It'd also been fortunate that John and company had been able to sail for a time in Azare waters before landfall, this period desirable for adjusting to the suddenly heavier gravity of that inner band.
With Coluth tacking carefully under Azare's dim sky, they'd made land at last, tying up to a spike of rock jutting from the edge of a dismal strip of sand-and-boulder coast, a wind-blown shore so barren of shape and color it could only be called desolate. A place where leaden water lapped gray sand. A place where -- here -- there -- gargoyles of decaying rock thrust up along the coast like zombies rising from their graves.
Though difficult to see in Azare's sickly luminescence, a line of low, bare hills could be seen rising behind the smudgy strand.
And that was all there was to see. (Not even, as John feared, shuffling lines of albino citizens who'd been brainwashed to die in defense of Auro's beach.)
No sound but the mournful wailing of the seaward wind.
Over the objections of Coluth, who'd argued that John needed protection on his way to fight the dark Mage, John had ordered the crew and soldiers to stay with the ship. Whar, not to be outdone in his affection for his Mage, protested that at least he be allowed to accompany John on his foray into dark-Mage territory.
Feeling that human aid wouldn't do him much good against Auro's magic, at the same time wishing to secure his retreat, John had explained that Coluth and the rest should remain behind to guard the boat.
Of course, John's decision was final -- to take only the women (Platinia because he needed her, Zwicia, on the outside chance she might yet have a vision that would be of help). The women plus the two-pony cart packed with the cannon on its iron-wheeled platform, gunpowder, cannonballs, and provisions.
As for locating Auro, John had never seen that as a problem. Since the dark Mage was generating the "evil" wind, all John had to do to find the source of this iniquity was travel to windward. A task made easier when, soon after the ponies had labored the cart over the line of sandy hills beyond the beach, John chanced upon a track that ran ruler-straight into Auro's poisonous breath.
First fusing the cannonballs (Something John could do ahead of time,) John and the women started out. In the near dark of Azare. Over a dusty, long-abandoned trail.
Leading the ponies by their guide ropes, the ponies harnessed to the small, but heavily burdened cart, the question uppermost in John's mind was, did the dark Mage know of John's approach? ...... Probably.
Too many messenger birds flew too many places for the evil Mage not to know John was on the way. (John himself had been sending periodic messenger birds back to Stil-de-grain, the large, yellow birds programmed to parrot glowing progress reports to the people of the capital. One of John's fears was that, without him there to remind Stil-de-grainers of his power, morale would slip on the home front. In addition to a ship to take him home, John needed a country to come home to.)
True, there'd been disappointments, the first, that the illumination of the Azare sky was too slight to produce enough magic for either the women or for John to "think-alight" fire stone torches.
The second, Zwicia's failure to foretell the immediate future by looking into her Weird-crystal. Not that she didn't do her best, staring into the violet flickerings of her large disk at every pause, stroking and muttering. She did give warnings, though only about Mage lightning and white enemies -- known dangers. She'd also cautioned John to beware of fearsome animals in the night -- everyone's fixation in this "old wives tale" world.
Platinia, of course, was ... Platinia.
Near down-light of the first day's journey, John made camp beside the road, unhitching the ponies to let them graze on dead grass by the roadside.
Next, John had gotten out the sheet of waterproof canvas, strapping the tie-down rings of the heavy, flapping cloth to the topside of the pony cart, stretching the tent cloth away from the wagon, staking the outer edge of the tarp into the ground. After he'd set up this lean-to arrangement, the women had taken food and blankets out of the cart, putting what they needed for the night under the tent.
John had remembered that, with the aid of the Mage-crystal of Stil-de-grain, he'd once been able to light torches -- even in the dark. If he could light a torch after dark, wasn't it a good bet he could warm fire stones?
It was just that he didn't want to put the gem around ....
Yes.
