by T. H. Lain
Krusk wanted to leap from the tree into the cart and kill the lieutenant right then, but his aching side reminded him that an outnumbered warrior needed a better plan. He remained still until the last guard walked under the tree. The guard whipped stragglers among the slaves and forced them to pay for the humiliation of the day before. The orc was so busy working over the hacks of the unfortunate slaves that he didn't immediately recognize the significance of the noose that dropped around his neck. He was so busy mouthing curses at his charges that he didn't have an opportunity to shout a warning to anyone else before the noose tightened and jerked him off his feet.
Krusk yanked the rope with all his might. He knew that the guard would shout a warning if his air wasn't cut off at once. The orc's body shot upward toward Krusk with surprising ease. Krusk saw the orc's eyes bugging out, but he knew the job wasn't done. If he didn't pull the guard up immediately, the powerful orc would reach up with his hands and loosen the deadly grip. Krusk jerked the guard up, punched the unfortunate into unconsciousness, and finished the job by strangling him. As Krusk squeezed, he remembered the pain inflicted on his mother and transferred his hatred for all orcs into his deadly grip. Krusk crushed the neck of the struggling guard as he watched the caravan move out of sight and felt no pangs of conscience. He nodded with satisfaction over the fact that the slaves hadn't given away the game as soon as the whipping stopped. They were still moving on. Neither was Krusk bothered by hearing the gruesome crunch as he dropped the guard's corpse to the ground and clambered down the bole of the tree. He didn't even look back as he melted into the forest at the side of the road. Dead foes were defeated foes. He looked forward to turning more live foes into dead ones.
Krusk refused to think about the pain in his side as he increased his pace to bypass the slower moving slave train. He focused on each step as though it was a move in his daily martial exercises. Each step represented one of the repetitive maneuvers in that ritual wherein warriors learn moves and countermoves by rote and commit them to their subconscious as a life-saving instinct in battle.
After scores of repetitions, Krusk's sensitive ears picked up the rattling of slave chains. As though it were a magical burst of energy, locating his prey gave Krusk the will to keep churning his legs until he outpaced his target by several minutes. He moved back to the road, crossed it and, once again, climbed a tree. He tied one end of his rope to a high branch and lassoed a bough of the tree across the road.
Next, he dropped to the ground and crossed the road once more. Again, he climbed a tree. This time, however, he shaped a small noose in the end of the rope, looping it around the neck of a small ceramic flask. He placed the flask gently in the small fork of a branch and carefully retraced his steps.
Krusk couldn't believe how closely he had timed his work. He barely caught his breath before hearing the chains rattling in the distance. Watching for the caravan to come into view, he quietly calculated the position at which he could trigger his surprise. He breathed carefully, master of his body. He waited, poised for action.
The first group of slaves passed by, the ones being used by the orcs as road tasters-traveling equivalents of the food tasters in those tales of court Vanisa had once told Krusk in front of the fire at home. The snout of the leader's war boar was directly between the tree with the flask and Krusk's hiding place when Krusk tugged the rope. Freed from its precarious perch, the flask swung downward in a graceful arc. As the leaves of the tree rustled, all eyes turned to the opposite side of the road from Krusk's position.
The deadly pendulum smashed into the boar's neck and its contents splattered across the animal, another guard, and one of the slaves. Already jumpy from Krusk's previous attacks, the guards reflexively hurled a volley of javelins at the tree where they thought the flask originated. Only then did they realize what the contents of the flask were. Alchemist's fire erupted into flame. Boars squealed, slaves screamed, and a flaming guard rolled in the dirt. The boar reared, a mass of flames, as slaves cheered. The leader tried to rein in his skittish mount while slapping uselessly at his burning shoulder. His reins jerked the boar's head around, the boar bit at its tormentor, and Krusk leaped unnoticed from the tree everyone was ignoring.
The half-orc landed beside the fighting boar. His greataxe chopped into the boar rider's back with a force strong enough to slice the orc's spine. The commander fell limply from the saddle. Freed of its burden and control, the boar charged forward and trampled the unfortunate guard who had just managed to quench the flames by rolling on the ground.
