His mind raced. Within a few moments, he had a plan. It was not a good one, but it was a plan. Drawing on every bit of inner strength he could summon, he said, “I will tell you what you want to know, demon.” Urazûd’s eyes shone with anticipation. “But I ask for something in return. A single, simple thing, in all honesty.”
A slight, almost amused grin spread over the demon-man’s lips.
“Ask it. However, do not assume I am a gracious host.”
“If I give you what you want, you set me free.”
The demon-man’s face was an unreadable mask, the blood red eyes simmering like a pot of water over a meager fire. Zecus could do nothing but stand, wait, and hope. Finally, Urazûd spoke.
“I will consider it. First, I want to hear what you have to say. Then you will have my answer.”
It was probably the best Zecus was going to get. Letting a small breath of relief slip from his lips, he said, “If you have a map, I can show you where we hide.”
Keeping his gaze on Zecus, Urazûd called, “Rorrargh! A map!” Softening his tone, he added, “And bring our guest a chair.”
Rorrargh stuck his head through the tent entrance to relay the order, prompting a terse exchange with the razorfiend guards outside. Shortly thereafter, a razorfiend entered the tent with a rolled-up parchment in one hand while dragging a chair in the other. Torchlight danced along the fiend’s iridescent crimson and black quills.
Glancing over his shoulder, Zecus watched the figure approach, resisting the urge to hop from the creature’s path. As the razorfiend passed Zecus, it released the chair and continued past, stopping to stand in front of the demon-man. Bowing, the razorfiend handed the parchment over.
Taking a gamble, Zecus said, “I would have a much easier time pointing things out on the map if my hands were not tied.”
Urazûd glared at him for a moment before looking at the razorfiend. “Cut the rope from his hands.” The razorfiend bowed and began to turn away with an expression Zecus interpreted as a grin when Urazûd added, “Only the rope.”
The bladed creature hesitated a moment, a disappointed frown replacing its grin, before slinking behind him. Zecus shuddered as something cool and hard brushed against his wrists. The quills felt like metal. With one slice, the bonds fell away.
Stretching his arms before him, Zecus rubbed his wrists as he watched the razorfiend creep from the tent. Rorrargh stared at the creature with open hatred as it neared. As it passed the oligurt, the razorfiend flared its quills, a metallic rattle filling the tent. Rorrargh jumped back and lifted its thick fists, growling. The fiend chittered softly—laughing, Zecus supposed—as it slipped through tent’s entrance.
Turning back to Urazûd, Zecus asked, “How do you keep them from killing each other?” The question was an honest one. He did not understand what kept the two races from tearing each other apart. They obviously hated one another.
“I have my ways,” replied the demon-man cryptically as he unrolled the parchment. “Most of the time, they behave. Although, there is still the occasional…disagreement. I deal with those as I must.” There was an odd, almost lustful glint in Urazûd’s eyes. His nostrils flared.
“I have only seen oligurts and razorfiends here,” said Zecus. “Where are the mongrels?”
Urazûd looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing.
“I would expect you to know this camp does not have any of their kind here.”
Panic surged through Zecus. He had already stumbled in his bluff. Trying to cover his folly, he said, “I don’t know what camp this is. How long was I unconscious? A day? Two? More? I could be miles from where we were attacked.”
Standing from his chair, the demon-man stalked toward Zecus and stopped in front of him. Zecus was surprised to see that Urazûd was no taller than he was, discounting the horns. He had expected the demon-man to be taller. Even more remarkable was the odor emanating from Urazûd. The seductive, almost syrupy sweet smell stirred memories of the bluebells that would cover the Borderlands after the winter rains.
“Sit down, Zecus. We have much to discuss.”
Zecus complied and sat on the rickety wooden chair beside him, all the while trying to ignore the impossible, intoxicating bouquet of flowers.
Urazûd held the parchment up before him and said, “This is where we are it now.” He pointed to a dot with the name Midiah written in flowing script beside it.
