Wolves of the Gods tott-2
Page 13
Asper had bade him to go to Naadan. For what purpose, he hadn't said. Safar grimaced, wishing the master wizard had given him the smallest hint of what he was supposed to accomplish in Naadan. All Safar could think to do was go about his thieving business and pray for a sign.
Then the wench came with the jug and he set about the impromptu task of restoring his confidence. He settled back in his chair and let the warm sounds of the tavern flow over him. It had been a long time since he'd been in such easy company. When he was a student in Walaria his happiest hours had been spent at the Foolsmire, a tavern catering to the student trade that was known for its cheap wine and even cheaper books.
Safar took a big gulp of wine, enjoying the feel and taste of it going down. Strange thing-he remembered liking wine in those days, sometimes in excess if truth be known. But he didn't remember needing it. This wine he definitely needed.
And with good reason, he thought. At one time, the odds against him ever reaching Naadan had seemed insurmountable.
He drank his wine, remembering…
It was an epic flight, an odyssey of terror. Panic lurking like cliff edges on every side as Safar used all his tricks, plus inventing scores more, to keep himself and his charges alive and out of Iraj's clutches.
The first days were so desperate that Safar didn't have much memory of them. Everything was a blur of hysterical people and animals and badly packed baggage trains careening from one mountain pass to another. Safar had a vague route in mind to confuse their pursuers, but it was all Leiria and her scouts could do to keep the Kyranians on the right track.
The journey might have been made easier if Safar could have commanded the leading party-his presence alone tended to calm people. But out of necessity he had taken up position well in the rear with Renor and his friend, Sinch, to assist him. He peppered the trail with magical spells and traps to confound the enemy. He also triggered a whole series of avalanches, blocking not only the passes they'd pushed through, but all others as well so Iraj's scouts couldn't tell which way they'd taken.
Luck was also with them. As they were coming out of the mountains into the northern wastelands an unseasonable storm roared in from the Great Sea, hammering the ranges with icy blizzards and bringing all of Iraj's forces to a miserable halt. Meanwhile, the Kyranians were safely in the rocky foothills and Safar and Leiria only needed to keep the villagers moving through the heavy rainstorm.
When the rains stopped they found themselves in a bleak landscape of blasted stone. Oddly formed peaks burst out of blackened ground that was cut by hundreds of ravines and gullies, many so deep and broad and filled with storm-swollen creeks and rivers it took days to negotiate them.
It was in these badlands that Safar performed the greatest non-magical tricks of his life. Food was scarce and water came only in amounts that were treacherous-swift moving streams that could sweep away a wagon and its contents, or tracks that remained waterless for day after throat-parching day. To shake off Iraj he relied on Coralean's maps of all the secret caravan routes that crept through the north country from the Gods Divide all the way to Caspan and the Great Sea. All the main trade centers were also well-documented, including routes meant to avoid the clusters of bandits that prowled the outskirts of civilization.
The sheer number of Kyranians, plus their lack of experience on the road, nearly defeated Safar at the start. Fortunately they had reached the relative safety of the badlands, with all its switchbacks and secret trails, before Safar was overwhelmed by the sheer logistics of the expedition.
When they'd abandoned and burned their village, the Kyranians had fled with little thought of what they ought to carry away with them. Some households tried to transport all their worldly goods-from kitchen stoves to festival dinner service. Others only snatched icons off the wall, cats from the hearth seat and lucky cicada cages made of dried reeds that buzzed like supportive orchestras when the insects sang their songs of romantic longing. The Kyranians pressed everything into service that could carry weight for their flight-from lumbering ox-powered freight wagons down to sledges drawn by goats. They also tried to take all their animals-goats by the hundreds, oxen by the score and llamas and camels by the dozens.
Even favorite horses long retired from toil were brought along. The consequence of this chaos was an enormous unwieldy mass of people and animals spread all over the landscape. Heavily-ladened wagons broke down, animals scattered and were lost, one pregnant woman and a several elders died of exhaustion.
But when all seemed lost, Safar dug keeper into his sack of leadership secrets to rally his people and put steel back into their spines. The villagers stripped themselves down to the barest necessities, burying tons of abandoned goods and household items in places where Iraj's scouts couldn't find them. When they set out again they were a disciplined force that got better with each passing day. Thanks to Leiria and Sergeant Dario, most of the young men were being turned into a skilled fighting unit, so they had little to fear from bandits and rogue soldiers.
When supplies ran low Safar used Coralean's maps to find secret routes to the richest towns and cities and after he'd raided them the Kyranians were able to vanish with ease into hidden passes and deep ravines.
To keep his people going, Safar dangled the vision of Syrapis before them-a paradise to replace the one they'd lost. Meanwhile, he kept edging them toward Naadan. The city was to the north, as was the Great Sea, so no one guessed his intentions.
It didn't hurt that Safar wasn't that sure of them himself. However, after worrying on that bone until it was splinters, he gave up. Frustrating as it was, he had to let the winds of fate carry him where they would-as long as they headed north. To keep his will focused he reduced everything to a simple mantra: Naadan, Caluz, Syrapis. Naadan, Caluz, Syrapis. Naadan, Caluz…
…Syrapis!