Krusk was so pleased with the success of his opening gambit that he almost waited too long to wrench his axe from the commander's corpse. He pulled it free just as the other lieutenant jumped from the cart and came running to engage him. Krusk was barely able to parry the blow, handle to handle as the large orc attacked. Both warriors struck again. Krusk felt the axe blade bite into his own shoulder at the same moment that he watched his own blade hew through leather and orc alike. He winced as he realized how deep the cut was in his shoulder, but he turned to face any other, remaining guards.
At that point, Krusk himself was surprised. He turned to see a guard rushing toward him and he heard a woman's voice shout, "Pergue."
In a glance, he took in a sight he would cherish for the remainder of his life. The slaves had taken advantage of the confusion to spread across the road. As the guard charged toward Krusk, the woman shouted the name of their town. Hearing the name, the slaves reached down and grabbed their chains. They pulled the chains taut and the onrushing guard didn't realize the danger until he sprawled at their feet, tripped by the very chains he had used to hold his captives in check.
It was obvious to Krusk that the woman had planned this. She must have been expecting Krusk to strike again and had prepared her fellow captives to make their move when the opportunity presented itself. Krusk liked that. She was smart enough and brave enough to remind him of his mother. Krusk knew no higher praise than that.
He placed his booted foot on the guard's back and held his axe in readiness with one hand as he stripped the fallen warrior of his weapons with the other. Krusk glanced back to see what had become of the angry boar and was amazed to see the leading slaves with their chains wrapped around the boar's neck and holding it relatively motionless until other slaves could gather fallen weapons and kill it.
"Good meat," he said, tilting his head in the direction of the dead boar before he shifted the axe to his wounded side and picked up the guard with one arm.
"Where go?" demanded the barbarian. The guard didn't answer, so Krusk punctuated his question with a blow from the side of his axe. "Where go?"
The guard looked around and realized that there were no reinforcements to save him.
"Go to mine," answered the guard. "Much gold!" he cried before he dropped to his knees like a supplicant in a temple.
"Good," responded Krusk, "now, you'll die fast!"
The guard's gray skin paled visibly. His square jaw quavered as he searched for the words that would convince Krusk to spare him.
"Please don't," spoke a female voice.
Krusk turned toward the sound of the voice. It belonged to the brave and beautiful woman who had cried out the name of her town and initiated the snare that brought the guard down. Like all the slaves in the caravan, the woman was missing her left eye, but Krusk thought her courage and intelligence made her even more beautiful in spite of her disfiguration. Without trying, she could charm in a way that her deformity accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it. Again, Krusk thought of his mother as the woman stood straight and looked at Krusk with her one good eye.
"There's no need to kill him," she explained, "We don't have to be like him."
Krusk stared at the woman. From her obsidian black hair to the caramel color of her skin, she mesmerized the barbarian. When he didn't answer, she continued, "We could simply put the chains on him and let him go back to his village alone."
"No good," answered Krusk.
"More come back."
The woman grimaced as the look of fierceness came over Krusk's face once again. Krusk noticed the change in her demeanor and realized that he needed to be more compassionate if he wanted to please this woman. He considered speaking like an ordinary man instead of in the gutteral patois used by orcs and troglodytes in the region. The distinct, heavy accent, as foreign to Krusk as it was to any human, was useful for intimidating primitive foes. Now it might be scaring the woman. He decided against it when he looked at the orc's frightened face. For the time being, the prisoner was more important than the woman.
"Keep him," announced Krusk with determination. "He knows mine. Can show us." Krusk grabbed the guard by the throat and croaked another question. "Key?" he asked, rattling the chains.
The guard pointed toward the fallen commander and motioned that he could get the key. Krusk released his grip on the orc's neck and shoved him toward the commander's corpse.