“We’re in Midiah?” muttered Zecus, confused. The smell of flowers made it hard to think. He knew Midiah to be a small town of several thousand tough, frontier people. “Where is the town?”
“Gone,” answered Urazûd simply. “Now, show me the locations of your camps and—” He stopped, the corners of his red eyes tightening, and looked back to the tent’s entrance.
Hearing the flaps open, Zecus risked a look back. Two razorfiends, hanging in midair, floated into the tent, clearly startling Rorrargh as they passed him. A man with brilliant, bright blond hair—almost white—dressed in unusually cut, tan traveling clothes stepped into the tent. His arms seemed long for his body, his fingers too skinny.
Halfway to Urazûd, the razorfiends stopped moving, yet remained suspended in air. The stranger scowled at Rorrargh as he walked past the oligurt, toward Zecus and Urazûd. As he passed the suspended fiends, Zecus realized it was no man at whom he was staring. This was something straight from a playman’s tale.
The long arms.
Skinny fingers.
Graceful gate.
Elongated eyes and lips.
This was an ijul.
The stranger stopped beside the chair, glanced at Zecus, gave him a dismissive frown, and then stared at the demon-man.
“Your guards told me that I would have to wait until you were done with your prisoner. I do not like to wait.”
Urazûd eyed the ijul for a long moment before responding. “Why are you here, Jhaell?” His tone was a mix of annoyance and begrudging respect. “Should you not be safe in your school, reading books? Looking for Tandyr’s prizes?”
A muscle twitched in Jhaell’s cheek. Looking down at Zecus, he asked, “Do you plan to kill him soon?”
“That is to be decided.”
“Then let us talk in private. There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
Urazûd nodded and moved toward the back of the tent and the ijul followed him, leaving Zecus alone in the chair. The two spoke in hushed tones for a while, leaving Zecus unable to hear anything they said. At first, Urazûd appeared surprised by what the ijul had to say, then angry, and finally pleased, nodding along enthusiastically as the ijul spoke.
The two were walking back toward Zecus when a number of shrieks and roars filled the air, drifting in from the camp. Urazûd’s head snapped up as he stared at the tent’s entrance. Looking to the ijul, he barked, “Release my guards.”
The two razorfiends still hanging in the air fell to the ground, landing spryly on their feet.
Glaring at them, Urazûd shouted, “Find out what’s happening!”
The pair rushed from the tent. Moments later, one reentered and said, “The grayskinszz attacked our burrowszz!” It eyed the oligurt not more than a few paces from it, hissing, “Steclimizz stavilz!”
Rorrargh took a step forward, glowering at the fiend, and growled, “Kerairg othar nergh!”
“Stop it!” bellowed Urazûd as he strode across the tent. He stopped beside Zecus and, glaring at the pair by the entrance, threatened, “If either of you touch one another, I will kill you where you stand!”
The oligurt and fiend continued to stare at one another, but they remained quiet.
“You seem busy,” said Jhaell. “I will leave you to things.”
Whirling around, Urazûd said, “Come back when you are sure you have found them, Jhaell. I will be ready.” He looked down to Zecus, dropped the map to the ground, and barked, “I am not done with you.” Pointing to the razorfiend, he shouted, “You! Show me where they fight. Rorrargh, you stay here and watch him.” With
that, the demon strode from the tent, following the razorfiend guard.
The oligurt moved to the tent entrance and stared outside, watching whatever was happening. The sounds of fierce fighting had drawn closer to the tent, joined a few moments later by the unexpected sound of ripping parchment. Turning to look back to where the ijul stood, Zecus was surprised to see second slit in the tent wall, one that had not been there a moment ago. When the ijul reached up and drew back a flap, blackness waited rather than expected sunlight. Without pause, the ijul stepped through and disappeared in the void.
Zecus stared in bafflement, wondering what had happened, where the ijul had gone. It took him only a moment to come to the obvious conclusion. Wherever the ijul was, it was not here.
