of the ship crowded bay, the men standing side by side as they'd done so often in more peaceful times at the deck rail of the Roamer.

  "There is little but your power to save us," the Head said, resuming the conversation. Coluth shrugged. "The army ... is no more."

  "The Army Head?"

  "Etexin was killed at Carotene."

  "I heard about that disaster from Golden."

  "Golden escaped?"

  "Yes. Just how, I'm not sure." Golden had told John, of course. It was that John was never willing to take Golden at face value. "He's with me here," John continued, nodding toward land, "along with Platinia. The old team back together again." Hearing that, the weather-loosened skin of Coluth's seaman's face tightened into a smile of remembrance. "Your navy tran
sported the army to Carotene?"

  "Yes." Coluth's face looked sad again. "Off-loaded 'em just this side 'a Sea Throat."

  "I waited at tie-up. After some days, five messenger birds flew in as a single flock, none trained to speak." Messenger birds were this world's method of long-range communication. A kind of parrot, taught to repeat a piece of news before being released. "It was then that we knew the worst; no time to school the birds, Gagar said, only time enough to release 'em as a silent warnin'."

  "Even then, I waited. 'Til I had to gave the order to go or risk the ships."

  "And Gagar?" Gagar was the messenger bird handler for Stil-de-grain, as much a bird himself as a human.

  "He's here."

  "Good." Birdie looking as the parrot man was, John had been impressed with Gagar's intelligence gathering skills.

  "Some soldiers got away. They're still comin' -- in twos and threes." Too few to do any good, said Coluth's inflection. "And 'a course, the king is here."

  "Yarro?"

  "Yes."

  "He was in the capital." Hearing Coluth's simple telling of the disaster, John was beginning to feel that John's return to his own world had come perilously close to desertion! "On the way here, I stopped at Xanthin. Thought it wise to bring young Yarro here to safety." A child-king in exile -- a pathetic definition of safety.

  "You can level with me Coluth," John said quietly, no one on the mole close enough to hear, the mariners apparently under orders to give the Admiral his privacy. "Is this," John waved his hand to include not only this 'Claw' but the others, "all that's left of Stil-de-grain?"

  "Looks like. Gagar says the birds from beak-ward have been discouraging." Beak-ward -- the opposite end of Stil-de-grain's circular band. What John always thought of as "North."

  The worst of the bad news delivered, the two men stood side by side for a moment, looking seaward from which the Malachite attack would likely come.