Yddith breathed easier. She hadn't known whether the barbarian could be reasoned with, but she was relieved that the half-orc hadn't killed the surviving guard. Nervously, she studied the barbarian as he watched the guard return with the key. Thankfully, she saw him order the guard to unlock the shackles, beginning with her own. As relief rushed through her, she wondered how much she could trust their rescuer. Before she could return to Pergue with her fellow-survivors, she would have to know that there was more to Krusk than his apparent hatred for orcs. Still, for the first time since the Black Carnival invaded her life, she felt safe.
7
Jozan hadn't been offended when the priest loaned him a mule to continue his quest, but he was beginning to feel uncomfortable with his virility as he kept having to look up to speak to this amazing woman. Alhandra's magnificent gray stallion stood a full hand and a half taller than the mule beneath Jozan. That didn't help him get over the preconceptions one gets as a cleric trained in an all-male order. He always thought of women as being either temptations or servants.
Alhandra certainly qualified as the former. At least, she would if you could get around her defense of pure competence. Or was that confidence? How would she not be a temptation, Jozan mused. Every time I try to speak to her I have to look up and see her auburn hair so brightly lit against the sky that it looks like she has a halo.
Jozan was beginning to think the female actually had a halo. After all, she appeared quite suddenly next to that altar. He still wasn't certain she hadn't come from another dimension, in spite of her story. She seemed so ready to face any eventuality. He'd always prided himself on his ability to look calm and strong on the outside, even when his insides were fluttering like the butterflies migrating in spring. He felt neither calm nor strong.
His meditation was disrupted by her disconcerting voice. "So," mocked Alhandra, "are you praying, planning, or meditating? Or have I mistakenly joined forces with someone who has sworn a vow of silence?"
"No vow, lady," mumbled Jozan, "just struggling with a personal demon."
"A personal demon?" responded Alhandra with just a hint of mockery. "Your order must be very important to warrant personal demons. Aren't there enough public demons to be exorcised without you choosing one for a pet?"
Again, Jozan found himself off-balance in his conversation with Alhandra. He didn't feel like he expressed himself well in his answer. "I assure you, milady, I did not choose this inner struggle."
Alhandra smiled. "Of course you didn't. No one ever does. We do get to choose how much time we dwell on such struggles, though." She saw the disconcerted look on the cleric's face and took a modicum of pity on Jozan. "I beg your pardon, brother. I gave up fighting inner demons long ago. I choose to face outward evil. I don't have much patience for those who indulge themselves."
"You're right, of course, but you don't understand my dilemma," he replied. "The man we seek was once my tutor. Calmet was supposed to help me succeed, yet even with his help, I failed. How can I succeed now without his help?"
Alhandra didn't know how to respond. When she said nothing, the cleric continued, "I do know this. Now, more than anything, I want to see Calmet suffer."
"Oh, my!" responded Alhandra. "You do have a demon to wrestle with. Of course, none of this will help us solve the immediate problem. What do you suppose the good father meant by the Black Carnival?"
Jozan wondered if the question was a test or if the paladin was baiting him. When he saw the quizzical look on her face he knew the question was sincere.
"I don't know," he answered. "It sounds bizarre. Some troupe that paints their wagons with night shades instead of the garish colors we expect from companies of players? I doubt it. Someone would have heard of such a troupe. No company can survive long without word of mouth. It sounded…" He paused for a moment, gathering his courage lest his upcoming suggestion be perceived as silly. "It sounded…the way he said it, I mean, as if it were something supernatural, something like the endless hunt."
Alhandra grimaced at the comparison with evil, supernatural spirits condemned to spend all eternity hunting for a prey they can never quite catch.
"I don't think it's supernatural," she suggested. "I think it's merely slaver argot for a slave caravan."
Jozan became defensive. If the woman already knew, he thought, why did she ask? He tried to keep the acid out of his voice as he spoke. "Sorry. I never heard the term before."
"I didn't say I had heard of it," she admitted. "I'm just guessing. It's at least as likely as your endless tour theory. I've never heard of immoral performers sentenced to eternal…or maybe I should say, infernal performances."