Glancing back to the oligurt and finding the monster still staring outside, Zecus rose from his chair, slowly and quietly. Bending over, he gathered the rope still tied to his feet, careful to keep his balance. He stood tall and, after one last look at the distracted oligurt, began to hop toward the new flap. He had made it a few jumps when an alarmed snort arose from behind him.
“Orag huthrang!”
Zecus ignored the oligurt, focusing solely on the flap as he bounded around Urazûd’s chair. Behind him, the oligurt thudded after him. Stumbling, Zecus dropped the rope he carried, but managed to avoid falling himself. With one final hop, he leapt headfirst into the blackness, crashed face first into a sturdy wooden beam, and fell into a pile of dry straw. He lay there a moment, dazed, before sitting up, the scent of hay and horse thick in his nose.
He was in a long, dimly lit building. Tall double doors were at both ends and a few open windows were high above him. Small rooms lined the walls, with wooden doors whose upper halves were open. As he stared, the yellowish-tan head of a horse—a white stripe on its nose—emerged from one of the opening and stared straight at Zecus through black-orbed eyes.
Zecus scanned the entire building again; but the ijul was nowhere to be seen. Looking behind him, he saw a slit hanging in midair, only there was no cloth this time, just two fluttering flaps of reality through which the rope tied to his feet led.
His eyes widened as the rope began to retreat through the split. He threw his arms around the beam into which he had crashed and held tight as the rope drew taut, pulling his legs back toward the hole. The oligurt was pulling him back.
Zecus looked for something to cut the rope, but there was nothing nearby. Hanging on the wall across the room were a dozen sorts of strange metal tools, but they were most definitely out of reach.
Inevitably, his grip on the beam began to slip. Zecus was weak from not eating, and his arms sore from being clasped behind his back. Nevertheless, he closed his eyes and squeezed the wooden beam as hard as he could, determined to take the post with him.
A soft pop filled the building.
The tension on his legs released and he crumpled to the ground. Breathing heavily, he glanced back to his feet, and saw the flap gone. Pulling his legs closer, Zecus grasped the rope and held it up. The end was severed clean.
With relief washing over him, he collapsed back into the pile of straw.
“Bless the Gods.”
A moment later, he sat right back up. The hole—undoubtedly magical—might open again at any moment. And there was the issue of the missing ijul.
Crawling to the wall with the tools, Zecus found a strange, double-bladed metal apparatus. Whatever its true purpose was, Zecus was happy to use it to cut through the thick rope binding his feet. Once free, he rose to his feet and scanned the interior of the building.
As quietly as possible, he approached the tall double doors closest to him, keeping an eye up the long passage to the other set. Another horse, this one a solid, reddish-brown color, stuck his head out from one of the small rooms. It stared at him and let out a low, inquisitive nicker.
Zecus glared at the horse and shushed it. The horse whinnied in response.
Turning from horses, he examined the set doors in front of him. Whoever had been here last had not shut the sliding doors all the way, leaving a small space through which Zecus peered.
He gasped.
The world outside was so green.
Thick bunches of verdant, flowering bushes sprouted up from waist-high grass rippling in the wind. Swaying, emerald-leafed trees towered over the ground, easily three times taller than the bulboa trees of the Borderlands. A small dirt path strayed from the doors, lined with bushes covered in bunches of tiny, purple flowers.
The ijul was hurriedly striding down the road, away from the building, his bright blonde hair reflecting the warm colors of an evening sun. Confused, Zecus glanced at the sky and saw the reds and oranges of early twilight. When he had entered Urazûd’s tent, it had been late afternoon.
An unexpectedly cool breeze whistled through the crack and into his face. The air was somehow thicker and heavier, full of life and the sweet scent of flowers.
Zecus watched the ijul walk away, ready to run should the stranger turn back. When the ijul disappeared around a bend in the path, Zecus counted twenty heartbeats and then, feeling that it was safe to cease watching, stepped back from the doors. .
Turning around, he sprinted to the other end of the building—past the two staring horses—and found the set of doors there shut tight. He grasped of the door’s wooden handle and pulled it open a few inches, sending a loud clank through the open building. Wincing at the sudden sound, he peered through the crack between the doors and was again struck by how green the land was. Like the other side, a dirt path led away from the building, meandering down a gentle slope before twisting around a bend and disappearing into the trees.