In the end, he'd brought the crystal -- though he was still carrying it in a special robe pocket, too frightened of its mesmerizing effects to put it on. So far, he hadn't needed its doubtful magic. His solemn prayer, that he never would!
That first night, Azare as fog-bound -- though not as rainy -- as all bands, the three of them huddled in the cave-like dark of the wind-assaulted tarpaulin. They ate by feel: cold cheese and bread, the constant smell of wind-blown dust making the food tasteless. Drank, in turn, from a cask of Stil-de-grain beer.
Unable to talk at all to the women after down-light or to understand their Stil-de-grain, John ate his cold food quickly, wrapped himself in a blanket, and was soon asleep.
Following the same pattern for two more days, they'd continued to trudge dutifully into the turbulence, seeing nothing in the shadowy terrain around them but wind waved straw -- this region of Azare originally pastureland, John supposed.
As for the people who'd formerly worked the land, where were they? Had Auro's assaults on other bands denuded the country of its milk-white citizens?
It had been some time during the afternoon of the third day that the road had begun to cut through the base of colorless, rolling, gray-rock hills, their crests indistinct in the morose darkness of Azare's contusion-of-purple sky.
No sign of danger, though. No living thing to challenge them. Or ghost of a living thing.
And yet ... somewhere ahead ... lay the awesome force that drove the wind and fueled dark-Mage lightning -- though how Auro built such dynamism from this "low wattage" sky, was a mystery.
So far, these were the sum total of John's thoughts as he and the women left the dismal shore, trudging inland on the same, straight road they'd found upon topping the sandy ridge that marked the ending of the coastal plain.
Hour after boring hour, they labored through the somber terrain, the going slow as they bucked increasing gusts.
Heavier gravity, and now this savage wind.
Though John managed to overcome these difficulties, the women suffered. Platinia because of her size, every scud of wind threatening to kite her off the road; Zwicia because she was so unsteady on her flapping feet.
For the first two days, Zwicia and Platinia had walked beside him, John leading the ponies by their guide ropes, the ponies dragging the creaking cart. For the last day, though, the steadily increasing wind had driven the women behind the cart, the slatted sides and solid back of the wagon serving as a windbreak. Easier walking, perhaps, but dirtier walking, wind gusts covering them with dust kicked up by the straining ponies.
At the front, John battered his way forward, having, at times, to drag the shelties, the little horses shying at the wind's force and at its noise.
At least that had been the entire story until awhile ago when, mercifully, the wind began to die.
Until this very moment when the wind ... stopped!
"Something's wrong," John repeated to himself, John shocked at how his voice blared in the new stillness of this low-light world.
Halted in the middle of the road, John looked at the sky.
Did it seem brighter?
Perhaps, though the band above them certainly wasn't the blue it was supposed to have been before the Mage-enemies of Auro used their power to blacken Azare's sky.
Ahead -- far ahead -- did the sky seem brighter still? As if a light source was lancing skyward to reflect from the opaque, purple clouds?
As for the absence of wind-shrill, John had gotten so used to the dissonance he'd forgotten what "quiet" was.
Not entirely quiet. For unless it was blood singing through his veins, John seemed to be
picking up a distant ... trilling sound. Somewhere ahead of them.
Beside him, John was aware of Platinia's presence.
"Any guesses about what happened to the wind?" John asked. Though lowering his voice, he still seemed to be shouting in the unaccustomed stillness.
At his question, Platinia looked up at him, her small face as gray and shadowed as the surrounding, round-topped hills.
She was not likely to have anything to say. She never did.
Zwicia had also shuffled to the front, John realized. "Lxlop," the old woman mumbled to herself, nervously fingering the gold piping on the front edge of her violet robe. "Lxlop, hidripa wind."
Whatever "Lxlop" might mean (to say nothing of hidripa) the stoppage of the tempest was also upsetting Zwicia, the old woman muttering, then waving her hands like she did when disconcerted.
Looking ahead, did John see ...?
Straining, John could make out ... trees.