He wondered what waited for him there. Prayed that whatever it was, it would at long last answer the two questions that had haunted and driven him his entire adult life: What was killing the world?
And how could he stop it?
Safar downed his wine and poured another. At the rate he'd been traveling, he thought, he'd die of old age before he reached that fabled isle.
What was Asper's line? Oh, yes, "…All who dwell 'neath Heaven's vaults … live in dread … of that monster, Time…"
Monster, indeed.
He got up to leave, nearly stumbling over a skinny little crone who had been leaning, unnoticed, against his table.
"Pardon, Granny," he said politely. But as he spoke he felt a sudden prickle of magic sniffing along his skin.
The crone grinned a toothless grin, saying, "Alms, master. Alms for a poor old woman."
Safar kept his features mild, showing no reaction to her witch's magic. He cast a spell to ward off her snooping, fishing in his purse for a few coppers to cover his actions.
"Here you go, Granny," he said, plopping the coins into her outstretched claw. "Make your prayers sweet for me tonight."
He moved on, pushing through the crowd until he reached the door. As he went out he turned sideways to peek at the witch's face. She looked most disappointed. Just beyond her he saw a familiar figure. It was the drunk who had bumped into his table not long before.
You don't need a Master's License from Walaria University to figure that one out, he thought as he walked down the street. Obviously, the witch was looking for him and that fake drunk was in her employ. Iraj had offered a fortune for Safar's head and this wasn't the first time he'd encountered reward seekers. They were easily spotted and avoided, so normally he didn't trouble himself. However, he'd never encountered a bounty-hunting witch before and it made him wonder if some new element had been added to the game.
By the time he reached the arena he'd decided it was only a coincidence that this particular reward seeker was a witch. He bought a ticket at the gate and went inside, putting the crone from his mind. He did go more cautiously, however, his magical senses wary for more signs of danger.
Safar bought a bowl of hot peppered noodles from a vendor and joined the spectators in the stands.
Some were cheering the action on the big grassy field, but others paid no attention at all-gossiping or eating or scolding unruly children, while on the field several pairs of beefy champions grappled with one another, heaving and hauling as they attempted to hurl their opponents to the ground. In Naadan wrestling matches often went on for hours before a winner was decided, so the spectators behaved accordingly, becoming only fully absorbed at key moments in the matches.
While Safar ate his noodles he casually searched the stands until he found the wide stone box with its gaily colored awning shading King Quintal and his family. The royal box was just across from him, so he could see the king quite clearly. He was a big man, a once muscular man who had gone to fat. His face was puffed and red in the places his gray-streaked beard didn't cover. While around him his children and wives cheered the match, the king watched sullenly, drinking deeply and frequently from his cup.
"Looks like the king's drunk again," said the man sitting next Safar. He turned and saw a pleasant little fellow with a pudgy face and a wine-stained robe. "Seems like Quintal's always drunk these days."
Pudge Face lifted up a leather bag and shot a stream of wine down his throat. He wiped his mouth, cleaned his hands on his robes, which were of a rich material, then said, "Bad example for our children, if you ask me."
He offered Safar the wine bag. After he drank, Safar passed it back, saying, "Glad I'm not king. Can't think of a more boring life. Being a good example, I mean."
Pudge Face chuckled. "No chance of that for me," he said. "But I never wanted to be champion, much less king. Got a nice little shop, a good wife and five hard-working daughters to keep it running while I do what I like." He slapped the wine bag. "And what I like is this."
Safar glanced around at the crowd, many of whom were as red-faced with drink as Quintal. "I'll wager Naadan is as silent as a temple vestry when this festival is over," he said.
Pudge Face laughed. "Whole city will be passed out for at least a week," he said. "Nothing, but nothing gets done after a harvest festival. Nobody on the streets, that's for sure, unless they're on their way to a healer to get something for their sick heads and bellies. Hells, even the taverns are closed because the innkeepers are as bad off as the rest of us."
Safar was delighted with this intelligence. The festival was officially over tonight. That would give him a day or two, if needed, to track down the answer to Asper's mysterious command. It'd also make the supply raid much easier. They could ride right up to the king's palace and face him unopposed. The escape ought to be just as easy. Few would see them go and those who did would be in no shape to follow.
The crowd burst into cheers and Safar looked up to see the reason for the sudden mass interest. Out on the field there were only two wrestlers left. Their victims were being helped away by officials in flowing red robes with yellow sashes and high-topped boots.
The victors were huge men, wearing only short leather breeches with wide belts. Their bodies were streaked with so much blood that it was hard to tell the difference between them and the losers who had already been carried off the field. They stumbled as officials led them into the center of the field for the final match. The crowd shouted its appreciation and everyone seemed to be scrambling to get a bet down.
"What's going on?" Safar asked his new friend.
"This is what we've been waiting for!" Pudge Face said excitedly. "Finally, we're going for the championship! Won't be long and we'll see who's the new Titan."
He pointed at the wrestlers. One was entirely bald, the other shaggy as a bear. "The hairy one's Butar,"
he said. "The other's called Ulan. He's the most popular wrestler in Naadan. And favored in this match.