He held his breath and did not move, listening carefully, praying that the clang had not alerted anyone to his presence. The world was quiet other the soft chirping of birds outside and another inquisitive nicker from a horse behind him.
Looking over his shoulder, he found a few more horses had poked their heads out of their rooms and were staring at him. He counted seven horses in total, spread among eight rooms. Hurrying to the eighth, horseless room and found it packed with oddly designed saddles, bridles, ropes, and tacking equipment. He had never seen saddles with looped, leather straps hanging from the sides, but he dismissed the oddity, grabbed the nearest one, and rushed from the room, taking a bridle and a pair of saddlebags on his way out.
Hurrying down the walkway, Zecus headed toward the first horse he had seen after arriving through the magical flap, the yellowish tan one with the white striped nose. The beast had been both alert and quiet, qualities he valued in a mount. Unlatching the door, he slid it open, went inside, and saddled the horse once he figured out the unfamiliar straps and buckles. The horse remained motionless, patiently waiting, sometimes even looking back at him as if inquiring what was taking so long.
After leading the horse from the straw-filled room, he moved to the wall with the hanging tools and examined them, trying to decide if any of them were suitable to use as a weapon as he had no idea what dangers he might face wherever he was. He selected the double bladed metal tool he had used to cut his ropes and slid the bladed tool into a loop on the saddle. He also chose a long wooden staff with a flat metal head on one end and, resting it on his shoulder, led his horse to the set of doors opposite where he had seen the ijul. He was not proud that he was stealing, but he had no choice.
Reaching the doors, he slid one open just wide enough to get the horse out, and moved into the open air. He shut the door—very carefully to avoid any more clanging—and stepped back to stare up at the building. A dark blue coating covered the wooden structure with some panels colored a bright white. Why someone would waste so much precious wood on a home for horses was beyond Zecus. Glancing at the towering trees all around him, he muttered, “Perhaps we’d do the same thing with all this.”
He pulled himself up into the saddle, laid the staff across his lap, and directed his mount down the path. He kept the pace slow and quiet until he was some distance away fr
om the building, and then urged the horse to a canter. As the leather straps on the saddle banged into his feet, Zecus realized their purpose and slipped his boots into them both.
He followed the winding path through the green paradise in a state of constant amazement. All sorts of strange plants surrounded him, some covered with big red flowers with black centers, some with delicate blue ones hanging upside down from their stems. A slight breeze blew from the west, carrying with it wispy, white puffs with tiny seeds attached.
In short order, the dirt path led to a larger roadway that ran north and south, judging by the evening sun shining straight into his eyes. The northern stretch of road ran arrow-straight up a gentle slope through trees and brush, giving him a clear view of the mud-brown path. Spotting a handful of horses with riders heading in his direction, Zecus turned left and headed south. Until he knew more about where he was, he did not want to talk to anyone.
Keeping his horse at a steady trot, Zecus tried to puzzle out what had happened. The ijul was obviously a mage and responsible for the slit that had brought Zecus to this wondrous, green land. While he was more than grateful to be free of the demon-man, Zecus now had to figure a way to get back home. Perhaps some of what he had seen could be useful in repelling the invaders.
Spotting movement ahead of him, Zecus looked up and found find a pair of men on horseback riding around a bend directly ahead of him. He could hardly leap off the road without drawing undue attention to himself, so he kept his pace and rode ahead, hoping to ride casually past the men. As the two light-skinned men approached, they stared at him with quizzical expressions on their faces. As they passed, both men smiled and offered a pleasant “Good evening.” He hastily wished them good evening as well while wondering at their odd accent.
After the bend, the countryside opened up. The road sloped down a hill, leading to a gray stone bridge that spanned a wide, sparkling surface that reflected the light of the setting sun. With a start, Zecus realized that the shining surface was water. He pulled his horse’s reins and stopped in the middle of the road.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 45