"No," admitted Jozan with considerably less defensiveness, "but my theory does seem more poetic. If wicked warriors are forced into an endless hunt after they die, why not sinful thespians consigned to an eternity of unsatisfying performances and unappreciative audiences?"
Alhandra tilted her head back and laughed with genuine enjoyment. "I like that. The next thing you know, we'll find that venal priests are forced to celebrate endless masses while congregations respond in blasphemy. Maybe debauched courtiers would be punished by an endless audience before an infernal monarch who natters incessantly about the most idiotic things-just like the real ones."
The paladin rode on, feeling more relaxed and confident in her traveling companion. She turned to speak to him once more and, to her surprise, he wasn't there.
Jozan had pulled up the mule three horse lengths behind Alhandra's mount. He was staring intently at the roadway when Alhandra turned her mount and returned to where the mule stood.
"What did you find?" asked the paladin.
Jozan shook his head and pointed at recent wagon ruts in the soft ground of the road. "I've apparently found hard evidence that my theory is wrong," he grunted.
"Slavers?" asked Alhandra.
"Wagons," he responded, "a caravan, at least."
"Think we can catch them?" challenged Alhandra.
"Depends on how fast this mule can move!" responded Jozan.
Both holy warriors kicked their mounts into a gallop. Alhandra's horse moved with a smoothness like gentle, flowing waves. Jozan's mule had a disjoined gait, but the cleric was determined to stay as close to the pounding hooves of Alhandra's stallion as he could.
For Jozan, it was a challenge to stay within a few lengths of the big stallion. Even though the mule's motion was uncomfortable, Jozan's hand brushed against his mace for confidence and he smiled. He might be the poorest possible cleric when it came to reading holy writ, but he knew he had the blessing of Pelor when it came time for holy battle. Both righteous avengers rode with a sense that they were making a difference, that injustice would be redressed.
It wasn't long before the squeals of dry axles and the rattle of old, poorly maintained wagons could be heard, even above the hoofbeats of the crusaders' mounts. The holy fighters rounded a bend in the road, fully expecting to see a chain of human misery and wagons dedicated to some gruesome occult powers. Instead, they saw a string of three wagons ado
rned with gaudy paint jobs and the unmistakable signage of a circus troupe.
When the passengers observed the speed with which priest and paladin were closing upon them, the lead driver halted his wagon and the other two followed suit.
"We are Chakyik," said the driver, raising his hand in a gesture of friendship. "We come in peace."
"Slavers?" asked Alhandra bluntly.
"Do we look like slavers?" asked the driver with the familiar accent ridiculed by every bard looking for a cheap laugh or a free drink in a busy tavern. "We are performers, entertainers to the Unvanquishable Tiger Lord himself."
Jozan was suspicious. "You're a long way from the Tiger Lord," he observed. "Why would you be here?"
A woman's voice, as old as an ancient tomb and crackling as though it were as dry, responded from behind the holy warriors. "Absence makes the applause grow louder," came the voice, a feminine version of the same much derided accent, "and the Tiger Lord was showing more claws than applause of late."
Both Jozan and Alhandra turned to face a woman in the road who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Jozan noticed the open door to the second wagon, but before they could say anything, the woman continued, "Your destiny is not with us." Her slate-gray eyes looked deeply into a rounded ball that seemed made of a rose quartz. "You seek the Black Carnival and those who half-see."
Jozan shrugged and turned toward the paladin. "Why do I get the feeling that everyone knows about this but us?" he asked with minor disgust.
"You need not find the carnival to stop the source," the old woman continued, unfazed by Jozan's sarcastic comment. "To seek the Black Carnival, root out the black hearts of men."
"Does everyone speak in riddles in your country?" asked Jozan, glancing at the paladin.
"Only the smart ones," answered Alhandra. She flashed the smile at Jozan that always caused him self-doubt and brought fresh color to his cheeks. Then, she addressed the old woman. "We thank you for the oracle, wise one."