Yes. If you could call barkless trunks topped with lifeless limbs -- trees.
Squinting, he looked again. No doubt about it, the road was pointed at a tangle of blighted woods.
How long since the trees ahead had been alive?
From the look of them, they could have been dead at the dawning of creation. .................
Was everything in this black band dead? Since landing on the dingy beach several days behind them, John had seen nothing but sand, bare hills, gray rocks, dead grass, and sterile land.
Now, they were coming upon a ghostly forest.
Whatever the Mage-King had done to others, he'd brought a terrible vengeance down on Azare.
Which still left the question, why no wind?
What was apparent, was that John was not going to get any answers by standing there holding the pony reins. "We've got to go on," John said, turning to the women, gesturing broadly to supplement any words failing to get through in this reduced magic zone. The women nodded.
So they set out in the suspicious calm, Platinia and Zwicia walking with him again, busying themselves by brushing dust from their robes, John keeping a lookout to either side of the road as well as listening. ........ Heard little except the gentle clop-clop of the ponys' hooves on the soft-earth road and the rhythmic creaking of the solid wood cart wheels.
The dead woods not that far in front of them, they soon edged into the sepulchral forest, the border trees to either side looking ... petrified ... lifeless, their bare branches interlocking overhead in increasingly thick tangles.
Worsening an old problem.
Light.
Even though the trees of these funereal woods lacked leaves, their tangled branches above the path began to shut out what little light there was.
Another few steps ... and the boughs had strangled the dim light entirely.
If only John had a fire stone torch ........
The situation was the same as before. While there were torches in the pony cart, the lack of illumination prevented anyone "thinking" a torch alight. John could fire one up, he thought. All he had to do was put on his Mage-crystal .....
Precisely what he didn't want to do ... except in an emergency.
Was this the time to play his trump?
Funny, how one generation's technology was another, more backward age's, magic. Here, where it was routine sorcery to "think" a cold-fire torch alight, a cheap cigarette lighter burned with a miraculously hot flame!
Unable to continue without blundering into the increasingly invisible woods, John stopped, the ponies coming to a standstill behind him, blowing, stamping their small hooves.
Then, silence.
No. Again ... not silence, but that trilling noise ahead of them, if anything, a little louder. .... As John concentrated on the sound, louder still. Not only from the front but in increasing volume and coming from both sides of the dark forest!
What .......!?
"Platinia," John whispered, the women huddled close to him, blotches in the blackness, "do you know where the torches are packed?"
John thought the girl nodded that she understood. At any rate, she faded into the general gloom of the cart behind them; returned after a few moments with the two torches, fire stones fitted into their flaring ends. Taking each torch in turn, John removed the fire stones, stepping back to the cart to push the valuable stones through the wagon's slats, depositing the porous rocks in front of the tied-down cannon.
Empty torches in hand, feeling his way across the dirt trail that still scored a direct line through the encompassing arms of the skeletal forest, John shuffled to the roadside. There, groping until his hands brushed a branch of a mummified sapling, John cracked off the bony limb, the sound ringing like a pistol shot.
Around him, the warbling sound was steadily increasing!
Hurriedly snapping the limb in two, John poked the broken branch into a torch, the kindling sticking into the metal device from the torch's mouth to the bottom of the hollow, narrowing handle. More by feel than sight, John snapped off smaller twigs, repeating the process until both torches were packed with sticks.
Bending over, he tore off handfuls of tough, dead grass, stuffing the straw into each torch end.
Satisfied that he'd done his best, putting one "loaded" torch on the ground at his feet, turning his back to Platinia and Zwicia -- a good magician, even a nervous one, never shows his tricks -- John dug out his lighter. Thumbing the wheel, John nosed the steady fire-jet into the grass tinder he'd stuffed in the end of the torch, the grass catching, fire creeping through the straw, the twigs starting to crackle.