Hells, Ulan could be king himself one day. Which would be a big improvement over Quintal, that's for certain."
"What's the prize?" Safar asked, wisely skirting the political issue of who'd make the better king.
"Whoever wins today," Pudge Face said, "gets to put Brave Titan in front of his name. He'll also be rich for life. Plus, this year, there's a special prize. To thank the gods for it being such a good harvest year."
At that moment Safar felt a tingling sensation against his chest and his hand came up unconsciously to touch the horse amulet dangling beneath his shirt. To his surprise it was quite warm and was growing warmer by the minute. He clutched it, wondering what was happening.
Just then six riders dressed in flowing, calf-length robes, rode onto the field. They appeared to be some sort of honor guard and they pranced about showing off to the crowd. What they were presenting soon became apparent as two men trotted out, leading a magnificent horse onto the field.
Safar felt a shock jump from the amulet to his skin and he nearly cried out-not from pain, because the shock was more surprising than hurtful. His entire attention was suddenly fixed on that horse.
It was the most remarkable animal he had ever seen. Safar was a man of the mountains and no great horse lover. Plainsmen like Iraj, who spent their lives on horseback, practically worshipped the animals.
To Safar they were merely useful creatures under certain circumstances-circumstances rarely met in the snowy passes of the mountains. He liked them well enough and had even encountered a few with interesting personalities. On the whole, however, he thought a good goat or llama was far more valuable to a Kyranian.
But this creature seemed to exist on an entirely different plane than all other animals of its kind. He was almost godlike in beauty, so handsomely muscled he seemed like a great work of art from a master sculptor. He was tall, taller than any horse Safar had ever seen. He was the color of fresh cream, a deep and glossy off-white so full of depths he seemed to glow. His feet were black, as if he wore short boots on his hooves and he had a lighting bolt of black on his handsome forehead.
He ignored the crowd as he came out, giving off an aura of royal aloofness. When he came to the center he tossed his head high and pawed the ground as if he were anxious to be off on more important business than mere adulation.
Then Safar had a second shock as the horse turned his sculpted head and looked in Safar's direction.
The look flew across the distance and found him and he had a sudden feeling of warm and glad recognition. It was as if two souls had met and in the meeting an instant bond had been formed.
Safar whispered, "Hello, old friend!" And the horse rose up on its hind legs, pawing the air and shrilling a glad greeting.
And he thought, this is it! This is what Asper wanted me to find.
Then all was confusion as the horse was led to the side and trumpets announced the final match. The last note had barely faded away when Ulan The Bald rushed his opponent. It was as if the sight of the horse had given him new life and he grasped Butar by the belt and hoisted him off the ground. The crowd screamed in ecstasy as all the days of suspense ended in a quick, breath-bursting second as Ulan slammed his opponent onto the ground. Trumpets blared, drums rolled and big kites of every color were launched into the sky, carrying exploding fireworks in their tails.
Safar didn't see any of it. He was concentrating solely on the horse, who stood patiently in solitary splendor at the far side of the field.
"Now we'll see if there's going to be a challenge," Pudge Face said.
Safar, half in a daze, turned to him. "What do you mean?"
"Anyone can challenge the champion," he said. "At least that's the fiction. In a minute the king's gonna ask the crowd in if there is anyone among us who can best Ulan." Pudge Face took a drink, laughing at the same time and making a bigger mess of his robe. "As if any of us could outwrestle
a Brave Titan!"
"What happens if someone does?"
Pudge Face laughed again. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "These men are not only giants, but they train all their lives. They know all the tricks."
"Still," Safar said, "what if such a thing occurred?"
"Then they'd win the title, plus the riches, plus the horse. But if you're considering some sort of wager, keep your money in your purse, my friend. No challenger has ever defeated a champion in the history of the games."
Pudge Face looked over at the horse. "More's the pity," he said. "A stranger could keep the horse for his own."
"What do you mean?" Safar asked.
"Well, this particular horse is meant for sacrifice. That's Ulan's gift to the gods."
Safar jumped at this, as if stung. But the little man didn't notice. He'd just tried to take a drink but found his wine sack was empty. He sighed, regretting his generosity. But that couldn't be taken back, so he looked across the field at the horse and gave still another sigh, but deeper. Sometimes life seemed so terribly unfair.
"Ah, look at that!" he said. "I'm as religious as the next person. Praise the gods once a week and try to do right in between. But the sight of that beautiful creature prancing about so proud … and knowing the poor thing's fate … is enough to make you wonder if the gods are right in their heads.
"Does our heavenly family really want to see this handsome creature handed over to thin-lipped priests with sharp little knives?" He shuddered. "Holy purpose or not, what a horrid fate for something so magnificent."
He turned to Safar. "With a little drink in you it makes you wonder if the gods even-"
Pudge Face stopped in mid-flow. The seat beside him was empty!
As Safar raced down the stairs he didn't notice the old crone reach through the crowd to snatch at his tunic with her long nails. He only felt resistance and he tugged hard. The fabric ripped and the witch snatched back a claw full of shredded cloth. He ran on, while behind him the witch chortled in glee.