As the wood began to blaze higher, then higher still, John held up the newly burning torch to see shadow-shapes in the dark, the light showing large four-legged creatures ... with insect heads and gelatinous bodies, their internal organs showing through! Bug-eyed horrors the size and shape of wolves! Termite-headed jackals! Mandibles dripping!
Behind John, the ponies reared and screamed!
As John's torch flamed to full brightness, the mutants turned to race away, their trilling echoing after them.
Shaken, John heard what had to be the sound of the insect-animals crashing into trees.
It was their eyes. Huge eyes. The eyes of nocturnal creatures unable to withstand the light.
It was only then that it hit him! The wicked looking wolf-termites had been creeping up to prey on John and the women, John stopping them with a flick of the other world's lighter!
"Lxlop," mumbled Zwicia, the old woman hiding behind the cart, waving her hands in fear.
Another revelation dawned on John. These, and possibly other monsters of the night, were this world's savage creatures. Nocturnals, dangerous only in the dark. And to think that John had been discounting down-light beasties as pure myth!
John shuddered. Wondered what other nasty surprises might await him in the mantled forest!
For the moment, being hunted by the Lxlop meant never letting his torch go out!
The big-eyed, dangerously evolved creatures driven off -- John had to get his party moving.
His torch blazing brightly by this time, bending, John picked up the spare torch, stepping back to trail center to slip the backup torch through the wagon slats near the front corner of the cart.
He turned to the women. "This is a different kind of fire," he explained, raising the torch, the women's faces reflecting the light like fearful ghost masks in the gloom. "This is Mage-fire." With a dramatic gesture, John waved the spitting torch, the flames fluttering angrily, Platinia and Zwicia involuntarily taking a step back. "It keeps the Lxlop away by giving both light and heat ... at the same time." Platinia and Zwicia continued to stare at the flaming torch end, the women calm again because of the assurance of the "great" Mage.
How much of what John was saying was getting through? It didn't really matter ... as long as he held the torch.
Real fire. In a world of magic, not only a new and dangerous technology but, in this instance, literally, a lifesaver!
The group settled down
somewhat, able to see again -- at least within the dancing circle of light cast by the torch -- they started out, John leading the others through the deadness, all of them keeping a nervous watch for more of the dangerous beasts, the wolf-termite, Lxlop.
On and in. Slowly. Moving quietly. John making frequent stops to gather more wood for the torch's fire.
Farther and farther until ... ahead ... like disembodied spirits ... John saw white reflections.
Ghosts!
Clogging the path! ........
No.
People.
John felt his chest tighten with recognition.
These were the same kind of people who'd made up Auro's white army; the ones who'd invaded Stil-de-grain; the ones he'd seared to cinders with the golden magic of his crystal.
Though John had been on the lookout for Azare's white civilians since the boat landed, the sudden appearance of these zombie-people jolted him!
John pulling up, the cart skreeled to a halt behind him, the ponies snorting gratefully.
White people. Again, appearing to be hypnotized like their former counterparts. Waiting for him!
Many against ... one!
John had a quick thought about loading the cannon. ..... Thought better of it. The gun must be his big surprise.
How deep were the enemy ranks? .... No way to tell.
There could be no equivocation now. John must put on the Mage-crystal to defend himself against the dark Mage army, John digging the crystal from the secret pocket in his robe.
No other option, holding his breath, John slipped the gem's iron chain around his neck.
Looking within to analyze his response to having chained himself to the crystal ... John realized he felt ... normal.
He could breathe again. Pant out his relief.
Beside him, he was aware of ... a touch; glancing down, saw Platinia gesturing toward the people up ahead. He nodded.
Instead of Platinia backing away as always, John grabbed her small hand and pressed the torch handle into it, motioning her to keep the torch flames away from her.
Freed of the torch, with shaky fingers, John held up the crystal, stroking it with his other hand; felt the "dry" static begin to build, first along the surface of his hands, then tingling throughout his body.
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